Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  Trezska leaned over the balustrade and burst out laughing. “Ridiculous.”

  “Let's get one. There's no better way to see Venice.”

  Only a short distance away, several empty gondolas were tied to colorful mooring poles. Liebermann hired the services of a gondolier and helped Trezska into the boat. Once she was seated, he said “Just one moment,” dashed over to a champagne pavilion, and returned, slightly breathless, carrying a bottle of Moet and two glasses.

  The gondolier cast off and guided his vessel through a network of canals. They glided beneath bridges, past grand palazzos and theaters, past old churches, and through gardens of exotic trees. In due course, the illusion overcame Trezska's resistance. She sipped her champagne, suspended disbelief, and succumbed to the romance of the world's most magical city.

  Sensitive to the demands of the situation, the gondolier sought out a small, secluded pool, overlooked by a facade whose design recalled the Doge's Palace. The door of a little cafe opened directly onto the water, and from inside came the jangling of mandolins. The gondolier moored his vessel and, catching Liebermann's eye, winked and vanished into the cafe.

  Immediately, the young doctor and his companion drew closer together. They lowered their voices, and began to speak more intimately. Liebermann told Trezska about his family: his garrulous mother, his disapproving father, his two delightful sisters. He told her about the district where he had grown up, the schools he had attended, and his time at the university. He told her about the cities he had visited and about his fondness for English literature and London. And after a short hiatus, during which they both listened to the delicate, persistent thrumming of the mandolins, Trezska reciprocated. She told Liebermann about her father, who had also been a violinist- but who had died when she'd been very young. She told him about her mother, whose aristocratic family had disowned her when she had married below her station. And she told him about her life in Budapest: of Castle Hill, shrouded in autumn mists, the scent of violets in the spring, and the magnificent, ruthless winters, which froze the Danube, making it possible to walk from Pest to Buda.

  The gondolier reappeared, and soon they were off again, drifting through the gently lapping waters. On the floor, the empty bottle of champagne lay on its side, rolling with the gentle movement of the boat. Liebermann leaned back, and felt Trezska's head resting on his shoulder. An easy silence ensued, one that did not require filling. Above Liebermann s head, the strip of sky between the roofs was becoming darker.

  When the gondola reached the landing from which they had begun their odyssey Liebermann helped Trezska out with one hand while tipping the gondolier with the other.

  “The champagne has made me feel sleepy,” said Trezska. “Shall we go for a walk?”

  “If you like.”

  “Away from all these people…”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Liebermann led Trezska out of the make-believe world of Venedig in Wien and off toward the Freudenau. They strolled down the Haupt Allee, talking with less urgency-increasingly more at ease. As they progressed, Liebermann became conscious of a sudden plunge in temperature. It was getting windy, and a few drops of rain had begun to fall.

  “Quick,” said Liebermann, “let's shelter under there.”

  A large solitary plane tree was close by, and they dashed to take cover beneath its canopy of tangled branches. The patter of rain became louder, and the Prater was bathed in an eldritch luminescence. A subtle flickering illuminated the clouds, and a low rumbling followed. Then, quite suddenly, there was a bright white flash, a tremendous clap of thunder, and the skies opened, releasing a torrential downpour.

  Liebermann noticed that Trezska looked agitated. Her eyes were wide open and she had begun to pace.

  “It's all right,” said Liebermann. “It'll soon stop.”

  His solicitous remark had no effect. She continued to appear uneasy. Liebermann wondered whether she was pathologically frightened of thunderstorms. But the sky had been getting more overcast throughout the day, and she had showed no obvious signs of distress. He dismissed the thought: a brontophobic would have been anxious to get inside hours ago.

  “What's the matter?” Liebermann asked.

  Trezska attempted a smile, but failed miserably.

  “I…” She hesitated and lowered her eyes. “I don't like it here.”

  “Well,” said Liebermann, puzzled. “The rain will stop-and then we can leave.”

  “No. I think… I think we should go now.”

  “But we'll get soaked.”

  “It's only rain. Come, let's go.” Trezska looked at the sky and pouted.

  “Are you afraid?”

  She paused for a moment, and then said: “Yes.”

  “But it's just-” There was another flash and a boom so loud that the ground shook. “A storm.”

  “Come,” she said. “I'm sorry. We can't stay here.”

  “But why not?”

  “We just can't!” A note of desperation had entered Trezska's voice. While Liebermann was still trying to think of something to say, she added, “I'm going.” And with that she marched out into the violent weather.

  Stunned, Liebermann watched her, as she held her hat in place while striding determinedly back toward the amusements. Then, realizing that he was not being very gentlemanly, he ran after her.

  “Trezska?”

  When he caught up with her, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She did not slow down to make his task any easier.

  “We must get away. Now hurry.”

  They maintained their pace, walking briskly into sheets of cold rain. Liebermann s clothes were soon drenched, his hair was plastered to his scalp, and a continuous flow of water streamed down the back of his neck.

  Whatever is the matter with her? thought Liebermann.

  There was another flash, but much brighter than its predecessors. The grass seemed to leap up, each blade sharp and distinct in the dazzling coruscation. The rain looked momentarily frozen, becoming rods of crystal suspended in the air, and a fraction of a second later there was an explosion-a great ripping, accompanied by a shower of bark and smoldering splinters. Liebermann swung around and saw flames licking the trunk of the scorched plane tree. They had been standing exactly where the bolt had struck. If they had not moved, they would have been killed.

  40

  Commissioner Manfred Brugel looked troubled. In his hands he held a letter.

  “Well, Rheinhardt, this is all very difficult-very difficult indeed. But let me assure you, I would have wanted to talk to you had I received a complaint from any of the Saint Florian pupils. The fact that I am related to Kiefer Wolf is really of little consequence. You understand that, don't you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commissioner was visibly disturbed by the transparency of his own deceit. He coughed into his hand, mumbled something about professionalism, and then concluded his introductory remarks by repeating the word “good” three times.

  Rheinhardt was accustomed to feeling a sense of foreboding whenever he entered the commissioner's office. But on this occasion the presentiment of impending doom was fearfully oppressive.

  “Now, according to my nephew,” said Brugel, “you went to Saint Florian's on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January in order to conduct some interviews. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You interviewed my nephew-and several other boys.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whom I presume you had previously identified as suspects?”

  Rheinhardt crossed his legs and shifted uncomfortably. He could see where this line of questioning might lead and sought to divert the conversation elsewhere.

  “Prior to interviewing the boys, I had spoken to Professor Eich-mann, the headmaster, about the Arbeiter-Zeitung article and-”

  Brugel waved his hand in the air. “Yes, yes-we can discuss Eich-mann later.” He glanced down at the letter and continued, “The boys you interviewed-the
y were suspects?”

  “Well, only in a manner of speaking… They were boys who I thought might be able to tell us more about the bullying at Saint Florian's. If the Arbeiter-Zeitung article-”

  Again, Brugel cut in: “And how did you identify these… these suspects?”

  “With the help of Herr Dr. Liebermann.”

  The commissioner snorted. “And how did Dr. Liebermann identify them?”

  “He used a psychological technique to probe the mind of Isidor Perger, the boy who wrote those letters to Thomas Zelenka.”

  “And what was this psychological technique?”

  Rheinhardt grimaced. “He showed Perger”-Rheinhardt's expression became more pained-”inkblots… and asked the boy what he saw in them.”

  “Inkblots.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And by inkblots, you mean…?”

  “Blots of ink… on paper, sir. I am sure Dr. Liebermann would be willing to explain how the procedure works.”

  “That won't be necessary, Rheinhardt.”

  The commissioner took a deep breath and was evidently struggling to contain himself. A raised vessel appeared on his temple, in which Rheinhardt detected the pulse of Brugel s fast-beating and furious heart.

  “And is it true,” said the commissioner, in an uncharacteristically controlled voice, “that you accused my nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka?”

  For a brief moment, Rheinhardt found himself wondering whether it was not such a bad idea, at this juncture, to simulate a fainting fit. He could very easily relax his muscles and allow his ample frame to slide off the chair, after which he would be lifted onto a stretcher and conveyed to the infirmary, where he might rest, sleep perhaps, even dream of walking holidays in the Tyrol. On further reflection, he decided that he had better get the ordeal over with.

  “Sir,” he said resolutely, “you will appreciate, I am sure, how a direct accusation will sometimes unnerve a suspect. That forceful assertions can even produce a confess-”

  “It's true, then,” Brugel interrupted.

  “Yes,” Rheinhardt sighed. “Yes, it is true.”

  “And on what evidence did you base this accusation?” asked Brugel.

  Policeman's intuition, thought Rheinhardt. Your nephew's crooked smile.

  Rheinhardt shook his head and murmured something that barely qualified as language.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Brugel.

  “Nothing… nothing very firm, sir.”

  The commissioner folded the letter and placed it in a drawer. He then leaned across his desk and began to lecture Rheinhardt on one of his favorite topics: the importance of maintaining standards. Gradu ally, Brugel's voice took on a hectoring tone, and in a very short space of time he was thumping the desk with his fists and reprimanding Rheinhardt for running a shoddy, incompetent investigation. His anger, which he had succeeded in suppressing for so long, now boiled over. The commissioner roared and spat out his invective with apoplectic rage.

  As Rheinhardt listened to this tirade, he experienced it not intellectually, or even emotionally, but physically. It was like being bludgeoned with a heavy club. The irony of his situation did not escape him. He was being bullied. Bizarrely he too had become one of Wolf's victims.

  When the commissioner was spent, he leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily. His face had turned red, and some foamy spittle had collected in his muttonchop whiskers.

  “Please accept my apology, sir,” said Rheinhardt.

  The commissioner grunted and granted the disgraced inspector permission to leave.

  When he reached the door, Brugel called out:

  “Rheinhardt.”

  “Sir?”

  The commissoner was suddenly changed. He looked smaller: older, wearier, and perplexed. It was an extraordinary transformation.

  “He's my youngest sister's boy,” said Brugel. “Her only child. He's no angel, but he would not… No, you are quite wrong. And consider yourself lucky. This will go no further. I'll see to that.”

  Had Liebermann been present, he would have had much to say about the commissioner's sudden transformation, and his curious, incoherent adieu. But Rheinhardt was in no fit state to consider such things. Eager to leave, he bowed, clicked his heels, and left the commissioner's office like a man escaping a fire.

  41

  Isidor Perger was sitting on a stool, flanked by Steininger and Freitag. In front of him stood Wolf. The blond boy drew his sabre and held it up close to Perger s face.

  “Well,” he said. “What do you see?”

  Perger shrugged. “Nothing… Your sabre, Wolf.”

  “Are you blind, Perger?” asked Steininger.

  “No,”

  “Then why can't you see it?”

  “See w-what? I can't see anything.”

  “I'll hold it closer,” said Wolf, thrusting the blade forward. Perger flinched. “Does that help?” Wolf added.

  “I… I can only see the b-blade… the b-blade of your sabre.”

  “Now,” said Wolf, “for the last time: I want you to take a long, hard look-and tell me what you see.”

  Wolf tilted his sabre so that it caught the yellow flame of the paraffin lamp. A scintilla of light traveled around its sharp, curved edge.

  Perger squinted. “Yes, there's… s-s-something on the blade. A speck of something.”

  “Good,” said Wolf. “And what do you think that might be?”

  “R-rust?”

  Wolf sheathed his sabre and began to clap. He brought his hands together with slow, exaggerated movements.

  “Very good, Perger,” interjected Freitag, unable to conceal his mirth.

  “Yes, very good indeed,” Steininger repeated.

  “What a pity, then,” continued Wolf, “that this should have eluded your attention.”

  Steininger and Freitag shook their heads and tutted.

  “You should have put more into it,” said Steininger.

  “More elbow grease,” said Freitag, frowning and miming the oscillating action of polishing a sword. Then, unable to resist a cheap joke, he allowed his arm to drop, re-creating the movement in front of his crotch.

  Steininger began to guffaw, but Wolf silenced him with his glazed, humorless stare.

  “I'm afraid, Perger,” said Wolf, “that you must be punished. However, I am not sure yet what form this punishment should take. Now, even as I speak, I notice that my boots could do with a good clean. Would you be willing to clean my boots, Perger?”

  “Yes, Wolf.”

  “Would you be happy to lick them clean?”

  “Yes, Wolf.”

  “Including the soles? Although I feel obliged to tell you that I went to the stables today and stupidly trod in some manure.”

  “Y-yes, Wolf.”

  “ My boots could do with a clean, too,” said Freitag.

  “And mine,” said Steininger.

  “Well,” continued Wolf. “How about that, Perger? Would you be willing to lick Freitag's and Steininger s boots too?”

  “Yes, Wolf.”

  “And you see,” said Wolf, assuming a fatigued expression, “in agreeing so readily, you demonstrate the inadequacy of the punishment. It simply isn't enough. A fellow like you needs more! Something that will leave a lasting impression, something that will remind you to perform your duties more diligently in the future… something that has a reasonable chance of countering your extraordinary laziness!”

  Wolf produced a revolver from his pocket. He released the cylindrical block and showed Perger that one of the six chambers contained a cartridge. Then, swinging the cylinder back into alignment, he spun it until it halted with a click. He cocked the hammer with his thumb.

  “Here,” said Wolf, offering the gun to Perger. “Take it.”

  The boy took the weapon in his shaking hands.

  “Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. The odds are very much in your favor.”

  “No, Wolf… I c-c-can't.”

  “Ah, but
you c-can, and you w-will!” said Wolf.

  Perger's eyes brimmed, and tears began to roll down his cheeks.

  “Don't be pathetic, Perger!” Wolf shouted. “Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. Now!”

  Perger raised the gun, but its ascent was slow-as if it had become too heavy to lift. Indeed, Perger's entire body seemed to have become weak and floppy. He began to sway, and his eyelids flickered. Freitag and Steininger gripped his tunic and held him upright.

  “Don't swoon like a woman, you-you… you Galician whore's son!” He grabbed Perger's wrist and pulled it up, shoving the gun barrel between the boy's lips. Then, covering Perger's hand with his own, he applied a minute amount of pressure to the distraught boy's trigger finger.

  “Here, let me help. Come on, Perger, be brave. I'm not going to do it for you.”

  Perger emitted a strange keening.

  Suddenly there was a creaking sound, followed by the thud of feet landing on the floorboards and the uihump of the trapdoor closing. A few moments later Drexler appeared.

  “What's going on?” he asked.

  “Perger s playing Russian roulette,” Wolf replied.

  “Yes,” said Steininger. “He's unhappy at Saint Florian's-and has decided to end it all. He's not the first.”

  “And he won't be the last,” said Freitag.

  “A tragic waste,” said Steininger.

  Drexler walked over to Perger and eased the revolver out of his mouth. Perger's hand slowly descended to his lap. He rested the gun on his thigh and bowed his head.

  “What on earth do you think you're doing, Drexler!” Wolf shouted.

  The other boy didn't reply. He simply shook his head and bit his lower lip.

  “Look, Drexler,” Wolf continued, “I don't know what's got into you lately, but my patience is running out. You're always spoiling things. And if you carry on like this, well, I am obliged to say-you won't be welcome here for very much longer.”

  Wolf threw a glance-a silent appeal-in the direction of Steininger and Freitag.

  “Yes, Drexler,” said Steininger. “This is our place… and if you're not going to join in…”