Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  Trezska's eyes flashed and her full lips widened into a smile. She began to laugh. “Are you jealous?”

  “He seemed so certain… so sure.”

  “You are jealous!”

  Trezska threw her arms around Liebermann s shoulders and raised herself up, pressing her breasts against his chest. She kissed him, forcing her tongue between his teeth and taking possession of his senses. She tasted of anise, mint, and licorice. When Trezska finally released him, she grinned, and kissed him once more, gently on the nose-a comic peck.

  “Don't be jealous,” she whispered. “Don't be jealous.”

  The candle flickered and the glasses filled with green lightning.

  O! beware, my lord, of jealousy;

  It is the green-ey'd monster…

  “Othello,” he said.

  Trezska drew back. “What?”

  “A play by Shakespeare. If the green fairy doesn't get me, then the green-eyed monster will.”

  “You are very drunk,” said Trezska gently. “Lie down, my love.”

  Trezska tugged at his arm, and Liebermann was surprised by his own lack of resistance. He fell, and when his head hit the mattress, he closed his eyes-it was like being knocked out. He was dimly conscious of Trezska's limbs, wrapping around his hips and shoulders. She pulled him close, smothering him with her flesh.

  “Sleep,” she whispered. “Sleep…”

  Liebermann could hear her heart beating.

  Too fast, he thought. Too fast.

  He wanted to say something else. But words failed him, and seconds later he was asleep.

  62

  Liebermann had arrived at the Schottenring police station late in the afternoon, having spent a tiring day listening to-among others-the old jurist (who was still expounding upon his unique metaphysical system), a milliner with an irrational fear of horses, and an accountant who suffered from impotence-but only in rooms hung with yellow flock wallpaper. He had agreed to help Rheinhardt with the Saint Florian report, which was, at that exact moment, distributed in several incomplete parts over the top of the inspector's desk. They had reached a problematic juncture, and Rheinhardt was gazing gloomily at a page, the lower half of which was conspicuously devoid of his hieroglyphic scrawl.

  “What am I supposed to say here?” said Rheinhardt, tapping the empty space. “That my esteemed colleague-Herr Dr. Liebermann- was inspired to link the presence of the pastry in the lab oratory with cyanide poisoning due to the effect of absinthe on the… What did you just say?”

  “The paracerebellar nuclei.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt, “no matter how many anatomical terms you employ, the fact remains that you were-not to put too fine a point on it-drunk.”

  “I'm afraid I can't agree with you. The action of absinthe on the cerebrum merits special consideration. It engenders a unique mental state. To say that I was merely drunk hardly does justice to its mindaltering properties. It is-after all-the favored spirit of artists and visionaries.”

  The crescents of loose flesh beneath Rheinhardt's eyes seemed to sag a little farther.

  “Although such an appeal might be received sympathetically by the chief of the Surete,” said the inspector, “I can assure you that Commissioner Brugel will be singularly unimpressed.”

  “Then write that my suspicions were aroused when I interviewed Perger and discovered that almond tarts were not sold at the Aufkirchen bakery.”

  “But that would imply that you had already identified the pastry in the photograph as an almond tart. In fact, you didn't go to Demel's until…” Rheinhardt thumbed through his papers and recovered a particular sheet. “Until Saturday the seventh of February.”

  “Couldn't you just omit the date?”

  “Absolutely not.” Rheinhardt scowled. However, before he had exploited the full dramatic effect of his exaggerated expression, he added in a lighter, conversational tone: “He's disappeared, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Perger. He seems to have absconded. You will recall, perhaps, that he had wanted to run away with Zelenka.”

  “Where do you think he's gone?”

  “If his letters are anything to go by, he's probably hiding in the hold of an Italian cargo vessel, heading for South America!” Rheinhardt sighed, shook his head, and laid down his pen. “This is supposed to be a final report,” he continued, waving his hand over the chaotic spread of papers. “Yet there are still unanswered questions. The number pairs in Zelenka's exercise book, the cuts on his body. I received a note from Miss Lyd gate yesterday morning. She said that she had tried all kinds of substitutions and transformations-but without success. She concluded that if the number pairs are a code, it is one that can be broken only with the aid of a unique formula or ‘key.’ Alternatively the number pairs may have been simply chosen at random and have no special meaning.”

  “Which would, of course, be entirely consistent with Sommer's story… the memory game.” Liebermann leaned back in his chair and tapped his temple gently. “Yet everything about him suggested to me that he was trying to hide something.”

  “What, though? And how could it have been connected with Zelenka?”

  Liebermann pursed his lips, and after a lengthy pause said: “I have absolutely no idea.”

  Rheinhardt picked up his pen again. “Brugel has reassigned me to von Bulow's team. As far as the commissioner is concerned, once this report is submitted, the Saint Florian's case will be consigned to the archive.”

  “Where he will want it to remain, gathering dust.”

  “Exactly. I keep on thinking of that dreadful nephew of his. I have no solid evidence to support the allegation, but I am convinced that Kiefer Wolf was torturing Zelenka… and he is probably torturing others right now-as we speak. It weighs heavily on my conscience.”

  Liebermann remembered the boy Perger: his stutter, his timidity, his respectful compliance-the innocent happiness that illuminated his features as he moved his knight forward. Checkmate. The excitement in his treble voice had been touching. It was sad that this poor, sensitive boy was now bound for some distant shore where God only knew what fate might befall him.

  “If only there were someone willing to speak out against Wolf,” Rheinhardt continued. “But of course, there never is… and so it goes on. I dread to think what kind of officer he will make.”

  Liebermann pulled at his lower lip. “If none of the boys can be relied on to give evidence against him, then logically there is only one other way by which he could ever be exposed. Confession. He must make a confession.”

  The inspector looked disappointed. “Well, that's hardly going to happen-is it?”

  “Persecution is as much about exercising control as it is about deriving sadistic pleasure. Therefore we might ask ourselves what kind of person desires absolute control?” Rheinhardt gestured for Liebermann to continue. “A simple answer-surely-suggests itself: one who fears loss of control. I am reminded of some of Adler's ideas…”

  “Max,” said Rheinhardt, “what are you thinking?”

  Liebermann smiled. “Allow me to explain.”

  63

  They were seated in the disused classroom.

  “Does my uncle know that you are here?” said Kiefer Wolf to Rheinhardt.

  The inspector did not reply.

  “I doubt that he does,” Wolf continued. “In which case, I can assure you that I shall be writing to him again.”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “The investigation is over. Uncle Manfred told me so. Inspector Rheinhardt, I believe you are acting without authority.”

  “That is an extremely insolent remark.”

  “No, Inspector, it is merely an accurate one.”

  The boy folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. The line of his thin lips twisted slightly, suggesting modest satisfaction.

  “There were cuts on Zelenka's body,” Rheinhardt persevered. “How did they get there?”

  “I don't know,” said Wolf.
/>
  “I think you do.”

  “Then you are mistaken.” Wolf made a languid movement with his hand and added, “Inspector, I would very much like to present myself for rifle practice. A Tyroler Kaiserjager is coming this afternoon to give us special instruction. I have been selected to represent Saint Florian s at the end-of-year shooting tournament against Saint Polten and the headmaster was anxious that I should attend.”

  “I am afraid that you will have to stay here until I am satisfied that you are telling me the truth.”

  “The headmaster will be very displeased.”

  “For the last time, Wolf, what do you know about those cuts?”

  “Nothing, Inspector.”

  The boy's complexion was clear and his skin as smooth as alabaster. He seemed preternaturally calm.

  “Very well,” said Rheinhardt. Turning to his friend, he called out, “Herr Doctor?”

  Liebermann, who had been patiently waiting by the window, picked up his black leather bag and crossed the room. He sat in front of Wolf and smiled.

  “Do you study botany here?” he asked.

  The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Yes… we have had a few classes.”

  “And what did you learn about?”

  “The structure of plants… the different families.”

  “Then perhaps you were introduced to the perennials of the Solanaceae family? They can be found in the local woods and meadows.”

  “I am afraid I cannot remember,” said Wolf. “It is not a subject that interests me.”

  “Even so, I suspect that you would recognize the name of at least one of the Solanaceae.” Liebermann inserted a dramatic pause before proclaiming: “Belladonna!”

  The young doctor raised his eyebrows, encouraging a response.

  “Yes,” said Wolf. “Of course I recognize that name. But what of it?”

  “The plant grows from a thick fleshy root-about this high.” Liebermann sliced a horizontal plane through the air. “It has a dingy purple-brown bell-shaped flower, and smooth black berries that ripen in September.”

  The neutrality of Wolf's expression was interrupted by a series of brief, flickering emotional responses that oscillated between perplexity and amusement. He was about to speak, but Liebermann silenced him by wagging an admonitory finger.

  “I understand,” Liebermann continued, “that belladonna acquired its appellation in the Middle Ages, when young women employed the plant's extracts to dilate their pupils.” Liebermann observed Wolf's blank visage and added for clarification: “So they would seem more beautiful.”

  “Herr Doctor,” said Wolf, “as I have already said, I am not very interested in botany.”

  “I promise you, my purpose will soon become clear.” Again, Liebermann smiled. “Now, where was I? Oh yes… it was not only a favorite of young women-it was also valued by men of dubious morality whose intention it was to seduce them.” Wolf rocked his head to one side, and a scintilla of interest nuanced the vacancy of his steady gaze. Liebermann continued. “You see, it was soon discovered that if belladonna was secreted into a young woman's drink, she would become remarkably compliant, forgetting virtue and agreeing readily to suggestions of an improper nature. She would become- as it were-less inhibited. Belladonna was also found to have medical applications. The great tenth-century Persian physician Avicenna recommended belladonna as an anesthetic-and it has been intermittently used by surgeons ever since. For example, only a few years ago some colleagues of mine at the university published a fascinating paper on the development of a new pre-anesthetic. By combining one of the alkaloids of Japanese belladonna with morphine, they were able to induce a somnolent state in their patients, which they designated ‘twilight sleep.’ Now, while undertaking this research, my colleagues noticed something very interesting: patients in twilight sleep would often mumble. However, if asked questions, they were able to reply-and these replies were perfectly coherent. Moreover, all answers to questions were somewhat literal-and invariably honest.”

  Liebermann made a steeple with his fingers and added: “This finding has led many to speculate as to the wider uses of Japanese belladonna and morphine. For example, this new pre-anesthetic might be of immense value to the police, who, on encountering reluctant witnesses, would be able to administer it as a kind of truth serum.”

  Liebermann leaned forward, undid the hasps of his leather bag, and pulled out a long narrow box. It had an attractive polished walnut finish and brass fittings. Turning a small key, Liebermann lifted the lid and turned it toward Wolf so that he could examine the contents. Inside, resting in a molded depression lined with green velvet, was a large metal-barreled syringe with an unusually long needle. Next to it was a small bottle, filled with a grayish liquid.

  Liebermann removed the bottle, lifted it up, and swirled the contents.

  “Japanese belladonna and morphine,” he said softly.

  Wolf swallowed.

  “If you would be so kind as to remove your tunic and roll up your shirtsleeve,” Liebermann said. “Then we can begin.”

  Wolf tried to stand, but as he did so his shoulders met resistance. Rheinhardt had positioned himself behind Wolf's chair and immediately forced the boy back down again. Wolf's head spun around.

  “You can't do this!”

  Rheinhardt s grip tightened.

  “Take off your tunic and roll up your shirtsleeve… You heard what the good doctor said, Wolf.”

  Liebermann made a great show of taking the syringe from its case and drawing off the contents of the bottle.

  “You must keep very still,” said Liebermann calmly. “Or-I'm sorry to say-this will be quite painful. Now, your tunic, please.”

  “No,” said Wolf, his face contorting with horror. “No… You can't.”

  “Come now,” Liebermann interrupted. “Don't be alarmed. The experience of twilight sleep is not unpleasant-so I am told. Patients describe a warm, floating sensation… liberation from earthly concerns.”

  Again Wolf attempted to get up, but Rheinhardt held him fast.

  “Very well,” said Liebermann. “If you won't remove your tunic, I'll just have to proceed without your cooperation.”

  The young doctor aimed the syringe at Wolf's upper arm. He moved the shiny cylinder forward along a horizontal trajectory. Its progress was slow and stately-like a silver airship gliding over the Prater.

  Wolf's eyes became fixed on the sharp point of the advancing needle.

  “For God's sake, stop!” the boy cried. “I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything.” Beads of perspiration had appeared on his forehead. “But you're wrong about Zelenka. I swear it. You must believe me… I never…” He hesitated before adding, “Touched Zelenka.”

  “Then who did?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “If you want to know more about Zelenka,” said Wolf, “then you should talk to Herr Sommer.”

  Liebermann lowered the syringe.

  Wolf's expression was pained, as if this revelation had cost him dearly. He fell silent-and the silence became protracted.

  Liebermann noticed a subtle change in the boy's expression. The fear in his eyes was diminishing, like the steady trickle of sand vacating the upper chamber of an hourglass, and was being replaced by what could only be described as a look of calculation. Liebermann jabbed the syringe back into Wolf's view, and was reassured when the boy started.

  “No,” said Wolf. “That won't be necessary.”

  “Why Herr Sommer?” Rheinhardt pressed.

  “They were lovers,” said Wolf.

  “ What?” said Rheinhardt, his voice rising an octave.

  “Zelenka and Herr Sommer… They…” Wolf hesitated, failing to complete his sentence.

  “How do you know that?” Liebermann asked.

  “They were seen together last summer. By Freitag.”

  “Who?”

  “Freitag. Another cadet. He saw them walking together up the Kahlenberg.”

  “Couldn't it have been a cha
nce encounter?” said Liebermann.

  “No. You see, they were being intimate… in the little cemetery.”

  “I see,” said Liebermann.

  The young doctor opened the walnut box and placed the syringe carefully inside. He let the lid fall, allowing it to make a loud thud.

  “You have been remarkably discreet, Wolf,” said Liebermann.

  The boy looked at him quizzically.

  “What I mean is,” Liebermann continued, “had you chosen to make this revelation earlier, Inspector Rheinhardt would have transferred his attentions-at least in part-from you to Herr Sommer. Yet you didn't say a word. If it wasn't you who inflicted those wounds on Zelenka-and you believe that Herr Sommer is party to such knowledge-why didn't you make this revelation before?”

  “I didn't want Herr Sommer to get into trouble.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he is useful.”

  “How is he useful?”

  “We have… an arrangement.”

  “What kind of arrangement?”

  “I had promised to keep his relationship with Zelenka a secret, and in return he agreed to falsify my examination results.”

  “Your examination results!”

  “Why are your examination results so important to you?” Rheinhardt interjected. “So important that you are prepared to blackmail one of your masters!”

  “I'm no good at mathematics, and I'll need a good pass to gain admission into preferred branches of the military.”

  Rheinhardt let go of Wolf's shoulders and slumped down on an adjacent chair. He looked tired-and somewhat bewildered by the boy's cunning.

  “I am prepared to accept,” said Rheinhardt, “pending an interview with Herr Sommer, that you were not responsible for Zelenka's injuries. However, what about Perger? What did you do to him?”

  Wolf breathed in sharply. “It wasn't that bad…”

  “What did you do?” Rheinhardt repeated.

  “I threatened him. That's all.”

  “Why?”

  “Perger knew all about Zelenka and Herr Sommer. Perger and Zelenka were as thick as thieves. I knew that you would eventually get Perger to talk… so I pushed him around a bit. If Herr Sommer was disgraced, I wouldn't get what I wanted.”