by Frank Tallis
The deputy headmaster, however, did not make a vertical ascent. Instead, he composed himself and marched purposefully toward the small gathering.
As he approached, the old soldier stood to attention.
“Permission to report… invited these security office gentlemen inside, sir, because of the wind. And then I-”
“Very good, Albert, very good,” said Becker brusquely, holding his hand up to show that he did not require further enlightenment. Then, turning toward Haussmann, he said, “If I am not mistaken, you are the inspector's assistant?”
“Haussmann, sir.”
“Yes, that's right, Haussmann… I remember you, of course. Inspector Rheinhardt wishes to see you immediately. Albert, take these young men to the infirmary, please.”
Haussmann's companion looked somewhat embarrassed.
“Not me, sir. I'm just the driver.”
“No,” said Becker. “You are to go too.”
“Me?” said the driver, touching his chest in disbelief.
“Yes. That is what Inspector Rheinhardt said: ‘Tell my men to come up here at once.’
“Has someone been injured, sir?” Haussmann asked.
“No.”
“Then what is he doing in the infirmary?”
“At this precise moment, I believe he is conversing with Nurse Funke. Now, I trust you will excuse me, gentlemen. Albert, the infirmary, please.”
Becker bowed, turned sharply on his heels, and walked off toward the courtyard entrance. Albert muttered something under his breath. It sounded like an obscenity, but was rendered unintelligible by the abrasive grinding of a persistent cough.
“Permission to report,” he uttered between rasps. “This way, sir.”
Haussmann did not follow the old soldier but stood quite still, watching the receding figure of the deputy headmaster. He felt uneasy, troubled. Why did the inspector want the driver? Did he need to lift something heavy? And there was something about that message… “Tell my men to come up here at once.” It wasn't the sort of thing that Rheinhardt would say. Rheinhardt almost always phrased his orders as if he were simply making a polite request: “Would you be so kind… I would be most grateful if…”
“Are you coming?” It was the driver.
Haussmann did not reply. His gaze remained fixed on the deputy headmaster, whose pace seemed to be quickening. Once he was through the archway, the wind caught his gown and it rose up, billowing and flapping. Haussmann cocked his head to one side. He thought he could hear something-a tonal inflection-that dropped with the soughing. At first he wondered whether he was imagining things, but then it came again, this time more clearly: voices-a faint cry.
“Haussmann…”
“Haussmann…”
“Deputy headmaster! Dr. Becker!”
Through the archway, only the sky and hills were visible. The bellying sail of the deputy headmaster's gown was gone.
Haussmann ran.
“Dr. Becker…”
He could hear the jangling of the horses’ bridles, the distinctive clop of restive hooves. He ran beneath the arch, and cursed as he saw Becker climbing up onto the driver's box. A whip cracked, and the carriage began to move. Haussmann rounded the statue of Saint Florian and reached out, his fingers almost touching the back of the escaping carriage. But it was too late. The horses were gathering speed and the gap widened.
“Dr. Becker,” he called out, helplessly.
The carriage pulled away-and Haussmann reluctantly abandoned his pursuit. Bending forward, with his hands resting on his thighs, he tried to catch his breath. He was immediately startled by the sound of Inspector Rheinhardt calling his name.
“Haussmann!”
The assistant detective stood up and spun around. But there was no one there.
“Haussmann!”
He looked up-and gasped in disbelief.
57
As Haussmann made his way back to the statue of Saint Florian, Rheinhardt and Liebermann watched Becker's progress. The deputy headmaster was whipping the horses with pitiless ferocity. Tracing a wide arc, the carriage careened as it rumbled toward the school gates. Rheinhardt turned away and sighed: a loud, operatic sigh that demonstrated the magnitude of his frustration.
“Never mind,” said Liebermann. “He won't get far. I doubt he is carrying very much money, and as soon as we're back on terra firma, you can use the headmaster's telephone and notify the security office.”
“I fear that you have forgotten the commissioner's memorandum,” said Rheinhardt bitterly. “Brugel will be disinclined to spare me any men this weekend.”
“What? Not even to assist with the apprehension of a murderer?”
Haussmann arrived back at the statue of Saint Florian as the driver and Albert emerged from beneath the stone arch. The inspector cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted down: “Dr. Becker has filled the laboratory with a poisonous gas. He has locked the door, but he might not have removed the key. Ensure that no one can enter. Albert will guide you to the laboratory. Leave him there to stand guard. No one must be admitted-do you understand? No one. Please notify the headmaster of our… situation. Then return with a ladder.”
Haussmann's face was a pale oval.
“It was Dr. Becker? He did it?”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry I let him get away.”
The young man expected his apology to be answered with a strongly worded reprimand; however, the inspector, studying Haussmann's pitiful expression from his godlike vantage, merely shrugged and replied: “Better luck next time, eh, Haussmann?”
“Yes, sir,” said the assistant detective, humbled-once again- by his superior's humanity. The young man took Albert by the arm and, lending him robust locomotor assistance, set off for the laboratory.
A gaggle of boys appeared over the crest of a nearby hill. They were trudging across open country and were led by a man with a limp. The man had taken his cap off, and even from a distance it was easy to make out the color of his cropped blond hair.
“I think that's Lieutenant Osterhagen,” said Rheinhardt. “The gymnastics master.”
The boys were not marching in an orderly fashion but following their leader in a loose band, with a few stragglers trailing behind. They had clearly been on some kind of exercise, and their uniforms were covered in mud. It was not long before one of the more observant youths noticed Liebermann and Rheinhardt. Several boys started waving, pointing, and gesticulating, and Osterhagen stopped to raise his field glasses.
In due course, the bedraggled troop arrived, and Osterhagen stepped forward.
“What are you doing up there?” he demanded.
This remark was bluntly delivered and caused considerable amusement among the boys. Osterhagen glared at the worst offenders, silencing their laughter.
“All will be explained,” Rheinhardt shouted, “but now is not the time. Lieutenant Osterhagen, would you be so kind as to get a ladder so that my colleague and I can get down.”
“Why don't you just smash the window if it's stuck.”
“The window is not stuck,” said Rheinhardt, impatience creeping into his voice. “With respect, would you please get a ladder.”
“That may not be easy,” said Osterhagen. “I don't know where the ladders-if we possess any at all-are kept.”
“Then might I suggest,” Rheinhardt returned, “that you start looking.”
At this point, a section of the ledge-directly beneath Rheinhardt's left foot-gave way. His arms flailed around as he desperately sought to recover his balance. The rotations became more frantic- but he was unable to achieve the necessary redistribution of weight. Slowly, he began to lean into the void. Liebermann-reacting with reflexive speed-grabbed Rheinhardt's coat and pulled him back, steadying his wild movements in a tight embrace.
“It's all right, Oskar. I have you.”
Rheinhardt took a deep breath and emptied his lungs slowly, producing as he did so an attenuated whistle.
“Dear God,” he expostulated. “That was close!”
Liebermann looked down and saw Lieutenant Osterhagen contemplating the fallen masonry. It had landed perilously close to where he was standing.
“The ledge won't hold for much longer,” Liebermann cried. “Please hurry.”
Osterhagen-roused from an impromptu meditation on the contingent nature of fate and his own mortality-issued various instructions to the boys, who then began to disperse in pairs. He looked up and said: “I'll be back shortly.”
The lieutenant vanished from sight, his asymmetric stride creating a hissing sound on the gravel as he dragged the weaker of his two legs behind him. Only the driver remained, his gaze oscillating between the shattered block of stone and the crumbling ledge.
“Well, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “I am indebted. You might have gone over with me. You saved my life.”
“But it remains to be seen how much of your life I have actually saved,” said Liebermann. “Unless we get down soon, your gratitude may prove excessive.”
“Then perhaps we should get back inside?”
“The gas will dissipate over time-but hydrocyanic gas is deadly. I think we had better take our chances out here.”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “Max,” he said with great solemnity, “why did you ever let me eat so many cakes? If I were a more lissome fellow, then perhaps this ledge might hold a little longer.” Liebermann smiled at his comrade, who was penitently contemplating the curvature of his stomach. “If we survive this, I swear to you, I'm going on a diet.”
Another piece of stone-about the size of an apple-fell to the ground. The sound of its impact startled the driver. His worried face showed that he had already calculated the effect of such a drop on the human body.
Rheinhardt reached into his coat pocket and took out his notebook and pencil. Leaning back against the window, he began scribbling furiously.
“Oskar?” asked Liebermann. “What are you doing?”
Rheinhardt held out the notebook so that Liebermann could read what he had written: My dearest Else,
I love you. Kiss Therese and Mitzi for me-and tell them how much I love them too. My heart, my all, my everything! You have given me so much more than I ever deserved. Eternally yours, Oskar
“Do you think it's enough?” asked Rheinhardt.
“If you had time enough to write a whole book,” Liebermann replied, “you could not say more.”
“Perhaps you would like to…”
Rheinhardt offered Liebermann the notebook-but the young doctor did not take it. What could he write, and to whom? There was no obvious recipient. Trezska was his lover-but were they really in love? His relationship with his father had never been very good. His mother adored him, but he always experienced her presence as vaguely suffocating. He was very fond of his youngest sister… but he could hardly write to her alone.
The imminence of death exposed an uncomfortable truth: there was no one special in his life. In his firmament, there were no stars that constellated true happiness, no bright lights to compare with Rheinhardt's wife and daughters. For a brief moment, he found himself thinking of Miss Lyd gate, of the times they had spent in her rooms discussing medicine and philosophy, of the companionate closeness they had shared.
Another piece of masonry fell.
“Hurry, Max,” Rheinhardt urged.
Attempting to conceal his embarrassment, Liebermann said, somewhat presumptuously: “Put the notebook away, Oskar-we're not going to die!”
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, just a feeling!”
“Max, you are an exceptionally contrary fellow.” Rheinhardt put the notebook and pencil back into his pocket, adding softly: “But I hope you are right.”
“Look!” said Liebermann, pointing down.
Osterhagen had reappeared, followed by a column of boys who were bearing the weight of a long flagpole on their shoulders. They came to a halt by the statue and, guided by the lieutenant's stentorian directions, raised the pole up. Then, releasing it from the vertical, they allowed it to lean toward the ledge.
“Don't let it fall,” Osterhagen barked. “Gently… gently…”
Rheinhardt and Liebermann reached out and, grabbing the shaft, lodged the tip firmly against the central mullion.
“We're saved,” said the inspector, smiling.
Liebermann watched as Rheinhardt slid down. His landing was accompanied by cheers and boyish laughter. The young doctor followed, making an equally swift descent. Within seconds of his feet touching the ground, Liebermann was startled by a loud crash. The ledge had finally worked itself loose, and lay in pieces on the ground.
58
THE WOODMAN RELEASED THE CATCH and pulled the carcass from the metal trap. He was about to add the animal to his carrying strap when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. Its low rumbling rapidly increased in volume, until the air reverberated with the skipping beat of galloping horses. Through the trees, he could see the vehicle hurtling down the road at breakneck speed. The driver was half-standing, lashing his geldings, a black cloak flying out horizontally from his shoulders. The incline was steep, and the carriage veered from side to side. It was a reckless, uncontrolled descent. The din diminished as the carriage passed behind the hillside; however, within seconds there was a sickening crashaugmented by an unholy chorus of terrified equine voices. This dreadful cacophony was suddenly extinguished, leaving in its wake an eerie, hollow silence.
Attaching the carcass to his strap, the woodman reset his trap and set off down the hill. He walked to the muddy road and followed the deep ruts that widened where the carriage had skidded. The ground was pitted with hoof marks and littered with ripped-up clods of black earth. The woodman trudged around the bend and saw that the parallel furrows terminated abruptly at the edge of the road.
At the bottom of a ravine was the carriage, its rear wheel still turning slowly. The horses were lying on top of each other, their heads projecting from their bodies at unnatural angles. Some distance away was the crumpled body of the driver.
The woodman continued along the road until he found a point where he could make a scrambling descent. Once he was on the floor of the ravine, he walked back and inspected the driver's body. The man wasn't breathing, and blood was oozing out of a gash at the back of his head. Working quickly, the woodman removed the gown and slung it over his shoulder. He then paused, contemplating the corpse. He tested the man's weight with one enormous hand.
Yes, he could manage it, of course he could. But it was not quite dark, and they would soon be out looking for this man-the people from the village, the people from the school.
It was unwise-an unnecessary risk.
Even so, he thought. Zhenechka will still be pleased with the black cloak.
He set off into the undergrowth, clutching his booty, and feeling somewhat regretful.
It was a shame to leave all that horse meat.
59
Frau Becker was seated on her chaise longue, a handkerchief clutched in her left hand. She was wearing a black blouse decorated with printed roses-each blossoming from a green stem with two leaves. The collar was fastened with a large oval brooch, on which raised ivory figures promenaded against a terra-cotta background. Her dress was made of satin and ended a little short of her soft doeskin boots, revealing a sliver of her maroon stockings.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann were seated opposite, while Haussmann stood by the door.
“As he poured the vinegar,” said Liebermann, “Zelenka thought that he would be observing the effect of a weak acid on a range of innocuous compounds-sugars and salts. He did not know that your husband had replaced one of the test substances with cyanide, probably potassium cyanide. When vinegar and cyanide react, they produce hydrocyanic gas-one of the most poisonous gases known to man. Zelenka would have been killed instantly-and afterward the gas would have dissipated in the atmosphere.”
Frau Becker held the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed.
“Zelenka's body was discovered by Professor Gartner, who immediately rushed to inform the headmaster. Professor Eichmann was at that moment engaged in a meeting with your husband. Some attempts to revive Zelenka were made-but these proved unsuccessful. Professor Gartner was very distressed, and the headmaster subsequently went to summon the school doctor. Your husband would have had ample opportunity to remove the cyanide-which he then disposed of on his way to Nurse Funke s lodge. Hydrocyanic gas was an inspired choice of poison. It is virtually undetectable at autopsy- apart from a little congestion in the lungs, perhaps, but nothing more. Dr. Becker had assumed that in the absence of any alternative explanation, the pathologist would conclude that Zelenka had died from an unspecified natural cause. And this-of course-is exactly what happened. However, your husband is clearly a very fastidious gentleman. Even though his plan was exceedingly clever, it was not perfect. He detected one minor flaw. Hydrocyanic gas leaves a smell in the air-a faint bitter almondlike odor-that might serve as a clue.”
Liebermann paused, and allowed the fingers of both hands to touch, each digit finding its twin in a serial sequence.
“Unfortunately, perfectionism-when taken to its extreme-is always self-defeating. You may recall that just before Zelenka s death, your husband asked you to buy him an almond tart.”
Frau Becker looked puzzled.
“Which you purchased,” Liebermann continued undeterred, “from Demel's.”
The young woman's eyes suddenly opened wide.
“How did you…,” she whispered.
“The smell of almonds in the laboratory,” Liebermann went on, “might have aroused suspicion; however, your husband reasoned that if there was an obvious source of such a smell, it would seem less conspicuous. He kept the almond tart concealed in his desk, and, while he was removing the cyanide, he deposited the pastry next to Zelenka's body.”
