Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  “Herr Dr. Liebermann?” said von Bulow icily.

  “Inspector von Bulow,” said Liebermann, inclining his head.

  Von Bulow walked around the desk, his stare fixed on the general.

  “I trust you have not touched the body.”

  “That is correct. I have not touched the body.”

  “Good.” Von Bulow crouched down to get a better view of the head wound. “Pathology is not your specialty, Herr Doctor…”

  Von Bulow had subtly stressed his statement so that it sounded a little like a question.

  “Indeed,” Liebermann confirmed. “I am not a pathologist. I am a psychiatrist.”

  “You will appreciate, then, I hope,” said von Bulow, “that your presence here can serve no purpose.”

  It was a blunt and discourteous dismissal.

  Liebermann retained his composure and acquiesced with a curt nod. As he walked toward the door, von Bulow called out: “Oh, and Dr. Liebermann…” The young doctor stopped and turned around. “Inspector Rheinhardt was acting without proper authority when he invited you to accompany him. You must not tell anyone what you have seen here today. Do you understand?”

  “With respect,” said Rheinhardt, coughing uncomfortably, “that really isn't right. I was instructed by the commissioner to initiate standard investigative procedures until your arrival. And that's exactly what I've done. There is nothing irregular about Dr. Liebermann's attendance. He has been of considerable assistance to the security office on many occasions-as you are well aware. If this investigation is-how shall we say? Sensitive? — then perhaps you should ask Commissioner Brugel why he did not make this absolutely clear vis-a-vis my instructions.”

  Von Bulow paused and stroked the neat rectangle of silver bristle on his chin. He seemed to be reconsidering his position, weighing up costs and benefits on an internal mental balance. His pale gray eyesalmost entirely devoid of color-stared coldly at Rheinhardt. A sudden reconfiguration of his angular features suggested that his obscure calculations had been successfully completed.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said softly. “I am most grateful for your help.” His intonation had become unctuous-oily with sarcasm. “Be that as it may, now that I am here-you may both leave.”

  Rheinhardt, exasperated, strode over to von Bulow and handed him his notebook.

  “You may as well have this. I've just interviewed the head servant. The house staff were all dismissed last night at seven and told not to return until this afternoon.”

  Von Bulow flicked through the notes.

  “Rheinhardt, how can you possibly expect me to understand this scribble? I'll interview him again myself.”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “As you wish, von Bulow. You should also know that Professor Mathias has been asked-”

  “Professor Mathias!” von Bulow cut in. “Dear God, Rheinhardt, you're not still using that lunatic? I'll be appointing my own pathologist, thank you. Now, gentlemen, the suicide of one of His Majesty's generals is nothing less than a national tragedy. I really must be getting on.”

  He extended his arm toward the doors.

  In readiness to leave, Rheinhardt looked over at his friend; however, Liebermann was hesitant.

  “I'm sorry,” said Liebermann to von Bulow “But did you just say… suicide?”

  Von Bulow turned on Liebermann with evident impatience.

  “Yes.”

  “You are of the opinion that General von Stoger took his own life?”

  “Well, of course he did!”

  “And why do you say that?”

  “Because General von Stoger is lying here-quite dead-with a gun in his hand and a very large hole in his head. Now, for the last time, Herr Doctor, would you kindly leave? I have work to do.”

  Von Bulow's assistant smirked.

  “Forgive me,” said Liebermann, making his way back to the body. He beckoned to von Bulow, urging him to examine the general's wound more closely. “Observe,” Liebermann continued. “There are no powder burns on the general's temple. No grains embedded in the skin. Most people, when they choose to end it all by shooting themselves, place the muzzle of the gun against the epidermis-pressing it in, hard.” Liebermann made a gun shape with his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers into his temple. “Presumably,” he continued, “to reduce the possibility of making an error. Only rarely-very rarely-will a suicide hold the pistol at a distance. You are correct that I am not a pathologist; however, I am a psychiatrist, and it is a sad fact that members of my profession are frequently the first to discover individuals who have committed suicide. I have seen many suicides… and one notices certain resemblances between them.”

  Von Bulow snorted. “It may be very rare-as you suggest-for a suicide to hold the weapon at a distance, but it is not so exceptional as to recommend that we should abandon common sense! Now, Herr Doctor, if you would kindly let me conduct my investigation in the manner to which I am accustomed!”

  Dispensing with any pretence of courtesy, von Bulow flicked his thumb toward the exit.

  “And the absence of a suicide note?” said Liebermann, ignoring von Bulow's rude gesture. “Does that not strike you as being a little odd? Gentlemen of von Stoger's class and rank always leave a suicide note.”

  “Herr Dr. Liebermann,” said von Bulow coldly, “you are testing my patience!”

  “I do apologize,” Liebermann replied. “I have neglected to mention the most important of my observations. No powder burns, no suicide note… these are simply auxiliary to the principal fact, which, if I may be so bold as to declare, is-in my humble judgment-quite compelling.”

  Von Bulow's arm dropped to his side. He was reluctant to ask the young doctor what this compelling principal fact was and so cede his authority. He glared at Liebermann, who had chosen this moment to conduct a minute study of his fingernails. He picked off a cuticle. Rheinhardt, the long-suffering victim of Liebermann s irritating penchant for obscurity and mystification, was, for once, delighted.

  The ensuing silence became frigid and intractable.

  Von Bulow-finally overcome by curiosity-ungraciously spat out his question: “What are you talking about!”

  “Simply this,” said Liebermann, smiling. “The general's eyes are closed. This is not remarkable in itself, being commonplace when people die naturally. But when people die suddenly-their eyes remain open. In the anguished state that precedes suicide, we can be quite sure that the eyes are wide open-staring, in fact. And this is how we-us psychiatrists-usually find them.” Liebermann paused for just enough time for von Bulow to register von Stoger's heavy, hooded lids. “Inspector, someone closed the general's eyes postmortem. And I strongly suspect that the person who did that was also the person who shot him!”

  The blood drained from von Bulow's face. He ran an agitated hand over the silver stubble at the back of his head.

  “Good day,” said Liebermann, marching briskly to the closed double doors. Before opening them, he looked back into the room and added, “And don't be fooled by that tight grip. A gun can be placed in the hand immediately after death, and then when rigor mortis sets in, it creates the illusion of a holding-fast.”

  Rheinhardt bowed, and followed his friend out into the hall. The servant whom Rheinhardt had been interviewing was still waiting.

  “Sir?” said the servant to Rheinhardt. “May I retire to my quarters now?”

  “I'm afraid not,” said Rheinhardt. “My colleague Inspector von Bulow wishes to ask you some more questions.”

  The man acquiesced glumly.

  Rheinhardt and Liebermann began walking down the hallway, their footsteps sounding loudly on the shiny, polished ebony.

  Unable to restrain himself, Rheinhardt slapped his friend on the back.

  “That was truly excellent, Max, excellent. You made von Bulow look like a complete idiot.”

  In response, the young doctor took a sugared almond from his pocket, tossed it into the air, and caught it in his mouth. He bit through the icing and p
roduced a loud, satisfying crunch. “Let's go back to Schottenring,” he said. “I must see those photographs again.”

  50

  Wolf was sitting in the lost room, alone, smoking his way through a packet of gold-tipped cigarettes. He had acquired them from Bose, a plump and effete baron from Deutsch-Westungarn, whose arm he had twisted until the boy had squealed like a stuck pig. Resting on Wolf's lap was a large book, the cover of which was made of soft green leather and embossed with gold lettering. The endpapers were marbled. Wolf licked his finger and began to turn the pages. The movement of his hand across the spine became faster and faster-each transition was accompanied by a double syllable of friction and release. The sound was not unlike a person gasping for breath. Although he was not reading the text, Wolf's expression was attentive.

  The monotony of the task created a void in his mind, which soon filled with recent memories.

  Earlier that day Wolf had been summoned to the headmaster's office. The old man had rambled on in his usual way about values, honor, and reputation, but in due course his well-practiced oratory had stalled. He had become somewhat incoherent. Eventually, the headmaster had made an oblique reference to the matter discussed on the occasion of their last meeting.

  “It appears that Perger has absconded.”

  “Yes,” Wolf had replied.

  “This sort of behavior cannot be countenanced. When he is found, I will have no other option but to expel him. Whatever plea is made on his behalf-and I'm sure that at least one well-meaning but misguided advocate will come forward-nothing, and I mean nothing, can possibly excuse such appalling misconduct.”

  “No, sir,” Wolf had agreed. “It is quite disgraceful.”

  The headmaster had risen and, as was his habit, had gone to the window.

  Wolf recalled the nervous catch in his voice: “I take it we have understood the situation correctly. Eh, Wolf? I mean… Perger has absconded, hasn't he?”

  “Why, yes,” Wolf had replied. “There can be no other explanation for his disappearance, surely?”

  “Good,” the headmaster had muttered, evidently reassured by the boy's steady confidence.

  Wolf now turned the final page. None of them had been annotated. He had observed a few inky marks here and there but nothing of any obvious significance. Wolf closed the book and opened it again at the frontispiece, an antique etching of a bearded scholar in a library. At the foot of the title page, in small lettering, he read “Hartel and Jacobsen,” beneath which was the publisher's address in Leipzig, and the year of publication: 1900.

  As far as Wolf could determine, there was nothing remarkable about the dictionary at all-except, perhaps, its quality. He traced the tooled indentations with his finger.

  Why on earth did Herr Sommer want it so badly? He had been desperate, that night in the locker room.

  Wolf inspected the inside covers in order to determine if anything incriminating had been slipped beneath the endpapers, but it was obvious that no one had tampered with them. The space between the spine and the binding was also empty.

  It was a mystery.

  Suddenly irritated by his failure to discover anything there that he could use to his advantage, he threw the dictionary aside and picked up a thinner volume that he had previously laid at his feet. He reverently removed the bookmark and turned the blotchy print toward the paraffin lamp. Just as the clouds tell us the direction of the wind high above our heads, so the lightest and freest spirits are in their tendencies foretellers of the weather that is coming. The wind in the valley and the opinions of the market place of today indicate nothing of that which is coming but only of that which has been.

  The great philosopher's words were like a prophecy-but not just any prophecy. This was a prophecy meant especially for him. Wolf smiled, and a thrill of almost erotic intensity passed through his entire body. He was the future. Tomorrow belonged to him.

  51

  The Kohlmarkt was bustling with activity. A woman carrying a brightly wrapped parcel smiled at Liebermann as she passed, so delighted with her purchase that she could not suppress her joy. Two splendidly accoutred hussars, standing on the porch of a milliner's, were speaking loudly in Hungarian. On the other side of the street marched three Hasidim wearing long black caftans and wide-brimmed beaver hats. The Michaelertor-the massive green dome that towered above the entrance of the Hofburg Palace- dominated the view ahead. It looked particularly beautiful against the pastel wash of the taupe sky.

  Liebermann had sent a note to Trezska earlier in the week, arranging to meet her at Cafe Demel (the imperial and royal confectioners). He had stated, with some regret, that their rendezvous could be only brief as he had some pressing business (a useful if somewhat overworked euphemism) to which he must attend later in the day. The young doctor had chosen Cafe Demel not only because of its reputation but for reasons of expediency, as he hoped to get the first of the day's business out of the way before Trezska's arrival.

  Opening the door of the cafe, Liebermann stepped inside, and was immediately overcome by the aroma of coffee, cigar smoke, and the mingling of a thousand sweet fragrances. It was a warm, welcoming interior, suffused with a soft amber light. The gilt chandeliers were encrusted with opaque faintly glowing globes, as densely clustered as grapes on the vine. To the right, patrons were seated at round tables in a mirrored dining area, and to the left stood a long counter, dark wooden wall shelves, and numerous display cases. Every available space on this side of the cafe was occupied by cakes and sweetmeats: candied peel, marzipan animals, fondants and jellies, whole discs of torte-covered with thick dark chocolate-jars of brandy snaps, Turkish delight, vanillekipferl, meringues, pots of raspberry cream and apricot sauce, pear compote, artificial coins wrapped in gold and silver paper, guglhupf, apfelstruiel, dumplings bursting with glistening conserves, pastry pillows and Carinthian cinnamon buns. In the center of this cornucopia was a rectangular cake that had been made-with the aid of much yellow icing-to look exactly like the Schon brunn Palace.

  A woman who was standing behind the counter came forward.

  “Good afternoon,” said Liebermann. “Herr Tishlar is expecting me.” He glanced at his watch-he was exactly on time.

  The woman indicated that he should follow her to the back of the cafe, where he was instructed to wait by some doors. She returned in the company of a very stout gentleman whose tiny mustache was distinguished by curlicue extremities. He was still dressed in his kitchen clothes.

  “Herr Doctor,” he exclaimed. “Herr Tishlar, at your service.”

  The master baker bowed low and performed an unnecessarily baroque flourish with his right hand. Liebermann recognized immediately that he was in the presence of a man who regarded his art as equal to that of Titian or Velazquez. The woman silently withdrew.

  “You are most kind,” said Liebermann, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a photograph and a magnifying glass. “I promise I will be brief. I wonder… would it be possible for you to identify this pastry?”

  The image he handed to Tishlar showed Zelenka's notebook and a blurry, untouched wedge of cake.

  Peering through the lens, Herr Tishlar answered without hesitation: “Almond tart.” He then handed the photograph and magnifying glass back to the young doctor.

  “Are you sure?” said Liebermann-taken aback by Herr Tishlar s certainty.

  “Quite sure,” said the baker. “And-if you will forgive my immodesty-no ordinary almond tart! That, Herr Doctor,” said the master baker, tapping the photograph and pushing out his chest, “is one of ours. It is a Demel almond tart!”

  Herr Tishlar guided Liebermann over to a display case and pointed to a roundel (sprinkled with castor sugar and strewn with striped ribbons) in a wooden box.

  “Notice the pleating around the edge,” he said with pride. “Unique! It is the work of Herr Hansing-each of our pastries is made by a dedicated specialist who makes nothing else.”

  Liebermann examined the photograph, and then returned his atte
ntion to the pastry. His untutored eye was unable to discern anything particularly distinctive; however, the master baker's confidence was persuasive and Liebermann was happy to accept his expert opinion.

  “Thank you,” said the young doctor. “You have been most helpful.”

  “Do you require any further assistance?”

  “No… that was all I needed to know.”

  “Then I will bid you good day.”

  Herr Tishlar bowed and sashayed back to his kitchen.

  Liebermann, smiling broadly-perhaps too broadly for a solitary man with no obvious cause of delight-dropped the photograph and magnifying glass into the side pocket of his coat and found a table near the window, where he sat, still smiling.

  Trezska was twenty minutes late; however, her tardy arrival did nothing to dampen his spirits. Liebermann dismissed her excuses and urged her to make a close study of the impressive menu. After some deliberation-and two consultations with the head waiter-they both ordered the Salzburger Mozart torte: a sponge cake with layers of marzipan, brushed with chocolate cream and apricot jam, and deco rated with large orange-flavored pralines.

  They talked mostly about music. Trezska described how she intended to play the spring sonata for Rose at her next lesson-and the conversation naturally progressed to Beethoven. Liebermann regaled his companion with a musical anecdote concerning Beethoven's mortal remains and the composer Anton Bruckner. Apparently, when Beethoven's bones were being exhumed for skeletal measurement, Bruckner had barged into the chapel of the Wahring cemetery, pushed the experts aside, and grasped in both hands Beethoven's skull-which he then began to address. Unmoved by Bruckner's devotion, those present quickly took back the skull and manhandled Bruckner out of the building.

  Liebermann then asked Trezska if she would like to go to a concert at the Tonkunstlerverein-a recital including some Hugo Wolf songs and a performance of the Faure sonata for violin and piano. She agreed instantly, and became quite excited when he told her that Jakob Grun was the soloist.