by Frank Tallis
“Do you know where he went-Perger?”
“No,” said Wolf. “No… no, I don't.”
Rain had begun to fall, and the windows resonated with its gentle drumming.
“Apart from Perger and Freitag,” Rheinhardt continued, “did anyone else know about Herr Sommer's…” The Inspector hesitated. “Herr Sommer's relationship with Zelenka?”
“No.”
“We have no proof, then, other than your word-and Freitag's, of course.”
“I am telling the truth,” said Wolf, darting a nervous glance toward the walnut box on Liebermann's lap.
“What if Herr Sommer denies your allegation?” said Rheinhardt.
“I have something in my possession that once belonged to Zelenka,” said Wolf. “Herr Sommer was very keen to get hold of it- very keen.”
“A dictionary?” said Liebermann.
“Yes,” said Wolf, surprised.
“A Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary?”
“Yes. I thought there might be something incriminating written inside-but there isn't. I've checked.”
“Where is it?” said Rheinhardt.
“I've hidden it,” Wolf replied.
“Somewhere in the school?”
“Yes.”
“Then you had better go and get it,” said Rheinhardt. “Immediately.”
64
“Well?” said Rheinhardt. “Do you think he's telling the truth?”
“On the whole, yes,” Liebermann replied. “I am confident that his revelation concerning Herr Sommer's homosexuality is true- and that Herr Sommer had become intimate with Zelenka; however, my confidence in Wolf's testimony faltered at two junctures. When Wolf denied harming Zelenka, he said that he had never touched him. Yet I noticed a slight hesitation before he said the word ‘touched’-as though he had met some unconscious resistance.” “Then you do think he was lying. He did harm Zelenka.” “No,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “Quite the contrary.” “I'm sorry, Max, you will have to speak more plainly.” “I am of the opinion that Wolf did touch Zelenka… And it was the memory of that touching, erotic touching, that impeded the fluency of his denial.”
Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and exhaled, allowing his lips to interrupt the airflow so as to produce a series of plosions. When he had finished, he said, “And the second thing?”
“When Wolf claimed that he did not know Perger's whereabouts, I thought his denial was too insistent.”
“Then perhaps we should administer our truth serum, after all.” Liebermann smiled coyly. “No. There wouldn't be any point.” Rheinhardt's brow furrowed. Liebermann tapped the walnut box and continued: “The bottle contains a saline solution and a harmless stain. I would be very uncomfortable injecting a young man with belladonna and morphine.”
Rheinhardt's mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments before he spluttered, “I… I… I don't believe it! Why on earth didn't you tell me!”
“Authenticity! We needed to play our parts with utter conviction.”
“But all those things you said about belladonna-did you make it all up?”
“No, it's all true-and we might well have used twilight sleep to loosen Wolf's tongue; however, that would have been such an inelegant solution to our problem. The use of psychological devices is considerably more satisfying, don't you think? More subtle. And my ruse has been successful enough. I have not tampered with Wolf's brain chemistry, yet he has told us a great deal.”
Rheinhardt shook his head from side to side. “Sometimes, Max, you test my patience to the very limit.”
“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “But never without reason.”
The young doctor turned the key of the walnut box, and dropped it into the dark, gaping maw of his leather bag.
“What a sorry and sordid state of affairs,” said Rheinhardt. “Frau Becker allowed others to believe that she was having an improper relationship with Zelenka so that she might better conceal her assignations with Lang, and at the very same time Herr Sommer's indiscretions were serving an identical purpose, concealing his assignations with the boy himself! It is a pity that none of them stopped to consider the possible consequences of their mutually advantageous lies-particularly on the all too fragile mind of Dr. Becker.”
“But who could have really foreseen that these machinations would result in the murder of Thomas Zalenka?”
“That,” said Rheinhardt gruffly, “is not the point!”
The two men eschewed further conversation, settling instead for private thoughts and silence. Outside, the rain continued to fall, its persistent pitter-pattering unrelieved and softly insistent. Eventually, Rheinhardt stirred and said, “He will come back-won't he?”
“Yes,” said Liebermann.
A few minutes later, the rapid crescendo of Wolf's footsteps heralded his appearance in the doorway. He looked disheveled, and his breathing was labored, suggesting that he had expended a considerable amount of energy recovering the large green volume that he now held against his chest.
“Ah, there you are, Wolf,” said Rheinhardt. “I was beginning to wonder where you'd got to.”
The boy marched across the room and handed the book to Rheinhardt.
“Zelenka's dictionary,” he said.
Rheinhardt stroked the green binding. “How did you get this?”
“I found it.”
“What do you mean, ‘found it?’ “
“It was under Zelenka's bed.”
“You took it, then?”
Wolf shrugged.
“You said that Herr Sommer wanted Zelenka's dictionary,” Rheinhardt continued. “That he was keen to get hold of it. How do you know that?”
“I discovered him looking for it in Zelenka's locker.”
“When?”
“As soon as he got back… after his fall.”
“Thank you. That will be all, Wolf. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait next door.”
Wolf bowed, clicked his heels, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Rheinhardt opened the dictionary and examined the antique etching of the bearded scholar. His eyes dropped to the foot of the page.
“Hartel and Jacobsen, Leipzig, 1900. Well, this is certainly the missing dictionary.” He then flicked through the pages, toyed with the edges of the marbled endpapers, and poked his finger down the spine. “Wolf seems to be correct. Nothing remarkable or incriminating here.”
Rheinhardt handed the dictionary to Liebermann, who ran his fingers across the gold-embossed leather.
“What did Miss Lyd gate say…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Something about a key?”
“You mean with respect to the number pairs?”
“Yes.”
“She said that the numbers were nonsensical-but they might be made intelligible with a key.”
“What if the number pairs…,” said Liebermann, playing a five-finger exercise on the binding. “What if the number pairs are coordinates?”
“But this is a dictionary, not a map. Besides, what possible-”
“The position of every single word in the German language,” Liebermann interrupted, “can be expressed by using two numbers. The first representing a particular page, and the second representing a specific location on that page. First, second, third… and so on. If two people possess the same dictionary, they can communicate any message at all using number pairs. Oskar-did you record some of Zelenka's number pairs in your notebook?”
“Yes, I did,” said Rheinhardt.
The inspector dug deep into his coat pocket.
“Read them to me.”
“Five hundred and seventy-four-and fourteen.”
Liebermann found the correct page and counted down to the fourteenth word.
“Drink.”
“One thousand two hundred and fifty-paired with thirty-nine.”
Repeating the procedure, Liebermann answered: “My.”
“One hundred and ninety-seven-and two.”
Liebermann licked his finger and turned the flimsy pages with the speed of a bank teller counting cash.
“Extraordinary,” he whispered.
“For heaven's sake, Max-what does it say?”
“ ‘Blood!’ Drink my blood! Now everything makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Oh yes.” Liebermann snapped the dictionary closed. “Perfect sense!”
65
“I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt. “But a matter has arisen that requires clarification-and I believe you will be able to assist us.”
The mathematics master peeped out from behind the door. His bloodshot eyes shifted from one visitor to the other. Liebermann inclined his head.
“I trust,” Rheinhardt continued, “that we have not arrived at an inconvenient time.”
“Did you send me a telegram, Inspector?” said Sommer. “If so, it was never delivered.”
His breath smelled of alcohol.
“Unfortunately,” said Rheinhardt, “circumstances did not permit me-on this occasion-to extend such a courtesy.”
“Well,” said Sommer. “Since you ask, Inspector, I am rather busy at present. I wonder whether we could postpone our-”
“No,” interrupted Rheinhardt, extending his hand to stop the insidious progress of the door toward closure. “That will not be possible.”
The firmness with which Rheinhardt spoke made Sommer flinch.
“I see,” said Sommer, taking a step back. “In which case, you had better come in.”
Sommer limped down the hall and guided them into his study. He pulled two stools from under the table and offered his guests some schnapps; however, his hospitality was politely declined. Liebermann noticed that the schnapps bottle was almost empty and a little shot glass was already out on the table. There was nothing in the room to suggest-as Sommer had asserted-that he was in the middle of a task requiring sustained attention.
The mathematics master sat down in his leather reading chair and immediately started talking.
“Allow me to congratulate you, Inspector. None of us would have imagined Dr. Becker capable of such a heinous crime. What an extraordinary turn of events. And yet-you know-I have to say-if I am honest-I never really liked the man. I accept that one should never speak ill of the dead, but the fact of the matter is that Becker was a cold, unapproachable fellow, and quick to express disapproval. He once reprimanded me for gossiping, when I was merely sharing a humorous anecdote with Lang about an old master called Spivakov” Sommer watched nervously as Liebermann approached the window. “I am not sure,” Sommer continued, “that I can tell you very much more about him-but I will endeavor to do my best. Now, you said something needs to be cleared up-or was it clarified?”
Liebermann reached down and picked up a book from the floor. He opened it and examined the frontispiece.
“I notice, Herr Sommer, that you have purchased a new dictionary,” said the young doctor.
“Why, yes,” Sommer replied. “My other one was getting old.”
“Not so old, surely. It was-I believe-a Hartel and Jacobsen… and was published only three years ago.”
“You are most observant, Herr Doctor,” said Sommer. “Yes, I did have a Hartel and Jacobsen, but…” He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “It wasn't very good on technical terms. Not enough detail. My new dictionary is much better suited to my purposes.”
Liebermann turned and walked back across the room. He sat on a stool, opened his bag, and pulled out a large green volume.
“Then why, Herr Sommer,” said Liebermann, “were you so anxious to acquire this?”
The color drained from the mathematics master's face.
“What… what is it?” The hollowness of Sommer's voice betrayed the insincerity of his question.
“Thomas Zelenka's Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary.”
For several seconds the mathematics master presented a blank visage-as if the efferent nerves supplying his face with emotional expressivity had suddenly been severed with a cheese wire. Then, quite suddenly, a burst of galvanic twitches preceded a loud exclamation.
“Ah yes-of course,” cried Sommer, clapping his hands together. “You must have heard something or other from that boy Wolf!”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.
“Yes… you see, it's a rather expensive dictionary and one thatI'm ashamed to say-I recommended to Zelenka. I should have given the matter more thought, particularly given Zelenka's enthusiasm for the sciences. As you know, Zelenka came from a poor family, so, on my return from Linz, I naturally wanted to make sure that this very valuable item had been safely returned-with the rest of his effects-to his parents. I made some inquiries and discovered that the dictionary had gone missing. I suspected that Wolf was the culprit-and subsequently challenged him. He protested his innocence and made some idle threats.” Sommer paused to shake his head. “Such a disagreeable boy. Now it seems that you have succeeded where I failed. How did you know that Wolf had it? I'm intrigued.”
Liebermann leaned forward and dropped the dictionary on Sommer's lap.
“The number pairs that appeared in the marginalia of Zelenka's exercise books-written in your hand, and his-correspond with the location of certain words in this dictionary. The first number refers to the page; the second number refers to the precise position of a particular word. Herr Sommer, we know what you were writing to each other. We now understand the… nature of your relationship.”
Sommer looked up at the young doctor. A faint smile flickered across his face, and a sound escaped from his mouth-an incomplete, forceful exhalation that carried within it a musical note of surprise. In spite of its brevity, this small vocalization was curiously dramatic, communicating both shock and resignation. The smile faded, and Sommer's features crumpled. He buried his head in his hands and began to sob.
“You knew that an autopsy would take place,” Liebermann continued, “and that the cuts on Zelenka's body would be discovered. However, you reasoned that these wounds would most probably be attributed to bullying, persecution, or torture-rather than to an erotic predilection. To reinforce this misconception, you wrote to the Arbeiter-Zeitung, in the guise of a former-and disaffected-pupil, Herr G. In this article, you denounced the culture of cruelty at Saint Florian's, and made reference to an invented punishment-'doing the night watch’-which had supposedly caused the accidental death of an unfortunate Hungarian boy called Domokos Pikler. In fact, Pikler did not fall to his death-he jumped. He suffered from suicidal melancholia. Your ruse was extremely effective. You did not fail to observe the cardinal rule of successful dissimulation: the inclusion of at least some of the truth.”
The mathematics master looked up and pulled the sleeve of his quilted jacket across his nose, leaving a trail of mucus on the faded silk. On his eyelashes, the remnants of tears caught the fading light.
“What did I do wrong?” Sommer asked Liebermann. “I did not coerce Zelenka. I did not force him. He wanted to do those things. He was a young man-but not so young as to be unconscious of his own actions, and insensible of their consequences… I did not corrupt him. Our physical intimacies-however repugnant you might find them-created bonds of affection. Deep bonds. I know you will recoil if I claim that we knew love. You have opinions, no doubt, concerning the degree to which love can exist under such circumstances. We inverts are disqualified, on medical grounds, from admission into the higher realms of emotional life… although greater men have disagreed with that view in the past. Have you read the Erotes by Lucian, Herr Doctor?”
“No.”
“Two men debate the merits of loving boys compared to loving women. The defender of love for women argues that such love serves procreation, and is therefore more natural-a superior love. But his opponent reverses the argument. He agrees that love for boys is indeed a cultural rather than a natural phenomenon. But this shows that those who practice love for boys-or who have the imagination to derive pleasure from
unusual acts-rise above nature. Love for boys is not yoked to primitive, animal passions. When the imaginative lover makes love, he does so with his aesthetic sensibilities fully engaged. When he makes love, he is-in a way-creating a work of art. He rises above the carnal. When the dialogue of the Erotes reaches its final pages, an adjudicator concludes that love for boys is the natural predilection of philosophers. It is the highest love…”
Sommer clenched his fist.
“What did I do wrong?” He repeated his question. “You are a doctor and will describe me as a degenerate, an invert, a deviant. But may I remind you that it was Becker who killed Zelenka, not me! Respectable Dr. Becker, who would never have attracted such degrading appellations. And is it so very wrong to try to preserve one's position, one's livelihood? Had I been candid, I would have lost everything. You are fortunate, Herr Doctor, that your erotic instincts are directed toward socially acceptable aims. You did not make that choice-as I did not choose to be as I am. We are simply what we are-and what I am was not always judged to be bad. That is only the opinion of doctors in these modern times, and one day, opinions may change again. Therefore, do not judge me so unkindly… The moral heights that you occupy are not so elevated as you think.”
Liebermann did not respond. Instead, he stood up and addressed Rheinhardt.
“I'll wait for you outside.”
66
Liebermann gazed out of the carriage window.
The day was at its end and the hills had become shadowy and indistinct. He noticed the light of a fire-a speck of orange in a sea of darkness-and wondered who might be out there at this time. The temperature had dropped, and the landscape was looking particularly inhospitable.
“Cigar?”
Rheinhardt leaned across and offered him a Trabuco.
“Thank you,” said Liebermann. The young doctor struck a vesta and bent forward, allowing the end of his cheroot to touch the flame. “I still can't believe I was so slow-witted,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “I should have realized the significance of Zelenka's injuries as soon as you showed me the mortuary photographsparticularly those crural lacerations!”
