Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  It was a grand building, constructed in the neo-Renaissance style. However, when it had been completed, the emperor had been overheard agreeing with one of his aides concerning the appearance of the new opera house: it looked… a trifle low, perhaps? The architect dutifully hanged himself, and two months later his collaborator died of a heart attack. Thereafter, Franz Josef only praised the work of civic artists. “Beautiful, beautiful…” became his unvarying response.

  Inside the opera house, the orchestra and singers were rehearsing Siegfried. Liebermann had discovered this by talking to the doorman, who-for two kronen-was easily persuaded to give him advance notice of the musicians’ imminent departure.

  The young doctor had stationed himself by one of the two stone fountains that flanked the loggia. He had stood by this particular fountain on numerous occasions but had never troubled to examine it closely. The female figure seated at the summit was the legendary siren Lorelei, and below the elegant bowl were three sentries representing love, grief, and vengeance. Liebermann laughed bitterly. The themes dramatized his circumstance perfectly.

  He had fallen in love with Trezska: he had been beguiled by her beauty, virtuosity, and mystery. In the virid halo of an absinthe stupor, she was as irresistible and strange as Lorelei. Yet there was a natural order of things, a universal logic, which insisted that love must always-at some point-be associated with grief. Small partingswhich pained the heart-were a mere prelude to the great sundering that awaits all lovers. Deceit, calamity, death-grief could not be postponed indefinitely. Liebermann had already started to grieve- even though the outcome of his inquiries was still uncertain. It did not feel premature. He was not psychic, but he wasn't stupid either. Love had been followed by grief, and he wondered whether vengeance was now waiting in the wings. Presumably, vengeance could come only at his behest. Would he summon that dark spirit, and become acquainted with all three personifications of the operatic triumvirate?

  Liebermann was familiar with the legend of Lorelei through Liszt's setting of an eponymous poem by Heine. He recollected the opening bars: yearning, ambiguous harmonies, falling for a moment into silence-and then the voice, entering: “Ic h wei? nicht, was soil es heieuten,

  Da? ich so traurighin.” I do not know what it means That I should feel so sad.

  It was a romantic tale of men fatally fascinated by beauty. Liebermann looked up at the Rhine maiden. She was seated on a decorated pedestal, her body half-turned-carelessly exposing her breasts. She was slim-her arms delicately poised-and her corrugated hair flowed off her shoulders. Her expression was wickedly indifferent to masculine worship.

  The sound of a voice floated above the traffic. The doorman had come out from beneath the loggia and was waving his hands in the air. Liebermann acknowledged his presence and walked toward the lobby. When he arrived, two men were emerging. The first was taller than the second. His thick dark hair was combed to the side and his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore spectacles, a fine gray suit, and a necktie loosely set to produce a wide knot. The second man was small and wiry, but his face was distinguished by an exceptionally high forehead and a strong, square chin. His hair-which was thinning a little-was brushed back and slightly bristled. He wore spectacles similar to the first man's, a dark jacket, and a white bow tie. Liebermann noticed that his gait was rather unusual: somewhat jerky and uneven.

  The first man was Alfred Rose. The second was Rose's brother-in-law, Director Mahler. Although Liebermann had been waiting to address the first, the mere presence of the second made his step falter. For Liebermann, Director Mahler was only slightly less than a god.

  “Concertmaster?” Liebermann called hoarsely. Rose didn't hear him, and the young doctor had to call again. “Concertmaster?”

  The violinist stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “Herr Rose, I have a message… from one of your pupils.”

  Rose didn't respond, but simply looked at his interlocutor inquisitively. Liebermann noticed that Mahler's right leg was twitching. This movement suggested impatience, but his expression was perfectly calm. The director finally stamped the ground lightly, and the twitching stopped.

  “Fraulein Novak?” Liebermann added.

  “Who did you say?”

  “Fraulein Novak.”

  “I'm sorry” said the concert master, shaking his head. “You must have been misinformed. I have no pupil called Novak.”

  It was the answer that Liebermann had expected: but he wanted to make absolutely sure that later there would be no room for doubt in his mind.

  “A Hungarian lady” he persisted. “She recently sought your advice on the spring sonata?”

  Rose shook his head again-this time more vigorously. “No, my friend. You really do have the wrong person.”

  “So it seems… Forgive me.”

  Liebermann bowed, and the two men walked on. Mahler immediately began talking.

  “I've agreed to the guest engagements-and Salter has confirmed that at least one of my works is to be included in every program.” In spite of his severe features, the director spoke cheerily.

  “And the fee?” asked Rose.

  “I said I wouldn't accept less than two thousand kronen.”

  “Two thousand,” repeated Rose, impressed.

  As they receded, their voices faded beneath the clatter and thrum of the Ringstrasse traffic.

  Liebermann's attention was drawn upward. A dark cloud was floating over the roof of the opera house.

  73

  Eichmann placed the letter in front of him-a carefully executed, fastidious movement. He took care to ensure that the upper horizontal line of the paper was exactly parallel with the edge of his desk, let his finger run over the embossed seal, and took a deep breath.

  “From the minister of education.”

  Gartner took a swig from his hip flask. “I see.”

  “He is going to attend the next meeting of the board of governors. He wishes to raise a number of issues.”

  “Issues?”

  “The minister makes several allusions to the emperor's desire to create a more inclusive military-and he writes of the moral obligation incumbent upon educational institutions to respect His Majesty's wishes. The implications, I'm afraid, are all too clear.”

  “Headmaster? Are you suggesting that…”

  “I will almost certainly be asked to tender my resignation. And so-I am sorry to say-will my closest allies.”

  “We must fight them!” said Gartner. “We must argue our case.”

  Eichmann leaned forward and ran his finger down the margin of the letter.

  “Listen to this: Young minds are easily misguided, and great care must be taken to ensure that any philosophical instruction given in military schools is concordant with, the emperor's vision. It is over, my friend.”

  Gartner took another swig. “The ingratitude, headmaster.”

  “I have given the best years of my life to this school.”

  Gartner pulled his gown around his shoulders, as though he had suddenly felt the temperature drop in his old bones.

  “Was it Wolf?”

  “He wrote a letter to his uncle-the commissioner of the security office.”

  “And have you spoken with him? The boy?”

  “He sat where you are now, straight-faced, explaining to me how he felt he had been manipulated, corrupted. How he had been mesmerized in your special tutorial group-made to believe things through relentless repetition-that he now understands were disloyal to the emperor… not in sympathy with the spirit of an empire comprised of so many great and proud nations.”

  “Disgraceful. And he seemed such a receptive boy-so full of promise. Did we teach him nothing?”

  Eichmann smiled: a humorless display of teeth.

  “No. You are mistaken, old friend,” said the headmaster. “I fear we taught him too much.”

  74

  The circle of trees looked different by daylight, and Drexler was uncertain whether he had brought the constable to the r
ight place.

  “Just a moment,” he said, pausing to consider the landscape.

  Drexler went over to a large gnarled trunk, and ran his fingers over the rough surface.

  “What are you doing?” the constable called out.

  “Looking for something.”

  The face was less distinct than Drexler had remembered-but it was there nevertheless. An old graybeard, trapped in the timber: two knotty projections serving to create the illusion of a pair of weary, anguished eyes.

  “Here,” said Drexler, pointing at the ground. “I buried him here.”

  The constable marched over, swinging the shovel off his shoulder. He stamped the blade into the ground and angled it back, raising a wedge of turf. The ease with which the soil came up was conspicuous, suggesting recent disturbance. The constable grunted, and set about his task with renewed conviction. He was a strong, big-boned youth, and he tossed the earth aside with mechanical efficiency.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked Drexler.

  “It was an accident,” Drexler replied. “We were playing with a revolver… and it just went off. I didn't mean to do it.”

  “If it was an accident, why didn't you tell the headmaster? Accidents happen…”

  “I don't know. I panicked, I suppose.”

  “And you carried him-the dead boy-all this way on your own?”

  “No. I stole a horse and trap and got as far as the road.”

  “That's odd. None of the locals reported a theft.”

  “It belonged to the school. I returned the trap before anyone noticed it was missing.”

  The constable shrugged, took off his spiked helmet, and handed it to Drexler. Then he wiped his brow and continued to dig. Gravid clouds had begun to gather overhead, and Drexler felt the first faint chill of rain on his cheeks. The hole deepened-but there was no sign of Perger's jute shroud.

  “How far down did you bury him?”

  “Not that far,” said Drexler, perplexed. “You must have just missed him… Try here.” He pointed to another spot.

  The constable sighed, moved a little closer to the tree, and began to dig again. He interrupted his task to look up at the malignant sky.

  “We're going to get soaked,” he said, swearing softly under his breath.

  The shovel's blade met some resistance, and the constable caught Drexler's eye. However, the next downward thrust produced a loud clang that identified the obstruction as nothing more than a rock. Soon the constable had dug another hole, equal in depth to the first.

  “I'm sorry,” said Drexler. “It was dark. It's difficult to judge distances when it's dark. But I can assure you, I buried him somewhere around here. I remember this tree. You see, it has a face in it… an old man.”

  “An old man, eh?”

  “Please, try here.” Drexler took two paces away from the tree and stamped his feet.

  “I tell you what,” said the constable, handing Drexler the shovel. “Why don't you dig for a while?”

  The young man recovered his helmet and stomped off to seek shelter under the thickest bough he could find.

  Drexler began to dig frantically.

  Nothing.

  Clay, earthworms, stones, roots…

  He started to dig another hole. Nothing. And another…

  The drizzle had been succeeded by a persistent saturating downpour.

  “All right,” the constable called out. “You've had your fun… I suppose you and your friends think this sort of thing is very funny. Well, you won't be laughing after I've given you the good hiding you deserve.”

  “What?” said Drexler.

  “Come here,” said the constable, beckoning with a crooked finger.

  “This isn't a joke… This isn't a joke, you… you…”

  Drexler threw the shovel to the ground and fell to his knees. He thrust his hands into the hole he had dug and clawed at the mud. His tears were invisible on his rain-soaked face.

  “Perger!” he cried. “Perger?”

  The constable's expression altered. He no longer looked angry, more startled and confused. A little shocked, even. Drexler tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but only succeeded in smearing his face with mud.

  “Perger?” he shouted. When Drexler raised his hands, the constable could see that his fingers were bleeding. His eyes were shining with a terrible urgency.

  “Take it easy,” said the constable, taking a cautious step forward. What was it the boy had said? An old man in the tree…

  Maybe this wasn't a joke-maybe the boy wasn't right in the head. He certainly didn't look very well.

  “I think we'd better get back to the station,” said the constable. “We'll have some tea, eh? Warm you up a bit? And then I think we'd better call a doctor.”

  75

  Liebermann paid the cab driver and braced himself against the teeming rain. The carriage rattled away and he walked slowly toward the end of the cul-de-sac. Water was flowing in fast rivulets down the cobbled street and the wind was gathering strength. Low clouds, descending from the west, had created an eldritch twilight.

  The battered door-toward which Liebermann was making steady progress-was swinging on its hinges, occasionally crashing loudly against the wall. The fact that nobody had bothered to secure it reinforced the general atmosphere of neglect and desolation.

  Liebermann stepped over the threshold and into the tiled arcade. He paused for a moment and pushed a hank of sopping hair out of his eyes. A stream of icy water trickled down the back of his neck. From his shadowy vantage he could see across the courtyard. A man was standing at the foot of the iron stairs. He was facing away from Liebermann and wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. Beyond the stranger, and positioned above him on the covered landing, stood Trezska. She was dressed in readiness to travel, and carried-in addition to her shoulder bag-a small valise. Her violin was in its case at her feet. Yet there had been no sign of a cab waiting for her outside, and the man at the foot of the stairs was clearly making no effort to assist her. Indeed, there was something altogether strange about his situation. He had not chosen to climb the few steps that would have afforded him shelter. Instead, he was standing rather awkwardly, fully exposed to the elements.

  Trezska was talking, but Liebermann could not hear her. He was too distant, and the deluge was becoming symphonic. Close by, the rain was drumming on a tin roof and an overflowing gutter was splashing loudly.

  A blast of wind threatened to remove the stranger's hat, and the man had to grab quickly at the top of his head to hold it down. Again, Liebermann noted a conspicuous awkwardness-the maneuver had been executed clumsily with the left hand.

  Liebermann crept down the passageway, keeping his back close to the wall. When he reached the opposite end, he discovered why it was that the stranger's posture had appeared somewhat unnatural. The man was holding a pistol, the barrel of which was pointed upward, toward Trezska.

  The young doctor's response was automatic and unreasoning. He wanted to protect her, even though she had deceived him and even though he suspected that her capacity for deceit was boundless. Such was his disposition that a romantic obligation to a woman would always supersede a political obligation. Besides, he now had so many questions he wanted to ask her-questions that might never be answered if she were shot dead-that no other course of action seemed possible.

  Liebermann ventured out into the driving rain and moved toward the stranger. He approached with great care, ensuring that the soles of his shoes landed gently on the cobbles. He held his breath as he had in early childhood when he used to sneak out of his room after his mother had put him to bed. Strange, he thought, how easily the mind supplies correspondent memories from infancy. Professor Freud was right: much of adult behavior had its origins in the nursery.

  The rain was streaming down his face, blurring his vision; however, he was satisfied that Trezska had not reacted to his appearance. If she had, the man would have almost certainly turned to see what she was looking at. As Liebermann dr
ew closer, he could hear Trezska's voice.

  “I am sure we can come to some arrangement. After all, we are not entirely without common interests. I have in my possession information which might prove very useful.”

  Closer-one step at a time…

  “But,” she continued, “you cannot expect me to embark upon such an arrangement without some promise of security.”

  It was remarkable how calm she sounded, given her predicament, and her German was more fluent and mannered. “You will accept, I hope, that this is not an unreasonable request.”

  Liebermann observed a crescent of silver stubble beneath the man's hat. A middle-aged man, perhaps? Not too robust, he hoped.

  Closer…

  “Of course, you are at liberty to dismiss everything I have said,” Trezska added. “Why should you believe me? But I can assure you that I am speaking the absolute truth.”

  Liebermann drew back his arm, clenched his fist, and thumped the man as hard as he could in the region of the occipital bone. The man fell forward on the stairs, unconscious, his pistol skittering away. His hat had become dislodged, revealing a bald pate and a pair of slightly tapering ears. Liebermann knelt down, checked the man's pulse, and turned him over. It was Inspector Victor von Bulow

  76

  Drexler was lying in the infirmary, thinking over the day's events. It had been a miracle, surely. God had interceded in order to give him a second chance. He must use the rest of his life wisely, as the deity rarely acted without purpose.

  Dr. Kessler had left more than an hour ago. He was a kindly old fellow and meant well but, in Drexler s estimation, had spoken a lot of nonsense: You were perhaps very… close to Perger? He was your friend? It is indeed upsetting when we lose the company of one for whom we have developed a bond of deep and sincere affection…