Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  “I must confess,” Rheinhardt responded, “I did not know that people did such things.”

  “Then you should read the late Professor Krafft-Ebing's Psycho-pauiia Sexualis. It contains several cases of a similar type. For example, number forty-eight details the circumstances of an unfortunate gentleman whose young wife could only achieve sexual satisfaction if permitted to suck blood from a cut made on his forearm. The Psychopathia also contains numerous accounts of vampiric lust-murder.”

  “Vampiric lust-murder?” Rheinhardt repeated slowly.

  “Oh, yes… case nineteen: Leger-a vine dresser. He wandered in a forest for eight days until he came across a twelve-year-old girl. He violated her, tore out her heart, ate it, drank her blood, and buried her remains.”

  Rheinhardt shook his head. It was remarkable how medical men- when confronted with the worst excesses of human behavior- could describe such horrors in the same impassive tone that they also employed when enumerating the symptoms of pleurisy or indigestion.

  “What would make a man do such a thing?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “A postmortem conducted by the great Esquirol,” Liebermann replied, “found morbid adhesions between the murderer's cerebral membranes and the brain.”

  “Could Sommer suffer from similar adhesions?”

  “I very much doubt it-he is no murderer. His predilection for blood is probably best construed as a kind of fetish… posing no more of a threat to society than another man's insistence that his mistress should always wear a short jacket.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and became pensive. “I cannot recall whether Krafft-Ebing ever reported hemo-erotic tendencies in an individual whose sexual orientation was already inverted. If not, then a thorough study of Herr Sommer might make an original and instructive contribution to the literature. What will happen to Herr Sommer now?”

  “His final words to you were very powerful-and I could see that you were moved by his appeal. However, the fact remains that the man abused his position. He assaulted a pupil-for that is how the authorities will view his degeneracy. He spread malicious rumors about Zelenka and Frau Becker-which had fatal consequences. He was prepared to falsify Wolf's examination results, and he submitted an article to the Arheiter-Zeitung, the sole purpose of which was to confuse a police inquiry. I would say, without fear of exaggeration, that Herr Sommer's prospects are not good. Incidentally,” Rheinhardt continued, tilting his head to one side, “how did you discover that the Arbeiter-Zeitung article was written by Sommer?”

  “When we first visited Herr Sommer, I observed his name-Herr G. Sommer-painted by the door. The article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung was by Herr G. This coincidence did not escape my notice. Perhaps Herr Sommer was unable to stop himself from signing the article with his own initial because of some strange compulsion-or perhaps he just made a thoughtless error, a slip.” Liebermann rested his cigar in the ashtray, which was positioned in the carriage door. “Or perhaps,” he continued, “Herr Sommer reasoned that no one would expect a man intent on deceit to implicate himself by employing his real initial-and he therefore acted counterintuitively as a subtle ruse. Whatever the psychic mechanism underlying his action, he succeeded in rousing my curiosity. Human beings are always revealing their secrets in the little things that they do.”

  The young doctor shrugged and recovered his cigar. He then held up the cheroot and smiled, as if to say, There will even be a reason why I put this down only to pick it up again!

  “Had Herr Sommer not written his article,” Liebermann continued, “things might have turned out very differently. After all, it was Herr Sommer's article that resulted in your reassignment to the Saint Florian case.”

  “Indeed,” Rheinhardt replied. “Zelenka's death would have been attributed to natural causes, and the investigation would have ended quite prematurely.”

  Rheinhardt twirled his mustache and emitted a pensive growl.

  “What?” Liebermann asked.

  “I was just thinking. It's odd, isn't it, that my reluctance to abandon this case was due-at least initially-to Zelenka's youth? I found it difficult to accept the death of a…” He hesitated before saying “child.” Then, pronouncing the words with bitter irony he added: “The death of an innocent! And yet… This same angelic-looking boy…” His sentence trailed off into an exasperated silence.

  “Professor Freud,” said Liebermann softly, “does not believe that we humans ever enjoy a state of grace-a period of infantile purity. He is of the opinion that we can observe presentiments of adulthood even in the nursery. The toddler's tantrum prefigures murderous rage… and even the contented sucking of a thumb may provide the infant with something alarmingly close to sensual comfort and pleasure.”

  “I find that hard to accept,” said Rheinhardt.

  “Well-you are not alone,” said Liebermann, grinning.

  When Liebermann entered his apartment, he discovered that his serving man-Ernst-had left an envelope for him, conspicuously placed on the hall stand. Liebermann opened it and discovered a note inside. He recognized the small, precise handwriting immediately. It was from Miss Amelia Lyd gate: an apology-and an invitation.

  67

  Gerold Sommer sat at his table next to a pile of exercise books. He had already finished marking most of them, but there were a few that he hadn't yet looked at. Given his predicament, he had been surprised to find that his thoughts had kept returning to this unfinished task. The sense of incompletion had been so persistent, so troubling, that in due course he had dragged himself from his reading chair where he had sat brooding, and repositioned himself at the table where he was now working.

  The work he had set concerned triangles. In his most recent class, he had shown the boys how to calculate the area of a triangle using the method attributed to Heron of Alexandria. Sommer remembered standing by the blackboard, chalk in hand, looking at their bored faces, and saying in a conversational manner: This attribution is probably incorrect, as Archimedes almost certainly knew the formula, and it may have been employed by many anonymous mathematicians before him…

  This nugget of information had not made the subject any more interesting for the boys. Indeed, one of them-a scrawny fellow with greasy hair-had covered his mouth to disguise a yawn.

  It was extraordinary, Sommer pondered, how so many people- boys and men alike-found mathematics tedious. It was such an elegant subject. In any right-angled triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. Where else could you find such universal certainty, such indisputable truth, such perfection?

  Sommer opened the first exercise book, which belonged to Stojakovic. He was gratified to find that the Serbian boy was deserving of a good mark. He liked Stojakovic. The other exercise books contained work of varying quality, but Sommer was a conscientious teacher. He made an effort to write something helpful or encouraging whenever he could-even if he knew the boy concerned to be innumerate and uninterested.

  Triangles…

  Herr Lang, Frau Becker, Zelenka…

  Dr. Becker, Zelenka, Frau Becker…

  Frau Becker, Zelenka… myself.

  Sommer dismissed these intrusive triangulations from his mind. He did not want to think about such things.

  When he had finished marking the exercise books, the mathematics master unwrapped some bread and cheese (which he had collected from the kitchen earlier) and opened a bottle of Cote de Brouilly The wine had been a gift from his uncle Alfred, and Sommer had been saving it for a special occasion. It was dark, full-bodied, and left a fruity aftertaste. After drinking only two glasses, the mathematics master collected his personal papers together and examined them to make sure that his affairs were in order. He then wrote a brief note addressed to his mother, apologizing for his conduct, and another addressed to a friend in Salzburg, which made reference to an outstanding financial debt that he wished to be settled. He then pressed the muzzle of a pistol firmly against his temple and pulled the trigger.

  His eyes rem
ained open.

  68

  As Liebermann marched through the streets of Alsergrund, his thoughts took the form of questions and doubts: moreover, his general disquietude was exacerbated by an unpleasant fluttering sensation in his chest. It made him feel light-headed and breathless. He put his hand in his pocket and touched Miss Lyd gate s note.

  He wondered why he had accepted her invitation, when he might just as well have replied with a polite refusal. Even though it had been his intention to decline, Liebermann had found himself writing courteous phrases that moved-inexorably-toward a bald statement that she should expect him at the appointed time.

  What was Miss Lyd gate s purpose? Would she give him some indication, however small, of her changed circumstance, or would she eschew mention of her romantic involvement altogether, choosing instead to pour tea, offer biscuits, and share with him her latest philosophical enthusiasm. He was not sure he could tolerate such a conversation. The temptation to press her for some revelation-or even a complete confession-might be too powerful to resist.

  Liebermann was surprised by the strength of his feelings-and shamefully aware of their proprietorial nature. He thought of Professor Freud, the most rational of men, driven to the very brink of demanding satisfaction-because of jealousy. He thought of Dr. Becker, motivated to kill another human being-because of jealousy. And he thought of himself, reeling away from the Cafe Segel, delirious with disappointment and rage-because of jealousy.

  It was an ugly destructive emotion, and as a civilized man he felt obliged to overcome his primitive urges. Yet the desire to possess a woman exclusively was an indelible feature of the male psyche, and to repress such feelings would simply promote-according to Professor Freud-the development of hysterical and neurotic symptoms. Modern man must either wallow in the mire of his animal instincts or deny them and become mentally ill.

  A fragment of conversation:

  That man… The one who stopped you outside Demel's.

  What?

  The man who called you Amelie-Franz…

  Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?

  You knew him, really, didn't you?

  Are you jealous?

  Liebermann didn't want to be jealous. But there was one thing he didn't want to be even more, and that was mentally ill.

  In due course, Liebermann arrived outside Frau Rubenstein's house. He rapped the knocker three times and waited. A few moments later, the door opened and Amelia Lyd gate was standing in front of him. She was wearing a simple white dress and her hair fell in blazing tresses to her shoulders. Her eyes-which never failed to astonish him-seemed to be reflecting a bright blue light: the harsh blue of an Alpine lake or glacier. Unusually, she smiled-a broad, uninhibited smile. Its radiance imbued her face with beatific qualities. Indeed, there was something about her appearance that reminded Liebermann of religious iconography: she might easily have replaced the angel in a Renaissance Annunciation.

  “Dr. Liebermann.” Her voice floated over the traffic. “I am delighted you could come. Please, do come in.”

  As was his custom, Liebermann spent a few minutes with Frau Rubenstein before following Amelia up the stairs to her apartment. Although Frau Rubenstein's conversation had been unremarkable, he thought he had detected a certain wry amusement in her tone-a certain knowingness. He might even have commented on this had he not had other things on his mind.

  “It must be nearly a month since you last visited us,” said Amelia. “I believe it was shortly after the detectives’ ball.”

  “Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Mid-January I think.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him: “How time flies… Unfortunately, I have not had sufficient opportunity to organize dancing lessons with Herr Janowsky… but I still intend to do so.”

  “You have been busy… at the university?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “And there have been other matters…”

  Again she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

  When they reached the top landing, Amelia Lyd gate ushered Liebermann into her small parlor. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he came to an abrupt halt. There, sitting at the gateleg table, on the chair that he had so frequently occupied, sat the gentleman in whose arms Miss Lyd gate had swooned outside the Cafe Segel. The man looked relaxed. His legs were crossed, revealing one of his boots, which was stitched with an ornate and somewhat garish pattern. His wide-brimmed hat was hanging off the back of his chair, and he sported a curious necktie that seemed to be no wider than a shoelace.

  The gentleman stood up and extended his hand.

  “You will forgive me for addressing you in my native language, Herr Dr. Liebermann, but I have a strong suspicion that your English will be very much superior to my German-which is lamentably poor. It is a great honor to meet a man of whom I have heard such good report.” He grasped Liebermann's hand, and squeezed it hard. The man's English was peculiarly inflected. Indeed, it was very different from the English that Liebermann remembered from the time he'd spent in London. Nor was the man's clothing particularly British-looking.

  “Permit me to introduce myself,” the man continued. “Randall Pelletier-Lyd gate-at your service, sir.” “You are Miss Lyd gate's… cousin?” Amelia came forward. “No. Randall is my brother.” “But…” Liebermann looked at the woman standing beside him. She was glowing with pride. “It was my understanding that you do not have-”

  “A brother… Indeed.” Amelia interrupted him. “That was my understanding too, but apparently I was mistaken.”

  Liebermann was thrown into a state of confusion. He experienced a sense of intense relief-almost joy-but was then immediately alarmed by his reaction. He was in love with Trezska-wasn't he? “I think,” said Liebermann. “I think… you had better explain.” “With great pleasure,” Amelia replied. “However, before we proceed, you will no doubt require refreshment-so I must first make some tea.”

  “Many years before making the acquaintance of Greta Buchbinderthat is to say Amelia's mother-our father, Samuel Lyd gate, had enjoyed a brief but intimate dalliance with an actress: Constance Vaughn.” Randall's voice was mellow, and his narrative flowed like the song of a lyric tenor. “Their acquaintance was prematurely ended when the English Shakespeare Company-with whom Constance played as a principal-boarded the White Star vessel Oceanic, bound for New York. The company was embarked upon a tour of America that would take them through the southern states. Although Constance had promised to write to Samuel Lyd gate, he never heard from her again-and so he never learned that she had departed from Liverpool pregnant, carrying his child. Constance-my mother-was an unconventional woman. She was impulsive, prone to violent passions, and-I fear-in her youth might reasonably have been described as a little… cranky.”

  “I'm sorry?” Liebermann said.

  “Mentally unstable,” Amelia interjected in German.

  “Ah, of course. Please continue.”

  Randall took a sip of Earl Grey.

  “In New Orleans, the English Shakespeare Company performed two tragedies and a comedy. One of these tragedies was Romeo and Juliet — and my mother played the lead. In the audience was a local businessman called George Pelletier. So impressed was he by the young actress that he sent her flowers and showered her with gifts. A single dinner engagement sufficed to convince him that she was the love of his life, and he proposed that they should be married. My mother, being an indefatigable romantic-her senses assailed by the exotic sights and sounds of New Orleans, drunk with the prospect of adventure and excitement-agreed to the proposal immediately, and one week later when the English Shakespeare Company left town, they did so with one less actress in their troupe.

  “I do not know whether my mother and her new husband discussed my paternity-but what I do know is that I was raised in the belief that George Pelletier was my father, and he accordingly treated me like a son. Indeed, a boy could not have wished for a more devoted parent…He died five years ago, and if grief is a measure of affection, then the depth of my s
orrow confirmed the strength of our bond. He was a kind, generous man, and I continue to miss his counsel and laughter. Alas, this great loss was soon to be compounded by another. Last year my mother succumbed to a tubercular infection, and on her deathbed-for reasons that I still can only guess at-she decided that the time had come to reveal the truth concerning my provenance. I discovered the name, occupation, and nationality of my real father: a revelation the effect of which-I trust you will appreciate- cannot be overestimated.

  “Lyd gate is not so common a name in the British Isles, and, having resolved to begin my inquiries among the better educational establishments of London, I was soon rewarded with success. However, I was reluctant to approach Samuel directly. I did not know what manner of man he was-or how he might respond if I presented myself at his door.

  “I am accustomed to uncovering facts-it is, indeed, what constitutes the greater part of my work. I decided that I should discover a little more about Samuel's circumstances before alerting him to my existence. I wanted to know more about him in order to better judge whether or not my appearance would be welcome. My agent in London later informed me that Samuel Lyd gate had a daughterAmelia-who was currently studying at the University of Vienna…

  “Dr. Liebermann, you cannot imagine how this intelligence affected me. A sister. I had a younger sister!” Randall looked at Amelia, and his expression, Liebermann noticed, was still-in spite of the passage of time-incandescent with joyful disbelief. “I do not know why I was so profoundly moved-but moved I most certainly was. Further, it occurred to me that there might be certain advantages if I took the trouble to contact my sister before I approached my father: a younger person might be less rigid-better equipped to assimilate such dramatic news. She might even be prepared to act as a kind of intermediary. So I resolved to travel to Vienna… and here I am.”