Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  “Yes. I'm feeling a little fragile, to be honest. Last night I…” He massaged his temple and winced. “I drank too much.”

  “Well, there's no better cure for a hangover than a big, hearty meal. Finish your soup and try the onion steak… or the Tyrolean liver. Something substantial!”

  Liebermann stirred the contents of his bowl and observed the stringy ballet with glum indifference.

  “I saw Miss Lyd gate on Tuesday,” Rheinhardt added breezily.

  Liebermann looked up from his soup. “Did you?”

  “Yes. I showed her the number pairs from Zelenka's book.”

  Liebermann's expression was unusually flat: a peculiarity that Rheinhardt attributed to his friend's intemperance of the night before.

  “Was she able to assist?”

  “Well, she said that the numbers might represent some form of code-but, if so, one of a very unconventional type. She promised to study them and give an opinion in due course.”

  Liebermann nodded.

  Rheinhardt sliced his dumpling and speared a strip of boiled ham.

  “This is quite, quite delicious,” he said, chewing with more volume than was really permissible according to the standard prescriptions of etiquette. “Oh, and Miss Lyd gate said something about not having had the pleasure of your company lately… and being otherwise engaged-and that I should convey her best wishes when I next saw you.”

  Liebermann set his jaw and mumbled something inaudible, which Rheinhardt was perfectly content to accept as a token of gratitude.

  The arrival of a pianist was received with restrained applause. The musician adjusted the height of his stool, flicked the tails of his coat, and sat down slowly. When his hands fell on the keyboard, the coffeehouse filled with a mournful dirge. The marchlike accompaniment suggested the trudging feet of a regiment of soldiers, every one of whom yearned to return home. It was an inconsolable song of reminiscence and lamentation.

  “Brahms?” asked Rheinhardt tentatively.

  “Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Hungarian Dance Number Eleven in D minor. It's usually heard in a four-hand arrangement… and he's playing it very slowly.”

  “Still…”

  “It is very affecting, yes.”

  “I rather like it.”

  They listened for a few moments, until a subtle modulation in the music suddenly released them from its thrall.

  “So tell me,” said Liebermann. “What happened with old Brugel? Did the nephew carry out his threat?”

  Rheinhardt rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Yes. He did write to the commissioner, informing him of my accusation. Subsequently, I was summoned by Brugel and given a complete dressing down. He was furious-I've never seen him so angry.”

  “His overreaction confirms my earlier speculation. He knows what sort of a boy Wolf is. He is simply trying to safeguard the interests of his family.”

  Rheinhardt waved a piece of sausage on the end of his fork. “When I was leaving, Brugel became more subdued. He said that Wolf was the only child of his youngest sister. The boy was no angel, he admitted, but he said I was quite wrong about him.” Rheinhardt paused, his eyes becoming less focused. “There was something about the way he referred to his sister… an uncharacteristic tenderness.”

  “In most families,” said Liebermann knowingly, “the eldest son is often the youngest daughter's special protector-and a mother cannot help but idealize her only child. One does not need to be a very great psychologist to understand Brugel's motive. He loves his sister, and he is trying to stop you from breaking her heart. That is why his anger was so immoderate.”

  Liebermann sat back in his chair, satisfied with his perspicacity. He noticed with irritation that a wayward spot of broth had landed on the cuff of his jacket. He tutted, reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief. As he did so, some pink sugared almonds fell and scattered onto the floor. The young doctor reached down, picked them up, and placed them on the tablecloth.

  Rheinhardt stopped chewing.

  “Sugared almonds,” said Liebermann, with a sheepish half smile.

  “Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.

  “I wasn't expecting them to be there.”

  “Evidently not,” said the inspector, resuming his chewing, and revising his estimate of how much alcohol his friend had imbibed the previous evening.

  Liebermann wiped his cuff clean. Trezska must have put the almonds in his pocket while they were both inebriated-or perhaps he had put them there himself; these innocent bonbons aroused in him a peculiar sense of incompletion and imminence. He stared at the almonds and began to play with them on his napkin-as if he might stumble upon an arrangement that would release their mysterious secret.

  He remembered something that Trezska had said: she had praised the mind-altering properties of absinthe: the inspiration of poets… the favored spirit of visionaries. Why was that important? As hard as he tried, he couldn't think why.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Rheinhardt asked.

  Liebermann dismissed his solicitous remark with a peremptory hand gesture.

  They had returned to his apartment and made love. He could remember that well enough. Then, afterward, he had been lying in bed, still feeling very odd-and… That was it! He had experienced a flash of insight: something to do with almonds, and something very, very important.

  “Ha!” Liebermann exclaimed.

  “Whatever is the matter, Max?” said Rheinhardt, somewhat irritated by his friend's eccentric behavior.

  The young doctor suddenly seemed galvanized. His movements acquired a nervous urgency.

  “I would like to take another look at those photographs.”

  “What photographs?”

  “The photographs of Zelenka… and I would also like to speak to his parents.”

  “Why?”

  Liebermann shook his head. “When you first told me about Zelenka's death, you said-did you not? — that he had been conducting some experiments involving… vinegar?”

  “Yes, that's right. I did say that.”

  Liebermann picked up the almonds and rattled them in his closed fist.

  “How very interesting. Almonds and vinegar!”

  The young doctor's eyes were alight-and he had acquired a slightly fevered look.

  “I don't know what you were drinking last night,” said Rheinhardt. “And I'm not sure that I want to know; however, whatever it was, I would strongly advise, that-at all costs-you eschew it in future.” Before Liebermann could respond, Rheinhardt's expression had changed from dudgeon to despondency. “Oh no, what now?” His assistant, Haussmann, had just walked through the door.

  The young man's arrival at their table coincided with the final bars of the Brahms Hungarian Dance, and when he spoke, he had to compete with a loud round of applause.

  “Instructions from Commissioner Brugel, sir. You must proceed to Herrengasse-immediately. There has been…” He looked around to make sure that no one was listening and lowered his voice. “An incident.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Rheinhardt, cupping his ear.

  “A body, sir,” said the assistant, with a hint of impatience. “In Herrengasse-a high-ranking officer in His Majesty's army.”

  “Who?”

  “General von Stoger.”

  “I see,” said Rheinhardt.

  “Commisioner Brugel… he said that you are to initiate the investigation, but you must expect to be relieved by Inspector von Bulow as soon as he is located.”

  “Why?”

  “Er… don't know, sir. Perhaps it's all to do with…” He glanced at Liebermann, unsure about whether to continue.

  “Yes, yes,” said Rheinhardt. “Von Bulow's confounded assignment-whatever it is!”

  The inspector pressed on his knees to raise his bulky frame, and looked affectionately at his unfinished meal. “What a dreadful waste,” he said. “And I was so looking forward to the chef's topfenstrudel.” Then, addressing Liebermann,
he added: “What are you supposed to be doing this afternoon?”

  “Case notes.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “Yes-I could write them up this evening.”

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany us?”

  “If you wish.”

  Rheinhardt turned toward the door, but his dynamism was suddenly extinguished. He seemed to be overcome by a curious lassitude. Retrieving his abandoned fork, he impaled an untouched dumpling and stuffed it into his mouth, whole. He then said something quite unintelligible to Haussmann.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said the bemused assistant. “I didn't quite catch that.”

  “Photographer,” he repeated. “Get the photographer… and find Professor Mathias.”

  As they left, a man at an adjacent table turned to watch them go. He had dark curly hair, an impressive mustache, and the fiery eyes of a zealot.

  48

  Professor Eichmann was seated behind his desk, staring at the photograph of himself as a youthful artillery officer. As a child, he had dreamed of wearing such a uniform, distinguishing himself in battle, and becoming a celebrated general. But in real life his precocious fantasies had come to nothing. His career in the army had not been very remarkable-although this was through no fault of his own. He had been honorably discharged in his early twenties due to ill health. The doctor had attributed his breathlessness to a congenital heart defect. At the time, Eichmann had been devastated; however, he was an intelligent, resourceful young man, and soon turned this misfortune to his advantage. He excelled at university, wrote a modestly succesful history of the Austrian land forces, and won the respect of his academic peer group.

  Yet, in spite of his achievements, the disappointment of his early discharge from the artillery lingered.

  He had wanted to be a man of action, and academia was-for him-far too distant from the battlefield. In due course, he trained as a teacher and sought a more direct relationship with the world. Although he had been denied glory, he could still influence those destined to take his place.

  While still in his thirties, he had written an impressive article on the importance of military schools. It had become commonplace in coffeehouses to hear patrons bemoaning the state of the army. Who could deny that it was underfunded, ill-equipped, and in need of modernization? Eichmann, however, had argued that the significance of these factors had been exaggerated. What really mattered was “character.” If the army-and in particular the Austrian army-was going to meet the challenges of the new century, then it should be supplied with soldiers of a certain “type.” Thus, military schools had a key role to play in determining the destiny of the dual monarchy. Moreover, Eichmann had proposed that this right sort of character should be modeled on a vision of man described in recent philosophi cal writings. Such works might introduce teachers to some very useful principles.

  It was an argument that had attracted the interest of the headmaster of a military school situated in the Vienna woods. The school was called Saint Florian's. Eichmann was immediately offered a teaching post. Five years later he became deputy headmaster, and three years after that, the headmaster had died and Eichmann had stepped into his shoes.

  On the whole, Eichmann s project had been successful. The school now had a fine reputation. In addition, old boys occupied significant positions in the military hierarchy. The survival of the empire wasto a greater or lesser extent-dependent on these men of character whose thinking he had shaped. Thus, in a sense, he had inveigled his way back onto the battlefield. Some of their glory-at least in partbelonged to him.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Eichmann turned the photograph of his younger self aside.

  “Come in.” It was the deputy headmaster. “Ah… Becker,” said the headmaster, gesturing toward a chair. “Well?”

  Becker advanced, but did not sit.

  “He didn't attend any classes yesterday-and he hasn't been seen all day today. The prefects have undertaken a thorough search of the school, including the outbuildings.”

  “Have you spoken to any of his friends?”

  “Perger doesn't have friends-as such.”

  “All right, then-classmates?”

  “A boy called Schoeps claims to have seen him in the dormitory on Tuesday night. That, I believe, was the last time anyone saw him.”

  “He must have absconded.”

  “Yes, sir, that seems to be the most likely explanation.”

  The headmaster shook his head. “This is all we need.”

  “Quite. Most inopportune.”

  “Thank you, Deputy Headmaster,” said Eichmann.

  Becker bowed and left the room.

  The headmaster opened a drawer, took out a sheet of headed notepaper, and began writing.

  Dear Herr Perger,

  I regret to inform you that your son Isidor appears to have absconded from the school. This is a very serious matter.

  The headmaster paused and bit the end of his pen. He recalled his talk with Wolf. For a moment, it crossed his mind that the boy might have misundertsood him.

  No, he thought. Surely not.

  Returning his attention to the letter, he continued to write.

  49

  Liebermann examined the cracked surface of a large oil painting that depicted the 1683 battle of Vienna. The colors had been dimmed by generations of cigar smoke, but it was still possible to make out the noble figure of the Polish king, Jan Sobieski, confronting the Ottoman commander-Grand Vizier Merzifonlu Kara Mustafa Pasha.

  What if Vienna had fallen? thought Liebermann. What then? Would the cry of the muezzin now be heard, resonating along the banks of the Danube, the Rhine, or even the Seine, calling the faithful to evening prayer?

  He felt a small detonation of pride in his chest.

  Vienna.

  The peoples of Europe were much indebted to the Viennese-if they but knew it!

  Liebermann stepped away from the painting, with its massive carved frame and its jaundiced, barely discernible figures, and surveyed the large gloomy room in which he was standing.

  Thick embroidered curtains were drawn across three of the tall rectangular windows. Only the fourth pair of heavy drapes had been pulled back to admit a sour, enervating light. From the high ceiling hung a massive iron chandelier-notable for the complexity of its loops and involutions. Stalactites of congealed wax hung from its six dishes like a macabre merry-go-round of dangling atrophied fingers. The ceiling itself was equally ornate, indented with step-sided coffers. Below the ceiling was a cornice of regularly spaced moldings: rosettes, garlands, and openmouthed lions baring their teeth.

  Two suits of armor stood guard on either side of the double doors. Other furniture included assorted chairs, a Japanese lacquered cabinet (shaped like a pagoda), a wall table (on which an antique chess set was displayed), a porcelain stove, some bookshelves, and-rather strangely-a battered leather saddle. Liebermann supposed that this last item must have been of sentimental value to the general, having been of service during some notable campaign. Military men-whose fundamental purpose it was to kill others-could be remarkably sentimental.

  The center of the room was dominated by a mahogany desk: behind it was a high-backed wooden chair, and on this chair sat a stout gentleman with a bulbous pockmarked nose. His hair had receded, and, like many men of his generation, he had-in deference to the emperor-chosen to sport a fine set of muttonchop whiskers. He was wearing a quilted smoking jacket, with velvet trimmings, and loose-fitting silk trousers. Liebermann noticed that below the desk the general's big feet occupied a pair of elegant oriental slippers traced with silver thread and with toes that curled upward.

  Liebermann could hear Rheinhardt's baritone through the closed double doors. He was interviewing one of the general's servants in the hallway. Although the inspector was speaking in hushed tones, his strong voice carried. It was answered by a muffled and considerably weaker tenor.

  The general might have been taking a nap-such
was his innocent attitude. His left cheek was pressed against the red leather inlay of the desktop, his arms were sprawled out to either side of his head, and his eyes were closed. However, in his right hand he held a bulky Borchardt pistol, and a gaping hole had been blasted through his skull-just above the ear.

  A pile of books had toppled as the general had fallen forward. Most of the titles were by German theoreticians of warfare-but one volume, on closer inspection, turned out to be a lighthearted collection of military anecdotes. The pale calf bindings of the more academic works were spattered with blood and gelatinous globs of brain tissue. On the corner of the desk was a deep, wide ashtray that contained three cigar stubs.

  Liebermann heard the sound of brisk footsteps advancing up the hallway, and then new voices and a brittle exchange. The double doors opened and a tall man entered, followed by a younger man who was evidently his assistant. Although Liebermann had heard a great deal about Rheinhardt's nemesis, Victor von Bulow, they had never been formally introduced. Liebermann remembered von Bulow from the detectives’ ball and had seen him once before, the previous year, arguing with Rheinhardt outside Commissioner Bru gel's office.

  Von Bulow swept into the room and came to an abrupt halt on the other side of the general's desk. He and Liebermann looked at each other-though the manner in which the two men observed each other was curiously intense and searching. It did not suggest passive reception but, rather, an active seeking-out. They were inspecting. And as is always the case when two well-dressed men meet, the object of their attention was, first and foremost, clothing: value, quality, and provenance.

  They recoiled slightly when they both observed-simultaneouslythat they were wearing identical astrakhan coats, supplied almost certainly by the very same shop. This resulted in their expressions shifting-in tandem-from mild indignation to what might have been a form of grudging respect. However, their tacit truce was quickly dissolved. In a transparent attempt to assert his sartorial advantage, von Bulow tugged at his shirt cuffs to reveal the glitter of his diamond cuff links. Rheinhardt, who had followed von Bulow in, witnessed this silent but perfectly comprehensible exchange with some amusement.