Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  Almost an hour had passed before Liebermann nudged Rheinhardt, alerting him to the approach of a pitiful figure hopping along with the aid of a crutch, his right leg bent at the knee to keep his bandaged foot from touching the ground.

  The two men rose from the bench and introduced themselves.

  “Inspector Rheinhardt, Herr Dr. Liebermann,” said the man, propping himself up. “Gerold Sommer.” In spite of his disability, he accomplished a perfectly respectable bow. “Please… this way.” He glanced up at the sky. “I think it's about to rain.” Stabbing the ground with his crutch, he propelled himself up the path with renewed energy.

  The mathematics master led Rheinhardt and Liebermann back to the lodges. As he searched his pockets for the key, he asked: “Have you been waiting long, gentlemen?”

  “Since two o'clock,” Rheinhardt replied.

  “Why so early, Inspector?”

  “That was the time you specified, Herr Sommer.”

  “Good heavens. I could have sworn I'd said three.” He unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “If I am mistaken, I do apologize. I usually have a very good head for figures.”

  Sommer ushered his visitors through a narrow hallway and into his study. The overall impression was one of neglect and untidiness. A table had been pushed up against one of the walls. Its top was covered in exercise books and various calculating instruments: a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree protractor, triangles, compasses, and a very large slide rule. Sommer's library was scattered around the floor, with some volumes being lined up against the baseboard. Beneath the window a row of large tomes supported a precariously balanced second tier.

  Sommer limped over to a scuffed leather reading chair and attempted to sit down. He refused Rheinhardt's assistance and managed, in due course, to position himself so that he could fall back safely. He landed heavily on the cushion.

  “Please, gentlemen,” said Sommer. “There are two stools beneath the table.”

  Rheinhardt pulled one out for himself, but Liebermann declined the offer. It was his preference to stand.

  “Well,” said Sommer, staring at Rheinhardt with large, moist eyes. “How can I assist?”

  The mathematics master was in his early thirties. His hair was parted in the center and his mustache was neatly trimmed. He was a handsome man; however, the nobility of his face was mercilessly subverted by a pair of protruding ears.

  Rheinhardt glanced at Sommer s bandaged foot.

  “I fell down some stairs and sprained my ankle,” Sommer continued, feeling obliged to explain his condition. “It was extremely painful. The joint became horribly swollen. Like this.” He demonstrated with his hands. “I thought I'd done myself a very serious injury; but, fortunately, it turned out to be nothing more than a torn ligament. I've been convalescing near Linz: a small sanatorium run by Professor Baltish.” He looked across the room at Liebermann. “Do you know it, Herr Doctor?” Liebermann shook his head. “A very fine establishment,” Sommer added, his gaze oscillating nervously from one guest to the other.

  “Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt, detecting the man's discomfort and trying to disarm him with an avuncular smile. “Your accident- when did it happen?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “When, exactly?”

  “I could hardly forget. It was the day we heard the dreadful news about Zelenka.”

  “We?”

  “Herr Lang and myself… The headmaster came to tell us that morning.” Sommer shook his head. “We were stunned.”

  Rheinhardt asked the mathematics master about the dead boy.

  It transpired that he had known Zelenka very well, choosing to describe him as a favorite. However, when he talked about his relationship with the boy, he said nothing that Rheinhardt didn't already know. Indeed, repeated exposure to certain words and phrasesmature, sensitive, an able student, interested in science, could be shy — had rendered them almost meaningless.

  As Sommer spoke, Liebermann sidled toward the window and surreptitiously examined some of the book titles. The larger volumes were mathematical texts and standard works of reference-a dictionary, an atlas, an encyclopedia-and on top of these were some histories of ancient Greece and a volume titled The Nude-Photographic Studies.

  “Tell me, Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt, shifting his plump haunches on the hard wooden stool, “what do you know of Zelenka and the deputy headmaster's wife, Frau Becker?”

  Sommer's expression altered, his eyes quickened by curiosity.

  “Zelenka was very fond of her. I know that because he told me so. And I believe that fondness was reciprocated…” His sentence ended on an imperfect cadence as if he had intended to say more but had changed his mind.

  “ ‘Fondness,’ Herr Sommer?”

  The mathematics master sighed. “Ordinarily I would be more circumspect, but as this is a police matter… I must confess, I have heard things said. It is possible that Frau Becker and Zelenka…” He raised his eyebrows and nodded knowingly.

  “Frau Becker and Zelenka were, what? Having a sexual relationship?”

  “Well, I don't know about that,” said Sommer, taken aback by Rheinhardt's directness. “I don't know what went on!”

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  “That their friendship was not… entirely innocent. The boys make jibes at one another. You overhear conversations in class, in the corridors… And Herr Lang-”

  “Herr Lang?”

  “Look, Inspector, Lang's a decent enough fellow. I don't want to get him into trouble.”

  “We will treat everything you say confidentially.”

  “Thank you, thank you… Herr Lang is the art master-he lives upstairs. Sometimes he comes down for a brandy and cigars. Naturally, we talk… I am certain he knew that something was going on.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That the boy had a crush on Frau Becker, that he had made some drawings of her, that they had spoken, and that the boy had said things… I don't know what. But, evidently, enough to make Lang suspicious.”

  “We spoke to Frau Becker about a week ago,” said Rheinhardt, producing his notebook and flicking through the pages. “She said that Zelenka and boys like him-that is to say, boys from poor backgrounds-are often bullied and persecuted at Saint Florian's.” Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Is that true?”

  The muscles around Sommer's jaw relaxed and he smiled faintly. He seemed strangely relieved.

  “Yes, that is true. The boys do terrible things to each other-quite terrible.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “In the past, some boys have confided in me-spoken of their torment. Weapons have been used… knives, sabres.”

  “And who is responsible for performing these abominable acts?”

  “There are ringleaders, of that I'm sure. But none of the boys I've spoken to would ever disclose their identities. They are simply too fearful.”

  “Do you know a boy called Wolf? Kiefer Wolf?”

  “Yes-I do…”

  “Is it possible that he is a ringleader?”

  “Wolf, Wolf,” Sommer repeated the name, and stroked his chin. “It wouldn't surprise me-he is a deeply unpleasant boy.”

  “And who else do you think might be involved?”

  “Steininger, perhaps… and Freitag… and another boy called Drexler. I've often seen them together, smoking-just outside.” Sommer gestured toward the window. “There's a plane tree they stand under.”

  “Herr Sommer, have you spoken to the headmaster about this?”

  “Yes, I have. And Lang has too… but… This is confidential?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Professor Eichmann has never been very concerned about such behavior. This may be because he thinks that bullying is inevitable and that there is little point in trying to stamp it out. However, I am also of the opinion that he believes bullying serves some educative function. Through bullying, the boys are prepared for the harsher realities of life… It is not a view that I would sub
scribe to, but I know that there are many masters who would not disagree with Professor Eichmann.”

  “Who?”

  “Osterhagen, Gartner…”

  Rheinhardt scribbled their names in his notebook.

  “You won't tell them, will you?” said Sommer anxiously. “You won't tell them it was me who-”

  “No,” Rheinhardt cut in. “Rest assured, you have my word.”

  “Good,” said Sommer, worrying a loose stud on the arm of his chair.

  “Are you aware, Herr Sommer, that an anonymous article- extremely critical of Professor Eichmann-has been published in the Arbeiter-Zeitung?”

  “No, no,” said the mathematics master, shaking his head. “I wasn't aware. No.”

  Rheinhardt summarized Herr G.'s comments and allegations.

  “Have you heard anything about this punishment, this so-called ‘night watch’?”

  “No… no, I can't say I have.”

  “What about the boy who died-Pikler? Do you know anything about him?”

  “No, I'm afraid not. I wasn't teaching here then.”

  Rheinhardt looked up at Liebermann to see if he wished to ask a question. But the young doctor signaled that he was content to observe and listen.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Rheinardt handed Sommer Zelenka's exercise book.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then could you tell me the significance of these numbers?” Rheinhardt turned some pages. “You see… here, and here… these number pairs in the margin are in your hand.”

  “Ah yes,” said Sommer, suddenly laughing. But his laugh was far too loud for someone whose eyes appeared so fearful. “Yes, they are a kind of game I used to play with Zelenka. A memory game. I would write some numbers down and he would try to remember them… and then he would write some numbers down, and I would try to remember them.”

  “But there are only a few numbers in most of the columns. Look here, for example: 2 24, 106 11, 34 48… It would be no great feat of memory to remember these.”

  “I know-and I couldn't agree more.” Sommer's protruding ears turned red. “It was quite ridiculous.”

  “Why did you arrange the numbers in pairs?”

  “No reason, really. I happened to do so the first time and Zelenka copied thereafter. It became a convention. They are completely random. Just random numbers, that's all.”

  “And what was the purpose of this… this game?”

  “Amusement.”

  “Amusement?” said Rheinhardt, incredulously.

  “It amused Zelenka.” Again Sommer laughed. “Ridiculous, I know.”

  Rheinhardt looked at Liebermann.

  “Herr Doctor, would you like to ask Herr Sommer any questions?”

  “No,” said Liebermann.

  “Are you quite sure?” said Rheinhardt.

  “Yes,” replied Liebermann. “Quite sure.”

  36

  Wolf and Drexler were sitting on the roof of Saint Florian's, close to the upper stories of an old tower. The lower stories, still intact, were not visible. They were below the roof itself. The tower may once have been freestanding, or part of the old religious foundation that predated the school. But the capricious architecture of Saint Florian's-having an organic quality-had somehow absorbed this ancient edifice. It was now a redundant cylinder of stone that sank through three floors. No one had yet discovered a way of getting inside the tower. Walls closed it off. A doorway in the basement might have been the original entry point, but it too had been sealed off with enormous stone slabs.

  Why would one do that? thought Drexler. To keep people out? Or to keep something inside?

  On a parapet that circled the turret were three winged gargoyles-one of which, Drexler realized, bore a striking resemblance to Professor Gartner.

  “So,” said Drexler, “what are you going to do?”

  Wolf did not react.

  “I'm intrigued,” Drexler added. “I won't tell anyone.” He stood up and pushed his cigarette into the gargoyle's mouth. “If there is a hell, I wonder if such things exist…”

  “You should stop reading those stupid Hoffmann stories: you're becoming fanciful.”

  “Come on,” said Drexler, ignoring Wolf's jibe. “What's this plan of yours?”

  Wolf blew out two streams of smoke from his nostrils.

  “I'm going to get a position at the Hofburg-and in due course join the emperor's personal guard.”

  “No… seriously, Wolf,” Drexler said, pressing him.

  “I am being serious.”

  Drexler leaned forward to inspect Wolf's face.

  “Yes,” Drexler said, more to himself than to his companion, “I think you are.”

  “My uncle is head of the security office,” Wolf continued. “He's quite well connected-and can pull a few strings. It wasn't my idea originally… It was my mother's.”

  Drexler laughed. “Your mother's!”

  “Yes. She's overprotective.” He permitted himself a crooked grin.

  “The Hofburg, eh?” said Drexler. His expression suddenly changed. “But surely you'll need to get better examination results. You've hardly been applying yourself lately.”

  “I am quietly confident.”

  “The chances of you mastering trigonometry between now and the final examinations are-in my opinion-vanishingly small. If this is your great plan, Wolf, then I'm afraid I am singularly unimpressed.”

  “Remember that,” said Wolf. “Remember what you just said. And when you're crouching behind a bush, cold, hungry, your boots covered in cow shit, trying to dodge the bullets of the next would-be king of the Carpathians, think of me. Yes, think of me, in my clean uniform with its razor-sharp creases, warm, well fed, accompanying the emperor to state openings and banquets, drinking champagne at the opera, and watching comedies at the Court Theater.”

  “You are deluding yourself, Wolf.”

  “Go to hell, Drexler.”

  “Well-to be frank, I think that's a lot more likely than you going to the Hofburg.”

  Wolf glanced at his watch. He flicked his cigarette into the air and stood. A powerful gust of wind made him stumble, and he steadied himself by touching the stone arc of a demon's wing.

  “Drill,” he said.

  The two boys set off, climbing over the bizarre terrain: fallen chimneys, a scattering of tiles-and the ruin of a small observatory. Inside the little cabin, Drexler spotted the rusting remains of an antique orrery. He would take a closer look next time.

  “Where are you going?” Wolf called as Drexler veered off.

  “This way.” Drexler gestured. “It's quicker.”

  “You can't get down that way.”

  “Yes, you can,” said Drexler, indignant.

  They came to an area where the surface on which they were walking was interrupted by a deep channel. Water had collected at the bottom. Wolf looked over the edge and saw the reflection of his head, silhouetted against the bilious sky. It was a long way down, and there was no way around. The channel stretched from one side of the roof to the other.

  “See?” said Wolf. “I told you we shouldn't have come this way.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Drexler. “You just have to jump across. Some iron steps are attached to the side of the building-and they lead to a window. It's always open.”

  “Jump across? Don't be ridiculous. The gap's too wide.”

  “No, it isn't.”

  “You'll break your neck.”

  “I won't.”

  Drexler took a few steps backward and then ran toward the precipice. He glided through the air and a second later landed safely on the other side. “See? Easy. It's narrower than you think.”

  Wolf looked at Drexler, and then up at the octahedral spires of the Gothic facade.

  “You're not scared, are you, Wolf?” Drexler called.

  “Of course not.”

  Wolf ran-but just before leaping, he pulled up short.

  “Come on, Wolf-it's easy.
”

  “Your legs are longer than mine,” said Wolf. “You have an unfair advantage.”

  “ Life ‘s unfair, Wolf! Now jump, will you?”

  Another gust of wind destroyed Wolf's confidence completely.

  “No… I can't do it.”

  “Well, you'll have to go the long way down-and you'll be late.”

  Drexler raised his hand and loped off.

  “Drexler,” Wolf fumed.

  “What?”

  Wolf's anger suddenly subsided. “Make up an excuse for me.”

  Drexler nodded, found the top of the iron steps, and swung himself over the parapet.

  37

  Liebermann maintained a pensive silence as the carriage rattled down the hill toward Aufkirchen. He appeared to be wholly occupied by the patterns produced by runnels of rainwater on the window. Raising his hand, he allowed his forefinger to trace the length of a silvery braid that was being blown sideways across the glass.

  “Well?” said Rheinhardt.

  Liebermann started. “I'm sorry Oskar. Did you say something?”

  “Surely the rain cannot be so very interesting.”

  “Forgive me,” said Liebermann, removing his hand from the glass. “I've been thinking.”

  “Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He made an interrogatory hand gesture, inviting Liebermann to elaborate.

  A gust of wind buffeted the carriage, and the driver cursed loudly. Liebermann, ignoring the string of colorful expletives, made a steeple with his fingers and peered at his friend.

  “I believe we can now be certain,” he began slowly, “that Zelenka and Frau Becker were lovers.”

  Rheinhardt nodded. “I had not expected Sommer to be so candid.”

  “Although, to be frank,” Liebermann continued, “with respect to this matter, I found your interview with Becker more revealing- and more compelling-than your interview with Sommer.”

  Rheinhardt tilted his head.

  “But Becker didn't say anything about his wife's liaison with Zelenka!”