by Frank Tallis
“Indeed, but it is a twist of fate from which I will derive little consolation.” Rheinhardt turned and peered through the smoke at his friend. “Max, there is something I don't understand.” Liebermann invited the inspector to proceed. “What alerted you to the significance of the almond tart in the first place? You never said.”
“Have you ever tasted absinthe, Oskar?”
“No.”
“Nor had I until last week. I was given some to drink by a friend—and I found that it had an extraordinary effect on the workings of my brain. My thinking seemed to loosen up—suddenly, I was capable of making bold associations. Some of them were complete nonsense… but others… My companion had been eating sugared almonds, and it occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that almonds contain traces of cyanide.… Then I remembered that hydrocyanic gas is deadly—but difficult to isolate postmortem. The photographs of the murder scene came into my mind, and I was troubled by the presence of the pastry. Why was it there? And why wasn't it eaten? After all, adolescent boys are not renowned for their ability to delay gratification. Hydrocyanic gas taints the air with the smell of almonds. The rest—as I have already explained—followed.”
“And in order to achieve this… this… emancipation of the mind, how much absinthe did you drink, exactly?”
Liebermann took off his spectacles and dropped them into the pocket of his coat.
“Not a great deal,” he said innocently.
Rheinhardt turned to his assistant and, raising his eyebrows, asked, “Well, Haussmann?”
The young man shook his head.
“See, Max?” Rheinhardt continued. “Even Haussmann doesn't believe you.”
60
“I SUPPOSE I SHOULD congratulate you, Rheinhardt,” said Commissioner Brügel, “but I cannot do so without first raising the issue of your absence. You received my memorandum, didn't you?”
“I did, sir.”
“And yet you chose to ignore it.”
“With respect, sir, you requested that officers should make every effort to remain close to the Schottenring station.”
“The meaning of which was quite clear—or at least it was to everybody else.”
“I'm sorry, sir. I misunderstood.” Brügel's eyes narrowed. “Was the operation successful, sir?”
“No,” said Brügel. “It wasn't.”
“I heard that some arrests were made.”
“Two gentlemen were detained for questioning—but they were released early this morning. Mistaken identity.”
“I'm sorry, sir.”
Brügel emitted a low growl that rose from the pit of his stomach. “Well, Rheinhardt, I trust there will be no misunderstandings of this kind in future.”
His knowing emphasis made Rheinhardt feel ashamed.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Good.” The commissioner shuffled some papers. “I would like you to submit a complete account of the Saint Florian affair by tomorrow evening, after which you will report to Inspector von Bulow for further instruction. There is a pianist, József Kálman, who—”
Rheinhardt felt a stab of resentment. He did not want to report to von Bulow. They were of the same rank—and it was not right that he should be treated as if he were nothing more than von Bulow's assistant.
“Sir?” Rheinhardt interposed.
“What is it, Rheinhardt?”
“I have not completed my investigation… at Saint Florian's.”
Brügels head swung forward. “What are you talking about, Rheinhardt? We know who killed Zelenka—and why. There is nothing more to investigate.”
“The cuts on the boy's body, sir. The bullying…”
“Don't be ridiculous, Rheinhardt! The case is closed!” Brügels hand came down on his desk, creating a hollow thud—the quality of which suggested the snapping shut of a great tome. “Now,” Brügel resumed, “Kálman breakfasts at a disreputable coffeehouse in the third district—a place called Zielinski's.…”
61
LIEBERMANN RAN HIS FINGER down Trezska's back, tracing the flowing contour of her spine. As he did, he admired the smoothness of her olive skin—its depth and lustre. He stroked her buttocks and allowed his hand to fall between her thighs.
On the bedside cabinet was an absinthe bottle and the trappings of Trezska's habit—a sugar bowl, a miniature trowel, and a carafe of water. Two tall glasses stood in front of the bottle, one of them three-quarters full. Through its pallid contents the candle shone like a burning emerald.
The bouquet of their lovemaking still permeated the atmosphere. Liebermann inhaled and registered a hint of perfume amid a blend of darker fragrances—musk-orchid, attar, and oysters.
His perceptual universe was strangely altered. Everything seemed removed, distant, and dreamlike. Yet, paradoxically, minute phenomena acquired unnatural prominence. A mote—floating upward on the air—commanded his attention as if it were an entire world. Its inconsequential ascent was majestic and beguiling.
Liebermann became aware of Trezska's voice. It was muffled, and her speech was slurred. She was talking into the pillow, her face concealed beneath a shock of black hair. She was extolling the virtues of the Hungarian nobility.
“They have real charm… style, panache. The Telekis and Károlyis. The late empress appreciated their company—as did her son… poor Rudolf. But that's another matter. There was once a peasants’ revolt in the sixteenth century. They caught the leader—and do you know what they did with him? They made him sit on a red-hot throne. They pressed a red-hot crown on his head… and made him hold a red-hot scepter. His retinue were made to eat his flesh— while it was still sizzling.”
“Where did you hear such a story?” Liebermann asked.
“It's not a story—it's true.”
“Like the vampire countess. What was she called?”
“Báthory—Erzsébet Báthory.”
Liebermann leaned forward and let his lips touch the nape of Trezska's neck. She shivered with pleasure and rolled back onto her side.
“That man,” said Liebermann. “The one who stopped you outside Demel's.”
“What?”
“The man who called you Amélie—Franz…”
“Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?”
Trezska brushed her hair away, but it sprang forward again— hanging across her face like a curtain.
“You knew him, really, didn't you?”
Trezska's eyes flashed and her full lips widened into a smile. She began to laugh. “Are you jealous?”
“He seemed so certain… so sure.”
“You are jealous!”
Trezska threw her arms around Liebermann s shoulders and raised herself up, pressing her breasts against his chest. She kissed him, forcing her tongue between his teeth and taking possession of his senses. She tasted of anise, mint, and licorice. When Trezska finally released him, she grinned, and kissed him once more, gently on the nose—a comic peck.
“Don't be jealous,” she whispered. “Don't be jealous.”
The candle flickered and the glasses filled with green lightning.
O! beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-ey'd monster…
“Othello,” he said.
Trezska drew back. “What?”
“A play by Shakespeare. If the green fairy doesn't get me, then the green-eyed monster will.”
“You are very drunk,” said Trezska gently. “Lie down, my love.”
Trezska tugged at his arm, and Liebermann was surprised by his own lack of resistance. He fell, and when his head hit the mattress, he closed his eyes—it was like being knocked out. He was dimly conscious of Trezska's limbs, wrapping around his hips and shoulders. She pulled him close, smothering him with her flesh.
“Sleep,” she whispered. “Sleep…”
Liebermann could hear her heart beating.
Too fast, he thought. Too fast.
He wanted to say something else. But words failed him, and seconds later he was asleep.
62
LIEBERMANN HAD ARRIVED AT the Schottenring police station late in the afternoon, having spent a tiring day listening to—among others—the old jurist (who was still expounding upon his unique metaphysical system), a milliner with an irrational fear of horses, and an accountant who suffered from impotence—but only in rooms hung with yellow flock wallpaper. He had agreed to help Rheinhardt with the Saint Florian report, which was, at that exact moment, distributed in several incomplete parts over the top of the inspector's desk. They had reached a problematic juncture, and Rheinhardt was gazing gloomily at a page, the lower half of which was conspicuously devoid of his hieroglyphic scrawl.
“What am I supposed to say here?” said Rheinhardt, tapping the empty space. “That my esteemed colleague—Herr Dr. Liebermann— was inspired to link the presence of the pastry in the lab oratory with cyanide poisoning due to the effect of absinthe on the… What did you just say?”
“The paracerebellar nuclei.”
“My dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt, “no matter how many anatomical terms you employ, the fact remains that you were—not to put too fine a point on it—drunk.”
“I'm afraid I can't agree with you. The action of absinthe on the cerebrum merits special consideration. It engenders a unique mental state. To say that I was merely drunk hardly does justice to its mindaltering properties. It is—after all—the favored spirit of artists and visionaries.”
The crescents of loose flesh beneath Rheinhardt's eyes seemed to sag a little farther.
“Although such an appeal might be received sympathetically by the chief of the Sûreté,” said the inspector, “I can assure you that Commissioner Brügel will be singularly unimpressed.”
“Then write that my suspicions were aroused when I interviewed Perger and discovered that almond tarts were not sold at the Aufkirchen bakery.”
“But that would imply that you had already identified the pastry in the photograph as an almond tart. In fact, you didn't go to Demel's until…” Rheinhardt thumbed through his papers and recovered a particular sheet. “Until Saturday the seventh of February.”
“Couldn't you just omit the date?”
“Absolutely not.” Rheinhardt scowled. However, before he had exploited the full dramatic effect of his exaggerated expression, he added in a lighter, conversational tone: “He's disappeared, you know.”
“Who?”
“Perger. He seems to have absconded. You will recall, perhaps, that he had wanted to run away with Zelenka.”
“Where do you think he's gone?”
“If his letters are anything to go by, he's probably hiding in the hold of an Italian cargo vessel, heading for South America!” Rheinhardt sighed, shook his head, and laid down his pen. “This is supposed to be a final report,” he continued, waving his hand over the chaotic spread of papers. “Yet there are still unanswered questions. The number pairs in Zelenka's exercise book, the cuts on his body. I received a note from Miss Lyd gate yesterday morning. She said that she had tried all kinds of substitutions and transformations—but without success. She concluded that if the number pairs are a code, it is one that can be broken only with the aid of a unique formula or ‘key.’ Alternatively the number pairs may have been simply chosen at random and have no special meaning.”
“Which would, of course, be entirely consistent with Sommer's story… the memory game.” Liebermann leaned back in his chair and tapped his temple gently. “Yet everything about him suggested to me that he was trying to hide something.”
“What, though? And how could it have been connected with Zelenka?”
Liebermann pursed his lips, and after a lengthy pause said: “I have absolutely no idea.”
Rheinhardt picked up his pen again. “Brügel has reassigned me to von Bulow's team. As far as the commissioner is concerned, once this report is submitted, the Saint Florian's case will be consigned to the archive.”
“Where he will want it to remain, gathering dust.”
“Exactly. I keep on thinking of that dreadful nephew of his. I have no solid evidence to support the allegation, but I am convinced that Kiefer Wolf was torturing Zelenka… and he is probably torturing others right now—as we speak. It weighs heavily on my conscience.”
Liebermann remembered the boy Perger: his stutter, his timidity, his respectful compliance—the innocent happiness that illuminated his features as he moved his knight forward. Checkmate. The excitement in his treble voice had been touching. It was sad that this poor, sensitive boy was now bound for some distant shore where God only knew what fate might befall him.
“If only there were someone willing to speak out against Wolf,” Rheinhardt continued. “But of course, there never is… and so it goes on. I dread to think what kind of officer he will make.”
Liebermann pulled at his lower lip. “If none of the boys can be relied on to give evidence against him, then logically there is only one other way by which he could ever be exposed. Confession. He must make a confession.”
The inspector looked disappointed. “Well, that's hardly going to happen—is it?”
“Persecution is as much about exercising control as it is about deriving sadistic pleasure. Therefore we might ask ourselves what kind of person desires absolute control?” Rheinhardt gestured for Liebermann to continue. “A simple answer—surely—suggests itself: one who fears loss of control. I am reminded of some of Adler's ideas.…”
“Max,” said Rheinhardt, “what are you thinking?”
Liebermann smiled. “Allow me to explain.”
63
THEY WERE SEATED IN the disused classroom.
“Does my uncle know that you are here?” said Kiefer Wolf to Rheinhardt.
The inspector did not reply.
“I doubt that he does,” Wolf continued. “In which case, I can assure you that I shall be writing to him again.”
“Just answer my question.”
“The investigation is over. Uncle Manfred told me so. Inspector Rheinhardt, I believe you are acting without authority.”
“That is an extremely insolent remark.”
“No, Inspector, it is merely an accurate one.”
The boy folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. The line of his thin lips twisted slightly, suggesting modest satisfaction.
“There were cuts on Zelenka's body,” Rheinhardt persevered. “How did they get there?”
“I don't know,” said Wolf.
“I think you do.”
“Then you are mistaken.” Wolf made a languid movement with his hand and added, “Inspector, I would very much like to present myself for rifle practice. A Tyroler Kaiserjäger is coming this afternoon to give us special instruction. I have been selected to represent Saint Florian s at the end-of-year shooting tournament against Saint Polten and the headmaster was anxious that I should attend.”
“I am afraid that you will have to stay here until I am satisfied that you are telling me the truth.”
“The headmaster will be very displeased.”
“For the last time, Wolf, what do you know about those cuts?”
“Nothing, Inspector.”
The boy's complexion was clear and his skin as smooth as alabaster. He seemed preternaturally calm.
“Very well,” said Rheinhardt. Turning to his friend, he called out, “Herr Doctor?”
Liebermann, who had been patiently waiting by the window, picked up his black leather bag and crossed the room. He sat in front of Wolf and smiled.
“Do you study botany here?” he asked.
The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Yes… we have had a few classes.”
“And what did you learn about?”
“The structure of plants… the different families.”
“Then perhaps you were introduced to the perennials of the Solanaceae family? They can be found in the local woods and meadows.”
“I am afraid I cannot remember,” said Wolf. “It is not a subject that interests me.”
“Ev
en so, I suspect that you would recognize the name of at least one of the Solanaceae.” Liebermann inserted a dramatic pause before proclaiming: “Belladonna!”
The young doctor raised his eyebrows, encouraging a response.
“Yes,” said Wolf. “Of course I recognize that name. But what of it?”
“The plant grows from a thick fleshy root—about this high.” Liebermann sliced a horizontal plane through the air. “It has a dingy purple-brown bell-shaped flower, and smooth black berries that ripen in September.”
The neutrality of Wolf's expression was interrupted by a series of brief, flickering emotional responses that oscillated between perplexity and amusement. He was about to speak, but Liebermann silenced him by wagging an admonitory finger.
“I understand,” Liebermann continued, “that belladonna acquired its appellation in the Middle Ages, when young women employed the plant's extracts to dilate their pupils.” Liebermann observed Wolf's blank visage and added for clarification: “So they would seem more beautiful.”
“Herr Doctor,” said Wolf, “as I have already said, I am not very interested in botany.”
“I promise you, my purpose will soon become clear.” Again, Liebermann smiled. “Now, where was I? Oh yes… it was not only a favorite of young women—it was also valued by men of dubious morality whose intention it was to seduce them.” Wolf rocked his head to one side, and a scintilla of interest nuanced the vacancy of his steady gaze. Liebermann continued. “You see, it was soon discovered that if belladonna was secreted into a young woman's drink, she would become remarkably compliant, forgetting virtue and agreeing readily to suggestions of an improper nature. She would become— as it were—less inhibited. Belladonna was also found to have medical applications. The great tenth-century Persian physician Avicenna recommended belladonna as an anesthetic—and it has been intermittently used by surgeons ever since. For example, only a few years ago some colleagues of mine at the university published a fascinating paper on the development of a new pre-anesthetic. By combining one of the alkaloids of Japanese belladonna with morphine, they were able to induce a somnolent state in their patients, which they designated ‘twilight sleep.’ Now, while undertaking this research, my colleagues noticed something very interesting: patients in twilight sleep would often mumble. However, if asked questions, they were able to reply—and these replies were perfectly coherent. Moreover, all answers to questions were somewhat literal—and invariably honest.”
