Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  “Excellent.”

  Liebermann launched into the torturous triplets of the introduction. Immediately the atmosphere in the room altered, a musical spell was cast, and they were both transported.

  Storm clouds and the descent of darkness.

  Merciless cold.

  A galloping horse-its frantic hooves throwing up clods of turf.

  “Wer reitet so spat durch Nacht und Wind?”

  Who rides so late through night and wind?

  A father and his son.

  The boy buries his face in his father's cloak. When the father asks him what is wrong, the child replies that he has seen the elf king.

  Liebermann attacked the keys of the Bosendorfer, manipulating the pedals to create an expansive-almost orchestral-sound.

  The father tells the boy that he is seeing mist, but the elf king is calling- and the boy clutches even more tightly at his father's cloak.

  “Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind.”

  Be calm, keep calm, my child.

  Rheinhardt's voice shook with authentic terror. Liebermann glanced up to see his friend gazing into the distance-his eyes searching for a spectral crown and train. Inhabiting the skin of the doomed child, Rheinhardt cried out: “The elf king has hurt me!”

  Liebermann imagined an icy, clenched fist squeezing the child's heart. He struck a pianissimo chord-and, holding it, waited for the last, devastating line of the song to be delivered.

  But it did not come.

  Rheinhardt was still gazing into the distance, now seemingly insensible of his actual surroundings.

  Liebermann waited patiently until the inspector started again and finally produced the delayed recitativo.

  “In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.”

  In his arms the child was dead…

  The words were half-spoken, loosely timed, and heavy with despair. The sound that Rheinhardt produced was hollow-empty and croaking. Thus released, Liebermann played the forceful two-chord cadence that brought Schubert's Erlkonig to a precipitate end. Its abruptness left a bleak silence-as if the music had been snatched away like the boy's life in Goethe's poem.

  “I do apologize,” said Rheinhardt. “I think my last entry was a little late.”

  “A little,” said Liebermann, “but your performance was…” He paused to select an appropriate superlative. “Operatic!”

  As was their custom, the two men retired to the smoking room for brandy and cigars. After enjoying a few moments of quiet contemplation, Liebermann said: “This evening, you will-of course-be wishing to present me with the facts relating to the mysterious death of a young boy.”

  Rheinhardt coughed into his drink. He had never quite got used to his friend's habit of telling him what he was about to say.

  “Your performance of Loewe's Erlkonig,” Liebermann continued, “was curiously committed, given that it is not great music. This suggested to me the presence of a memory-or memories-finding a sympathetic correspondence in Goethe's poetry. My suspicions were confirmed when you placed Schubert's Erlkonig on the music stand instead of Der Doppelganger. As Professor Freud has explained, such bungled actions often have a deeper significance.

  “Once again, your performance was compelling; however, by the time you had reached the final bars, the contents of your unconscious-stirred by Schubert's genius-were rising from the depths… You became distracted, and subsequently missed your entry. Indeed, you were so preoccupied that your silence lasted for two whole measures!”

  “Two?” said Rheinhardt, skeptically.

  “At least!” Liebermann insisted. “The Erlkonig describes the unnatural death of a child. One does not have to be a very great psychologist to connect the subject of Goethe's ballad with events that might have transpired in the real world. I simply supposed that your premature departure from the ball on Friday evening was for the purpose of investigating a child's death-and most likely under mysterious circumstances.”

  Rheinhardt produced a smoke ring, through which he observed the flames of the fire.

  “Well, Herr Doctor-you are absolutely correct. On Friday evening I did investigate the death of a child. A fifteen-year-old boarder at Saint Florian's military school.”

  “Saint Florian's? Where's that?”

  “Up in the woods.”

  “Ah,” said Liebermann, showing evident signs of satisfaction. “That makes perfect sense.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The Erlkonig. The father and son ride through a wood.”

  Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar.

  “Please, do continue,” Liebermann added.

  “Saint Florian's is situated close to the small village of Aufkirchen-built on the site of a religious foundation of the same name. Some of the original building still survives behind the new Gothic facade-old cloisters, a chapel, and so forth. I've been told that the school attracts the less academically gifted sons of well-heeled families.”

  Liebermann filled Rheinhardt's empty glass. The inspector thanked him, and recounted the general facts of the investigation. He summarized the statements of Nurse Funke and the three masters: Eichmann, Becker, and Gartner. He then opened his case and removed a thick brown envelope. Inside were photographs, which he passed to his friend.

  The boy, Thomas Zelenka, lying on the infirmary bed.

  A school laboratory.

  The surface of a bench covered with bottles, dishes, and test tubes.

  They were not particularly clear photographs. Most were dark and grainy.

  A notebook and an untouched pastry.

  “What kind of experiments was the boy doing?” Liebermann asked.

  “He was looking at the effects of mixing vinegar with certain chemical compounds. We took samples and had them analyzed. The findings were unremarkable.”

  “And what did the school doctor have to say?”

  “Nothing. He arrived after the boy's body had been removed. A tree was blocking the main road, and his driver-like ours-got lost.”

  The next image showed Zelenka's naked body in the morgue. Under the bright electric light, his features and physique were more clearly defined.

  “So, how did he die-exactly?”

  Rheinhardt shook his head. “We don't know. Professor Mathias couldn't find anything wrong with him.”

  “He just… died?”

  “Yes.”

  “In which case, I would have expected Professor Mathias to assume the presence of a subtle pathological process and ascribe the boy's death to natural causes.”

  “Which is precisely what Professor Mathias did.”

  “Then why are you treating the boy's death as suspicious?”

  Rheinhardt grimaced. “Natural causes! Can a boy of fifteen really die of natural causes?”

  “It is unusual, but yes, it can happen. One can speculate-tiny hemorrhages, deep in the brain, for example. They are exceedingly difficult to identify. A thorough microscopic analysis of transverse sections might reveal something-though one can never be sure. Then there are pulmonary anomalies…”

  “Look at the next photograph.”

  Liebermann picked up the image and tilted it in the lamplight.

  A metal ruler showed the lengths of several faint white lines.

  “What is it?”

  “Scar tissue. About here.” Rheinhardt indicated the location by touching his chest. “According to Mathias, the wounds have been repeatedly reopened with a razor.”

  The following photograph was equally puzzling: a crisscross pattern of darker lines.

  “Cuts,” said Rheinhardt. “Found on the boy's torso, under his left arm.”

  Liebermann considered the image for a few moments before examining the final photograph, which showed the boy's genitals-pulled to one side by the pathologist's hand. The displacement of these organs revealed three deep incisions in the pale flesh of Zelenka's upper thigh.

  “Were any of the wounds infected?”

  “Mathias said that the scarring on the boy's chest s
howed signs of past infection, but nothing recent. The other wounds were clean. You are no doubt wondering if these injuries are connected with his death. It seems not. The schoolmasters said the boy was perfectly healthy. He showed none of the symptoms associated with blood poisoning.”

  “What about blood loss?”

  “All the recent wounds had been dressed. There were no signs of excessive bleeding or dehydration.”

  Liebermann arranged the photographs in a neat pile and stroked the straight edges.

  “Then, it looks like the boy has either been tortured or… he has taken part in some bizarre rite of initiation.”

  “Scars are deemed a sign of honor and distinction among dueling fraternities.”

  “Yes, but only if those scars were acquired while in pursuit of what is termed satisfaction. This scarring”-Liebermann tapped the photographs-”is of a very different kind.” The young doctor lit a cigar and eased back into his chair. “The oldest wounds are to be found on the victim's chest. More recently the boy was cut under his arm and on his upper thigh. The latter two areas seem to have been selected for the purpose of concealment. But if so, why was concealment not a consideration when the first wounds were inflicted?”

  Rheinhardt shrugged.

  “And why are there three sets of cuts?” Liebermann continued. “Surely, an initiation ritual would take place only once?” Liebermann shook his head, as if annoyed by the number of questions that were crowding his mind. “And what on earth are we to make of those crural lacerations-so conspicuously close to the genitals?”

  Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his mustache.

  “Strange things happen in military schools. Some boys gain extra ordinary power over their peers. I have heard of some cadets ruling over their comrades like tyrants-meting out punishments, extorting levies, devising sadistic games. Perhaps Zelenka was unfortunate enough to have become the victim of one of these juvenile despots.”

  Liebermann flicked through the photographs and found an image of Zelenka in the infirmary. It was a close-up of his face. Although his features were square and masculine, there was something in his expression that suggested sensitivity, intelligence.

  “I abhor bullying,” said Liebermann, “and it is most distressing to contemplate the depredations of institutional life-the utter misery that some boys must endure; however, Professor Mathias has concluded that Zelenka died of natural causes. The cuts on his body, whatever they represent, and however they got there, are an irrelevance! All that you can do is notify the school of your findings and trust that they will eventually find and expel the culprit. You cannot proceed with a murder investigation, Oskar, if there has not been a murder.”

  Rheinhardt sipped his brandy. “But…” The inspector shifted uncomfortably. “I have a feeling…”

  Liebermann rolled his eyes.

  Rheinhardt continued worrying his mustache. “There's something about this that doesn't smell right.”

  “My dear friend, your feelings of unease are very easily explained- and can be attributed to your strong protective instincts. You are resistant to the idea that Zelenka died naturally because of his youth. If you accept that such a thing can happen to him, you must also accept that it can happen to others: namely, your two daughters. Naturally, this is such an awful consideration that a defensive mechanism has come into play. By denying the existence of latent and fatal pathological processes, you experience less anxiety and preserve a comforting illusion. Moreover, if you can prove that Zelenka was murdered, you will vitiate Professor Mathias s conclusions, making it seem even less likely that the same fate could affect your loved ones. But unfortunately, Oskar-the Erlkonig is a reality: a reality not of the spirit world but of the material world. And he comes not in the shape of an elven king but as minute lesions in the brain, and freakish electrical discharges that disturb the beating of a young heart.” Liebermann looked at his friend, and compassion creased the skin around his eyes. “Oskar, I wish that it were otherwise.”

  Rheinhardt sighed. “You are right, of course. I dare say there is something in my soul that rages against the death of children-and for the very reasons you so eloquently describe. Be that as it may, I cannot free myself of the gnawing suspicion that there is more to Zelenka's death…” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. Then he added: “I will continue with the investigation, in spite of Professor Mathias's findings.”

  Liebermann offered Rheinhardt another cigar. “I very much hope, Oskar, that when the time comes, you will be able to satisfy Commissioner Brugel. He will want to know why the resources of the security office have been used to discover the identity of a… sadistic schoolboy, which I fear may be all that this investigation is destined to reveal.”

  Rheinhardt took the cigar and repeated: “I have a feeling.”

  9

  It was a dull morning: the sky was layered with massy strips of dense gray cloud. Rheinhardt took care as he negotiated the damp cobbles, which descended at a steep angle toward a scrubby waterlogged field. On either side were squat bungalows, the walls of which were mottled and streaked with an algal slime. In the distance, he could see four gas towers: enormous structures that loomed beyond a misty veil of persistent mizzle.

  Rheinhardt found the bungalow he was looking for. It was cleaner than its neighbors but was not in good repair (the gutter was leaking). A lever pump was situated just outside the entrance, and a number of metal buckets were hanging in a neat row under the eaves. An empty birdcage-swinging forlornly-had been suspended in a recessed casement.

  The door was opened by a woman. She was wearing a simple black dress, and the flesh around her sharp, intelligent eyes looked swollen. She had been crying.

  “Frau Meta Zelenka?” The woman nodded. “I am Inspector Rheinhardt.”

  “Of course,” she said, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief. “I'm sorry-please come in.”

  Rheinhardt stepped across the threshold into a dark room that felt oppressively compressed due to its low ceiling. Sitting at a table was a large man with short reddish hair. He wore a brown jacket over a vest, the top buttons of which were undone. On seeing the inspector, the man rose, but very slowly-an uneasy coming together of body parts-such that the simple act of standing appeared to require monumental effort. Rheinhardt noticed the man's hands. They were laborer's hands-oversize, the white knuckles like eggs, the skin leathery, the veins raised and twisted.

  “My husband,” said the woman. Her German was nuanced with a Slavic accent. “Fanousek, this is Inspector Rheinhardt.”

  The man bowed, although the movement seemed to involve nothing more than a pained hunching of his shoulders.

  Beyond the table was a sideboard on which stood a devotional candle and a crucifix.

  “Forgive me for intruding on your grief,” said Rheinhardt.

  Fanousek lowered himself back into his chair, and Meta drew up a seat beside him. Her slender hand traveled across the surface of the table until it reached her husband's, whereupon his long fingers opened and closed tightly around hers.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Rheinhardt, sitting opposite the couple. “And please accept my heartfelt condolences.”

  “What do you want, Inspector?” said Fanousek. Like Metas, his German was accented; however, the question-although blunt- was not discourteous, merely direct.

  “Information. About yourselves-and about Thomas.”

  “Why?”

  “I must complete a report. For the commissioner.” It was not the precise truth-but it was true enough. Rheinhardt couldn't very well declare, I'm here because of a presentiment, a feeling…

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

  “You are both Czech?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long have you been living in Vienna?”

  “Ten years.”

  Theirs was a typical story-of hardship in rural Bohemia, the promise of prosperity in Vienna, then factory work, and finally disappointment. Fanousek worked in a warehouse
. Meta sold cheap rye bread imported from Hungary at a Saturday market.

  “With respect,” asked Rheinhardt hesitantly, “how could you afford to send your son to Saint Florian's?”

  “We couldn't,” said Meta. “Thomas was awarded a scholarship.”

  “Really? How did that happen?”

  “Thomas spent a great deal of time in the company of our priest, Father Hanak. He encouraged Thomas, gave him books, even gave him free lessons at the presbytery: Latin, calligraphy, mathematics… Then the good father found out that one of the breweries, one of the Czech breweries, sponsored a place at the oberrealschule for a boy born in Bohemia and”-Meta swallowed her pride and continued- “from an impoverished household.”

  Rheinhardt gestured to indicate that the Zelenkas’ pecuniary circumstances, however straitened, were of little consequence as far as he was concerned.

  “Was Thomas happy at Saint Florian's?”

  “Yes, as far as we know. He enjoyed his studies-particularly the scientific subjects. He did complain once or twice about having to do drill every day, but that was all.”

  “What about the other boys? Did he say anything about them?”

  “No.”

  “He must have mentioned his friends?”

  “Thomas was a quiet boy. Thoughtful. He didn't say much.” She glanced at her husband and produced a gentle smile. “Like his father.”

  Through a square window, Rheinhardt saw sheets of rain blowing across the bleak industrial landscape.

  Meta opened a drawer in the table and removed a photograph. She looked at it for a moment and said: “He was so handsome in his uniform.” She pushed it across the table. “A fine-looking young man: a soldier.”

  The photograph had been taken in a studio. The boy was wearing a low shako with a leather peak, a tunic with stiff high collars, trousers, and boots. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. He was standing in front of a painted backdrop of giant fern leaves and exotic creepers. Unfortunately, the photographer's tropical tableau was spoiled somewhat by a strip of patterned carpet in the foreground.

  “May I take this?” asked Rheinhardt. Metas expression became anxious-almost fearful. “I promise to return it later today. I would like to make a copy for submission with my report.”