Fatal Lies

Praise for

Fatal Lies

“Elegant.… Tallis has come up with a particularly ingenious method of murder.… His novels show the modern world coming into existence in one of Europe's great cities, and are all the more poignant for the knowledge that the first world war will soon cast its shadow over his deeply human characters.”

—

The Sunday Times

(London)

“[Tallis's] handling of the psychoanalysis and criminal pathology are fan tastic… a romping tale.”

—

Scotland on Sunday

Praise for

Vienna Blood

“A murder mystery of great intelligence… a fascinating portrait of one of the most vibrant yet sinister cities of fin-de-siècle Europe.”

—The Times

(London)

“Tallis uses his knowledge of medicine, music, psychology and history to create an endlessly fascinating portrait of 1902 Vienna.”

—Kirkus Reviews

(starred review)

“Brilliant.… Tallis can ratchet up the suspense.”

—

The Globe and Mail

“Gripping…. The clever plotting and quality writing elevate this above most other historicals.”

—

Publishers Weekly

(starred review)

“Excellent.… Tallis handles his themes adroitly.”

—The Sunday Times

(London)

“Exhilarating…expertly crafted.… The layers of Viennese society are peeled away as delicately as the layers of each mouth-watering Viennese pastry that the portly Rheinhardt makes it his business to devour.”

—The Daily Telegraph

(London)

Praise for

A Death in Vienna

“[An] elegant historical mystery… stylishly presented and intelligently resolved.”

—

The New York Times Book Review

“[A Death in “Vienna

is] a winner for its smart and fin-de-siècle portrait of the seat of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and for introducing Max Liebermann, a young physician who is feverish with the possibilities of the new science of psychoanalysis.”

—

The Washington Post

“Frank Tallis knows what he's writing about in this excellent mystery.… His writing and feel for the period are top class.”

—The Times

(London)

“An engrossing portrait of a legendary period as well as a brain teaser of startling perplexity… In Tallis’ sure hands, the story evolves with grace and excitement.… A perfect combination of the hysterical past and the cooler—but probably more dangerous—present.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Holmes meets Freud in this enjoyable… whodunit.”

—The Guardian

(London)

Also by Frank Tallis

A Death in Vienna

Vienna Blood

1

THE BAROQUE BALLROOM was filled with flowers. Beneath three radiant chandeliers more than a hundred couples were rotating in near-perfect synchrony. The men were dressed in black tails, piqué shirts, and white gloves, the women in gowns of tulle and crêpe de chine. On a raised platform a small orchestra was playing Strauss's Rosen aus iem Süien, and when the waltz king's famous heartwarming melody was reprised, a number of onlookers began a sympathetic humming chorus—smiling with recognition and benign sentimentality.

Liebermann felt Amelia Lyd gate s right hand tighten with anxiety in his left. A vertical line appeared on her forehead as she struggled to follow his lead.

“I do apologize, Dr. Liebermann. I am such a poor dancer.”

She was wearing a skirted décolleté gown of green velvet, and her flaming red hair was tied up in silver ribbons. The pale unblemished planes of her shoulders reminded the young doctor of polished Italian marble.

“Not at all,” said Liebermann. “You are doing very well for a novice. Might I suggest, however, that you listen more carefully to the music. The beat.”

The Englishwoman returned a puzzled expression. “The beat,” she repeated.

“Yes, can you not”—Liebermann paused, and made an effort to conceal his disbelief—“feel it?”

Liebermann s right hand pressed gently against Amelia's back, emphasizing the first accented beat in each bar. However, his guidance had no noticeable effect on her performance.

“Very well, then,” said Liebermann. “Perhaps you will find the following useful: the natural turn consists of three steps in which you move forward and rotate clockwise by one hundred and eighty degrees, followed by three steps in which you move backward and rotate again by one hundred and eighty degrees. For the forward turn you move forward on your right foot, rotating it to the right by ninety degrees, followed by your left foot, rotated another ninety degrees so that it is now facing backward.…”

Amelia stopped, tilted her head to one side, and considered these instructions. Then, looking directly into Liebermann s eyes, she said plainly: “Thank you, Dr. Liebermann, that is an altogether superior explanation. Let us proceed.”

Remarkably, when they began to dance again, Amelia’s movements were considerably more fluid.

“Excellent,” said Liebermann. “Now, if you lean back a little, we will be able to go faster.” Amelia did as she was instructed, and they began to revolve more rapidly. “I believe,” continued Liebermann, “that the optimal speed of the Viennese waltz is said to be approximately thirty revolutions per minute.” He saw Amelia glance at his exposed wristwatch. “However, I do not think it will be necessary for us to gauge our performance against this nominal ideal.”

As they swung by the orchestra, they were overtaken by a portly couple who—in spite of their ample physiques—danced with a nimbleness and grace that seemed to defy gravity.

“Good heavens,” said Amelia, unable to conceal her amazement. “Is that Inspector Rheinhardt?”

“It is,” said Liebermann, raising an eyebrow.

“He and his wife are very… accomplished.”

“They are indeed,” said Liebermann. “However, it is my understanding that Inspector Rheinhardt and his wife are more practiced than most. During Fasching not only do they attend this—the detectives’ ball—but they are also regular patrons of the waiters’ ball, the hatmakers’ ball, the philharmonic ball, and, as one would expect”—Liebermann smiled mischievously—”the good inspector has a particular fondness for the pastry makers’ ball.”

As they wheeled past a pair of carved gilt double doors, Liebermann saw a police constable enter the ballroom. His plain blue uniform and spiked helmet made him conspicuous among the elegant tailcoats and gowns. His cheeks were flushed and he looked as though he had been running. The young man marched directly over to Commissioner Brügel, who was standing next to the impeccably dressed Inspector Victor von Bulow and a party of guests from the Hungarian security office.

Earlier in the evening, Liebermann had tried to engage the Hungarians in some polite conversation but had found them rather laconic. He had ascribed their reserve to Magyar melancholy, a medical peculiarity with which he, and most of his colleagues in Vienna, were well acquainted.

Liebermann lost sight of the group as Amelia and he continued their circumnavigation of the ballroom. When they had completed another circuit, he was surprised to see Else Rheinhardt standing on her own and looking toward her husband—who was now talking to Commissioner Brügel and the breathless young constable. Liebermann's observation coincided with the brassy fanfares that brought the waltz to its clamorous conclusion. The revelers cheered and applauded the orchestra. Liebermann bowed, pressed Amelia's fingers to his lips, and, taking her hand, led her toward Else Rheinhardt.

“I think something's happened,” said Else.

Manfred Brügel was a stocky man with a large, blockish head and oversize muttonchop whiskers. He was addressing Rheinhardt, while occasionally questioning the young constable. Rheinhardt was listening intently. In due course, Rheinhardt clicked his heels and turned to find his wife and friends.

“My dear,” said Rheinhardt, affectionately squeezing Else's arm, “I am so very sorry… but there has been an incident.“ He glanced briefly at Liebermann, tacitly communicating that the matter was serious. “I am afraid I must leave at once.”

“Isn't there anyone on duty at Schottenring?” asked Else.

“Koltschinsky has developed a bronchial illness, and Storfer—on being informed of the said incident—rushed from the station, slipped on some ice, and cracked his head on the pavement.”

“What extraordinary bad luck,” said Liebermann.

“Why is it always you?” said Else. “Can't somebody else go? What about von Bulow?”

“I believe he has some important business to discuss with our Hungarian friends.” The air suddenly filled with the shimmering of tremolando violins, against which two French horns climbed a simple major triad. Nothing in the whole of music was so artless, yet so distinctive. “Ah,” said Rheinhardt, “what a shame… The Blue Danube.” He looked at his wife and his eyes filled with regret.

“Oskar,” said Liebermann. “Can I be of any assistance? Would you like me to come with you?”

Rheinhardt shook his head.

“I would much rather you kept my dear wife and Miss Lyd gate entertained. Now, where's Haussmann?” The Inspector looked around the ballroom and discovered his assistant standing with a group of cavalrymen, gazing wistfully at a pretty young debutante in white. Heavy blond coils bounced against her cheeks. Haussmann, having clearly been engaged in a protracted surveillance operation, was about to reveal himself. He was clutching a single red rose. “Oh, no,” said Rheinhardt under his breath.

The inspector kissed his wife, apologized to Amelia, and clasped Liebermann's hand. Then, moving quickly, he managed to intercept the rose just before Haussmann had reached his quarry.

2

THE INNKEEPER AT AUFKIRCHEN had been pleasant enough. Knocking a dottle of tobacco from the bowl of his clay pipe, he had warned Rheinhardt of a fallen tree: It's blocking the road—you'll have to go the long way around. The directions the man had given were full of local detail and were difficult to follow. When the little Romanesque church with its distinctive onion dome and spire vanished in the darkness, Rheinhardt doubted whether the exercise had been very successful.

The interior of the carriage was illuminated by a single electric bulb, the glowing arc of which was reflected in Haussmann's eyes. Rheinhardt fancied that this flickering scintilla of light was connected with the young man's thoughts—the fading memory, perhaps, of the pretty blond debutante.

Their ascent was becoming extremely uncomfortable. The narrow track that they had chosen was riddled with potholes, causing the carriage to pitch and roll. Rheinhardt pulled the curtain aside and pressed his face against the glass. He could see nothing. Releasing the catch, he opened the window and leaned out. The air was cold and dank. Ahead, the carriage lamps shone against descending blankets of thick fog.

Rheinhardt looked anxiously at his pocket watch and called out to the driver.

“Stop, will you? We should have arrived by now!”

The carriage came to a shuddering halt.

“God in heaven, Haussmann,” said the inspector. “At this rate we'll never get there!”

He opened the carriage door and jumped out. His feet sank into the muddy ground, and he felt his best patent leather shoes filling up with freezing ditch water. Cursing loudly, he squelched up the road, grimacing as the sludge sucked at his heels. One of the horses snorted and shook its bridle. Rheinhardt peered into the opaque distance.

“Where on earth are we?”

“Left by the turnstile and left again at the old well,” said the driver gruffly. “That's what you said, sir—and that's what I did. Turned left.” Then he mumbled under his breath: “I knew it should have been right.”

“Then why didn't you say so?”

The driver had not intended his final remark to be heard. He concealed his embarrassment by soothing the horses.

They were in the middle of a dense forest. An owl hooted, and something rustled in the undergrowth. Rheinhardt knew that they were only a short distance from Vienna, but the capital—with its theaters, coffeehouses, and glittering ballrooms—felt strangely remote.

The trees looked tormented: thick, twisted boles and bare branches that terminated in desperate, arthritic claws. There was something about a deep, dark wood that held unspeakable terrors for the Teutonic imagination. Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel. Within every German-speaking adult was a child who, from infancy, had cultivated—under the tutelage of the Brothers Grimm—a healthy respect for the natural habitat of wolves and witches.

Rheinhardt shuddered.

“Sir?”

Haussmann's head had emerged from the carriage window.

“Yes?”

“What's that?”

“What's what?”

“There… Oh, it's gone. No, there it is again. Can't you see it, sir?”

An indistinct luminescence was floating among the trees—a pale glow that seemed to vanish and then reappear.

“Yes, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, consciously modulating his voice to achieve an even delivery. “Yes, I can.”

The light was becoming brighter.

Rheinhardt heard the carriage door opening, a splash, and his assistant struggling through the adhesive mud.

“What is it?” Haussmann repeated his question.

“I don't know,” said Rheinhardt. “But it is my impression that we will find out very soon.”

“Do you have your revolver, sir?”

“No, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt replied. “This may come as a surprise to you, but when dancing, I very rarely carry a firearm. The unequal distribution of weight about my person would make the performance of a perfect turn almost impossible.”

“Of course, sir,” said Haussmann, noting the appearance of a sly smile on his superior's face.

The advancing light was surrounded by an indistinct shadowy aura, the dimensions of which suggested the approach of something very large. The vague outline was lumbering, ursine. Rheinhardt wondered if the mist might be creating an optical illusion. Nobody could be that big! Yet twigs were snapping beneath a ponderous tread. The horses began to whicker.

“Gentlemen,” said the driver nervously, “perhaps you'd like to get back inside. Shouldn't we be on our way?”

Rheinhardt did not reply.

The footsteps became louder and the light grew more distinct.

“Well, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, “I suspect that in a few moments all will be revealed.”

The thick curtains of fog parted and a huge figure stepped out of the darkness, the glow of the flickering candle in his lamp preceding him like a spirit emissary. Rheinhardt heard his young companion gasp.

“Steady, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt whispered.

The man was well over six feet tall but appeared even more massive on account of his clothing. He was wearing a Russian hat, with the flaps released over his ears, and a long fur coat pulled in at the waist with a thick leather belt. Hanging from it was a cleaver. In one hand he held a tin lamp suspended at the end of a whittled staff, and in the other the hind legs of a brace of bloody animal carcasses that were slung over his shoulder. Almost all of his face was concealed behind a wild, wiry black beard.

“Good evening,” said Rheinhardt. “We are looking for the Aufkirchen oberrealschule.” The mysterious woodman remained silent. Rheinhardt tried again: “The military academy? Saint Florian's?”

At last, something in the big man's eyes showed recognition. He grunted an affirmative and began to speak.

“Back down the hill.” The sound he produced was low and sonorous. “Take the right fork.”

“Right fork?” Rheinhardt echoed.

The giant grunted again. Then, turning abruptly, he trudged back into the woods.

“Thank you,” Rheinhardt called out. “Much obliged.”

Rheinhardt and Haussmann stood very still, watching, as the mist closed around the giant's shoulders and the shimmering flame faded into obscurity.

“You see, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, straightening his bow tie and adjusting the studs on his cuffs. “Country folk: full of stolid virtues, I'm sure. But their conversation always errs on the side of brevity, don't you think?” Rheinhardt turned to address the driver.

“Well, did you hear what our friend from the forest said?”

“Down the hill—right fork.”

“Exactly.”

“And you want us to follow his directions?”

“What else would you suggest?”

“Himmel, he was a strange one.”

“True, but I dare say we looked a little strange to him too.”

3

THE DORMITORY WAS PITCH-BLACK but alive with sounds: snoring, rustling, mumbling, and the occasional terrified cry as one of the boys surfaced from a nightmare.

Kiefer Wolf listened to the breathing darkness. It had an orchestral quality—a heaving, restless depth.

“Drexler?” He reached out across the narrow space separating his bed from the next, and poked his fingers into the warm eiderdown.

“Drexler, wake up!”

His neighbor moaned.

“Drexler, wake up, will you!”

“Wolf?”

“Wake up, Drexler. I can't sleep.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Wolf,” said Martin Drexler.

“I'm going for a smoke. Are you coming?”

The boy sleeping in the bed on the other side of Wolf began to stir. “What…” His voice was thick with sleep. “What's happening?”

Wolf's fist swung out with ruthless ferocity, slamming into the boy's stomach. The youngster let out an agonized cry.

“Shut up, Knackfuss!” Wolf hissed. “Just shut up!”

The boy began to whimper.

“Oh, for God's sake, Wolf!” It was Drexler again. “What's the matter with you!”

“I'm going upstairs. I'm going to the lost room.”

Wolf got out of bed, felt for his clothes, and slipped on his jacket and trousers. He did not bother with his shoes.

“Well, Drexler? Are you coming or not?”

Wolf heard Drexler turn over, grumbling into his pillow.

“Sleep, then!” said Wolf angrily. “You… you baby!”

Wolf groped his way into the central aisle and—orienting himself by touching the bedsteads—took short steps toward the door. Turning the handle very slowly, he pushed it open and peered through the narrow gap. The corridor was empty. Slipping out of the dormitory and closing the door quietly behind him, Wolf took one of the paraffin lamps from the wall and tiptoed off into the shadows. He had not gone very far when he heard something: footsteps, rushing up the stairs, and voices.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Wolf sprinted to the end of the corridor and, skillfully negotiating a sharp corner, pressed his back against the wall. He held his breath and listened. He could hear a man's voice (speaking very quietly) and then a woman's voice.

Nurse Funke?

He had no intention of waiting there long enough to find out. He hurried off.

On one side of the corridor were windows overlooking a courtyard, and on the other side was a row of empty classrooms. At the end of the corridor was a wooden staircase that rose in a series of right angles and small landings. A further staircase ascended to a locked iron door.

Wolf paused—and listened.

Apart from the sound of tiny claws behind the baseboard, there was silence.

The upper level of the school had—over a period of many years—been subject to a series of eccentric modifications and revisions. Thus, the partitioning of spaces around the attic had led to the creation of many architectural anomalies: redundant corners, blind alleys, pointless niches, and steps that led nowhere at all. Among these architectural anomalies was the lost room—a neglected cavity that existed between the attic and the third story of the building.

Wolf crept underneath the final staircase and, crouching down, ran his hand over the floorboards. The tips of his fingers soon found the edge of a trapdoor, which he lifted gently. He sat on the edge of the hole, dangling his legs in the cold emptiness. Then, lowering himself, he eventually found support on a crate that had been positioned there especially for the purpose. Reaching up, he grabbed the paraffin lamp and then leaped down. He landed with a hollow, dusty thud. Wolf hung up the lamp on an overhead beam and made his way to an old leather suitcase in which he (and his small circle of associates) retained a cache of recreational aids: cigarettes, matches, brandy, some games, and a modest collection of pornographic postcards.

Wolf immediately lit a cigarette and began pacing around the room. He was annoyed with Drexler. Why hadn't he come? He wasn't the same, these days. Something in his character had changed. He was becoming more contrary, obstructive, less willing to go along with things.…

Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nostrils.

He didn't really want to confront Drexler; however, if he had to, he would. Wolf slumped down on a pile of cushions, and dragged a blanket over himself. Then, reaching into the suitcase, he pulled out a volume of philosophy that Professor Gärtner had given him. It was titled Beyond Good and Evil, and it contained a passage that had played on his mind. He didn't quite understand it, but he felt that repeated readings might reveal its secret—some special truth that resided just beyond the literal meaning of the printed words.

Wolf lengthened the wick of the paraffin lamp and opened the book at the correct page. He read the passage aloud: “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.…”

Wolf stubbed the cigarette out on the floor.

Yes, this was true—and so, by implication, one could never really go too far.

4

RHEINHARDT WONDERED WHETHER HE had treated the driver's remarks too flippantly. The woodman was indeed a strange one. Might such a man purposely instruct strangers to follow a dangerous road? Were they—at that very moment—blithely rolling toward some fatal precipice?

Again, he was reminded of the old stories: wolves, witches, and supernatural beings whose appearance invariably presaged death. To dispel his unease, he began humming Rosen aus iem Süien. His thoughts returned to the ball. What would the orchestra be playing now? Künstlerlehen, perhaps—or Wein, Weft uni Gesang?

After some time had passed, the driver let out a cry. “Inspector! Inspector! This must be it!”

Rheinhardt opened the window. They were passing between two cast-iron gates set in a crumbling high wall. The fog was less thick, and in the distance, across a flat expanse of land, he could see illuminated windows. Rheinhardt sighed with relief.

The carriage rattled down a long drive and finally stopped. The inspector and his assistant jumped out and took stock of their surroundings. They were standing next to a weather-beaten statue, the features of which had been worn smooth; however, it was still possible to identify a bearded warrior holding a lance, with one foot raised on what appeared to be a tub.

“Saint Florian,” said Rheinhardt.

“He looks more like a Roman soldier,” said Haussmann.

“Well, that's because he was a Roman soldier—a military administrator, posted here, in Austria. But that, alas, is the limit of my knowledge.”

Rheinhardt faced the school.

The building was Gothic in design, possessing three rows of triple lancet windows and four octahedral spires. A cloistered courtyard could be seen through a central stone arch. Rheinhardt and Haussmann entered the courtyard, and as they did so, a door opened through which an elderly man appeared. He was clearly a servant, but he wore a military decoration on his jacket.

“Gentlemen!” the old man cried.

Rheinhardt and Haussmann stepped forward, but as they did, the veteran's expression changed from eagerness to disappointment.

“Oh dear—very sorry—I mistook you for someone else.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Rheinhardt.

“The headmaster is expecting two gentlemen from the security office.”

“Indeed. I am Inspector Rheinhardt and this is my assistant, Haussmann.” The old man narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” Rheinhardt continued, recognizing that their appearance might require an explanation. “We are somewhat overdressed, but it was our misfortune to be called here directly from a ball.”

“Ball, you say?”

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, adding emphatically, “The detectives’ ball.”

The old soldier mumbled something to himself and then, pulling himself up, said: “Humbly report—this way, please.”

He guided them to a door beneath the cloisters, and they entered a long, shadowy corridor. At its end, in a pool of blue light cast by suspended paraffin lamps, stood two men in academic gowns.

“Headmaster,” the old man called out. “They're here, sir. The gentlemen from the security office. Inspector Rheinhardt and his assistant.”

“Thank you, Albert,” said one of the men. “Dismissed.”

The old soldier stamped his feet, saluted, and shuffled away. Catching Rheinhardt's eye, the headmaster whispered. “A good fellow— saw action in ‘48. The Budapest siege.”

The headmaster was a man in his late fifties, with gray, almost white, hair. A snowy thatch had been raked over his head to conceal a thinning crown. Although his cheeks were ruddy and plump, he possessed an alert, severe face, with high, arched eyebrows. A small triangle of hair curled outward from his chin. He executed a perfunctory bow. “Professor Julius Eichmann, school superintendent.” He gestured toward his companion. “And my deputy, Dr. Bernhard Becker.”

The deputy headmaster inclined his head.

“Thank you for coming, Inspector,” Eichmann continued. “And from a social engagement, it seems.” He scrutinized the policeman from head to toe, his expression souring slightly at the sight of Rheinhardt's muddy shoes and splashed trousers.

“An accident,” said Rheinhardt.

The headmaster nodded sharply and said: “Well, Inspector, this is a most unusual circumstance. We are entirely in your hands. How do you wish to proceed?”

“I would like to see the…” He hesitated before choosing to say “boy” instead of “body.”

“Very well. We will take you to the infirmary.”

Rheinhardt frowned. “What? He's been moved?”

“Yes,” said the headmaster.

“Why?”

“Why?” repeated the headmaster. “Why?” His voice suddenly changed, climbing in pitch and volume. “What was I supposed to do? Leave him in the laboratory?” His rhetorical sarcasm revealed years of experience in the classroom. He glanced at his deputy, and something passed between them. When the headmaster resumed, his voice was more steady. “I feared the worst, but was reluctant to pronounce the boy dead. I am not a medical man, Inspector. I thought it best to get him to the infirmary and send for Nurse Funke; however, as I suspected, she could do nothing for him.”

Rheinhardt automatically reached for his notebook but then, suddenly remembering that he was wearing his tails, allowed his hand to drop. The headmaster's expression declared—quite clearly—that he believed Rheinhardt was an idiot. The inspector took a deep breath and continued his questioning.

“And after sending for Nurse Funke?”

“I telephoned Dr. Kessler and the police. Some constables arrived within the hour. They are still here—one is standing outside the infirmary; the other is in the laboratory. I have no idea where Kessler is!”

“Kessler is the school doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he set off from, do you know?”

“His apartment in the sixteenth district.”

“The main road above Aufkirchen is impassable—a fallen tree, apparently. He may have been delayed, as we were.”

The headmaster tutted, almost as if Rheinhardt were a schoolboy presenting a weak excuse for not having completed his homework.

“The infirmary is upstairs, Inspector,” said the headmaster. He then walked off at a brisk pace, calling back, “This way.”

Rheinhardt and Haussmann followed the headmaster and his deputy down an adjoining corridor. They began ascending a narrow staircase. When Rheinhardt caught up with the headmaster, Eichmann proceeded to give an account of the evening's events.

“The deputy headmaster and I were in my office. We had barely begun our meeting when Professor Gärtner appeared at the door. He was evidently distressed. He had seen a light on in the laboratory and had entered, expecting to find the deputy headmaster.”

“Science is my discipline,” Becker interjected.

“Gärtner,” the headmaster continued, “had found the boy, Zelenka, slumped over a workbench.”

“At what time?”

“It must have been…” The headmaster glanced at his deputy for confirmation. “Just before seven?”

Becker agreed.

“What was Zelenka doing in the laboratory?” asked Rheinhardt.

“An assignment,” said Becker.

“Which, presumably, you had set him?”

“Yes,” Becker replied. “A simple inquiry into the effects of vinegar on certain compounds.”

Rheinhardt studied Becker more carefully. He was Eichmann's junior by a decade or so. His hair was relatively long, but receding, which had the effect of increasing the salience of his high, domed forehead. This feature, taken together with his perceptive eyes and gold-rimmed spectacles, conveyed a strong impression of superior intellectual endowment. His mustache was stiff and straight, projecting outward beyond his jawline, and his thick beard was unusually styled, the tip having been clipped to achieve a forked extremity.

“Why was he doing this assignment on his own? Was he being punished?”

“No,” said Becker, “not at all. Zelenka was one of our keener students. He was always requesting additional work.”

“The deputy headmaster and I…” Eichmann resumed his story with renewed firmness of purpose, and his raised voice suggested he was a little piqued that Rheinhardt s attention had shifted to his junior. “The deputy headmaster and I hurried down to the laboratory, accompanied by Professor Gärtner. We tried to rouse the boy… but our ministrations had no effect. I returned to my office and made the telephone calls I referred to earlier, to the police and Herr Dr. Kessler. The deputy headmaster went to get Nurse Funke—she lives in one of the lodges.”

“The lodges?”

“Accommodation for the staff: built on our grounds and mostly occupied by masters. Nurse Funke has rooms in the building nearest the school.”

“And what did Professor Gärtner do?”

“He organized the transfer of Zelenka from the laboratory to the infirmary with the help of Albert and two prefects.”

The mention of prefects made Rheinhardt ask: “Where are the boys? I haven't seen one of them.”

“Asleep, of course,” said the headmaster. “In the dormitories. They have to get up early for drill.”

“And Professor Gärtner? Where is he?”

“I believe he is resting in the common room. I suggested he retire there with a brandy. He was very upset.”

As they ascended the staircase, Rheinhardt noticed that the walls were very bare: blank expanses of grubby whitewash, no regimental photographs, trophies, or flags—in fact, nothing to please the eye. He also noticed the smell. A musty institutional smell—redolent of boiled vegetables, poor ventilation, and latrines. It was a smell that permeated virtually all official buildings in Austria, and had attracted its own special appellation: the “treasury” smell. It was one that had followed Rheinhardt throughout his life. Sometimes, even outside on a cold, clear day, he could smell that distinctive cloying odor in his nostrils.

They arrived at the top floor and the infirmary. A constable was standing outside.

“Security office?” asked the constable.

“Yes, yes,” said the inspector, now becoming rather irritated by the effect of his clothes. “Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt— and my assistant, Haussmann. You will kindly open the door, please.”

The constable, detecting both tetchiness and authority in Rheinhardt s voice, clicked his heels and meekly did as he was told.

Rheinhardt entered a stark, featureless room, painted over in the same monotonous whitewash. The ceiling was low, and four beds occupied most of the space. A tin sink was fixed to the wall, into which a dripping tap was reproducing the rataplan of a snare drum. On one of the beds was the body of the boy, Zelenka. A sheet had been thrown over him.

Sitting at a small desk, next to the door, was a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform. She stood up as the men entered. The headmaster thanked her for waiting, and introduced Rheinhardt and his assistant. She then went to the nearest bed and gently pulled at the cover. It slipped away, revealing the face of a young boy.

“Thomas Zelenka,” said the nurse.

“How old was he?”

“Fifteen.”

“I see.”

As far as Rheinhardt could make out, the boy was of medium build. He had a handsome, stoic face: a square chin and full, sensuous lips. His light brown hair—which originally must have been closely cropped—had grown out a little, producing a covering of dense bristles.

“What happened?” Rheinhardt asked, puzzled.

“I don't know,” said the nurse, shaking her head. “He was already dead when I arrived. I tried to resuscitate him—but there was little point in trying.”

“And the cause of death?”

“I am afraid you will have to ask Dr. Kessler when he arrives. I have no idea.”

Rheinhardt leaned forward and examined Zelenka's head. As he did so, he registered a light dappling of juvenile freckles on the boy's cheeks.

“No bleeding? No signs of the boy having been struck?”

“No,” said the nurse, sounding a sudden note of surprise.

Rheinhardt looked into her eyes. They were gray and watery.

“Did you know the boy?” he asked.

“Yes,” Nurse Funke replied. “I knew Thomas Zelenka very well.” She blinked a tear from her eye. “He was always catching colds.… I used to give him a balsam inhalation to help him breathe.”

“Did he suffer from any serious ailments?”

“No—not to my knowledge. Although you had better ask Dr. Kessler.”

Rheinhardt turned to face the headmaster.

“I would be most grateful if you would allow my assistant to call for a mortuary van. There will have to be an autopsy, and it is my preference that this be conducted at the Physiological Institute.” He then turned to Haussmann. “See if you can speak to Professor Mathias. I'd like him to perform an autopsy as soon as possible.”

“Tonight, sir?”

“Yes. Why not? Professor Mathias is a famous insomniac and is always happy to assist. And while you're at it, see if you can get a photographer… but tell him to get a driver who is familiar with the woods around Aufkirchen. Otherwise they'll never get here!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will then meet me in the laboratory, equipped with pencils, paper, a notebook, and…” He broke off to address Eichmann. “Is art taught in this school, headmaster?”

“Yes,” Eichmann replied. “We have a drawing and calligraphy master—Herr Lang.”

“Good,” said Rheinhardt, before continuing to address Haussmann: “Some clean paintbrushes—preferably unused—and about twenty stiff isinglass envelopes. I am sure that the deputy headmaster will help you to find these items. You, headmaster, will kindly escort me to the laboratory.”

For the first time, the headmaster and his deputy were looking at Rheinhardt with something approaching respect.

“Well?” said Rheinhardt, his voice rising in a fair imitation of the headmaster's earlier reproach. “What am I supposed to do—find it myself?”

5

LIEBERMANN HAD HAILED A CAB for Else Rheinhardt and was about to do the same for Amelia when she surprised him by saying:

“No, Dr. Liebermann. I would very much like to walk home. I am still excited and will not sleep. A walk will do me good.”

“Very well,” said Liebermann. “You will, of course, permit me to escort you?”

Amelia offered the young doctor her arm, and they set off in the direction of Alsergrund. At first, their conversation was given over entirely to the subject of Fasching. Amelia showed a keen interest in the historical origins of the ball season; however, in due course, Liebermann inquired how her studies at the university were progressing and she began to speak of more serious matters: microscopy, anatomy, diseases of the blood. She had also chosen to attend a course of philosophy lectures and had become very interested in the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.

“Are you familiar with his works, Dr. Liebermann?”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“A pity. As a devotee of Professor Freud, you would appreciate his thoughts on the importance of unconscious mental processes. I have been somewhat preoccupied of late by his notion of eternal recurrence.”

“Oh? And what is that, exactly?”

“The idea that we are destined to repeat our lives again and again—in perpetuity.”

Liebermann was taken aback by Amelia's comment. She possessed a very logical mind, and he could not understand why such a whimsical notion had captured her attention.

“As in reincarnation?” said Liebermann disdainfully. “The transmigration of souls?”

Amelia shook her head.

“No, Herr Doctor—not at all. Nietzsche's proposal is rather different, and should not be confused with Pythagorean or Hindu doctrines.”

She had turned her face toward him. Beneath the brim of her feathered hat, Amelia's expression was typically intense. A silver ribbon had loosened and was dangling past her ear.

“If my understanding of Nietzsche is correct,” continued Amelia, “then he is suggesting something much more plausible… something that—unlike comparable religious ideas—does not contradict science. Perhaps this is why I have been so preoccupied. I have had to reevaluate a notion that I had previously rejected. Nietzsche seems to have provided a perfectly rational explanation for a supposedly metaphysical phenomenon.”

“But how?”

Amelia's forehead creased.

“If time is infinite and there is also a limited amount of matter in the universe, then past configurations of matter must eventually recur. Is that not so?”

As Liebermann considered the argument, Amelia pressed on: “Imagine, if you will, that the world in which we live is analagous to a game of chess. Because of physical limitations—for example, the number of pieces, the number of squares, and so forth—there are only so many games possible. Therefore, if two immortal adversaries were locked in competition forever, at some point the precise sequence of moves that constituted a previous game must necessarily be repeated. And so it must be with atoms and the universe.”

“Well,” said Liebermann, slightly perplexed. “That is indeed a fascinating argument. If one accepts that time has no end and that matter exists in only finite quantities, then one is also bound to agree with Nietzsche; however, I find the idea of my own personal reconstitution vaguely depressing. It makes me think of all the mistakes I have made.”

“Nietzsche hoped,” Amelia continued, “that contemplation of eternal recurrence would inspire humanity to make wiser choices. If we are trapped in an infinitely repeating cycle of existence, then we should make every effort to live our lives to the full.”

Their destination came into view: a substantial town house, where Amelia occupied rooms on the top floor.

Liebermann had been so absorbed by Amelia's conversation that their walk across the city seemed to have taken no time at all. Reluctantly, he released her arm.

“Thank you so much for inviting me to the detectives’ ball,” said Amelia.

“I am delighted you enjoyed it.”

“It is such a shame that Inspector Rheinhardt was called away.”

“An occupational hazard, I fear.”

“And thank you also for your invaluable guidance on the dance floor.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Neither of them moved. The subsequent silence became awkward, and they both began to speak at once. Liebermann gestured that Amelia should continue.

“If I am to stay in Vienna, I must take lessons. Can you recommend a teacher?”

“Herr Janowsky. He instructs my younger sister. But you must not judge yourself unkindly. You did very well… considering.”

They were still standing close together. Amelia's face was tilted upward—the silver ribbon reflecting the yellow lamplight.

Liebermann's fingertips were troubled by memories of the ball. The warmth of Amelia's body—flesh, shifting beneath velvet. There had been so many accidental brushes, touches, inadvertent intimacies. Now these memories were crowding back, accompanied by turbulent feelings that he had hitherto sucessfully repressed.

“Dr. Liebermann.” Amelia said his name softly—so softly that it was as though she had merely inflected a sigh. The exhalation carried a faint note of inquiry.

He could smell her perfume—a heavy, soporific lavender.

He felt curiously dissociated—Too much champagne?—and became aware that he was leaning forward.

He stopped himself.

The moment passed.

Amelia was raising her hand.

He continued moving forward, bending low until his lips were pressed against the silk of her glove.

“Good night, Dr. Liebermann.”

“Good night.” His voice was strained. “Good night, Miss Lyd gate.”

The Englishwoman found her keys and opened the door. She paused for a moment on the threshold, and then stepped into darkness.

Liebermann did not go home. He felt far too agitated. Instead, he walked to the Josephinum, where he paused to gaze at the statue of Hygeia—the goddess of healing. He lit a cigarette, and addressed the deity directly: “Well, if old Nietzsche was right, I've just missed an opportunity: an opportunity that I shall continue to miss for all of eternity.”

6

RHEINHARDT, THE HEADMASTER, and Professor Klodwig Gärtner were standing together in the laboratory. It was an ugly, dilapidated room. Exposed water pipes followed the wall just below the ceiling, and from these oversize conduits brownish stains of varying intensity dribbled to the floor. A constant hissing sound filled the air.

“I thought he'd fallen asleep,” said Gärtner. “ ‘Wake up, Zelenka,’ I said. ‘Wake up, boy!’ But he didn't stir, so I said it again ‘Come on, boy, wake up!’ And I clapped my hands, loudly. Still—nothing. So I walked over and shook him.”

Gärtner was an old master—almost completely bald, except for two tufts of silver hair that sprouted above his ears. His eyebrows had the consistency of wire wool and curled up at the ends, giving his face a curious, demonic cast. This effect was assisted by a sharp pointed beard and a thin mustache. His nose was long and bent slightly to one side, suggesting that he might have been a pugilist in his youth.

“Was he breathing?” asked Rheinhardt.

“I don't know—I don't think so.”

Rheinhardt could smell alcohol on Gärtner's breath. He had clearly drunk more than was strictly necessary to steady his nerves.

“To be honest, Inspector,” Gärtner continued, “I didn't think to check. I simply ran to get the headmaster.”

Rheinhardt peered into one of several large glass-fronted display cabinets. It contained geological exhibits. Most of the collection was uninspiring. He studied the labels: slate with pyrites, basalt, flint, red sandstone. The only thing that captured his interest was a shiny black trilobite with large protruding eyes.

“Go on,” said Rheinhardt, “I'm listening.”

“We laid him out on the floor,” Gärtner continued, “but it was obvious something very bad had happened.”

Rheinhardt turned. “Where did you lay him out, exactly?”

“There, Inspector,” interrupted the headmaster, pointing between the two front benches where the high wooden stools had been pushed aside to accommodate a supine body.

The surface of the first bench was scattered with the paraphernalia of experimentation: labeled bottles with glass stoppers, small dishes filled with powders, a pipette, a rack of test tubes, a small burner, and a flask of brown liquid. Rheinhardt lifted the flask and swirled it under his nose. It was vinegar.

Zelenka's notebook was still open. Various chemical formulae were scrawled across the page, some supplemented with modest observations: bubbling, unpleasant smell, evaporation.

Gärtner addressed the headmaster: “You examined the boy with Becker, and then you told Becker to fetch Nurse Funke.”

“Thank you, Professor Gärtner,” said Eichmann. The sharpness of his tone indicated that such assistance was unwelcome. He could remember perfectly well what had happened—and did not need Gärtner to remind him.

Next to the notebook was a small pastry on a plate. It was untouched. Rheinhardt felt a sudden pang of pity—a tightening in his chest. He imagined Zelenka purchasing the cake from the canteen, saving it as a special treat to be consumed at the end of the day. It seemed unjust that the boy should have been deprived of this one last innocent indulgence.

On the floor were some fragments of glass and scattered white granules.

“Do you see that broken dish, Professor Gärtner?”

“Yes.”

“Was it there when you arrived?”

Gärtner looked at the headmaster. “I suppose it must have been. We didn't knock it off the bench when we were moving Zelenka, did we?”

“No,” said the headmaster.

At that moment, the deputy headmaster returned with Haussmann.

“Ahh… there you are, Haussmann,” called Rheinhardt. “Everything in hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, I would like a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a clean brush, please.”

Rheinhardt squatted on the floor and gently swept some white granules onto the paper. He then folded the sheet into a flat packet and slipped it into the envelope, which he sealed. Haussmann handed him a pencil, and the inspector wrote on the upper right-hand corner: Sample 1. Saint Florian's—Contents of broken dish. Laboratory floor. Fri, 16th Jan, 1903.

“Inspector,” said the headmaster. “Would I be correct in assuming that you are treating Zelenka's death as suspicious?”

Rheinhardt looked at Haussmann, whose usually impassive face showed the ghost of a smile.

“Yes, Headmaster,” said Rheinhardt. “That would be a very reasonable assumption.”

7

PROFESSOR MATHIAS was seated on a wooden stool, staring at the corpse of a young woman. An incision had been made from her larynx to her abdomen, and the skin and superficial layers of tissue had been peeled back. The expression of concentration on the professor's face, and the peculiarity of the woman's condition, suggested to the onlooker the more familiar sight of an avid reader poring over the pages of an open book. Above the body was an electric light, the beam of which shone down into the raw, empty cavity of the woman's torso. A collection of glistening organs—heart, liver, lungs—were strewn across a nearby table. The stench was overwhelming.

Haussmann covered his mouth and looked beseechingly at his superior.

“All right,” said Rheinhardt, “go outside and have a cigarette. I'll join you shortly.” His assistant nodded and made an undignified exit.

“Professor?”

Mathias's gaze seemed to be fixed on the woman's pudendum.

“Professor?” Rheinhardt called more loudly.

Mathias cleared his throat. “A man who had lost his axe suspected his neighbor's son of stealing it. Observing the boy, the man discovered that everything about him—his gait, narrow features, speech, et cetera—declared the boy a thief; however, the following day the man discovered his axe beneath a sack in his own cellar. When he encountered his neighbor's son again, he no longer saw anything unusual about the boy's appearance.” The professor paused for a few moments. Then he added: “Well, Rheinhardt?”

“I really have no idea,” said the inspector.

“No, I didn't think you would. It is by an ancient Chinese author. I have been making a study of their literature—and very interesting it is too.”

Mathias stood up and rolled a mortuary sheet up to the dead woman's neck. Before covering her face, he gently touched her hair.

“So very beautiful,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Rheinhardt agreed. “How did she die?”

“Natural causes—a congenital defect of the pulmonary semilunar valve.” Mathias wiped his hands down the front of his brown apron. “We are advised,” he continued, “to be cautious in our judgments. Yet… yet…”

He suddenly fell silent.

“Yet what?” asked Rheinhardt.

“I strongly suspect that the last time this woman received her husband, she had already been dead for some time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The gentleman exercised his conjugal privilege post-mortem.”

“Dear God,” gasped Rheinhardt.

Mathias shrugged. “I cannot share your disgust, Inspector. It is my understanding that what passes for sexual relations in most Viennese marriages is essentially necrophilic.” The old man began to chuckle. “Only joking, Rheinhardt. Now, who have we here?”

Professor Mathias shuffled past a metal bucket in which a length of colon was coiled like a sleeping serpent.

“Thomas Zelenka,” said Rheinhardt.

The boy was laid out—like the eviscerated and misused hausfrau— on a brightly illuminated table. The brilliance of the electric light beam showed his freckles more clearly. They were more numerous than Rheinhardt remembered, and their ginger dappling had the effect of making Zelenka look much younger than his fifteen years.

A child, thought Rheinhardt. Still only a child.

“Inspector?” Mathias's voice sounded querulous.

“Yes?”

“Why are you wearing tails?”

Rheinhardt sighed. He gave an account of the evening's events while Mathias pulled a cart of surgical tools over to Zelenka's table.

“Help me get his clothes off, will you?”

Rheinhardt baulked.

“Oh, come now, Inspector!” Mathias reprimanded. “Your coyness with the dead is becoming quite tiresome!”

The old man tutted and began to undo the buttons on Zelenka's woolen shirt. Rheinhardt reluctantly manipulated the boy's stiffening arms, and the shirt came off without too much difficulty. He then removed the boy's vest. Rheinhardt placed each article of clothing in a paper bag and sealed it. When he turned to assist Professor Mathias again, he found that the old pathologist was standing very still, staring at the body with intense interest.

“The trousers, Professor?”

Mathias grunted—but it was evident that the meaning of Rheinhardt s words had not registered.

“The trousers?” Rheinhardt repeated.

“Shh,” said the pathologist, waving his hand in the air. He then moved forward, his stealthy gait and purposeful gaze reminding Rheinhardt of a predatory animal. Suddenly, Mathias pounced. He lowered his head—his nose almost touching Zelenka's body. He then snatched a magnifying glass from the cart and began to examine the boy's chest.

“Professor?”

“Extraordinary.”

“What is?”

“Come here. Take a look at this.”

Rheinhardt could not see anything at first. But as he drew closer he saw that there was something unusual about the boy's skin: a patch, about the size of a five-krone coin, just above the right nipple, that seemed to be reflecting the light differently. As Rheinhardt lowered his head, he detected a lattice of faint white lines.

“Here,” said Mathias, handing Rheinhardt the magnifying glass.

The lens showed that the white lines were in fact tiny weals: raised ridges of pale flesh.

“What is it? A dermatological disease?”

“No, Rheinhardt. It's scar tissue. The skin has been slashed with a razor. The wounds have healed over now—but the manner in which they have healed suggests they were repeatedly reopened.” Mathias's magnified finger appeared beneath the glass. “The uppermost incision was once infected.”

“Could these cuts have been self-inflicted? I have heard of prisoners injuring themselves to relieve boredom.”

“Only if he is left-handed—a right-handed person would instinctively cut contralaterally thus inflicting wounds on the left pectoralis major.”

“I'm afraid I do not know which was his preferred hand.”

Mathias examined the boy's thumbs and then squeezed Zelenka's upper arms.

“He was right-handed,” Mathias said with absolute certainty. “His right thumb is slightly larger than the left, and his right biceps is more developed.”

“Very impressive, Herr Professor.”

Mathias did not acknowledge Rheinhardt's compliment, and his expression suddenly changed from one of confidence to one of perplexity. He lifted Zelenka's left arm and allowed it to swing out over the edge of the table.

“I thought I could feel something odd.”

A few centimeters below the boy's armpit was a square of bloody gauze. Mathias eased the dressing away revealing another network of cuts. Unlike those on Zelenka's chest, these had not healed. The lines of the crisscross pattern were black and scabby. Mathias closed his eyes and explored the wounds with his fingertips. They trembled over each crusty laceration, like those of a blind man reading braille. He then pressed the flesh until one of the cuts opened.

“Quite deep,” he said softly.

Rheinhardt scratched his head. “Have you seen wounds like this before?”

“No,” said Mathias, “I haven't.”

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly.

“Is there some connection between these wounds and the boy's death?”

“There could be. For example, his blood might have become poisoned. But we must proceed further with the autopsy to find out.”

“Of course.”

“Hold him down, will you?”

Rheinhardt grimaced and gripped Zelenka's cold, waxy shoulders.

Mathias removed the boy's shoes and socks. He then loosened the youngster's belt and pulled off his trousers. Beneath these, Zelenka was wearing knee-length drawers with a button overlap and drawstring waist.

“Excuse me,” said Mathias to the corpse, tugging at the under garment and exposing the boy's genitals.

“God in heaven!” cried Rheinhardt.

Another square of bloody gauze was stuck to the boy's upper thigh.

The two men looked at each other.

“Haussmann!” Rheinhardt called.

The door opened and his assistant stepped over the threshold. “Sir?”

“We shall be needing the services of a photographer again.”

8

THEY HAD PERFORMED SOME POPULAR songs by Carl Loewe— Edward, Prinz Eugen, Archibald Douglas—and were tackling his setting of Goethe's Erlkönig. It was a competent piece of lieder writing, although somewhat melodramatic. Even so, the two friends surrendered their musical sensitivities to the spirit of the work, and Liebermann was pleasantly surprised. Rheinhardt's baritone was particularly expressive, finding qualities in Loewe's arrangement that had previously escaped the young doctor's notice. When the final chords descended over a mysterious, rumbling bass, Liebermann was thrilled by the effect.

“Bravo, Oskar,” said Liebermann, clapping his hands together. “Exceptional. I haven't heard a better performance on the concert platform.”

Rheinhardt considered feigning modesty, but decided that this would be ungracious.

“Yes, it was rather good. The Heimlich passage in particular.”

“Indeed—I was utterly convinced. Chilling. Chilling!”

Rheinhardt rifled through the music books and found a volume of Schubert: Der Doppelgänger?

“Yes, why not?”

Rheinhardt placed the book on the music stand—but it was not open at the right page. Instead of Der Doppelgänger, the song title was—once again—Erlkönig.

Liebermann smiled at his friend and pointed out the error.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” said Rheinhardt. But the inspector did not correct his mistake. Instead, he looked mischievously at his companion and said, “What do you think?”

Schubert's setting of Goethe's Erlkönig had a notoriously taxing part for the pianist: relentless octaves and chords played by the right hand and executed at breakneck speed.

Liebermann flexed his fingers.

“My wrist feels a little tired, but I think I can get through it.”

“Excellent.”

Liebermann launched into the torturous triplets of the introduction. Immediately the atmosphere in the room altered, a musical spell was cast, and they were both transported.

Storm clouds and the descent of darkness.

Merciless cold.

A galloping horse—its frantic hooves throwing up clods of turf.

“Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?”

Who rides so late through night and wind?

A father and his son.

The boy buries his face in his father's cloak. When the father asks him what is wrong, the child replies that he has seen the elf king.

Liebermann attacked the keys of the Bösendorfer, manipulating the pedals to create an expansive—almost orchestral—sound.

The father tells the boy that he is seeing mist, but the elf king is calling— and the boy clutches even more tightly at his father's cloak.

“Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind.”

Be calm, keep calm, my child.

Rheinhardt's voice shook with authentic terror. Liebermann glanced up to see his friend gazing into the distance—his eyes searching for a spectral crown and train. Inhabiting the skin of the doomed child, Rheinhardt cried out: “The elf king has hurt me!”

Liebermann imagined an icy, clenched fist squeezing the child's heart. He struck a pianissimo chord—and, holding it, waited for the last, devastating line of the song to be delivered.

But it did not come.

Rheinhardt was still gazing into the distance, now seemingly insensible of his actual surroundings.

Liebermann waited patiently until the inspector started again and finally produced the delayed recitativo.

“In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.”

In his arms the child was dead…

The words were half-spoken, loosely timed, and heavy with despair. The sound that Rheinhardt produced was hollow—empty and croaking. Thus released, Liebermann played the forceful two-chord cadence that brought Schubert's Erlkönig to a precipitate end. Its abruptness left a bleak silence—as if the music had been snatched away like the boy's life in Goethe's poem.

“I do apologize,” said Rheinhardt. “I think my last entry was a little late.”

“A little,” said Liebermann, “but your performance was…” He paused to select an appropriate superlative. “Operatic!”

As was their custom, the two men retired to the smoking room for brandy and cigars. After enjoying a few moments of quiet contemplation, Liebermann said: “This evening, you will—of course—be wishing to present me with the facts relating to the mysterious death of a young boy.”

Rheinhardt coughed into his drink. He had never quite got used to his friend's habit of telling him what he was about to say.

“Your performance of Loewe's Erlkönig,” Liebermann continued, “was curiously committed, given that it is not great music. This suggested to me the presence of a memory—or memories—finding a sympathetic correspondence in Goethe's poetry. My suspicions were confirmed when you placed Schubert's Erlkönig on the music stand instead of Der Doppelgänger. As Professor Freud has explained, such bungled actions often have a deeper significance.

“Once again, your performance was compelling; however, by the time you had reached the final bars, the contents of your unconscious—stirred by Schubert's genius—were rising from the depths.… You became distracted, and subsequently missed your entry. Indeed, you were so preoccupied that your silence lasted for two whole measures!”

“Two?” said Rheinhardt, skeptically.

“At least!” Liebermann insisted. “The Erlkönig describes the unnatural death of a child. One does not have to be a very great psychologist to connect the subject of Goethe's ballad with events that might have transpired in the real world. I simply supposed that your premature departure from the ball on Friday evening was for the purpose of investigating a child's death—and most likely under mysterious circumstances.”

Rheinhardt produced a smoke ring, through which he observed the flames of the fire.

“Well, Herr Doctor—you are absolutely correct. On Friday evening I did investigate the death of a child. A fifteen-year-old boarder at Saint Florian's military school.”

“Saint Florian's? Where's that?”

“Up in the woods.”

“Ah,” said Liebermann, showing evident signs of satisfaction. “That makes perfect sense.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Erlkönig. The father and son ride through a wood.”

Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar.

“Please, do continue,” Liebermann added.

“Saint Florian's is situated close to the small village of Aufkirchen—built on the site of a religious foundation of the same name. Some of the original building still survives behind the new Gothic façade—old cloisters, a chapel, and so forth. I've been told that the school attracts the less academically gifted sons of well-heeled families.”

Liebermann filled Rheinhardt's empty glass. The inspector thanked him, and recounted the general facts of the investigation. He summarized the statements of Nurse Funke and the three masters: Eichmann, Becker, and Gärtner. He then opened his case and removed a thick brown envelope. Inside were photographs, which he passed to his friend.

The boy, Thomas Zelenka, lying on the infirmary bed.

A school laboratory.

The surface of a bench covered with bottles, dishes, and test tubes.

They were not particularly clear photographs. Most were dark and grainy.

A notebook and an untouched pastry.

“What kind of experiments was the boy doing?” Liebermann asked.

“He was looking at the effects of mixing vinegar with certain chemical compounds. We took samples and had them analyzed. The findings were unremarkable.”

“And what did the school doctor have to say?”

“Nothing. He arrived after the boy's body had been removed. A tree was blocking the main road, and his driver—like ours—got lost.”

The next image showed Zelenka's naked body in the morgue. Under the bright electric light, his features and physique were more clearly defined.

“So, how did he die—exactly?”

Rheinhardt shook his head. “We don't know. Professor Mathias couldn't find anything wrong with him.”

“He just… died?”

“Yes.”

“In which case, I would have expected Professor Mathias to assume the presence of a subtle pathological process and ascribe the boy's death to natural causes.”

“Which is precisely what Professor Mathias did.”

“Then why are you treating the boy's death as suspicious?”

Rheinhardt grimaced. “Natural causes! Can a boy of fifteen really die of natural causes?”

“It is unusual, but yes, it can happen. One can speculate—tiny hemorrhages, deep in the brain, for example. They are exceedingly difficult to identify. A thorough microscopic analysis of transverse sections might reveal something—though one can never be sure. Then there are pulmonary anomalies…”

“Look at the next photograph.”

Liebermann picked up the image and tilted it in the lamplight.

A metal ruler showed the lengths of several faint white lines.

“What is it?”

“Scar tissue. About here.” Rheinhardt indicated the location by touching his chest. “According to Mathias, the wounds have been repeatedly reopened with a razor.”

The following photograph was equally puzzling: a crisscross pattern of darker lines.

“Cuts,” said Rheinhardt. “Found on the boy's torso, under his left arm.”

Liebermann considered the image for a few moments before examining the final photograph, which showed the boy's genitals—pulled to one side by the pathologist's hand. The displacement of these organs revealed three deep incisions in the pale flesh of Zelenka's upper thigh.

“Were any of the wounds infected?”

“Mathias said that the scarring on the boy's chest showed signs of past infection, but nothing recent. The other wounds were clean. You are no doubt wondering if these injuries are connected with his death. It seems not. The schoolmasters said the boy was perfectly healthy. He showed none of the symptoms associated with blood poisoning.”

“What about blood loss?”

“All the recent wounds had been dressed. There were no signs of excessive bleeding or dehydration.”

Liebermann arranged the photographs in a neat pile and stroked the straight edges.

“Then, it looks like the boy has either been tortured or… he has taken part in some bizarre rite of initiation.”

“Scars are deemed a sign of honor and distinction among dueling fraternities.”

“Yes, but only if those scars were acquired while in pursuit of what is termed satisfaction. This scarring”—Liebermann tapped the photographs—”is of a very different kind.” The young doctor lit a cigar and eased back into his chair. “The oldest wounds are to be found on the victim's chest. More recently the boy was cut under his arm and on his upper thigh. The latter two areas seem to have been selected for the purpose of concealment. But if so, why was concealment not a consideration when the first wounds were inflicted?”

Rheinhardt shrugged.

“And why are there three sets of cuts?” Liebermann continued. “Surely, an initiation ritual would take place only once?” Liebermann shook his head, as if annoyed by the number of questions that were crowding his mind. “And what on earth are we to make of those crural lacerations—so conspicuously close to the genitals?”

Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his mustache.

“Strange things happen in military schools. Some boys gain extra ordinary power over their peers. I have heard of some cadets ruling over their comrades like tyrants—meting out punishments, extorting levies, devising sadistic games. Perhaps Zelenka was unfortunate enough to have become the victim of one of these juvenile despots.”

Liebermann flicked through the photographs and found an image of Zelenka in the infirmary. It was a close-up of his face. Although his features were square and masculine, there was something in his expression that suggested sensitivity, intelligence.

“I abhor bullying,” said Liebermann, “and it is most distressing to contemplate the depredations of institutional life—the utter misery that some boys must endure; however, Professor Mathias has concluded that Zelenka died of natural causes. The cuts on his body, whatever they represent, and however they got there, are an irrelevance! All that you can do is notify the school of your findings and trust that they will eventually find and expel the culprit. You cannot proceed with a murder investigation, Oskar, if there has not been a murder.”

Rheinhardt sipped his brandy. “But…” The inspector shifted uncomfortably. “I have a feeling…”

Liebermann rolled his eyes.

Rheinhardt continued worrying his mustache. “There's something about this that doesn't smell right.”

“My dear friend, your feelings of unease are very easily explained— and can be attributed to your strong protective instincts. You are resistant to the idea that Zelenka died naturally because of his youth. If you accept that such a thing can happen to him, you must also accept that it can happen to others: namely, your two daughters. Naturally, this is such an awful consideration that a defensive mechanism has come into play. By denying the existence of latent and fatal pathological processes, you experience less anxiety and preserve a comforting illusion. Moreover, if you can prove that Zelenka was murdered, you will vitiate Professor Mathias s conclusions, making it seem even less likely that the same fate could affect your loved ones. But unfortunately, Oskar—the Erlkönig is a reality: a reality not of the spirit world but of the material world. And he comes not in the shape of an elven king but as minute lesions in the brain, and freakish electrical discharges that disturb the beating of a young heart.” Liebermann looked at his friend, and compassion creased the skin around his eyes. “Oskar, I wish that it were otherwise.”

Rheinhardt sighed. “You are right, of course. I dare say there is something in my soul that rages against the death of children—and for the very reasons you so eloquently describe. Be that as it may, I cannot free myself of the gnawing suspicion that there is more to Zelenka's death…” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. Then he added: “I will continue with the investigation, in spite of Professor Mathias's findings.”

Liebermann offered Rheinhardt another cigar. “I very much hope, Oskar, that when the time comes, you will be able to satisfy Commissioner Brügel. He will want to know why the resources of the security office have been used to discover the identity of a… sadistic schoolboy, which I fear may be all that this investigation is destined to reveal.”

Rheinhardt took the cigar and repeated: “I have a feeling.”

9

IT WAS A DULL MORNING: the sky was layered with massy strips of dense gray cloud. Rheinhardt took care as he negotiated the damp cobbles, which descended at a steep angle toward a scrubby waterlogged field. On either side were squat bungalows, the walls of which were mottled and streaked with an algal slime. In the distance, he could see four gas towers: enormous structures that loomed beyond a misty veil of persistent mizzle.

Rheinhardt found the bungalow he was looking for. It was cleaner than its neighbors but was not in good repair (the gutter was leaking). A lever pump was situated just outside the entrance, and a number of metal buckets were hanging in a neat row under the eaves. An empty birdcage—swinging forlornly—had been suspended in a recessed casement.

The door was opened by a woman. She was wearing a simple black dress, and the flesh around her sharp, intelligent eyes looked swollen. She had been crying.

“Frau Meta Zelenka?” The woman nodded. “I am Inspector Rheinhardt.”

“Of course,” she said, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief. “I'm sorry—please come in.”

Rheinhardt stepped across the threshold into a dark room that felt oppressively compressed due to its low ceiling. Sitting at a table was a large man with short reddish hair. He wore a brown jacket over a vest, the top buttons of which were undone. On seeing the inspector, the man rose, but very slowly—an uneasy coming together of body parts—such that the simple act of standing appeared to require monumental effort. Rheinhardt noticed the man's hands. They were laborer's hands—oversize, the white knuckles like eggs, the skin leathery, the veins raised and twisted.

“My husband,” said the woman. Her German was nuanced with a Slavic accent. “Fanousek, this is Inspector Rheinhardt.”

The man bowed, although the movement seemed to involve nothing more than a pained hunching of his shoulders.

Beyond the table was a sideboard on which stood a devotional candle and a crucifix.

“Forgive me for intruding on your grief,” said Rheinhardt.

Fanousek lowered himself back into his chair, and Meta drew up a seat beside him. Her slender hand traveled across the surface of the table until it reached her husband's, whereupon his long fingers opened and closed tightly around hers.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Rheinhardt, sitting opposite the couple. “And please accept my heartfelt condolences.”

“What do you want, Inspector?” said Fanousek. Like Metas, his German was accented; however, the question—although blunt— was not discourteous, merely direct.

“Information. About yourselves—and about Thomas.”

“Why?”

“I must complete a report. For the commissioner.” It was not the precise truth—but it was true enough. Rheinhardt couldn't very well declare, I'm here because of a presentiment, a feeling…

Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

“You are both Czech?”

“Yes.”

“And how long have you been living in Vienna?”

“Ten years.”

Theirs was a typical story—of hardship in rural Bohemia, the promise of prosperity in Vienna, then factory work, and finally disappointment. Fanousek worked in a warehouse. Meta sold cheap rye bread imported from Hungary at a Saturday market.

“With respect,” asked Rheinhardt hesitantly, “how could you afford to send your son to Saint Florian's?”

“We couldn't,” said Meta. “Thomas was awarded a scholarship.”

“Really? How did that happen?”

“Thomas spent a great deal of time in the company of our priest, Father Hanak. He encouraged Thomas, gave him books, even gave him free lessons at the presbytery: Latin, calligraphy, mathematics.… Then the good father found out that one of the breweries, one of the Czech breweries, sponsored a place at the oberrealschule for a boy born in Bohemia and”—Meta swallowed her pride and continued— “from an impoverished household.”

Rheinhardt gestured to indicate that the Zelenkas’ pecuniary circumstances, however straitened, were of little consequence as far as he was concerned.

“Was Thomas happy at Saint Florian's?”

“Yes, as far as we know. He enjoyed his studies—particularly the scientific subjects. He did complain once or twice about having to do drill every day, but that was all.”

“What about the other boys? Did he say anything about them?”

“No.”

“He must have mentioned his friends?”

“Thomas was a quiet boy. Thoughtful. He didn't say much.” She glanced at her husband and produced a gentle smile. “Like his father.”

Through a square window, Rheinhardt saw sheets of rain blowing across the bleak industrial landscape.

Meta opened a drawer in the table and removed a photograph. She looked at it for a moment and said: “He was so handsome in his uniform.” She pushed it across the table. “A fine-looking young man: a soldier.”

The photograph had been taken in a studio. The boy was wearing a low shako with a leather peak, a tunic with stiff high collars, trousers, and boots. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. He was standing in front of a painted backdrop of giant fern leaves and exotic creepers. Unfortunately, the photographer's tropical tableau was spoiled somewhat by a strip of patterned carpet in the foreground.

“May I take this?” asked Rheinhardt. Metas expression became anxious—almost fearful. “I promise to return it later today. I would like to make a copy for submission with my report.”

Metas eyes softened.

“Yes… you can take it.”

“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt. “Thomas appears so… so very healthy. Had he suffered from any illnesses in the preceding year?”

“No,” said Fanousek. “And he was as strong as an ox. He used to help me down at the warehouse, lifting heavy crates. The men used to comment on it.”

Rheinhardt remembered what Nurse Funke had said about Thomas always having colds: he slipped the photograph into his notebook.

“Where did Thomas sleep?”

Fanousek jerked his head back toward a closed door.

“Would you object to me taking a look?”

“No,” said Meta. “But we cannot come with you. It is too distressing. We have left things… as they were.”

“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

The boy's room was very small, with most of the floor space taken up by a low bed, a washstand, and a chest. On the windowsill was an orderly row of books, arranged according to size. Rheinhardt examined some of the titles: Homer's Odyssey, Ranke's History of the Popes, a Latin primer, and a well-thumbed edition of Les Tentations de Saint Antoine. Above the bed was a garish print of Christ on the cross—a close-up portrait, showing the Messiah's anguish in dreadful detail, blood streaming from his wounds.

Rheinhardt knelt down and opened the chest. It contained some old clothes, which he carefully removed and laid out on the bed. Beneath these he discovered a penknife, some old exercise books, a bottle of ink, a pack of playing cards, and two letters. Both were addressed to Thomas Zelenka and were written in the same scrawly hand.

Dear Friend,

The letter had been written the previous summer, and the correspondent was a boy called Isidor Perger. He was, evidently, another pupil at Saint Florian's, who—at the time of writing—was holidaying on the Traunsee with his family.

Thank you for your assistance with the Latin.

I don't know what I would have done without you.…

Rheinhardt skipped over a paragraph in which the author lamented his poor mathematics results, and then another in which he described walking along the esplanade at Gmunden.

Suddenly a sentence seemed to resolve itself more sharply against the yellow background.

Needless to say, I do not want to go back.

Rheinhardt peered at the jagged script, trying to decipher its violent oscillations.

I swear, I would run away if you said you would come with me. We could travel the world—go to South, America, India, or China. However, I know that you think such talk is foolish. Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do? He would say I am being unmanly. He doesn't care—no one does.

Rheinhardt stood up.

I care, he thought. I care very much.

10

LIEBERMANN HAD DECIDED TO BUY himself a new fountain pen. He drifted through Alsergrund, inspecting the displays in stationery shop windows, until a distinctive line of town houses came into view. He found himself standing on a corner, looking up a very familiar road—the road where Miss Lyd gate lived.

At that moment it occurred to him that, perhaps, he had never really intended to a buy a new pen. Indeed, it seemed just as likely that his need to make such a purchase had been a convenient fiction, permitting him to draw ever closer to a woman for whom his complex feelings were becoming increasingly troublesome.

Liebermann's impromptu self-analysis was confirmed when the justification for knocking on the Englishwoman's door presented itself with minimal effort. Miss Lyd gate had asked him to recommend a dancing teacher, and he had replied: Herr Janowsky. It would be perfectly reasonable for him to call on Miss Lyd gate, in order to give her Herr Janowsky s address.

“Dr. Liebermann,” said Amelia. Her greeting was accompanied by a transient smile that reminded Liebermann of wind on water—a sudden perturbation, followed by stillness.

“Miss Lyd gate, I was just passing… and I wondered if you still wanted Herr Janowsky s details?”

“Herr Janowsky?”

“My sister's dancing master? I have his address.”

Amelia's face registered mild surprise.

“It is very kind of you to have remembered, Dr. Liebermann. Please, do come in.”

While Amelia prepared tea, Liebermann was obliged to pay his respects to Frau Rubenstein—a sweet-natured widow and friend of his father. Liebermann had brought Amelia and Frau Rubenstein together, knowing that both women were in need of what the other possessed: the old woman, companionship, and the younger one, a place to live. After a few polite exchanges, Liebermann ascended several flights of stairs leading to Amelia's rooms on the top floor. He was invited to sit and was subsequently plied with Earl Grey and wiener vanillekiipferl—sweet crescent biscuits made with ground almonds and vanilla sugar.

Liebermann gave Herr Janowsky's address to Amelia, which prompted her to thank him, once again, for inviting her to the detectives’ ball. She then asked how Inspector Rheinhardt had fared after his departure. Liebermann explained that the inspector was investigating the death of a young man at a military school—but he did not elaborate.

On the table was a volume bound in scuffed leather and with a blank spine. Others like it were stacked in a neat pile by the hearth. These were the private journals of Amelia's German grandfather, Dr. Ludwig Buchbinder: confidant of Prince Albert, Physician-in-Ordinary to the queen of England, and scientific visionary.

Liebermann picked up the book and allowed the covers to fall open. The pages released a distinctive, ripe odor—an evocative quintessence of time, scholarship, and decay.

“Do you still intend to edit these journals for publication?” he asked.

“Indeed,” said Amelia. “I was only recently considering that very volume—which contains a remarkable section on the history of automata.”

“It is not a subject I know very much about,” said Liebermann, hoping that she would rectify his ignorance.

“The creation of automata has always been associated with medicine… and particularly with doctors who have an interest in blood.”

“Really?”

“Yes—my grandfather has written that the first working model of the circulatory system was devised by a German physician, who announced his success in the Journal des Savants in 1677.”

Amelia halted—suddenly self-conscious.

“Please, do go on…”

“Many more doctors embarked on similar projects—and the eighteenth century witnessed the creation of numerous ‘blood machines’ of increasing sophistication. These ‘philosophical toys’ caused much consternation among religious thinkers, who were concerned that, by making manikins that actually bled, doctors were engaged in a Promethean labor—and that their real intention was to create artificial life.” Amelia's hair caught the light and, for a brief moment, became incandescent—a shimmering haze of red and gold. “Eventually,” she continued, “even the most adventurous members of the scientific community were frightened by the implications of their work, and in due course artificial men became an increasing rarity in medical schools. In time, of course, they vanished altogether.”

“How very interesting,” said Liebermann, still distracted by a residual image of her sudden ignition—a vague, haunting impression of flame and the colors of autumn. “One is reminded of your countrywoman, Mary Shelley—her cautionary tale of Frankenstein, or the modern Prometheus.”

“She was—I believe—aware of the work of several German physiologists, which she mentions in her preface.”

Amelia's talk of artificial men reminded Liebermann of something he had once heard, about a chess-playing automaton that had been built in Vienna for the amusement of the empress Maria Theresa.

“It might have been the brainchild of Maelzel,” he added.

“The inventor of the metronome?”

“Yes.… But I can't be sure. I have only the dimmest recollection of what is supposed to have transpired.”

Miss Lyd gate was extremely interested in this historical vignette; however, she concluded that, even if the story were true, the automaton itself must have been nothing more than a clever deception.

Liebermann always enjoyed such conversations with Miss Lyd gate. She was an unconventional woman, yet her peculiarities possessed a certain charm: her pedantic speech, her stiff deportment, and the quite extraordinary intensity of her facial expressions.

He was a psychiatrist, and something inside him—some nameless but essential part of his being—was irresistibly drawn to the unusual.

They continued their conversation until the sky darkened and it was no longer permissible for Liebermann to stay. He rose from his chair, exchanged a few pleasantries, and kissed Amelia's hand. On the landing he insisted that she stay upstairs—he did not expect her to show him out.

As he made his descent, Liebermann became acutely aware of the physical and mechanical properties of his body: locomotion—the movement of joints—his lungs expanding and contracting, his spine resisting gravity. Propriety and apprehension had turned him into an automaton—an artificial man, in every sense. Contrived, inauthentic, affected: a blood machine.

11

IT WAS MIDMORNING when Rheinhardt's carriage drew up alongside the wind-scoured statue of Saint Florian. The Gothic façade of the military academy looked much larger than Rheinhardt remembered, and where there had previously been nothing but darkness he now saw wide, flat exercise areas. Ranks of uniformed boys were practicing their rifle drill, responding to the abrupt commands of a burly Tyrolean infantryman.

Rheinhardt passed under the central arch, where he spied Albert—the old soldier—dozing in the cloisters. He shook the veteran's shoulder, gently.

“Permission to report,” mumbled Albert before his bloodshot eyes opened. He pulled himself up and croaked: “Ah, Inspector… Permission to report: I was asleep.”

“And I trust you are now refreshed,” said Rheinhardt. “I believe the deputy headmaster is expecting me.”

“He is, sir. This way, sir, this way.”

The deputy headmaster ushered Rheinhardt into his office and immediately apologized on behalf of Professor Eichmann. The headmaster had been called to an emergency meeting of the board of school governors; Becker hoped, however, that he would be equal to the task of assisting the inspector with his investigation.

Rheinhardt asked Becker to recapitulate the events surrounding the discovery of Zelenka's body. The deputy headmaster's account was entirely consistent—and delivered with calm authority. When pressed for more information about Zelenka's character, he simply repeated what he had said the previous Friday: he had known Zelenka quite well; the boy frequently asked for extra assignments; he was an enthusiastic student. Rheinhardt made a note, more out of politeness than necessity.

“Who else taught Zelenka?”

Becker went through the papers on his desk and consulted a timetable.

“Lieutenant Osterhagen, gymnastics. Herr Lang, drawing and calligraphy. Dr. Kloester, geography. Herr Sommer, mathematics…”

There were ten names in total.

A soft knock heralded the arrival of a maid who was carrying a silver tray.

“Your medicine, sir.”

She deposited the tray on Becker's desk and made a diffident departure. The deputy headmaster picked up a piece of folded paper and, holding it over a small glass of clear liquid, tapped the side gently. A line of white powder fell out, the tiny grains dissolving as they sank in the liquid. Becker finally stirred the concoction with a spoon.

“Excuse me,” he said to Rheinhardt, touching his temple. “I suffer from headaches.” He threw his head back and swallowed the liquid as if it were schnapps.

“Are all of these masters here today?” asked Rheinhardt, looking down into his open notebook.

“All of them except Sommer,” Becker replied. “He fell down the stairs yesterday and injured his leg.” The tone of Becker's voice was unsympathetic, almost dismissive. “He's gone off somewhere to convalesce.”

“Do you know where?”

“I'm afraid not. But the headmaster will know.”

“I would like to conduct some interviews.”

Becker looked at the timetable again and pulled at his forked beard. “You wish to interview all of Zelenka's masters?”

“As many as I can, and I would also like to interview one of the boys.”

Becker tilted his head. The lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles became white circles of reflected light.

“Isidor Perger,” said Rheinhardt.

“Perger, Perger,” repeated the deputy headmaster, straining to put a face to the name. He crossed his legs and drummed the desk with spidery fingers, making his hand crawl forward. Suddenly the drumming stopped and he called out.

“Ah yes, Perger!”

“I have reason to believe that he and Zelenka were close friends.”

“Very well. I'm sure that can be arranged. Will you be needing a room in which to conduct these interviews?”

“The provision of a room would be much appreciated.”

“There are some disused classrooms upstairs. Not very comfortable, but sufficiently removed from the general hubbub to ensure peace and quiet.”

Becker subsequently called for Albert, relieved him of his existing duties, and instructed him to act as Rheinhardt's adjutant for the day. However, when Rheinhardt left the deputy headmaster's office— with the shuffling old soldier at his side—he felt as if he were being indulged rather than assisted.

Rheinhardt followed Albert up a tightly curving spiral staircase, which eventually joined a long corridor with a vaulted ceiling. The space reverberated with the sound of treble voices conjugating a Latin verb by rote. Four boys were walking toward them, all dressed in the uniform with which Rheinhardt was becoming increasingly familiar: low shako, gray tunic, and trousers. Each was equipped with a full-size sabre (one of the boys had his weapon slung too low, and the tip of its scabbard scraped noisily along the floor behind him). Although Rheinhardt knew they must be fifteen or older, their small stature and wide, suspicious eyes suggested a more tender age.

“Good morning,” said Rheinhardt.

The boys halted, bowed, clicked their heels—and proceeded in the same tight and disconcertingly silent formation.

Albert ascended yet another staircase—this time wider—and escorted Rheinhardt to a musty, remote corner of the building where a row of half-open doors created wedges of ghostly light among the shadows. The “treasury smell” was particularly strong, having matured, like a piece of ripe cheese, in the undisturbed air.

“You can use any of these, sir,” said the old man, struggling to catch his breath.

The classrooms were strangely melancholy: abandoned desks, a waste bin on its side, scattered paper, and a blackboard on which algebraic symbols constituted only half of an incomplete equation. Rheinhardt selected the least cluttered interior and asked Albert to fetch the first master on his list.

Lieutenant Osterhagen was a tall broad-shouldered man with ruggedly handsome features. His blond hair was cropped short, and a deep cleft was visible in the middle of his clean-shaven chin. Remarkably (for a gymnastics master) he walked with a limp. When he sat down, with evident discomfort, he made a passing reference to the “old Transylvanian complaint.”

“Transylvanian complaint?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Nationalists,” said Osterhagen. “I took one of their bullets when my regiment was sent to deal with a situation—if you know what I mean?”

Rheinhardt wasn't sure that he did know what the lieutenant meant. Nevertheless, he thought it wise to nod politely and proceed with the interview.

“I'm not surprised he dropped dead,” said Osterhagen. “It was obvious there was something wrong with him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He was never well… always suffering from colds, always wrapped up in a scarf and wearing gloves, always clutching an exemption certificate from the infirmary.”

“He wasn't, then, in your opinion, a very strong boy?”

The lieutenant laughed with savage contempt.

“Good God, no. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I was told that he used to help his father—lifting heavy crates in a warehouse.”

“He might have swept the floor, perhaps,” said Osterhagen, twisting his mouth to one side in a sarcastic grin. When the inspector did not smile back, Osterhagen added with indifference, “The boy was destined for a career in the civil service. Not the army.”

Osterhagen typified a certain type of military man. Blustering, bombastic, and appallingly insensitive. When the interview ended, Rheinhardt was relieved to bid the lieutenant good day.

The next two masters had very little to say about Zelenka. Neither of them had known him very well. Indeed, one of them, Dr. Kloester, confused Zelenka with another Czech boy called Cervenka. Consequently, Rheinhardt had to cross out all Kloester's answers and start the interview again.

Herr Lang—the drawing and calligraphy master—was a more promising informant.

“I was in my rooms when I heard. The headmaster came to the lodges on Saturday morning to tell us all personally. I couldn't believe it… such a terrible tragedy. Do you know what happened, Inspector? Do you know how Zelenka died?”

Rheinhardt shook his head.

Lang was in his late twenties. His hair was parted at the side and drawn in thick wavy strands across his head. A wildly undulating forelock occasionally fell forward and had to be pushed back again. His nose was long and straight, and his large, implacable eyes were arresting. The ensemble, however, was mitigated by the lower half of his face, which comprised a thin mustache, an incongruously tight mouth, and a soft, rounded chin. It was these weaker elements, however, that imbued his expressions with an unusual degree of humanity. He was dressed in a navy jacket, the lapels and cuffs of which were decorated with parallel lines of yellow stitching, and pale blue trousers with a prominent pinstripe. His cravat was green and matched a silk handkerchief that burst, rather too abundantly, from his breast pocket.

“He wasn't a talented artist,” Lang continued, “but he was an intelligent, attentive boy. I remember showing him some illustrations in Ver Sacrum, the periodical of the Secession. He asked me some very astute questions about the artist's purpose—questions concerning symbolism and meaning. I was impressed. One wouldn't have got that kind of response—a mature response—from his comrades. They would simply have smirked and made lewd remarks.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Nudity. Even a line drawing of the female form…” Lang's sentence trailed off in exasperation.

“I see,” said Rheinhardt, inwardly reflecting that the minds of schoolboys had not changed very much since his own youth.

“Zelenka was different,” said Lang. “Very self-possessed for his age. A little shy, perhaps, but he was growing out of it. I was very fond of him.”

The young master blinked rapidly, and Rheinhardt wondered if he was about to cry.

“Was he happy here, do you think?”

Lang changed position and made a plosive sound that managed to combine incredulity with indignation. His features hardened.

“He was a scholarship boy.”

“What of it?”

“I don't think anybody from his background could possibly be happy in a place like Saint Florian's!”

Rheinhardt allowed the subsequent silence to build until Lang felt compelled to justify his expostulation. “Historically, Saint Florian's has always welcomed boys from a particular kind of family. The headmaster doesn't agree with the new egalitarianism that the emperor is trying to promote in our schools and universities.”

“Are you suggesting that boys like Zelenka, boys from poor backgrounds, are treated badly?”

Lang got up from his chair and walked to the door. He opened it a fraction and looked through the crack. The sound of Albert's stertorous breathing could be heard outside. Satisfied that there were no eavesdroppers, he closed the door quietly and returned to the table. He did not sit down.

“Look, Inspector.” He appeared slightly agitated. “I know that for boys like Zelenka this school is purgatory. I talk to them while they're drawing. I can see it in their eyes—the sadness, the fear. And sometimes they say things.”

“What do you mean, ‘say things?’ “

“I've been to see the headmaster, but, between you and me, Professor Eichmann is only interested in the welfare of boys from good families. As for the rest…”

“Have you considered discussing your concerns with the board of governors?”

“I have… but I won't now. It's too late.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm leaving. I intend to hand in my resignation at the end of term.”

“Do you have another position to go to?”

“No. I intend to join the Secessionists. You will, I trust, treat what I have said—all that I have said—as strictly confidential?”

“Yes, of course.”

It was evident from their further discussion that Lang was, and had always been, unhappy at Saint Florian's. He did not enjoy the company of his colleagues, and he found the general atmosphere intolerably oppressive.

“Do you know Isidor Perger?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Yes, he's another scholarship boy.”

“I was hoping to interview him this afternoon.”

Lang's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile.

“You won't get much out of him.” Lang glanced at his watch and edged toward the door. “If you'll excuse me, Inspector, I have a class.”

Rheinhardt thanked Lang for his assistance, made a few notes, and walked over to the windows. Peering out of the central lancet, he saw some terraced brick houses (perhaps the “lodges” that Eichmann and Lang had referred to), a stable, and an equestrian enclosure—the outer edge of which was being circumambulated by a troop of boys on horseback. His gaze was drawn upward, toward the fir-covered hills that rolled out into the milky distance.

Rheinhardt felt a curious sense of satisfaction. He was glad that he had come back to the school.

There's something wrong here.

His intuition had been correct.

12

LIEBERMANN HAD LEFT THE HOSPITAL early in order to visit his older sister, Leah. He also expected to see Hannah—their younger sister. Only rarely did the three siblings meet in this way and such meetings were always planned well in advance, and under a shroud of secrecy. This was necessary in order to stop their parents, Mendel and Rebecca, from taking control of arrangements and turning what would otherwise be a relaxed, informal gathering into a major family event.

Hannah was seated on a sofa, reading a book to Daniel, Leah's son. The little boy was dressed in red lederhosen, a white shirt, long socks, and soft leather shoes. He was also wearing an Alpine hat—which served no real purpose other than to amuse the adults. Occasionally Daniel would laugh, which, in Hannah's company, was a perilous activity. The sound of happy gurgling invariably prompted the youthful aunt to tickle his stomach until his face went red and he was begging for mercy.

Ordinarily, Leah would intervene. But on this occasion, she allowed the mêlée to continue in order to have an intimate word with her brother. She poured him some tea, leaned closer, and said:

“Have you seen Father?”

“Yes, last week. We went for coffee at the Imperial.”

“And how was he?”

“Still very angry. Even so, we managed a civil—if rather uncomfortable—conversation.”

Relations between Liebermann and his father had become particularly strained since Liebermann had broken his engagement with Clara Weiss—the daughter of one of Mendel's oldest and closest friends.

“Did he mention… ?”

“Clara? No.”

Leah offered Max a slice of guglhwpf, which he declined.

“I hear that she's met someone. A cavalry lieutenant.”

“Good. I hope they are happy together.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Have you met anyone special yet?”

Liebermann paused long enough for his sister to raise her eyebrows.

“Who?”

Liebermann smiled and shook his head. “No one… not really.”

Leah drew her head back and looked at him askance. It made her appear just like their mother.

Daniel's shrieking became louder. His head was thrown back, only the whites of his eyes were showing, and his cheeks were turning puce.

“That's enough,” Leah called. “Really!”

Hannah withdrew her hand and looked up guiltily. “We're only playing.”

“You're supposed to be reading!”

Liebermann stood up and walked across the room. He sat down next to Hannah and took Daniel, bouncing him a few times on his knee.

“He's getting so heavy!”

“I know,” said Leah, sighing wearily.

“What have you got there?” Liebermann asked Hannah.

“Daniel's klecksography book,” Hannah replied.

“Klecksography?”

Hannah opened the book and held it in front of Daniel. The child leaned forward, stretching his hand out toward a striking image—a large symmetrical pattern: as if ink had been spilled on a page, and then the page had been folded along a central vertical crease. It was accompanied by a fanciful verse about a troll, which Hannah read out in a theatrical contralto. The later pages were filled with similar images—symmetrical inkblots, all vaguely resembling the spread wings of a butterfly.

“Are the patterns supposed to represent the characters in the verses?” Liebermann asked.

“Yes,” said Hannah. “You look at the shapes… and try to see things. Trolls, fairies… it's like… like a game.”

“How very interesting,” said Liebermann. “What's it called?”

“Klecksography.”

“Leah?” Liebermann's expression became oddly serious. “Where did you get this book from?”

“Oh, I don't know, Max,” Leah replied. “But you can get klecksography books anywhere—they're very popular. Why?”

“It's an interesting concept, that's all.”

Leah looked at Daniel and shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder whether your uncle has spent too much time with mad people.”

13

AFTER LEAVING LEAH'S APARTMENT Liebermann traveled into town to collect a long-standing order from Schott's—Schumann's Twelve Poems by Justinus Kerner, opus 35, a little-known song cycle that Rheinhardt was keen to try.

On the streetcar home, Liebermann became engrossed in the prefatory notes. He discovered that Justinus Kerner, a physician and poet from Ludwigsburg, was also the author of a posthumous work, Klecksographien, which was (by the strangest of coincidences) the progenitor of his nephew's klecksography book and its many variants. Liebermann read that while suffering from depression, Kerner had seen ghosts and monsters in his symmetrical inky creations—and had ascribed for them a place in Hades.

Rheinhardt arrived shortly before eight o'clock, and the two friends began their music-making immediately. They performed Franz Lachner's Sängerfahrt, some atmospheric songs by Men dels sohn, and Zelter's Der König von Thule. When Liebermann produced the Schumann songs from behind the music stand, Rheinhardt was delighted.

“Excellent, excellent,” he cried. “What a pleasant surprise!”

The Twelve Poems were a strange cycle—having no unifying theme or coherent key sequence—yet it was their eccentricity that Liebermann found attractive. One of the settings, Auf das Trinkglas dues verstorhenen Freunies, was at the same time a lament for a departed friend and a panegyric to German wine. However, it also managed to subsume a meditation on the ineffable bond between the living and the dead.

Rheinhardt clasped his hands in front of his chest and sang the poetry with tender grace:

“Dock wird mir

k

lar zu dieser Stund,

“Wie nichts den Freund vom Freuni kann trennen.”

Yet at this hour I realize

How nothing can part friend from friend.

“Leer Steht das Glasl Der heil'ge Klang

“T

ön

t nach in iem kristall'nen Grunde.”

The glass stands empty! The sacred sound

Still echoes in its crystal depths.

As Liebermann played the final cadence, he could see that the deeper meanings of the text had affected Rheinhardt. A detective inspector would appreciate, even more than a physician-poet, perhaps, how the dead—in some sense—are never truly departed. They always leave something of themselves behind.

When Liebermann and Rheinhardt retired to the smoking room, they took their customary places, lit cigars, and contemplated the fire.

“So,” said Liebermann, reaching for the brandy. “You are still preoccupied by the death of Thomas Zelenka.”

Rheinhardt continued to look at the flames.

“Yesterday I went to Saint Florian's and interviewed—with one exception—all of his masters.”

“Why one exception?”

“His mathematics master has had an accident. He fell down the stairs and injured his leg.”

“How unfortunate.”

Liebermann handed Rheinhardt a glass of brandy.

“When I went to see Zelenka's parents, they said he was a strong, healthy boy. Yet his gymnastics master and Nurse Funke said he was sickly—that he always had colds.”

“Perhaps Zelenka feigned illness in order to avoid gymnastics.”

“And why would he do that?”

“The boys probably do their physical training bare-chested.”

“Which would have necessitated exposure of the cuts?”

“Indeed. He might have wished to keep them concealed.”

“But why?”

“Embarrassment, shame… However, there is a much simpler explanation. He avoided gymnastics because any form of vigorous exercise was painful.”

Rheinhardt took Perger's letter from his pocket and pushed it across the table.

“I found this in Zelenka's bedroom—there were two letters, actually, but this is the most interesting.”

Liebermann put on his spectacles and unfolded the paper. He read in silence, until he reached the salient passages: “Needless to say, I do not want to go back.… Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do?… He doesn't care—no one does.”

Rheinhardt sipped his brandy, and summarized his encounter with Lang.

“Why didn't you interview Perger?” asked Liebermann.

“I did,” Rheinhardt replied. “And Lang was right—he wouldn't cooperate. I told Perger what I thought: that he and other boys— particularly from poor backgrounds—were being persecuted, and that if he told me who was responsible I would see to it that they were punished. He pretended not to know what I was talking about.… So then I showed him his own letter to Zelenka. I could see he was shocked, but to his credit the boy managed to sustain his subterfuge. He insisted that I had misunderstood the contents—it meant nothing. It was a joke, of course—particularly the part about running away. He said that he and Zelenka were always joking about doing such things.”

Liebermann lifted the letter and tilted it in the light.

“At that point—where he mentions running away—it is possible to detect a faint tremor in the script. He was terrified. Whatever he was hoping to escape from, it made his hand shake.”

Rheinhardt leaned across the table and looked at the letter more closely.

“It all looks the same to me.”

“There is a definite tremor.”

Rheinhardt sat back in his chair, a mote of skepticism still glimmering in his eye.

“I thought about interviewing some of the other boys—but there are more than three hundred of them. It would be pointless to select names randomly from the register. Do you think you could persuade Perger to disclose the identity of his persecutors?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you hypnotize him?”

Liebermann shrugged. “Perhaps.”

The young doctor's economic response—combined with his arch expression—suggested to Rheinhardt that he had already thought of a possible solution.

Liebermann lit a cigar and exhaled a large nimbus of smoke.

“Of course,” he said, “none of this new information shines further light on the death of Thomas Zelenka. Which, I believe, was your original purpose.”

“That is true. But in spite of your analysis of my unconscious motives, the defensive denial of premature death, and so forth, I cannot rid myself of a persistent conviction that if I continue with this investigation, something relevant, something explanatory with regard to Zelenka's death, will eventually arise.”

Liebermann took another puff of his cigar.

“Well… you might just be right.”

“What?” said Rheinhardt, turning his head in disbelief. “Have you changed your mind, then, about policeman's intuition?”

“Not at all.” Liebermann tapped his cigar on the ashtray. “However, if there is something new to be learned about Zelenka's death— and it is a very substantial if—then I am afraid to say, Oskar, that you have failed to interview someone who—in my humble opinion— merits the closest questioning.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The mathematics master.”

“What makes you think he's important? I haven't even told you his name. You know nothing about him!”

“I know enough,” said Liebermann, smiling into his brandy.

14

DREXLER STUBBED OUT HIS CIGARETTE and immediately lit another. They were a cheap Turkish brand that produced pungent wreaths of fulvous smoke. He had sunk deep into a wicker chair and was hunched over a well-thumbed volume of E.T.A. Hoffmann's short stories, the print of which was illuminated by a candle. His only other source of light was a paraffin lamp, some distance away, suspended from a beam.

“Do you know why you're here, Stojakovic?” It was Kiefer Wolf's voice, emanating from a dark recess on the other side of the room.

Drexler lifted his head. A scrawny Serbian boy was standing between Barend Steininger and Odo Freitag. Steininger was tall, big-boned, and mature enough to sport a downy mustache and fuzzy sideburns. Freitag was much shorter but stocky, possessing a thick, muscular neck and facial features that thrust forward like those of a pit bull terrier.

The Serbian boy peered into the shadows and blinked.

“Come on, Stojakovic,” said Steininger, digging his elbow into the boy's side.

“Yes, come on, Stojakovic,” Freitag repeated, clapping his hands on his shoulders.

The Serbian boy opened his mouth, but no sound escaped.

“I asked you a question, Stojakovic!” Wolf's disembodied voice grew louder.

“He did,” said Steininger, grinning. “Wolf asked you a question.”

“Yes, don't be impolite, Stojakovic,” said Freitag, tightening his grip. “Be a good fellow and answer Wolf.”

The boy glanced at Drexler—but it was a wasted appeal. Drexler shook his head.

“I don't know what passes for good manners in your country, Stojakovic,” Wolf barked. “But it is our custom to give an answer when asked a question.”

“Very true,” said Steininger. “Very true.”

The boy's mouth opened again. He produced an unintelligible wavering noise.

“What did you say?” asked Steininger.

“I'm…,” the boy croaked. “I'm sorry.… What was the question?”

“I don't believe it,” said Steininger.

“He wants you to repeat the question, Wolf,” said Freitag.

“Are you hard of hearing, Stojakovic?” said Steininger. “A little deaf, perhaps?”

The boy shook his head.

Steininger bent down and looked into the boy's ear. “Then perhaps your ears are dirty?”

Freitag looked into the boy's other ear. “Yes, I believe they are.”

“Were you, by any chance, raised on a farm, Stojakovic?” asked Steininger.

“I think he must have been,” said Freitag.

“That would explain a great deal,” said Steininger.

“Indeed,” said Freitag.

“I wonder, do you have soap and water where you come from, Stojakovic?” said Steininger.

They suddenly burst out laughing and looked to Drexler for approval, but his face remained impassive.

“Have you lost your sense of humor, Drexler?” said Freitag.

“Quite the contrary,” Drexler replied. “I find Hoffmann very amusing.”

“Oh, well, if your sense of humor is still intact,” said Freitag, “you'll enjoy this—the latest Serbian joke.”

“Careful, Freitag,” said Drexler. “Some of my ancestors were Serbian.”

“Don't worry,” said Freitag. “I'll speak very slowly.… Now, how do you get a one-armed Serb down from a tree? No idea? All right— you wave at him.”

Steininger slapped his thigh and guffawed loudly.

Freitag turned to address their captive: “Why do you Serbians bring a bucket of shit to your weddings?” Before the boy could answer, Freitag added: “To keep the flies off the bride, of course.”

Again, Steininger fell about laughing.

“Enough!” Wolf shouted, clapping his hands slowly.

Steininger collected himself and assumed a more serious expression.

“Stojakovic!” Wolf continued. “I will ask you once more. Why have you been brought here?”

“I don't know,” said the Serbian boy—his denial sounded like a desperate plea.

“Then I'll tell you,” said Wolf. “You have been indiscreet, Stojakovic.”

“Now, that is bad,” said Steininger.

“Quite unacceptable,” murmured Freitag.

“Did you really think,” said Wolf, “that you could blab to Lang in the middle of a calligraphy class and not be overheard!”

“I didn't—”

“Speak up!”

“You are mistaken.”

“Don't lie, Stojakovic!”

The sound of Wolf's footsteps preceded his appearance. He emerged from the outer darkness between two columns of smoke that turned slowly in the displaced air. His mouth was a horizontal slit—its linearity suggesting boredom. He had a thin, hungry face, and dull gray eyes. However, his hair was bright yellow—like a cap of gold.

Wolf drew on his cigarette and stepped up close to the Serbian boy. They were roughly the same height, and their noses almost touched. Wolf exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, quite calmly: “You have attempted to make trouble for us, and you must be taught a lesson. It is your own fault—you understand? You brought it upon yourself.”

The boy could not maintain eye contact, and looked down at the floor. Wolf trod on his cigarette, turned, and marched toward Drexler.

“Get up!”

“Why?”

“Because I want to sit down.”

“I'm reading.”

“Drexler! I won't tell you again!”

Drexler sighed, got out of the chair, and leaned against the wall.

Wolf reached into the battered suitcase and removed something— an object. The others could not see what it was because Wolf concealed it with his hands.

“Now, Stojakovic,” said Wolf, “you will do exactly as I say and no harm will come to you; however, if you choose to disobey me…” Wolf raised his arm. He was holding a revolver. “I will shoot you.”

Steininger and Freitag looked at each other and laughed.

“Where did you get that from, eh, Wolf?” said Steininger.

Wolf waved the revolver from side to side, indicating that his two lieutenants should withdraw.

“Hey, be careful,” said Freitag. “Is it loaded?”

“Of course it's loaded, you fool!”

“Where did you get it from?” Steininger repeated his question.

“I found it.”

“Where?”

“Never you mind.” Wolf thrust the revolver forward at Stojakovic. “Take your clothes off. Don't just stand there—you heard what I said. Take your clothes off. Hurry up—all of them.” His voice had become agitated, and flecks of spittle sprayed out of his mouth.

The Serbian boy undid the buttons of his tunic and fumbled with his belt. His hands were shaking.

He hesitated when he reached his undergarments.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Wolf. “Get on with it!”

The boy peeled off his woolen vest and stepped out of his long johns. He stood, completely naked, in a cone of milky luminescence. He was a thin, pale boy, with alabaster skin and dark hair. His genitals were barely visible, having retreated into a luxuriant tangle of wiry pubic curls. The effect was quite disconcerting. Stojakovic looked feminine, submissive, sexually ambiguous, and the rapidity of his breathing betrayed the magnitude of his terror.

Steininger laughed. It wasn't a comfortable laugh. It had a hysterical quality—ending abruptly, and leaving a tense, uneasy silence in its wake.

“Now what?” said Drexler, snapping his book closed.

Wolf's eyes flashed at Drexler. They were filled with latent fire, an admixture of malevolence and anger. Drexler, who ordinarily experienced the world as if everything in it were somehow removed or distant, felt his sense of privileged detachment slip. It surprised him—like a jolt of electricity. The sinister cast of Wolf's lineaments had reined him in.

Wolf got up and walked purposefully toward the Serbian boy. When he reached his side, he inspected his face.

“Are you crying, Stojakovic?” Wolf asked.

The boy's head moved—a minute, almost imperceptible shake.

Wolf lifted the boy's chin with the barrel of the revolver. Stojakovic's cheeks were streaked with silver.

“Now, what did I tell you about lying, Stojakovic? If you lie to me, you will be punished. It's your own fault—you leave me no choice.”

Wolf pulled the revolver hammer back with his thumb. It clicked loudly. Then he pressed the barrel against Stojakovic's temple.

Time stopped.

Drexler tasted metal in his mouth. The silence pulsed in his ears. A seeping, vitrifying cold spread through his limbs. He could not move, and felt that if he tried to, he would shatter.

A loud hissing sound filled the room.

At first, Wolf appeared confused. He looked quizzically at the others, then downward. Urine was flowing in wide yellow rivulets down Stojakovic's legs, feeding an expanding circular puddle, the circumference of which had made contact with the soles of Wolf's shoes.

“You Serbian dog!” Wolf cried, his mouth twisting in disgust. He struck Stojakovic on the head with the butt of his gun. “You animal, you damned animal!”

The boy fell to his knees, blood streaming from a deep gash on his forehead.

Drexler ran across the room and grabbed Wolf's arm, preventing him from delivering a second blow.

“Stop it, Wolf.”

“Drexler?” Wolf was no longer angry. Rather, he seemed surprised—as though disorientated after waking from sleep.

“You've made your point,” said Drexler. “Now that's enough.” Drexler pulled the Serbian boy to his feet. “Pick up your clothes and get out. And no more loose talk in the future, you understand? Get out.”

Stojakovic scooped up his clothes and ran into the darkness. They listened to him getting dressed: ragged breathing, the clink of his belt, and, finally, the trapdoor opening and closing.

Drexler looked into Wolf's eyes. The strange light had died, and Wolf's expression was blank. His thin lips were straight again. Slowly, something like a smile began to appear on his face.

“Drexler! You idiot! I wasn't going to kill him. You're losing your nerve!”

Wolf looked over at Steininger and Freitag. It was a collusive look—an invitation. They responded with laughter: fits and starts, encouraged by Wolf's widening smile, mounting, until their lungs and vocal cords were engaged in the production of a continuous asinine braying.

“He wasn't going to kill Stojakovic, Drexler!” Steininger cried, “Whatever were you thinking?”

“Yes, Drexler,” Freitag echoed. “Whatever were you thinking?”

It was a good performance. But their relief was palpable.

15

RHEINHARDT'S HEAD WAS BURIED in his copy of the latest edition of the police journal, which contained an extremely interesting article on the work of Jean Alexandre Eugene Lacassagne—a professor of medicine at the University of Lyon who had made extraordinary advances in the identification of decayed corpses. As he read, Rheinhardt became increasingly aware of piano music: music of incomparable lightness. An innocent, profoundly beautiful melody leaped an octave, before making a modulating descent over a flowing left-hand accompaniment. It charmed him out of the dark, morbid world of mortuaries and rotting cadavers. When the melody climbed again, he lifted his head—as if watching the ascent of a songbird.

His eldest daughter, Therese, was seated at the instrument, her slim fingers negotiating the naïve geography of Mozart's Sonata in C Major. On the other side of the parlor, seated at the table, were his wife, Else, and his younger daughter, Mitzi, engaged in some needlepoint. Mitzi was humming along with the tune. None of them were conscious of Rheinhardt's benign scrutiny.

He registered the good-humored curve of Else's mouth, the thickness of Mitzi's hair, and the straightness of Therese s back—the way that something of his own likeness lingered in the lineaments of both his daughters and, by some miracle, did so without diminishing their beauty.

Thomas Zelenka was only one year older than Therese. Although Zelenka wore a uniform and had been taught to use a sabre, he was still—like Therese—a child.

To die so very young…

It was a disturbance in the order of things that Rheinhardt could not—would not—accept as natural.

The music suddenly shifted into a minor key, as if responding to his thoughts. He remembered visiting Zelenka's parents—the empty birdcage, the unoccupied bedroom, the void behind Fanousek's eyes: the four gas towers, like massive mausoleums, breaking the line of a bleak horizon, the terrible, suffocating atmosphere of desolation, misery, and loss.

How could any parent survive the loss of a child? How would Rheinhardt ever cope, if the piano playing ceased, the humming subsided, and the parlor was chilled by his daughters’ absence? The silence would be intolerable.

Yes, Liebermann was probably right—by denying juvenile mortality he, Rheinhardt, was railing against fate, attempting to safeguard his children. But did that really matter? The existence of such a mechanism did not invalidate his feelings. Perhaps intuition originated in parts of the mind too deep for psychoanalysis to fathom. Moreover, Rheinhardt comforted himself with the thought that even Liebermann was beginning—albeit reluctantly—to accept that there might be something more to Zelenka's death than Professor Mathias's autopsy had revealed.

Rheinhardt looked at his daughters again and was overwhelmed by a force of emotion that made his breath catch. It was not comparable to the comfortable affection he felt for his wife, the companion-ate closeness that had mellowed and matured over the years. No—it was something quite different. A raw, primitive emotion—a violent, visceral, instinctive attachment combined with a desire to protect, whatever the cost. And yet, at the same time, it was remarkably satisfying and joyful. It defied description, was characterized by contradictions.

The music had recovered the tonic major key, and the principal subject was being recapitulated. The inspector counted his blessings and raised the police journal to conceal his watering eyes and the peculiar shame associated with the expression of uncontrollable, improvident love.

16

LIEBERMANN AND HIS FRIEND Dr. Stefan Kanner were seated in a private windowless dining room. The food they had eaten was traditional fare, simply prepared but deeply satisfying: semolina dump lings in beef broth, Tyrolean knuckle of veal with rice, and schmalzstrauhen—spirals of sweet batter, fried until golden brown, and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. A few schmalzstrauhen remained, untouched and quite cold, on a metal rack. The wine was unusually good: a local red, the color of garnet, redolent of bonfires, plums, and raspberries. Bleary-eyed, flushed—neckties draped over their shoulders—and gloriously drunk, the two men conversed under an awning of cigar smoke.

“It was a beautiful day,” said Kanner, tracing a flamboyant arc with his hand to evoke the cloudless empyrean. “Jeanette and I drove out to Döbling and had dinner, alfresco… and the following Sunday we went across the Kahlenberg to Klosterneuburg. On our way home, in the railway compartment, her head fell on my shoulder— and she said that she loved me.”

Kanner pushed the box of cigars into the middle of the table, and encouraged Liebermann to take another.

“Go on—help yourself. They're Havanas. A gift from a grateful patient—well, her husband, actually—whom I cured of a zoöpsia accompanied by gastric pains.”

“What animals did she hallucinate?”

“Only one: a dancing bear.”

“And how did you treat her?”

“Maxim. Just take a cigar and let me finish my story will you?”

Liebermann muttered an apology and signaled that his friend should proceed.

“Still under the benign influence of the sweet vin de paille from the cloister cellar,” said Kanner, “I was quite ready to believe her. My customary skepticism vanished, and when our lips met, I was Kanner s eyes rolled upward. “Transported. The following day, however, my skepticism returned—”

“Which is just as well,” Liebermann interjected.

Kanner thrust out his lower lip and blinked at his friend.

“Have I told you this story before?”

“No.”

Kanner shrugged and continued. “I spent the afternoon in Café Landtmann… and when the streetlights came on, I went for a stroll in the Rathauspark. It was quite dark—but I'm sure it was her.”

“Jeanette?”

“In the arms of Spitzer.”

“The throat specialist?”

“The very same.”

Liebermann threw his head back and directed a jet of smoke at the ceiling. The gaslight flared and made a curious respiratory sound— like a gasp.

“So, she wants to be an actress.”

Kanner sat up straight—surprised.

“How did you know that?”

“Throat specialists always have a large number of famous actors and singers among their patients. They are frequently invited to first nights, gala performances, and other glamorous occasions. Among the medical specialities, throat specialists are by far the most well connected with respect to the arts. Subsequently, they are common prey to a particular type of young woman: pretty, intelligent, coquettish, of slender means, and with theatrical ambitions.”

“Jeanette.”

“Quoi erat demonstrandum.”

“Yes,” said Kanner. “You know, for a psychiatrist, I can be a remarkably poor judge of character.” Kanner stared glumly into the ruby bowl of his wineglass before adding: “Shame about old Professor von Krafft-Ebing.”

In his inebriated state, Liebermann accepted the sudden change of subject as though it were entirely logical.

“Yes, he will be sadly missed.”

“I used to enjoy his public lectures.”

“They were very entertaining,” said Liebermann, “but I always found them weak, theoretically.”

Kanner shrugged again. “People will be reading his Psychopathia Sexualis for centuries. What a collection of cases! And what a fine eye for detail! Do you have a favorite? I have always been rather fond of case fifty, Herr Z., the technologist who was only satisfied by women wearing high heels and short jackets, Hungarian fashion.”

Liebermann shook his head. “That one escapes me.…”

“He was particularly partial to ladies’ calves,” Kanner continued, “but only when the ladies concerned wore elegant shoes. Nude legs—or nudity in general—did not arouse his interest. I was always amused by Krafft-Ebing's somewhat irregular inclusion of the fact that Herr Z. had a weakness for cats—and that simply looking at a cat could lift him from the deepest depression.”

Kanner raised his bloodshot eyes. He scratched his head, leaving a tuft of oiled hair standing on end.

“I too,” he said in a distant, somewhat bewildered voice, “am partial to women in short jackets… and to be perfectly honest, my spirits have often been lifted by the antics of a cat.”

“Well, Stefan,” said Liebermann, “perhaps you would benefit from one of the late professor's cures. I would be happy to prescribe regular cold baths and monobromide of camphor, if you wish?”

Kanner made a dismissive gesture.

“Baths are ineffective. When I was a student, I spent a summer in Bad Ischl, where I allowed a retired opera singer to believe she was seducing me. She frequently took a beauty treatment that involved immersion in a tub filled with crushed ice; however, this had no effect on her libido whatsoever. Her sensual appetite was just as keen whether she had had the treatment or not.” Kanner swayed in his chair. “Be that as it may”—his delivery had become comically pompous—”it is our duty to honor the memory of a great man.” He raised his glass. “To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… rest in heavenly peace.”

“No, no, no,” said Liebermann, banging his fist on the table. “May he go to hell. Surely.”

“What?”

“The author of Psychopathia Sexualis would be bored to tears among the heavenly hosts—angels, seraphim, and cherubim, et cet era, et cetera.” Liebermann yawned, patting his open mouth. “Clearly, Krafft-Ebing would prefer hell, where he would find the company much more stimulating—lust murderers, necrophiliacs, and sadists— why, he could start work on the next edition of the Psychopathia immediately on arrival!”

Kanner raised his glass again.

“To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… may you go to hell—and thoroughly enjoy eternal damnation!”

Liebermann reached across the table and touched Kanner's glass with his own, producing a chime that sang with a bell-like clarity. Outside, a woman passed their dining room, laughing loudly. It was a young voice—that of a shop girl, no doubt, who was being entertained by a “respectable” bourgeois husband. The grumble of the man's bass produced a lascivious counterpoint to the girl's contrived gaiety.

“Stefan,” said Liebermann, “do you think it would be permissible to have relations with a patient?”

This thought, which had arisen in his mind apropos of nothing, had been translated into speech without conscious effort. Liebermann found himself listening to his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not a patient in treatment, of course,” said Liebermann, now obliged to continue. “But a former patient—assuming that she was fully recovered and that a significant period of time had elapsed since her discharge.”

“No. I can't see anything wrong with that.… In fact…”

“Yes?”

“In fact, I did have a little tryst once, with a former patient.” Kanner toyed with his necktie. “We arranged to meet a few times in the Volksgarten, but the erotic frisson that had enlivened our conversations in the hospital was curiously absent. I suspect that it was only because we were forbidden to embrace there that the prospect seemed so alluring. Once the prohibition was lifted, there was nothing left to excite our imaginations. Or perhaps…” Kanner swirled the wine and examined the translucent liquid more closely. “Perhaps once removed from the hospital, and deprived of the emblems of power—my black bag, my stethoscope, my potions and elixirs—my imperfections were more readily observed. I was no longer the great healer and became just another philanderer—indistinguishable from all the others, going about their tawdry business behind the bushes.”

Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lyd gate. Her supine body on a hospital bed: a plain white gown—the rise and fall of her breasts. Her copper hair, pulled back tightly, aflame in a ray of sunlight.

“Why?” said Kanner. “Is there someone at the hospital who has taken your fancy?”

Liebermann shook his head—and as he did so, the room began to rotate. Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum—like the carousel on the Prater.

“Stefan… I have drunk far too much.”

Kanner picked up the bottle and filled Liebermann s empty glass: “Maxim, we haven't even started!”

17

VON BULOW was immaculately dressed in a dark frock coat, gray striped trousers, and patent leather shoes. A beautifully folded blue cravat was held in place by a diamond tie pin, and his starched cuffs (which protruded from beneath the sleeves of his coat) were fastened with matching studs. Merely looking at von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel slovenly and unkempt.

His old rival was seated opposite the commissioner. Two empty teacups on Manfred Brügel's desk and a shallow bowl containing a solitary Manner Schnitten wafer biscuit suggested that the two men had been in conversation for some time.

Although Rheinhardt and von Bulow were both detective inspectors, von Bulow had always been treated as Rheinhardt's superior— largely on account of his privileged background. The practices of preferment and favor were commonplace in Viennese organizations, and the commissioner, being a highly ambitious man, was mindful that von Bulow hailed from an elevated family. The man had relatives in the upper house and in the Hofburg. Informed by the notion that goodwill was often reciprocated, the commissioner frequently afforded von Bulow special treatment—usually at Rheinhardt's expense. However, given that this odious situation was entirely unremarkable, and that there was no obvious person to whom a complaint could be directed (other than to the commissioner himself), Rheinhardt had no choice but to tolerate this indignity.

“Come along, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner, beckoning him in with an impatient hand gesture. “Don't just stand there.”

Von Bulow stood up—as if in readiness to leave—and then, to Rheinhardt's surprise, sat down again. The commissioner registered Rheinhardt's perplexity and grumbled: “Von Bulow will be staying— there is a matter concerning his current investigation that we need to discuss with you. All will be explained in due course. Now… where did I put them?” Brügel sifted through the papers scattered on his desk and found a wad of forms under a jug of milk. “I've read your reports, and everything seems to be in order. Although in the future, Rheinhardt, I'd appreciate it if you could do something about the quality of your handwriting.”

Rheinhardt squirmed with embarrassment. It was obvious that Commissioner Brügel had only recently compared Rheinhardt's hurried script with von Bulow's elegant copperplate.

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner tossed the reports aside and picked up a photograph of Thomas Zelenka's body in the mortuary. Then he selected another, which showed the lacerations under the boy's arm.

“Peculiar,” said the commissioner. “Very strange… but I see no reason for maintaining security office involvement. Do you?” Brügel lifted his head, and his eyebrows drew closer together: “Well?”

“Sir, we've hardly—”

“These reports are perfectly adequate,” said Brügel, allowing his palm to come down heavily on the papers and thereby underscoring the finality of his decision.

“Sir,” Rheinhardt protested. “The wounds on Zelenka's body, Perger's letter…”

“What about them? I'm perfectly satisfied with your explanation… the persecution of scholarship boys. It's a sorry situation, but there we are. We all know what goes on in military schools. I went to Saint Polten, you know.”

“But it's not just a case of bullying, sir. A boy died!”

“Yes, of natural causes.”

“Indeed, but I have—” Rheinhardt stopped himself.

“You have what?” asked the commissioner.

There it was again: I have a feeling… a feeling, a feeling.

“I have…,” Rheinhardt blustered “yet to interview the mathematics master—Herr Sommer. He may have some important information that, I believe, will shine new light on Zelenka's fate.” Rheinhardt was playing a perilous game—and he hoped that the commissioner would not press him.

“What makes you think that?”

“It is not my opinion, as such.”

“Then whose?”

“Dr. Liebermann's.”

Von Bulow shifted in his chair and made a disparaging noise.

“With respect, von Bulow,” said Rheinhardt, “may I remind you that Dr. Liebermann's methods have proved very effective in the past—as you well know.”

“He's been lucky, that's all,” retorted von Bulow.

“No one could possibly be that lucky.”

“Well,” said von Bulow, “there's no other explanation, is there?”

“Psychoanalysis?”

“Jewish psychology! I think not!”

“Gentlemen!” Brügel growled.

The two men fell silent under the commissioner's fierce glare.

Rheinhardt seized the opportunity to continue his appeal. “Sir, I have already arranged for Dr. Liebermann to interview the boy Perger on Saturday. The mathematics master, Herr Sommer, is expected to return to Saint Florian's very soon—”

“Enough, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner, raising his hand. “Enough.” Brügel examined the photograph of Zelenka again and mumbled something under his breath. He tapped the photograph and grimaced, as if suffering from acute dyspepsia. “Very well, Rheinhardt,” he continued. “You may continue with your investigation.”

“Thank you, sir,” cried Rheinhardt, glancing triumphantly at von Bulow, whose expression had become fixed in the attitude of a sneer since he'd uttered the words “Jewish psychology.”

“But not for long, you understand?” the commissioner interjected. “Another week or so, that's all—and then only if you can get out to Saint Florian's without compromising the success of your new assignment.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “I understand.”

“Good,” said the commissioner. “Now, let us proceed.… What I am about to reveal, Rheinhardt, is classified information. You must not breathe a word of it to anyone—not even to your assistant.” He paused to emphasize the point, and then continued: “Inspector von Bulow is currently overseeing a special operation—a joint venture with our colleagues from Budapest—the outcome of which is of paramount importance. The very stability of the dual monarchy is at stake. Needless to say, we are directly answerable to the very highest authority.”

Brügel leaned back in his chair and tacitly invited Rheinhardt to inspect the portrait hanging on the wall behind his desk: the emperor, Franz Josef, in full military dress.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Rheinhardt.

“We want you to follow someone,” said von Bulow.

“Who?”

Von Bulow reached down and picked up a briefcase. He released the hasps and produced a photograph, which he handed to Rheinhardt—a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young man with black curly hair, a long horizontal mustache, and a pronounced five o'clock shadow.

“His name?”

“Lázár Kiss.”

It was a brooding, unhappy face, and the young man's eyes had the fiery glow of a zealot's.

“A nationalist?” Rheinhardt ventured.

Von Bulow did not reply. His jaw tightened.

“Rheinhardt,” said Brügel, stroking his magnificent muttonchop whiskers. “Given the sensitive nature of this operation, we are not at liberty to disclose any more information than we have to. I must ask you to desist from asking further questions. You will receive your instructions—and you will carry them out. You need not concern yourself with anything more. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know the restaurant called Csarda?” said von Bulow.

“On the Prater?”

“It is where Herr Kiss dines. He is a creature of habit, and arrives there shortly after one o'clock, every day. Follow him until late afternoon—then deliver a written report of his movements to my office by six o'clock. You will repeat the exercise on Sunday and Monday, and I will then issue you further instructions on Tuesday morning.”

So this was the sorry pass he had come to, thought Rheinhardt— reassigned to do von Bulow's footwork!

“May I ask…,” said Rheinhardt, painfully conscious of the prohibition that had just been placed on all forms of nonessential inquiry. “May I ask why it is that I—a detective inspector—have been chosen to undertake this task? Surely von Bulow's assistant could do just as good a job.”

“There must be no mistakes’ said Brügel. “You are an experienced officer, Rheinhardt. I know you won't let us down.”

The appearance of the commissioner's teeth in a crescent, which Rheinhardt supposed to be a smile, did nothing to ease his discomfort.

“And would I be correct,” said Rheinhardt, risking another question, “in assuming that there are some very significant dangers associated with this assignment?”

What other reason could there be for such secretiveness? If they didn't tell him anything, he would have nothing to disclose—even if he were captured and threatened with violence.

“Our work is always associated with significant dangers, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner bluntly.

Rheinhardt passed the photograph of Lázár Kiss back to von Bulow

“No—you can keep it,” said von Bulow. “But do not take it out of the building.”

Rheinhardt put the photograph in his pocket and looked up at the wall clock. It was eleven o'clock.

“Csarda,” he said.

“Csarda,” repeated von Bulow. “I look forward to receiving your report.”

Rheinhardt got up, bowed, and made for the door.

“Rheinhardt?” It was von Bulow again. Rheinhardt turned, to see von Bulow inscribing the air with an invisible pen. “Handwriting?”

Rheinhardt forced a smile, the insincerity of which he hoped was unmistakable.

18

PROFESSOR FREUD—enveloped in a haze of billowing cigar smoke— began his third consecutive joke: “An elderly Jew was traveling on the slow train from Moscow to Minsk, and at one of the stops on the way he bought a large salt herring. At the same stop a Russian boy got on the train and started to tease him: ‘You Jews,’ he said, ‘you have a reputation for being clever. How come, eh? How come you are all so clever?’ The old man looked up from his herring and said, ‘Well, since you are such a well-mannered young man, and have asked me so politely, I'll tell you our secret, but only if you promise not to tell anyone.’ The boy suddenly became more serious and swore on his mother's life that he wouldn't tell a soul. ‘We Jews,’ said the old man, ‘are so clever because we eat the head of the salt herring.’ The boy was impressed and said, ‘In which case, I intend to get clever right away. You still have the head of the herring you've just eaten. Would you sell it to me?’ The old Jew was reluctant, but eventually gave in. All right, all right,’ he said. You can have it for a ruble.’ The boy couldn't wait to get started and paid. When he was almost finished eating he shouted, ‘Wait a minute… I saw you buy the whole herring for just ten kopecks—and I paid you ten times more for the head!’ The old Jew smiled and said, You see, it's beginning to work already’ “

The professor leaned back in his chair, satisfied with the joke's effect on his young disciple: a counterfeit grimace and the ignition of a bright light in Liebermann's eyes.

“Last year, you said you were thinking about writing a book on jokes,” said Liebermann. “Is that still your intention?”

“In actual fact,” said Freud, “I've been tinkering with the joke book for some time—but progress has been slow. I've been simultaneously engaged on another project: a collection of essays on sexuality, which, I believe, may prove to be of much greater significance. Even so, I keep finding myself returning to the joke book.” He paused and puffed on his dying cigar. “Yes, there is much to be learned from a close examination of jokes. Psychoanalysis has demonstrated— beyond doubt—that we should not underestimate small indications. It is by close observation of phenomena that have hitherto been supposed trivial, such as dreams, blunders—and yes, jokes—that we are afforded our greatest insights.”

The professor assumed a more serious expression: “The other day, I read something in the Freie Presse.… One of the mayor's associates had made a joke about Jews who wished to convert. He said that when being baptized, they should be held under water for at least ten minutes.” Freud smiled, wryly. “Not a bad joke, all things considered… but so very revealing! It would seem that primitive urges— forbidden satisfaction by the prohibitions of civilized society and thus repressed—ultimately find expression in the content of jokes. So it is that our jokes betray us, revealing, as they do, our shameful desires and, in the case of the mayor's associate, a murderous impulse.”

Liebermann recognized that this same reasoning could be applied to Freud himself. Such a clear understanding of the dark underpinnings of humor strongly suggested to him that Freud (a Jewish man who had been collecting Jewish jokes for many years—many of which were anti-Semitic) must be ambivalent about his own racial origins. Such ambivalence was not uncommon among assimilated Jews. Indeed, Liebermann reflected, his own feelings were plainly mixed. He was often embarrassed by the appearance of a caftan on the Ringstrasse, or the Yiddisher pleadings of an impecunious pedlar.

Liebermann noticed that Freud's attention had been captured by the ancient statuettes on his desk, in particular by a small female figure of pale orange clay. She was standing with her weight on her right leg, her head turned to the side, and a mantle was drawn over her loose gown. In her left hand she held a fan, and her hair was drawn back and tied into a bun beneath a conical sun hat.

Freud suddenly looked up. His expression had softened and he had a look that Liebermann had only ever seen on the face of a proud parent—a moist-eyed muted pride.

“Greek,” said Freud. “Hellenistic Period—believed to be from Tanagra, 330-250 B.C.“

Although Liebermann did not usually share Freud's love of ancient artifacts, being a great enthusiast for all things modern, he did see considerable aesthetic virtue in this particular figure: its poise, its natural and unaffected elegance.

“Charming,” said Liebermann. “Quite charming.”

Freud broke out of his reverie and offered Liebermann another cigar. The young doctor declined and, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, raised the book that he had been patiently nursing on his lap.

“Have you ever seen one of these?”

He handed the volume to Freud, who, looking rather puzzled, replied, “No.… What is it?”

“A klecksography book,” said Liebermann. “It's a kind of game, for children.”

Freud flicked it open and examined the symmetrical patterns.

“The inkblots,” Liebermann continued, “are usually accompanied by verses, which serve to guide the imagination—the idea being to look at the inkblot until what is being described appears. Such books are based on an original by Justinus Kerner—a physician and poet from Ludwigsburg. It occurred to me that this principle might be used to discover the contents of the unconscious. If inkblots are presented without any verses, then whatever the viewer claims to see must reflect—to some extent—a projection from his own mind. After all, there is nothing really there.”

Freud hummed and said, “Interesting.… It is such a simple task that defenses might be relaxed, resulting in the inadvertent escape of repressed material.” He lifted the delightful figurine from her place between a terra-cotta Sphinx and a bronze Egyptian deity and began to stroke the inanimate object as if it were a pet. “Repressed material that might subsequently be subject to a psychoanalytic interpretation.”

“Indeed,” said Liebermann, enlivened by the positive response of his mentor. “If an observer were to see two wrestling men in an inkblot, rather than an exotic flower, this might indicate the presence of an underlying hostile impulse—not unlike the latent aggression you have identified in jokes. The procedure, however, is not without precedent. I undertook some research at the university library and discovered that Binet has already recommended the use of inkblots to study what he calls involuntary imagination. So I cannot lay claim to having discovered anything original.”

“When walking in the Alps,” Freud responded dreamily, “I have often lain down and observed the passage of clouds—and in their vague whiteness found the outlines of castles and fantastic creatures. One supposes that from time immemorial mankind has been prone to the imaginative interpretation of natural phenomena—clouds, rock formations, puddles.” His voice suddenly became more determined: “Your discovery—if not wholly original—is still of value. For it demonstrates again the value of the psychoanalytic sensibility. Even in the most trivial phenomena, we can find buried treasure.”

Freud turned the page of the book and covered the caption with his hand. Liebermann felt it would be impolite to ask the Professor what he could see, yet, after only a few moments, his curiosity was satisfied.

“How interesting,” mumbled Freud. “How very intriguing. I see two herring heads.”

“You see?” said Liebermann, unable to resist. “It's beginning to work already.”

The professor slowly raised his head. At first, his expression was alarmingly severe, his penetrating eyes showing no signs of amusement. Then, quite suddenly, his face was illuminated by a broad grin.

“Very good,” he said, chuckling. “Very good.” He pushed the cigar box toward Liebermann. “Now, I absolutely insist!”

19

WOLF WAS SEATED ON a low three-legged stool, trying to concentrate on the book that Professor Gärtner had given him. Again, he read the passage that had stuck in his mind: “There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena.…”

Snjezana's room was on the first floor of the inn at Aufkirchen. It was a sorry little place with damp walls, dirty curtains, a rickety bed, and a threadbare screen. Snjezana helped the landlord by day, but in the evenings she read romantic novels, smoked pungent cigar ettes, and occasionally received visitors—mostly men from the village or boys from the military school. The rear door of the inn was never locked, and her availability was signaled by a paraffin lamp in her window.

Above her washstand was a photograph of Stari Grad, a Dalmatian town on the island of Hvar. When drunk on schnapps, Snjezana would become melancholic and gaze through her streaming tears at the old seaport. Those who were familiar with Snjezana's habits would, at this juncture, immediately deposit a sum of money under her pillow and leave—because Snjezana's pining was usually followed by a violent eruption of anger during which she would curse all “Germans” and suddenly strike out. Her painted nails were long and sank into flesh with the efficiency of razor blades.

Only a moral interpretation of phenomena…

From below, Wolf could hear the sound of an accordion and raised voices, the hysterical shriek of the barmaid, and raucous laughter. The smell of Snjezana's room was making him feel slightly sick: her overpowering, cloying perfume failed to cover the reek of stale tobacco and the fishy odor that seeped into the atmosphere when she became aroused. He lit one of his own cigarettes—and hoped that its fragrance would neutralize the room's nauseating miasma.

Drexler appeared from behind the screen. He was bare-chested, and was fumbling with the belt of his trousers.

“Your turn,” he said.

Wolf closed the book and shook his head.

“No.… I think not. Let's go.”

“What?”

“I don't feel like it.”

The sound of tired bedsprings, relieved of weight, produced a sequence of loud cracking sounds followed by a tremulous hum. Snjezana stepped out from the other side of the screen. She was wearing a long, richly embroidered peasant skirt, and her hair was wrapped up in a black head scarf. Wolf glanced nonchalantly at her breasts—her erect nipples, her coffee-colored areolae.

“You said the two of you.” Her voice was accusatory. “That's what you said.”

“Don't worry, Snjezana,” said Wolf. “You'll get paid.”

“For two?”

Wolf sighed. “Yes. For two.”

Snjezana sneered—and affected a mocking singsong voice.

“What's the matter with poor Wolf—not feeling well?” She pushed out her lower lip and made circles on her stomach with the palm of her hand. “Is he missing his mutti? Does he want her to kiss it and make it better?”

Drexler laughed.

“Be quiet, Drexler—don't encourage her.” Wolf tossed some silver coins onto the floor. “I'll see you outside.”

Wolf got up abruptly and left the room. The landing was in total darkness, so he had to feel his way down the wooden staircase, his sword striking the banisters as he made his descent. Outside, the air was cool. He leaned up against the wall and looked up at the starry sky. Releasing a cloud of smoke, he watched it rise and dissipate.

“There are no moral phenomena,” he whispered. In some peculiar way, the cold impartiality of the heavens seemed to confirm the author's sentiment. He inhaled—and Snjezana's cloying perfume cleared from his nostrils.

20

THE INSPECTOR HAD POSITIONED HIMSELF at the back of the classroom—the very same one he had used to conduct his own interviews earlier that week. He had hoped that this would allow him to make discreet observations without distracting Perger.

Rheinhardt was accustomed to Liebermann's preference for oblique methods of inquiry. However, on this occasion the young doctor's behavior seemed so irregular, so incomprehensible, that he was sorely tempted to halt proceedings and demand an explanation. Liebermann had asked the boy if he enjoyed playing chess. He had then produced a chess set from his bag, and a contest of some considerable length ensued. When it was over—and Perger had been declared the winner—Liebermann opened his bag for the second time, and took out a bundle of papers that seemed to have nothing on them except spilled ink.

“And now,” said Liebermann, “another game of sorts.” Rheinhardt bit his lower lip and stifled the urge to protest. “I would like to show you some inkblots, and I want you to tell me if they remind you of anything.”

Liebermann showed the first sheet to Perger.

The boy had a nervous habit of jerking his head upward in small movements—like a rodent testing the air—and when he spoke, his hesitancy threatened to become a stutter.

“No. It… it doesn't remind me of anything.”

“Come now,” said Liebermann, smiling broadly. “You must, at some point, have observed the clouds in the sky and thought they looked like something else? A great galleon, perhaps? The profile of the emperor? Look closely… and keep on looking. Eventually you will perceive something familiar. Now tell me, what do you see?”

The boy's eyes suddenly widened. “Yes, yes.… Two old men— with long noses.”

“Very good. Now here's another. What do you see?”

“A… a bat.”

“Excellent. And here?”

“The face of a wolf.”

And so it went on: Liebermann showing the boy page after page, and the boy responding.

Two dragons… a stove… sea horses… a sad face… a skeleton.

Perger was soon finding the task easier—and his descriptions became more detailed.

Duelists—at sunset… two bears, dancing… another wolf, ready to pounce… a cobra—its head pulled back… a knight praying by the tomb of his comrade.

When Liebermann had worked through all his inkblots, he said to Perger, “Another game of chess? It is only right that you give me an opportunity to redeem myself.”

Rheinhardt was certain that Liebermann had lost the previous game intentionally. He had seen his friend perform respectably against the seasoned enthusiasts who gathered at the rear of the Café Central. It was extremely unlikely that a logician of Liebermann s calibre could be bettered by an adolescent boy.

The new game differed from the first, insofar as it did not take place in silence. Liebermann asked Perger what books he liked to read. What cakes were sold at the Aufkirchen bakery, and whether or not ticks were a problem in the summer months. None of it (as far as Rheinhardt could determine) was of any consequence. Then, after a relatively short period of time had elapsed, Liebermann moved his queen and said “Checkmate.” The boy wasn't expecting this sudden defeat and was obviously quite surprised.

“It's a well-known snare developed by the great Wilhelm Steinitz,” said Liebermann. “You should have paid closer attention to my knight! But this is a most unsatisfactory outcome, wouldn't you agree? Both of us have now won a game, and I am curious to know which of us is really the better player. Let us have one more game— and that shall be the decider!”

Rheinhardt could sit still no longer. He stood up and clomped over to the window. A single rider was leaping fences in the equestrian enclosure, and beyond, the fir-covered hills were black beneath a taupe sky. Rheinhardt yawned. As he watched the rider repeating his circuit, the classroom began to recede and he gradually slipped into a state of drowsy abstraction. When he finally overcame his torpor, he found himself eavesdropping on a conversation.…

Liebermann and Perger were talking about the school: masters, examinations, drill. Occasionally, Liebermann would remind the boy to watch his knight—then proceed with another nonchalant inquiry. Which of the masters taught Latin? Why did Perger find Latin so difficult? Could he speak any other languages? Rheinhardt noticed that the boy's head was no longer jerking upward. He was concentrating on the game, answering Liebermann's questions with an easy, natural fluency.

“Thomas Zelenka was your friend?”

“Yes, he was.”

“You must be very lonely now?”

“I have other friends.…”

“Of course.… Did Thomas have other friends?”

“No, not really: although he was very fond of Frau Becker.”

“The deputy headmaster's wife?”

“Yes. He used to go there… to the Beckers’ house.”

“What for?”

“To talk with Frau Becker.”

“What about?”

“I don't know… but he said she was very kind.”

Liebermann leaned forward.

“Careful… I fear you haven't been watching my knight.”

“On the contrary” the boy replied. “I fear it is you who have not been watching mine.” Perger moved his piece two squares forward and one to the side. Then he announced, with a broad, proud grin, “Checkmate.”

“Bravo,” said Liebermann. “It has been decided, then. You are the superior player. You are free to go.”

The boy stood to attention, clicked his heels, and walked toward the door. Just before he passed into the shadowy exterior, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Good luck with your Latin,” said Liebermann.

The boy hurried out, his steps fading into silence.

“Well,” said Rheinhardt. “Frau Becker! Nobody has mentioned her before. We must pay her a visit.” Rheinhardt took out his notebook and scribbled a reminder. “But really, Max, what on earth have you been doing? We've been here for hours. Couldn't you have asked questions about Zelenka earlier?”

“No,” replied Liebermann firmly. “To do so would have been a grave mistake.”

The young doctor rose from his chair and walked to the blackboard, where he gripped his lapels and adopted a distinctly pedagogic stance.

“You will recall that in his letter to Zelenka,” Liebermann continued, “Perger mentions his father in such a way as to suggest a man of unsympathetic character. He worries that his father will think him unmanly if he complains or requests help. One can easily imagine what Perger senior is like—a domineering, unapproachable man who was very probably educated at Saint Florian's himself… or, at least, a school very much like it. This unhappy father-son relationship would inevitably color Perger s entire perception of authority figures, of which you and I are typical examples. Even under the most benign circumstances, the relationship between father and son is frequently troubled by hostile feelings. They are, after all, rivals who compete for the mother's love. When this already difficult situation is made worse by a tyrannical father, the son's primal anxieties are amplified and he becomes profoundly mistrustful of all manifestations of hegemony. He feels vulnerable, and must protect himself. Now, a child knows that it cannot physically overcome an adult foe; however, it is not entirely powerless. It can still exhibit passive forms of aggression—it can be uncooperative, morose, taciturn. So, you see, Oskar, it was essential that I allow Perger to beat me at chess. The experience gave him a sense of mastery, thus reducing his anxiety and relieving him of the necessity to deploy defenses.”

Liebermann turned to the blackboard and, picking up a stub of chalk, wrote Anxiety, Mastery, Anxiety Reduction and linked the words with two arrows. He then briefly explained the purpose of the ink -blots, emphasizing how involuntary imaginative responses might contain information that a person did not intend to disclose.

“Perger's responses afforded me considerable insight into the boy's mental world—his preoccupations, his sadness, his loneliness, his fear.… He is extremely fragile—worryingly so—and these responses also suggested to me how you might proceed, Oskar, with respect to identifying suspects among the boys. You said that there were simply too many pupils to interview. The more or less random selection of names from a list would be utterly pointless—which is of course true. But we are now in a much better position.”

“We are?”

“Did you notice how many of Perger's responses referred to predatory creatures? To what extent, I wonder, does this reflect his wretched existence here at Saint Florian's? Must he constantly evade those who might make him their prey? If I were you, I would examine the register and look for names that correspond with the notion of predation: names like Löwe or Wolf—or names that correspond with the notion of hunting, perhaps—like Jäger? I cannot guarantee that this will prove to be a productive avenue of inquiry, but in the absence of any other strategy, you have nothing to lose.”

Liebermann turned to the board and wrote “Names suggestive of predation and hunting.” He then underlined the phrase, producing a scratching sound that made the inspector wince.

“And the subsequent games of chess?” asked Rheinhardt. “Why were they necessary? If you were attempting to instill in the boy a sense of mastery, why on earth did you allow him to lose the second game? Isn't that a contradiction?”

“By beating Perger, I did indeed run the risk of reviving his anxieties; however, it was a risk I was prepared to take, but only in order to secure a further advantage. After his defeat, I was able to alert him to a specific and deadly maneuver that he was thereafter obliged to watch for. This possibility occupied his thoughts during the third game, to the extent that he was less able to monitor his speech. It was under these conditions that he mentioned Frau Becker, a person whose name has—for some reason—never appeared in connection with Zelenka before.”

Liebermann scratched the words “Distraction” and “Less Guarded Replies” on the blackboard. He then tossed the chalk in the air, caught it, and tapped the woodwork.

“I hope you've been listening carefully, Rheinhardt. There will be a test later!”

21

THE BECKER RESIDENCE was a large house occupying the summit of a gentle rise that swept up from Aufkirchen. From the garden gate, looking toward the village, the onion dome and spire of the Romanesque church was just visible over the trees. Rheinhardt and Liebermann paused to admire the view before following the gravel path toward their destination.

Their approach disturbed a sleek fat crow. Flapping its wings, the bird took off, a worm wriggling in its closed beak. Two more crows were circling the chimney, cawing loudly. The combination of their plaintive cries, the moribund garden, and a low, oppressive sky created an atmosphere of sinister melancholy.

The door was answered by a Czech housemaid, who escorted Rheinhardt and Liebermann into a spacious parlor, where they were asked to wait. A few minutes later a striking woman appeared in the doorway. She was young, blond, probably in her early twenties, and extremely attractive: earnest eyes complemented a wide sensual mouth and a petite retroussé nose. At first Rheinhardt thought that there might have been some mistake, and that this woman was, in fact, Becker's daughter; however, her identity was confirmed as soon as she spoke.

“Inspector Rheinhardt, my husband didn't tell me you would be coming here today. Forgive me.… You find us unprepared for guests.”

If the first surprise was Frau Becker's appearance, then the second was her accent. It was distinctly provincial.

The inspector introduced his colleague and said: “Frau Becker, it is I who must apologize. Your husband did not know that we intended to visit. And please, do not concern yourself with hospitality—a few minutes of your time is all we ask.”

“The least I can do is offer you some refreshments, Inspector. Shall I ask Ivana to make some tea?”

“That is most kind—but no, thank you.”

“Please—Herr Doctor, Inspector…” She indicated some chairs. “Do sit.” And she perched herself on the edge of a chaise longue.

“I would like to ask you,” said Rheinhardt, “some questions about the boy Zelenka.”

Frau Becker required little prompting. She spoke of how the news of Zelenka's death had shocked her; how her thoughts had gone out to his parents, and how she would miss their conversations. The fluency and urgency of her speech declared the authenticity of her feelings—as did the sudden halting pauses, during which her eyes glistened.

“Imagine,” she said, shaking her head and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “To lose a son—and only fifteen years old.”

“How was it that you became acquainted?” asked Rheinhardt.

“The masters at Saint Florian's—particularly those with wives— often invite boys to their houses. It is encouraged here. Although the boys look like men, in many ways they are still children. They miss their families, ordinary things… sitting in a garden, a glass of raspberry juice with soda water, home baking. Zelenka always wanted me to make spiced pretzels. I have a special recipe—given to me by my grandmother.”

“How often did you see Zelenka?”

“He used to come at my husband's invitation with other boys, and sometimes he would come on his own. I think he enjoyed my company—felt comfortable. You see, his family is poor, and I…” Frau Becker hesitated for a moment, and blushed. “I also come from a poor family. We had this in common.”

Rheinhardt found himself glancing down at the young woman's blouse. It was made of black lace and lined with flesh-colored silk, a combination that created a tantalizing illusion of immodesty. A gentleman's eye was automatically drawn down to the transparent webbing, which promised the possibility of indecent revelation.

“What was Zelenka like?” said Rheinhardt, forcing himself to look up, and loosening his collar.

“A kind, intelligent boy. But…”

Frau Becker paused, her expression darkening.

“What?” Rheinhardt pressed.

“Unhappy.”

“Because of the bullying—the persecution?”

Frau Becker looked surprised. “You know about it?”

“Yes.”

“He never told me what happened—what they did to him—but I could tell that it was bad.”

“Did he ever mention any names?”

“No. And when I asked, he refused to answer. He said it would only make things worse. He would get called a squealer, a snitch, and other horrible names—they would pick on him even more.”

“Did you speak to your husband?”

“Of course.”

“And what did he say?”

“He told me that unless boys like Zelenka are prepared to name their tormentors, nothing can be done. The whole school can't be watched every hour of the day. And I suppose that's true—isn't it?”

“May I ask a question?” said Liebermann. Frau Becker assented. “May I ask whether or not you had any dreams last night?”

“I beg your pardon?” Frau Becker looked at the doctor in surprise.

“Did you have any dreams—last night?”

“Yes,” she said, tentatively. “Yes, I did.”

“Would you be kind enough to tell me what occurred in your dream?”

Frau Becker shrugged. “I could… but it's nonsense, Herr Doctor.”

“Please.” Liebermann urged her to continue.

“Very well,” said Frau Becker. “I dreamed that I went to the theater with my husband.… One side of the stalls was empty. My husband told me that Marianne and her fiancé had wanted to go too—”

“Marianne?”

“A friend.”

“An old friend?”

“Yes, we grew up together. As a matter of fact, I got a letter from her yesterday, which contained some very important news. She has just got engaged to a lieutenant in the uhlans.”

“Go on.”

“Where was I? Oh yes… Marianne and her fiancé had wanted to go too, but only cheap seats—costing eight hellers—were available, so they didn't take them. But I thought it wouldn't have been so bad if they had.” Frau Becker looked at Liebermann. She seemed confused, and faintly embarrassed. “That's it. That's all I can remember.”

Liebermann leaned back in his chair and allowed his clenched fist to fall against his right cheek. The index finger unfurled and tapped against his temple.

“Did the empty half of the stalls that you saw in your dream remind you of anything?”

Frau Becker paused and gave the question serious consideration. Her lips pursed, and a thin horizontal line appeared on her brow.

“Now that you mention it, yes. Just after Christmas, I wanted to see a play—a comedy—at the Volkstheatre. I had bought tickets for this play very early. So early, in fact, that I had to pay an extra booking fee. When we got to the Volkstheatre, it turned out that I needn't have bothered—one side of the theater was half empty. My husband kept on teasing me for having been in such a hurry.”

“And the sum of eight hellers—is that associated with some memory of a real event?”

Frau Becker toyed with her brooch, a thin crescent of garnets.

“Not eight hellers but eight kronen. The maid was recently given a present of eight kronen by an admirer. She immediately rushed off to Vienna in order to buy some jewelry.”

“Thank you,” said Liebermann. “Thank you,” he repeated, nodding his head. “You have been most helpful.”

Frau Becker looked from Liebermann to Inspector Rheinhardt, her expression inviting an explanation. But the inspector merely thanked her for being so cooperative.

On leaving the house, Liebermann and Rheinhardt discovered that the garden was no longer empty. A man in muddy overalls and boots was kneeling next to a flower bed, tugging coils of dead creeper from a thorny bush.

“Good afternoon,” said Rheinhardt.

The man stood up, drew his sleeve across his nose, and uttered a greeting. Rheinhardt introduced himself and showed the gardener a photograph of Zelenka—the one that he had had copied after visiting the boy's parents.

“Do you recognize him?”

“Yes, I recognize him.”

“He came here often?”

“Some would say too often.” The man's lips suddenly parted. He began to chuckle, revealing a mouth full of yellow carious teeth.

“What do you mean, ‘too often’?”

The gardener made a lewd gesture with his hand, winked, and, without excusing himself, stomped off.

Liebermann and Rheinhardt watched him recede.

“Just a moment,” Rheinhardt called.

The man accelerated his step and disappeared behind the house.

“When our great poets versify about the rustic charm of country folk,” said Rheinhardt, “what do you think they mean, exactly?”

Liebermann stared out of the carriage window at the passing woodland.

“So,” said Rheinhardt. “What did you make of Frau Becker?”

“She is very much regretting her marriage.”

“If that really is the case, then I'm not surprised—I can't think of a more ill-matched couple. However, given that you have never laid eyes on Herr Becker, I must assume that you have determined this by interpreting her dream.”

“Professor Freud has explained that dreams are often a reaction to events that occur on the preceding day. This certainly seems to be the case with Frau Becker, who only yesterday received a letter from Marianne, an old friend, containing news of her engagement to an excellent prospective husband—a dashing young officer. A common factor linking much of the material that surfaced in her dream— albeit in the form of distortions—was haste. You will recall that Frau Becker purchased her theater tickets far too early, and the maid hurried into town to spend her eight kronen. Taken together, I would suggest that these elements express the following sentiment: ‘It was stupid of me to marry in a hurry. I can now see from Marianne's example that I could have got a better husband if I had waited.’ “

Liebermann raised a hand in the air and then let it drop, as if tired of the sheer predictability of human affairs.

“I suspect that Frau Becker's story,” he continued, “is one with which we are all very familiar. An attractive provincial girl, desiring a better life, encounters an older man of means. She beguiles him with her youthful good looks, but after they are married, she discovers that the life of a schoolmaster's wife is not what she'd expected. She is bored, stranded on a lonely eminence in the woods, trapped in a big empty house, miles away from the delightful shops on Kärntner Strasse, Kohlmarkt, and the Graben, where she once imagined herself purchasing beautiful, expensive things for her home and wardrobe. Her erotic instinct is frustrated, and she envies her friend, Marianne, who will almost certainly find satisfaction—if she hasn't already— in the arms of her handsome young cavalryman. Such a woman might well find solace in the company of boys like Zelenka: intelligent, sensitive boys, approaching manhood. And such is her appetite that even the gardener is conscious of her misconduct. I cannot believe that the extraordinary properties of Frau Becker's blouse escaped your attention.”

Rheinhardt coughed into his hand and his cheeks became flushed. “I did not know where to look!”

“Do you know something, Oskar?” said Liebermann, rubbing his hands together. “I'm beginning to think that there is something quite odd going on at Saint Florian's.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Rheinhardt.

“Zelenka appears to have died naturally… but the more your investigations proceed, the more you seem to uncover conditions and circumstances that one would ordinarily associate with murder. Sadistic persecution… and now the possibility of an illicit sexual liaison. What if Zelenka had threatened to expose Frau Becker? What if he had asked her for money? The boy was very poor and hated Saint Florian's. It might have been his only way out.”

“Well,” said Rheinhardt, “our opinions seem to be converging at last. You have a strong sense of something being wrong, but you can't quite put your finger on it. In other words, you have a feeling. Isn't that so?” Liebermann raised his chin and looked down his nose at his friend with haughty displeasure. “I only hope,” Rheinhardt continued, his voice becoming more reflective, “that I am given an adequate opportunity to get to the bottom of it.”

Liebermann caught the change of register. “Why shouldn't you be?”

“Oh,” grumbled Rheinhardt, “some business of von Bulow's.”

“Ordinarily I would ask you the nature of that business, but I know there is little point. You have been ordered to keep it a secret.”

Rheinhardt emitted a cry of surprise and demanded: “How on earth did you know that?”

Liebermann closed his eyes and an enigmatic smile played about his lips. “Perhaps I had a feeling,” he said softly.

Rheinhardt burst out laughing. “Sometimes,” he said, shaking his head, “you can be quite insufferable!”

22

“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, headmaster?”

“Yes indeed, Wolf. Please sit.”

Professor Eichmann was signing and dating documents. On Eichmann's desk was a photograph of himself looking considerably younger and dressed in the uniform of an artillery officer. The headmaster glanced up from his paperwork.

“How is your father?”

“Very well, headmaster.”

“You will be kind enough to include my salutations when you next write home.”

“Of course, headmaster.”

Professor Eichmann signed and dated one more document, and said: “You will be wondering why I wanted to see you today.” He did not pause for a reply, but instead made some polite inquiries after Wolf's health. He then congratulated Wolf, first for winning a bronze medal in the school shooting competition, and second for having been invited by Professor Gärtner to join his special tutorial group.

“He is very particular about who he accepts,” said the headmaster. “Such an invitation is extended to only the most promising pupils—boys with the right attitude.”

When their gazes met, they did so with mutual understanding. They had had similar discussions in the past.

The headmaster toyed with his pen, and spoke for some time about the values of the school and about how, for generations now, Saint Florian's had been producing soldiers of the highest quality. “Men who appreciated the importance of loyalty, fidelity, and obedience— men of honor.”

He put his pen down and made some minor adjustments to its position.

“Of course,” continued the headmaster, “lately Saint Florian's has been forced to accept a number of boys who do not share our values. Boys who object to our methods, find fault with our principles— and whose families are not acquainted with our traditions. This saddens me, because if an outside party were to question these boys, I fear they would misrepresent us. They do not seem to appreciate that we are—as it were—a family. Loose talk damages the school's reputation—and what damages the school's reputation damages all of us.”

Eichmann's voice was persuasive, reasonable—but it was also troubled by a trace of anger. The headmaster sighed, smiled, and said: “I understand that Professor Gärtner has recently introduced you to the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.”

“Yes,” said Wolf. “We have been reading Beyond Good and Evil.“

“A very stimulating work,” said Eichmann. “Although when Professor Gärtner introduces you to Thus Spake Zarathustra, you will discover even greater riches.” The headmaster stood up and walked over to the lancet windows. He reached out his right hand and, resting it against the stone casement, leaned forward, allowing his arm to support his pitched body. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and rivers of darkness had begun to appear between the hills. “The police were here again today.” His voice was even.

“I know, headmaster.”

“Something must be done.”

“Yes, headmaster.”

“Something decisive.”

“Of course, headmaster.”

23

LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING at the table of an inauspicious coffeehouse in Landstrasse with Signor Barbasetti, his fencing master, and two other pupils with whom he was moderately acquainted: Brod and Lind. They had just taken part in a competition. However, none of the three aspirants had performed very well.

Signor Barbasetti concealed his disappointment with a lengthy and somewhat philosophical disquisition on the art of fencing, the conclusion of which was that much could be learned from the close examination of small errors.

Yes, like psychoanalysis, thought Liebermann.

Unfortunately, Barbasetti chose to demonstrate the truth of this maxim by recounting and itemizing the failings of his students in such detail that any bonhomie slowly ebbed away, leaving in its place an intransigent atmosphere of gloom and despondency. Earlier than antici pated, the men rose from their seats, enacted the requisite courtesies, and parted company.

Liebermann was not familiar with the city's third district—and because his mind was still occupied by his mentor's excoriating critique, it took him some time to register that he had strayed from his intended route and was now hopelessly lost. He had wandered into an area consisting mainly of building sites and decrepit terraces: squat buildings with ruined stucco and rotten window frames. The air smelled damp, tainted with a trace of stagnancy (not unlike sewage). At the end of the road a mangy dog was standing beneath a streetlamp, feeding on something in the gutter. As Liebermann approached, the dog stopped eating and gazed up at him with minatory pale lupine eyes: it emitted a cautionary growl, and then began to gnaw on an object that cracked loudly in its mouth. Liebermann turned the corner, and peered down another poorly lit road.

Even though a few windows showed signs of occupancy, most were dark. Indeed, since leaving the coffeehouse Liebermann had not encountered another human being. It was unnaturally quiet, suggesting abandonment and dereliction. He glanced at his watch—and discovered that it was much later than he had thought.

Liebermann halted to consider his position. If he had been going toward the canal, then he would be able to follow its course into town. If, on the other hand, he had been traveling in the opposite direction, he was sure to come across a train line—which would serve the same purpose.

As he contemplated his options, the oppressive silence was broken by a scream—a woman's voice, crying for help. The volume and shrillness of the sound startled Liebermann, who spun around, trying to determine where it was coming from. He then sprinted toward the source, his footsteps sounding loud on the cobbled street. But he had not gone very far when the cries faded. His pace slackened.

An upstairs window flickered into life, its luminescent rectangle inhabited by the silhouette of a man in his nightshirt. The dog began to bark. Ahead, the road curved into darkness.

Where is she?

Liebermann was breathing hard.

The screams had sounded very close. Yet the arc of doors that lay ahead revealed nothing more than the reflected glimmer of a second streetlamp.

Liebermann had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace and almost missed an opening between two houses—a narrow alleyway. Skidding to a halt, he wheeled around. He could hear scuffling—movements and a whimper. Treading softly he ventured into the passage. His foot made contact with something soft and yielding. Reaching down, he discovered a woman's bag.

Suddenly, voices. Rough-edged voices, speaking in a harsh working-class dialect.

Liebermann edged forward, taking great care not to make a sound. The alleyway led to a walled yard, dimly lit by a streetlamp located on the other side of the enclosure. The yard was strewn with crates, bottles, and other detritus. A woman was struggling to free herself from a broad-shouldered man who, standing behind her, had clamped a hand over her mouth and wrapped an arm around her waist. Another two men stood in front of the captive, jeering and making obscene remarks. It was obvious what they intended to do.

Liebermann stepped out of his tenebrous hiding place and called out: “Let her go.”

The leering duo turned. It was impossible to see their faces in the half-light.

“Let her go,” Liebermann repeated.

One of the men laughed.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“I must insist that you let her go.”

A stream of profanities ended in humorless guffaws.

“Leave us alone,” the other man said. “Leave us alone, all right? Or you're gonna get hurt. Badly.”

“Yeah, run along—college boy.” This came from the man who was restraining the woman. She began to wriggle. “Keep still, you Gypsy bitch,” he hissed. The woman groaned as the villain tightened his grip.

Liebermann stood firm.

“Right,” said the nearest man. Liebermann saw him make a swift movement—and the glint of a blade flashed in the man's hand. He began to move forward. “Let's see if I can change your mind.”

“As you wish,” Liebermann replied.

The young doctor had been holding his sabre under his arm. Grabbing the hilt, he pulled it from the scabbard—producing as he did a satisfying ring of resonant steel—and held the sword aloft. Its appearance was greeted with a gasp and another stream of profanities. However, the man with the razor continued his approach, and his companion followed.

Liebermann could now see his adversary's features. He was bald, with swollen ears, a snout nose, and a scar that crossed his lips, disfiguring his mouth. It was a brutish countenance, suggesting the haphazard adhesion of lumps of clay. Liebermann searched the eyes for signs of intelligence but found only savage stupidity and an appetite for mindless violence.

The man jumped forward with surprising speed, swiping his razor close to Liebermann s face. But Liebermann had the superior weapon. Before the man could retreat, the young doctor's sabre had slashed through his forearm. The thug cried out, dropping the razor and falling to his knees. His companion, however, had armed himself with a large plank of wood, from which projected several nails. He was taller than the bald man, and more agile. Dodging Liebermann s first lunge, he swung the plank hard against the doctor's side. It was not a painful blow, but had sufficient force to make Liebermann stumble.

While Liebermann was trying to right himself, the tall man landed a second blow on his shoulder. This time it was extremely painful—sharp and searing. A nail had penetrated his skin, and as he pulled away, he heard the sound of ripping.

“Again,” the bald man shouted.

His companion raised his makeshift club, but on this third occasion he lifted it too high, exposing his torso and conceding the vital second that Liebermann required. The young doctor swung his sabre horizontally, creating a glimmering semicircle, the edge of which, if it had been displaced by another two inches, might well have proved fatal. The tall man buckled over—a torrent of blood gushing from his abdomen.

Liebermann waited until the tall man's rapidly weakening legs gave way, and then marched over to the woman and her captor.