Fatal Lies

The young doctor suddenly seemed galvanized. His movements acquired a nervous urgency.

“I would like to take another look at those photographs.”

“What photographs?”

“The photographs of Zelenka… and I would also like to speak to his parents.”

“Why?”

Liebermann shook his head. “When you first told me about Zelenka's death, you said—did you not?—that he had been conducting some experiments involving… vinegar?”

“Yes, that's right. I did say that.”

Liebermann picked up the almonds and rattled them in his closed fist.

“How very interesting. Almonds and vinegar!”

The young doctor's eyes were alight—and he had acquired a slightly fevered look.

“I don't know what you were drinking last night,” said Rheinhardt. “And I'm not sure that I want to know; however, whatever it was, I would strongly advise, that—at all costs—you eschew it in future.” Before Liebermann could respond, Rheinhardt's expression had changed from dudgeon to despondency. “Oh no, what now?” His assistant, Haussmann, had just walked through the door.

The young man's arrival at their table coincided with the final bars of the Brahms Hungarian Dance, and when he spoke, he had to compete with a loud round of applause.

“Instructions from Commissioner Brügel, sir. You must proceed to Herrengasse—immediately. There has been…” He looked around to make sure that no one was listening and lowered his voice. “An incident.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Rheinhardt, cupping his ear.

“A body, sir,” said the assistant, with a hint of impatience. “In Herrengasse—a high-ranking officer in His Majesty's army.”

“Who?”

“General von Stoger.”

“I see,” said Rheinhardt.

“Commisioner Brügel… he said that you are to initiate the investigation, but you must expect to be relieved by Inspector von Bulow as soon as he is located.”

“Why?”

“Er… don't know, sir. Perhaps it's all to do with…” He glanced at Liebermann, unsure about whether to continue.

“Yes, yes,” said Rheinhardt. “Von Bulow's confounded assignment—whatever it is!”

The inspector pressed on his knees to raise his bulky frame, and looked affectionately at his unfinished meal. “What a dreadful waste,” he said. “And I was so looking forward to the chef's topfenstrudel.” Then, addressing Liebermann, he added: “What are you supposed to be doing this afternoon?”

“Case notes.”

“Can it wait?”

“Yes—I could write them up this evening.”

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany us?”

“If you wish.”

Rheinhardt turned toward the door, but his dynamism was suddenly extinguished. He seemed to be overcome by a curious lassitude. Retrieving his abandoned fork, he impaled an untouched dumpling and stuffed it into his mouth, whole. He then said something quite unintelligible to Haussmann.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the bemused assistant. “I didn't quite catch that.”

“Photographer,” he repeated. “Get the photographer… and find Professor Mathias.”

As they left, a man at an adjacent table turned to watch them go. He had dark curly hair, an impressive mustache, and the fiery eyes of a zealot.

48

PROFESSOR EICHMANN WAS SEATED behind his desk, staring at the photograph of himself as a youthful artillery officer. As a child, he had dreamed of wearing such a uniform, distinguishing himself in battle, and becoming a celebrated general. But in real life his precocious fantasies had come to nothing. His career in the army had not been very remarkable—although this was through no fault of his own. He had been honorably discharged in his early twenties due to ill health. The doctor had attributed his breathlessness to a congenital heart defect. At the time, Eichmann had been devastated; however, he was an intelligent, resourceful young man, and soon turned this misfortune to his advantage. He excelled at university, wrote a modestly succesful history of the Austrian land forces, and won the respect of his academic peer group.

Yet, in spite of his achievements, the disappointment of his early discharge from the artillery lingered.

He had wanted to be a man of action, and academia was—for him—far too distant from the battlefield. In due course, he trained as a teacher and sought a more direct relationship with the world. Although he had been denied glory, he could still influence those destined to take his place.

While still in his thirties, he had written an impressive article on the importance of military schools. It had become commonplace in coffeehouses to hear patrons bemoaning the state of the army. Who could deny that it was underfunded, ill-equipped, and in need of modernization? Eichmann, however, had argued that the significance of these factors had been exaggerated. What really mattered was “character.” If the army—and in particular the Austrian army—was going to meet the challenges of the new century, then it should be supplied with soldiers of a certain “type.” Thus, military schools had a key role to play in determining the destiny of the dual monarchy. Moreover, Eichmann had proposed that this right sort of character should be modeled on a vision of man described in recent philosophi cal writings. Such works might introduce teachers to some very useful principles.

It was an argument that had attracted the interest of the headmaster of a military school situated in the Vienna woods. The school was called Saint Florian's. Eichmann was immediately offered a teaching post. Five years later he became deputy headmaster, and three years after that, the headmaster had died and Eichmann had stepped into his shoes.

On the whole, Eichmann s project had been successful. The school now had a fine reputation. In addition, old boys occupied significant positions in the military hierarchy. The survival of the empire was— to a greater or lesser extent—dependent on these men of character whose thinking he had shaped. Thus, in a sense, he had inveigled his way back onto the battlefield. Some of their glory—at least in part— belonged to him.

There was a knock at the door.

Eichmann turned the photograph of his younger self aside.

“Come in.” It was the deputy headmaster. “Ah… Becker,” said the headmaster, gesturing toward a chair. “Well?”

Becker advanced, but did not sit.

“He didn't attend any classes yesterday—and he hasn't been seen all day today. The prefects have undertaken a thorough search of the school, including the outbuildings.”

“Have you spoken to any of his friends?”

“Perger doesn't have friends—as such.”

“All right, then—classmates?”

“A boy called Schoeps claims to have seen him in the dormitory on Tuesday night. That, I believe, was the last time anyone saw him.”

“He must have absconded.”

“Yes, sir, that seems to be the most likely explanation.”

The headmaster shook his head. “This is all we need.”

“Quite. Most inopportune.”

“Thank you, Deputy Headmaster,” said Eichmann.

Becker bowed and left the room.

The headmaster opened a drawer, took out a sheet of headed notepaper, and began writing.

Dear Herr Perger,

I regret to inform you that your son Isidor appears to have absconded from the school. This is a very serious matter.

The headmaster paused and bit the end of his pen. He recalled his talk with Wolf. For a moment, it crossed his mind that the boy might have misundertsood him.

No, he thought. Surely not.

Returning his attention to the letter, he continued to write.

49

LIEBERMANN EXAMINED THE CRACKED SURFACE of a large oil painting that depicted the 1683 battle of Vienna. The colors had been dimmed by generations of cigar smoke, but it was still possible to make out the noble figure of the Polish king, Jan Sobieski, confronting the Ottoman commander—Grand Vizier Merzifonlu Kara Mustafa Pasha.

What if Vienna had fallen? thought Liebermann. What then? Would the cry of the muezzin now be heard, resonating along the banks of the Danube, the Rhine, or even the Seine, calling the faithful to evening prayer?

He felt a small detonation of pride in his chest.

Vienna.

The peoples of Europe were much indebted to the Viennese—if they but knew it!

Liebermann stepped away from the painting, with its massive carved frame and its jaundiced, barely discernible figures, and surveyed the large gloomy room in which he was standing.

Thick embroidered curtains were drawn across three of the tall rectangular windows. Only the fourth pair of heavy drapes had been pulled back to admit a sour, enervating light. From the high ceiling hung a massive iron chandelier—notable for the complexity of its loops and involutions. Stalactites of congealed wax hung from its six dishes like a macabre merry-go-round of dangling atrophied fingers. The ceiling itself was equally ornate, indented with step-sided coffers. Below the ceiling was a cornice of regularly spaced moldings: rosettes, garlands, and openmouthed lions baring their teeth.

Two suits of armor stood guard on either side of the double doors. Other furniture included assorted chairs, a Japanese lacquered cabinet (shaped like a pagoda), a wall table (on which an antique chess set was displayed), a porcelain stove, some bookshelves, and—rather strangely—a battered leather saddle. Liebermann supposed that this last item must have been of sentimental value to the general, having been of service during some notable campaign. Military men—whose fundamental purpose it was to kill others—could be remarkably sentimental.

The center of the room was dominated by a mahogany desk: behind it was a high-backed wooden chair, and on this chair sat a stout gentleman with a bulbous pockmarked nose. His hair had receded, and, like many men of his generation, he had—in deference to the emperor—chosen to sport a fine set of muttonchop whiskers. He was wearing a quilted smoking jacket, with velvet trimmings, and loose-fitting silk trousers. Liebermann noticed that below the desk the general's big feet occupied a pair of elegant oriental slippers traced with silver thread and with toes that curled upward.

Liebermann could hear Rheinhardt's baritone through the closed double doors. He was interviewing one of the general's servants in the hallway. Although the inspector was speaking in hushed tones, his strong voice carried. It was answered by a muffled and considerably weaker tenor.

The general might have been taking a nap—such was his innocent attitude. His left cheek was pressed against the red leather inlay of the desktop, his arms were sprawled out to either side of his head, and his eyes were closed. However, in his right hand he held a bulky Borchardt pistol, and a gaping hole had been blasted through his skull—just above the ear.

A pile of books had toppled as the general had fallen forward. Most of the titles were by German theoreticians of warfare—but one volume, on closer inspection, turned out to be a lighthearted collection of military anecdotes. The pale calf bindings of the more academic works were spattered with blood and gelatinous globs of brain tissue. On the corner of the desk was a deep, wide ashtray that contained three cigar stubs.

Liebermann heard the sound of brisk footsteps advancing up the hallway, and then new voices and a brittle exchange. The double doors opened and a tall man entered, followed by a younger man who was evidently his assistant. Although Liebermann had heard a great deal about Rheinhardt's nemesis, Victor von Bulow, they had never been formally introduced. Liebermann remembered von Bulow from the detectives’ ball and had seen him once before, the previous year, arguing with Rheinhardt outside Commissioner Brü gel's office.

Von Bulow swept into the room and came to an abrupt halt on the other side of the general's desk. He and Liebermann looked at each other—though the manner in which the two men observed each other was curiously intense and searching. It did not suggest passive reception but, rather, an active seeking-out. They were inspecting. And as is always the case when two well-dressed men meet, the object of their attention was, first and foremost, clothing: value, quality, and provenance.

They recoiled slightly when they both observed—simultaneously— that they were wearing identical astrakhan coats, supplied almost certainly by the very same shop. This resulted in their expressions shifting—in tandem—from mild indignation to what might have been a form of grudging respect. However, their tacit truce was quickly dissolved. In a transparent attempt to assert his sartorial advantage, von Bulow tugged at his shirt cuffs to reveal the glitter of his diamond cuff links. Rheinhardt, who had followed von Bulow in, witnessed this silent but perfectly comprehensible exchange with some amusement.

“Herr Dr. Liebermann?” said von Bulow icily.

“Inspector von Bulow,” said Liebermann, inclining his head.

Von Bulow walked around the desk, his stare fixed on the general.

“I trust you have not touched the body.”

“That is correct. I have not touched the body.”

“Good.” Von Bulow crouched down to get a better view of the head wound. “Pathology is not your specialty, Herr Doctor…”

Von Bulow had subtly stressed his statement so that it sounded a little like a question.

“Indeed,” Liebermann confirmed. “I am not a pathologist. I am a psychiatrist.”

“You will appreciate, then, I hope,” said von Bulow, “that your presence here can serve no purpose.”

It was a blunt and discourteous dismissal.

Liebermann retained his composure and acquiesced with a curt nod. As he walked toward the door, von Bulow called out: “Oh, and Dr. Liebermann…” The young doctor stopped and turned around. “Inspector Rheinhardt was acting without proper authority when he invited you to accompany him. You must not tell anyone what you have seen here today. Do you understand?”

“With respect,” said Rheinhardt, coughing uncomfortably, “that really isn't right. I was instructed by the commissioner to initiate standard investigative procedures until your arrival. And that's exactly what I've done. There is nothing irregular about Dr. Liebermann's attendance. He has been of considerable assistance to the security office on many occasions—as you are well aware. If this investigation is—how shall we say? Sensitive?—then perhaps you should ask Commissioner Brügel why he did not make this absolutely clear vis-à-vis my instructions.”

Von Bulow paused and stroked the neat rectangle of silver bristle on his chin. He seemed to be reconsidering his position, weighing up costs and benefits on an internal mental balance. His pale gray eyes— almost entirely devoid of color—stared coldly at Rheinhardt. A sudden reconfiguration of his angular features suggested that his obscure calculations had been successfully completed.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said softly. “I am most grateful for your help.” His intonation had become unctuous—oily with sarcasm. “Be that as it may, now that I am here—you may both leave.”

Rheinhardt, exasperated, strode over to von Bulow and handed him his notebook.

“You may as well have this. I've just interviewed the head servant. The house staff were all dismissed last night at seven and told not to return until this afternoon.”

Von Bulow flicked through the notes.

“Rheinhardt, how can you possibly expect me to understand this scribble? I'll interview him again myself.”

Rheinhardt shrugged. “As you wish, von Bulow. You should also know that Professor Mathias has been asked—”

“Professor Mathias!” von Bulow cut in. “Dear God, Rheinhardt, you're not still using that lunatic? I'll be appointing my own pathologist, thank you. Now, gentlemen, the suicide of one of His Majesty's generals is nothing less than a national tragedy. I really must be getting on.”

He extended his arm toward the doors.

In readiness to leave, Rheinhardt looked over at his friend; however, Liebermann was hesitant.

“I'm sorry,” said Liebermann to von Bulow “But did you just say… suicide?”

Von Bulow turned on Liebermann with evident impatience.

“Yes.”

“You are of the opinion that General von Stoger took his own life?”

“Well, of course he did!”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because General von Stoger is lying here—quite dead—with a gun in his hand and a very large hole in his head. Now, for the last time, Herr Doctor, would you kindly leave? I have work to do.”

Von Bulow's assistant smirked.

“Forgive me,” said Liebermann, making his way back to the body. He beckoned to von Bulow, urging him to examine the general's wound more closely. “Observe,” Liebermann continued. “There are no powder burns on the general's temple. No grains embedded in the skin. Most people, when they choose to end it all by shooting themselves, place the muzzle of the gun against the epidermis—pressing it in, hard.” Liebermann made a gun shape with his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers into his temple. “Presumably,” he continued, “to reduce the possibility of making an error. Only rarely—very rarely—will a suicide hold the pistol at a distance. You are correct that I am not a pathologist; however, I am a psychiatrist, and it is a sad fact that members of my profession are frequently the first to discover individuals who have committed suicide. I have seen many suicides… and one notices certain resemblances between them.”

Von Bulow snorted. “It may be very rare—as you suggest—for a suicide to hold the weapon at a distance, but it is not so exceptional as to recommend that we should abandon common sense! Now, Herr Doctor, if you would kindly let me conduct my investigation in the manner to which I am accustomed!”

Dispensing with any pretence of courtesy, von Bulow flicked his thumb toward the exit.

“And the absence of a suicide note?” said Liebermann, ignoring von Bulow's rude gesture. “Does that not strike you as being a little odd? Gentlemen of von Stoger's class and rank always leave a suicide note.”

“Herr Dr. Liebermann,” said von Bulow coldly, “you are testing my patience!”

“I do apologize,” Liebermann replied. “I have neglected to mention the most important of my observations. No powder burns, no suicide note… these are simply auxiliary to the principal fact, which, if I may be so bold as to declare, is—in my humble judgment—quite compelling.”

Von Bulow's arm dropped to his side. He was reluctant to ask the young doctor what this compelling principal fact was and so cede his authority. He glared at Liebermann, who had chosen this moment to conduct a minute study of his fingernails. He picked off a cuticle. Rheinhardt, the long-suffering victim of Liebermann s irritating penchant for obscurity and mystification, was, for once, delighted.

The ensuing silence became frigid and intractable.

Von Bulow—finally overcome by curiosity—ungraciously spat out his question: “What are you talking about!”

“Simply this,” said Liebermann, smiling. “The general's eyes are closed. This is not remarkable in itself, being commonplace when people die naturally. But when people die suddenly—their eyes remain open. In the anguished state that precedes suicide, we can be quite sure that the eyes are wide open—staring, in fact. And this is how we—us psychiatrists—usually find them.” Liebermann paused for just enough time for von Bulow to register von Stoger's heavy, hooded lids. “Inspector, someone closed the general's eyes postmortem. And I strongly suspect that the person who did that was also the person who shot him!”

The blood drained from von Bulow's face. He ran an agitated hand over the silver stubble at the back of his head.

“Good day,” said Liebermann, marching briskly to the closed double doors. Before opening them, he looked back into the room and added, “And don't be fooled by that tight grip. A gun can be placed in the hand immediately after death, and then when rigor mortis sets in, it creates the illusion of a holding-fast.”

Rheinhardt bowed, and followed his friend out into the hall. The servant whom Rheinhardt had been interviewing was still waiting.

“Sir?” said the servant to Rheinhardt. “May I retire to my quarters now?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Rheinhardt. “My colleague Inspector von Bulow wishes to ask you some more questions.”

The man acquiesced glumly.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann began walking down the hallway, their footsteps sounding loudly on the shiny, polished ebony.

Unable to restrain himself, Rheinhardt slapped his friend on the back.

“That was truly excellent, Max, excellent. You made von Bulow look like a complete idiot.”

In response, the young doctor took a sugared almond from his pocket, tossed it into the air, and caught it in his mouth. He bit through the icing and produced a loud, satisfying crunch. “Let's go back to Schottenring,” he said. “I must see those photographs again.”

50

WOLF WAS SITTING IN the lost room, alone, smoking his way through a packet of gold-tipped cigarettes. He had acquired them from Bose, a plump and effete baron from Deutsch-Westungarn, whose arm he had twisted until the boy had squealed like a stuck pig. Resting on Wolf's lap was a large book, the cover of which was made of soft green leather and embossed with gold lettering. The endpapers were marbled. Wolf licked his finger and began to turn the pages. The movement of his hand across the spine became faster and faster—each transition was accompanied by a double syllable of friction and release. The sound was not unlike a person gasping for breath. Although he was not reading the text, Wolf's expression was attentive.

The monotony of the task created a void in his mind, which soon filled with recent memories.

Earlier that day Wolf had been summoned to the headmaster's office. The old man had rambled on in his usual way about values, honor, and reputation, but in due course his well-practiced oratory had stalled. He had become somewhat incoherent. Eventually, the headmaster had made an oblique reference to the matter discussed on the occasion of their last meeting.

“It appears that Perger has absconded.”

“Yes,” Wolf had replied.

“This sort of behavior cannot be countenanced. When he is found, I will have no other option but to expel him. Whatever plea is made on his behalf—and I'm sure that at least one well-meaning but misguided advocate will come forward—nothing, and I mean nothing, can possibly excuse such appalling misconduct.”

“No, sir,” Wolf had agreed. “It is quite disgraceful.”

The headmaster had risen and, as was his habit, had gone to the window.

Wolf recalled the nervous catch in his voice: “I take it we have understood the situation correctly. Eh, Wolf? I mean… Perger has absconded, hasn't he?”

“Why, yes,” Wolf had replied. “There can be no other explanation for his disappearance, surely?”

“Good,” the headmaster had muttered, evidently reassured by the boy's steady confidence.

Wolf now turned the final page. None of them had been annotated. He had observed a few inky marks here and there but nothing of any obvious significance. Wolf closed the book and opened it again at the frontispiece, an antique etching of a bearded scholar in a library. At the foot of the title page, in small lettering, he read “Hartel and Jacobsen,” beneath which was the publisher's address in Leipzig, and the year of publication: 1900.

As far as Wolf could determine, there was nothing remarkable about the dictionary at all—except, perhaps, its quality. He traced the tooled indentations with his finger.

Why on earth did Herr Sommer want it so badly? He had been desperate, that night in the locker room.

Wolf inspected the inside covers in order to determine if anything incriminating had been slipped beneath the endpapers, but it was obvious that no one had tampered with them. The space between the spine and the binding was also empty.

It was a mystery.

Suddenly irritated by his failure to discover anything there that he could use to his advantage, he threw the dictionary aside and picked up a thinner volume that he had previously laid at his feet. He reverently removed the bookmark and turned the blotchy print toward the paraffin lamp.

Just as the clouds tell us the direction of the wind high above our heads, so the lightest and freest spirits are in their tendencies foretellers of the weather that is coming. The wind in the valley and the opinions of the market place of today indicate nothing of that which is coming but only of that which has been.

The great philosopher's words were like a prophecy—but not just any prophecy. This was a prophecy meant especially for him. Wolf smiled, and a thrill of almost erotic intensity passed through his entire body. He was the future. Tomorrow belonged to him.

51

THE KOHLMARKT WAS BUSTLING with activity. A woman carrying a brightly wrapped parcel smiled at Liebermann as she passed, so delighted with her purchase that she could not suppress her joy. Two splendidly accoutred hussars, standing on the porch of a milliner's, were speaking loudly in Hungarian. On the other side of the street marched three Hasidim wearing long black caftans and wide-brimmed beaver hats. The Michaelertor—the massive green dome that towered above the entrance of the Hofburg Palace— dominated the view ahead. It looked particularly beautiful against the pastel wash of the taupe sky.

Liebermann had sent a note to Trezska earlier in the week, arranging to meet her at Café Demel (the imperial and royal confectioners). He had stated, with some regret, that their rendezvous could be only brief as he had some pressing business (a useful if somewhat overworked euphemism) to which he must attend later in the day. The young doctor had chosen Café Demel not only because of its reputation but for reasons of expediency, as he hoped to get the first of the day's business out of the way before Trezska's arrival.

Opening the door of the café, Liebermann stepped inside, and was immediately overcome by the aroma of coffee, cigar smoke, and the mingling of a thousand sweet fragrances. It was a warm, welcoming interior, suffused with a soft amber light. The gilt chandeliers were encrusted with opaque faintly glowing globes, as densely clustered as grapes on the vine. To the right, patrons were seated at round tables in a mirrored dining area, and to the left stood a long counter, dark wooden wall shelves, and numerous display cases. Every available space on this side of the café was occupied by cakes and sweetmeats: candied peel, marzipan animals, fondants and jellies, whole discs of torte—covered with thick dark chocolate—jars of brandy snaps, Turkish delight, vanillekipferl, meringues, pots of raspberry cream and apricot sauce, pear compote, artificial coins wrapped in gold and silver paper, guglhupf, apfelstruiel, dumplings bursting with glistening conserves, pastry pillows and Carinthian cinnamon buns. In the center of this cornucopia was a rectangular cake that had been made—with the aid of much yellow icing—to look exactly like the Schön brunn Palace.

A woman who was standing behind the counter came forward.

“Good afternoon,” said Liebermann. “Herr Tishlar is expecting me.” He glanced at his watch—he was exactly on time.

The woman indicated that he should follow her to the back of the café, where he was instructed to wait by some doors. She returned in the company of a very stout gentleman whose tiny mustache was distinguished by curlicue extremities. He was still dressed in his kitchen clothes.

“Herr Doctor,” he exclaimed. “Herr Tishlar, at your service.”

The master baker bowed low and performed an unnecessarily baroque flourish with his right hand. Liebermann recognized immediately that he was in the presence of a man who regarded his art as equal to that of Titian or Velázquez. The woman silently withdrew.

“You are most kind,” said Liebermann, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a photograph and a magnifying glass. “I promise I will be brief. I wonder… would it be possible for you to identify this pastry?”

The image he handed to Tishlar showed Zelenka's notebook and a blurry, untouched wedge of cake.

Peering through the lens, Herr Tishlar answered without hesitation: “Almond tart.” He then handed the photograph and magnifying glass back to the young doctor.

“Are you sure?” said Liebermann—taken aback by Herr Tishlar s certainty.

“Quite sure,” said the baker. “And—if you will forgive my immodesty—no ordinary almond tart! That, Herr Doctor,” said the master baker, tapping the photograph and pushing out his chest, “is one of ours. It is a Demel almond tart!”

Herr Tishlar guided Liebermann over to a display case and pointed to a roundel (sprinkled with castor sugar and strewn with striped ribbons) in a wooden box.

“Notice the pleating around the edge,” he said with pride. “Unique! It is the work of Herr Hansing—each of our pastries is made by a dedicated specialist who makes nothing else.”

Liebermann examined the photograph, and then returned his attention to the pastry. His untutored eye was unable to discern anything particularly distinctive; however, the master baker's confidence was persuasive and Liebermann was happy to accept his expert opinion.

“Thank you,” said the young doctor. “You have been most helpful.”

“Do you require any further assistance?”

“No… that was all I needed to know.”

“Then I will bid you good day.”

Herr Tishlar bowed and sashayed back to his kitchen.

Liebermann, smiling broadly—perhaps too broadly for a solitary man with no obvious cause of delight—dropped the photograph and magnifying glass into the side pocket of his coat and found a table near the window, where he sat, still smiling.

Trezska was twenty minutes late; however, her tardy arrival did nothing to dampen his spirits. Liebermann dismissed her excuses and urged her to make a close study of the impressive menu. After some deliberation—and two consultations with the head waiter—they both ordered the Salzburger Mozart torte: a sponge cake with layers of marzipan, brushed with chocolate cream and apricot jam, and deco rated with large orange-flavored pralines.

They talked mostly about music. Trezska described how she intended to play the spring sonata for Rosé at her next lesson—and the conversation naturally progressed to Beethoven. Liebermann regaled his companion with a musical anecdote concerning Beethoven's mortal remains and the composer Anton Bruckner. Apparently, when Beethoven's bones were being exhumed for skeletal measurement, Bruckner had barged into the chapel of the Währing cemetery, pushed the experts aside, and grasped in both hands Beethoven's skull—which he then began to address. Unmoved by Bruckner's devotion, those present quickly took back the skull and manhandled Bruckner out of the building.

Liebermann then asked Trezska if she would like to go to a concert at the Tonkünstlerverein—a recital including some Hugo Wolf songs and a performance of the Fauré sonata for violin and piano. She agreed instantly, and became quite excited when he told her that Jakob Grün was the soloist.

As they spoke, Liebermann was distracted by Trezska's beauty: the darkness and depth of her eyes, the color of her skin, and the shape of her face. Something of their lovemaking seemed to persist in the lower chambers of his mind: impressions of movement and memories of touch. He desired her—and that desire was predominantly physical; however, his attachment was becoming more complex. He had developed a fondness for her idiosyncrasies: the subtle cadences of her accent, the timbre of her voice, the way she moved her fingers when speaking, and the swift efficiency with which she could make small adjustments to her hair. It was in these little things—and the in ordinate pleasure he derived from noticing them—that Lieber-mann recognized love's progress. Cupid was a cunning archer, and penetrated defenses by choosing to land his arrows in the least obvious places.

The clock struck two, reminding Liebermann of his other engagements.

He paid their bill at the counter and purchased a circular box of sugared almonds, which he presented to Trezska as they emerged from the café.

She grinned: “What are these for?”

“For… introducing me to the transcendental properties of absinthe.”

“I thought the green fairy made you feel ill.”

“She did. However, that did not stop me from appreciating her magic.”

Trezska detected some deeper meaning in this remark—but she did not demand an explanation.

“Thank you,” she said.

The atmosphere on the Kohlmarkt had become smoky, and a few gaslights had already been lit. In the distance, the Michaelertor had become shrouded in a violet haze.

Liebermann took Trezska's hand, pressed it to his lips, and inhaled the fresh, crisp bouquet of clementine and mimosa. The familiar fragrance aroused in him a curious sentiment—a kind of proprietorial satisfaction.

She turned to move away, but at that very moment a gentleman stepped ahead of the advancing crowd and cried out, “Amélie.”

He was smiling at Trezska—and his expression was somewhat excited.

Trezska glanced back at Liebermann, and then at the gentleman.

“I'm sorry… but you have mistaken me for someone else.”

The man had a handsome, harmonious face, which momentarily appeared shocked before resuming an expression of composed amiability.

“No—surely not. It is you!” He laughed—as if he had just penetrated the meaning of an exclusive joke. “Franz… Remember?”

He appeared eager, expectant.

Trezska's brow furrowed. “With the greatest respect, I have no idea who you are.”

“But…”

The gentleman now looked confused.

Trezska turned to look back at Liebermann—a silent request for assistance. He stepped forward and said simply: “Sir… ?”

The gentleman had not noticed the young doctor and now started for the second time. He withdrew slightly.

“Of course,” he said, smiling contritely at Trezska. “I must… I must be mistaken. Please, dear lady, accept my sincere apologies… and to you, sir,” he added, making brief eye contact with Liebermann. “Good afternoon.” Straightening his hat, he strode off toward the Graben.

“How very peculiar,” said Trezska.

“Yes,” Liebermann replied.

“He gave me a fright.”

They hesitated for a moment, both of them somewhat discomfited by the encounter.

Trezska shook her head. “Never mind. Now you must get going or you will be late.”

After leaving Demel's, Liebermann walked to the Volksgarten, where he caught a tram to Ottakring and his next appointment.

Dr. Kessler was a middle-aged man, balding, with rounded cheeks and oval spectacles that perched on his snub nose. “Ah,” he said, studying Liebermann s security office documents. “I suppose you want to know more about Thomas Zelenka?”

“No,” Liebermann replied. “The boy I need to know more about is Domokos Pikler.”

“Ah yes,” said Kessler. A line appeared across his otherwise smooth brow. “Pikler.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Indeed. I had only just been appointed at the school when…” Kessler allowed the sentence to trail off. “I presume,” he started again, the tone of his voice more guarded, “your question bears some relation to that reprehensible article in the Arheiter-Zeitung.”

“The article by Herr G., yes.”

“I don't know about all the other allegations, but I do know one thing: the correspondent—whoever he is—was completely wrong about Pikler. The boy did not die because of persecution and bad luck. He was not forced to stand on a window ledge, and he did not jump off.”

“It was suicide…”

“Yes.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Kessler looked uneasy. His pate had begun to glisten with a film of perspiration.

“I would like to be frank with you, Herr Doctor. Could we speak, not as investigator and school physician, but rather as two medical men?”

Liebermann understood the nature of this appeal. It was a request for professional confidence—an assurance that discretion would be exercised.

“Of course,” said Liebermann.

Kessler pushed the young doctor's security office papers back across the table.

“He was a glum fellow, Pikler. Very glum. He never smiled, never laughed—never responded to banter. He'd just look at you, with a sullen expression on his face. He came to see me on several occasions, complaining of aches and pains, but I couldn't find anything wrong with him—well, not physically. He was a strange boy.… In the middle of our consultations he would often ask me questions of a philosophical nature. What is the meaning of life? What is the point of existence? Why doesn't God intercede to stop the suffering of innocents? And on one occasion he said something about mortal sin—something like: if atheists are correct, and there is no God, then there is no mortal sin… therefore, those who take their own lives might not go to hell, but instead find everlasting peace. Now, you must understand, I had only just taken up my position—and I was not used to dealing with cadets. The headmaster had gone out of his way to stress that the boys could be manipulative—that they might try to get medical exemptions in order to avoid certain onerous duties. I assumed that Pikler was a typical case. A malingerer. Given what happened, I now know that I was horribly mistaken. Some…” Kessler winced. “Some might accuse me of negligence. The boy was suffering from melancholia. I suspect that he initially presented with physical symptoms because he found these easier to talk about than his psychological symptoms, and his philosophical questions represented a desperate attempt to make sense of a world that he found perplexing and from which he could derive no pleasure. I should have…” Kessler emitted a long sigh that surrendered successive pitches like a descending scale. “Done something.… If I had referred Pikler on to a specialist, a psychiatrist—someone like you—then perhaps he would still be with us.”

Kessler looked at Liebermann directly. The moistness in his eyes evinced the authenticity of his regret.

“None of us,” said Liebermann, “are perfect—and medicine is an inexact science.”

An hour later, Liebermann was sitting with Thomas Zelenka's parents in the third district. It was a difficult situation: Liebermann was only there because he wanted to ask one question—a question that he knew would sound utterly absurd without first establishing some sort of context. Thus he set about the formidable task of influencing the flow of conversation such that its end point would be the gustatory preferences of the Zelenkas’ dead son.

Although getting the conversation from introductory remarks to the desired topic proved every bit as challenging as he had expected, once the subject had been broached, Meta Zelenka engaged in an extended reminiscence about her son's healthy appetite.

“Did Thomas,” said Liebermann—as casually as he could—”have a particular fondness for almond tarts?”

“No… not that I can remember.”

The young doctor—recognizing that he was perhaps already pushing his luck—changed the subject.

When he was about to leave, Fanousek, who had been eyeing him with some suspicion, said: “I thought you'd come about the dictionary. I thought it might have been found by now.”

Liebermann remembered Rheinhardt saying something about such a volume.

“I understand that it was very expensive,” said Liebermann.

“Very expensive,” said Meta. “More than we could afford.”

“Do you remember who published it?” said Liebermann, for want of a better question to ask.

“Yes: Hartel and Jacobsen—of Leipzig. We had to order it directly.”

Something stirred in Liebermann's mind—a recollection. Where had he last seen a Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary?

“But why that particular dictionary?” said Liebermann, his curiosity aroused.

“It was recommended.”

“By whom?”

“By one of the masters.”

“Which one? Can you remember?”

Meta shook her head, and looked at her husband.

“I think it was…” Fanousek pulled at his chin. “Herr Sommer. Yes, it was Herr Sommer.”

52

DREXLER HAD BEEN EXPECTING NIGHTMARES—but when they came, he was surprised by their power and intensity. They were not like ordinary dreams at all. They were vivid and possessed an extra ordinary physicality

One of them—a macabre re-creation of the night they had journeyed into the woods to bury Perger—was particularly disturbing. Drexler had finished filling the grave and was ready to leave. However, he tarried a moment in order to flatten some loose clods with the blade of his shovel. A pale hand broke through the earth, and the fingers closed tightly around his ankle. He struggled to get free but it was impossible: the hideous grip was like the teeth of a bear trap. He called out: Help, help… Wolf, Freitag, Steininger, help me—but he had lost his voice. Horrified, he watched them walking away, Wolf's lamp fading until its flickering sentinel light was extinguished by a cloak of darkness. What had really frightened Drexler, however, was what had happened next. On waking, he had discovered that he could not move his leg. He could still feel Pergers bone-crushing hold around his ankle. Panic had threaded through Drexler's body—and his breath had come in short, sharp gulps.

“Not again, Drexler!” Wolf had reprimanded him. Yet the sound of Wolf s heartless voice had been strangely comforting—a reminder that a real world existed in which corpses could be relied upon to stay dead. Sensation had flowed back into Drexler s paralyzed leg, and the ring of pain around his ankle had become first a dull ache, and then nothing—a memory.

Drexler had once overheard one of the masters talking about a doctor in Vienna who could interpret dreams. If so, he did not need his services—he already knew what these dreams meant.

That afternoon, while sitting in the library, he had decided that he must do something.

Drexler crossed the courtyard with his head bowed. The rain was making circles on islands of reflected sky. He entered the chapel and inhaled the familiar fragrance of incense and candle wax. Dipping his hand in the font, he anointed himself with holy water, genuflected, and found a place on a pew with the other boys who were waiting to make their confessions.

In due course he entered the confessional box, knelt down, and observed the shadowy figure of the priest crossing the air through the window grille.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…”

He had disobeyed his mother and father, he had deceived others, he had shown disrespect to his elders, he had failed to attend Mass. His confession flowed fluently and easily, but his resolve faltered when he attempted to unburden his conscience of the single sin that—in his estimation, at least—would consign him to hell.

“Father…” He hesitated.

“Yes, my son?”

“I… I have… I have…” He could not do it. “I have been to see the whore in Aufkirchen.”

The priest, who had been perfectly still, shifted—as if suddenly interested.

“Ahh… the whore in Aufkirchen, you say?”

“Yes.”

“And what—exactly—was the nature of your sinful act?”

“Father… we had relations.”

“Relations… I see, I see. Did she perform impure acts about your person?”

“She…”

“Come now, my son…”

“We had relations.”

“You penetrated her?”

“I did.”

The priest took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“And did she… perform any unseemly acts with her mouth?”

“We kissed.”

“Yes… but did she degrade herself using your person?”

The inquisition went on for some time. When the priest was finally satisfied that he had a complete and thorough understanding of Drexler's transgressions, he offered him counsel with respect to the temptations of the flesh, and warned him that he should not replace one vice with another—especially the vice of self-pollution—which would have grave physical and spiritual consequences. The priest then gave Drexler absolution and a penance of prayer.

Drexler did not do his penance. Instead, he marched straight out of the chapel, across the courtyard, and sat in the cloisters, fuming. It was all such nonsense! The priest had clearly been titillated by Drexler's erotic adventures in Aufkirchen: how could such a pathetic individual mediate between him and God? This was not what he wanted. He wanted to be truly absolved. He wanted to be absolved to the extent that he could sleep peacefully again and be free of his terrible, terrible guilt, the sheer magnitude of which made the rest of life seem an empty, hollow, meaningless charade by comparison.

To atone fully, Drexler realized that he would have to pay a forfeit more costly than a few prayers. Such mumblings were not a penance, and would do nothing to ease his pain.

53

THE LECTURE THEATER was almost empty—in fact, there were only five attendees including Liebermann. Professor Freud pointed to a small semicircle of chairs in front of the tiered auditorium and said: “Please, won't you come nearer, gentlemen.” He smiled, and beckoned—wiggling his clenched fingers as one might to encourage a shy child. The tone of his voice was exceptionally polite, but his penetrating gaze was determined. The audience, which comprised professional men in their middle years, accepted his invitation and made their way down the central aisle.

Liebermann was already sitting in one of the chairs at the front. He had attended many of Freud's Saturday evening lectures and knew that a request for greater proximity would be issued sooner or later. The professor did not like straining his voice and tried to create an intimate and informal atmosphere when addressing small groups.

Whereas other faculty members might have appeared clutching a thick wad of foolscap, dense with inky hieroglyphs, Freud arrived empty-handed. He always preferred to extemporize.

Once, just before Freud had been about to speak, Liebermann had asked him: “What are you going to talk about?” “We shall see,” Freud had replied. “I am sure my unconscious has something planned.”

The professor consulted the auditorium clock, which showed seven o'clock exactly. He coughed into his hand and stood erect, as if startled by the occurrence of an unusually arresting idea.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “One would certainly have supposed that there could be no doubt about what is to be understood as sexual.’ First and foremost, what is sexual is something improper, something one ought not to talk about. I have been told that the pupils of a celebrated psychiatrist once made an attempt to convince their teacher how frequently the symptoms of hysterical patients represent sexual things. For this purpose they took him to the bedside of a female hysteric, whose attacks were an unmistakable imitation of the process of childbirth. But with a shake of his head he remarked, ‘Well, there's nothing sexual about childbirth.’ Quite right. Childbirth need not in every case be something improper.”

Liebermann was the only member of the audience who smiled.

“I see that you take offense at my joking about serious things,” Freud continued. “But it is not altogether a joke—for it is not easy to decide what is covered by the concept sexual.’ “

And so he went on, improvising with extraordinary fluency, exploring a range of subjects relating to human sexuality (many of which he chose to illustrate with clinical examples drawn from his own practice). Liebermann was particularly interested in a case of sexual jealousy.…

When the lecture ended, at a quarter to nine, Freud took some questions from the audience. They were not very searching, but the professor managed to answer them in such a way as to make the questioners appear more perceptive than they actually were. It was a display of good grace rarely encountered in academic circles.

Liebermann lingered as the auditorium emptied. He approached the lecturer's table. The professor shook Liebermann's hand, thanked him for coming, and remarked that he would not be going on to Königstein's house to play taroc, as his good friend had caught a bad head cold. Moreover, as it was his custom to socialize on Saturday nights—and he was nothing if not a creature of habit—he wondered whether Liebermann would be interested in joining him for coffee and a slice of guglhupf at Café Landtmann. The young doctor— always eager to spend time with his mentor—accepted the honor readily.

They made their way to the Ringstrasse while talking somewhat superficially about the attendees. Two of the gentlemen, Freud believed, were general practitioners—but he had no idea as to the identity of the other two. It was truly astonishing, Liebermann reflected, how Freud's public lectures rarely attracted more than half a dozen people. The professor commented, as if responding telepathically to Liebermann's private thoughts, that resistance to psychoanalytic ideas merely confirmed their veracity.

A red and white tram rolled by, its interior lit by a row of electric lights. The passengers, staring out of the windows, seemed peculiarly careworn and cheerless.

Liebermann asked the professor some technical questions about the case material he had discussed in his talk—and, more specifically, about the patient he was treating who suffered from sexual jealousy.

“Yes,” said Freud. “Sane in every respect, other than an absolute conviction that when he leaves Vienna, his saintly wife enjoys assignations with his brother—a celebrated religious in their community. The man reminds me of Pozdnyshev in Tolstoy's The Kreutzer Sonata. Have you read it?”

“I have.”

“You will recall then how Pozdnyshev suspects that the musical evenings his wife enjoys with the violinist Trukhachevsky are merely an artful deceit. So it is with my patient, who has come to believe that when his brother and wife are supposedly praying together, they are in fact enjoying the forbidden pleasures of an illicit union.”

“In the end, Pozdnyshev kills his wife—does he not?”

“Indeed… Tolstoy understood that jealousy is the most dangerous of passions. The doctor who takes such a patient into his care can assuredly expect his nights to be much disturbed by fearful imaginings.”

The professor proceeded to make some distinctions between different forms of jealousy namely neurotic and pathological—the latter being more severe than the former. Then he suddenly seemed to lose confidence in his delineations.

“The problem is,” he continued, stroking his neatly trimmed beard, “that one cannot love without experiencing jealousy. It is one of the many common forms of unhappiness that we might ascribe to the human condition. In matters of the heart, the boundary that separates that which is normal from that which is abnormal all but dissolves. Possessed of this knowledge, the physician must be extremely wary with respect to what he identifies as an illness.”

“Surely,” Liebermann ventured, “in cases of sexual jealousy where there is insufficient evidence to substantiate an allegation of infidelity, we can reasonably describe the symptoms as delusional.”

Freud shrugged and stopped to light a cigar. He offered one to Liebermann, but the young doctor declined.

“I remember,” Freud said, “many years ago, when I was only recently engaged to be married…” He paused, sighed, and whispered almost incredulously, “A situation arose that caused me much mental turmoil.” The professor began walking again. He was looking straight ahead, but his gaze had lost some of its characteristic probing intensity.

“I once had a dear friend,” he continued. “Wahle was his name. He was an artist of considerable talent.… He had also been, for a long time, a brotherly friend of my beloved Martha—and, naturally, they corresponded. I should mention that Wahle was already engaged himself—in fact, to Martha's cousin. So… there was never any reason for…” He hesitated, drew on his cigar, and exhaled, uttering as he did so the word “suspicion.” He nodded grimly. “However, one day, I came across some of their letters, and detected in their content certain meanings.… I discussed my discovery with Schönberg, a mutual acquaintance, who confirmed my fears. He said that Wahle was behaving strangely, that he had burst into tears when he had heard of my engagement to Martha. Clearly, I could not allow this situation to continue—a sentiment that Schönberg appreciated. He subsequently organized a meeting in a café, where he hoped we would be able to resolve matters civilly.

“Unfortunately, the meeting did not go well. Wahle behaved like a madman. He threatened to shoot me and then himself if I did not make Martha happy. I thought it was some kind of joke. I actually laughed… and then he said that it was in his power to destroy my happiness. He could—and would—instruct Martha to end our engagement, and she would obey. It was an insane claim and I couldn't take it seriously. So he called for a pen and paper and began to write the letter there and then. Schönberg and I were both shocked—it contained the same inappropriately familiar terms of endearment that I had seen in his other letters. He referred to his ‘beloved Martha’ and his ‘undying love.’ I was outraged, and tore the letter to pieces. Wahle stormed out, and we followed him, trying to bring him to his senses, but he only broke down in tears. I seized his arm and— close to tears myself—escorted him home.”

Freud paused for a moment. A beggar, huddled in a doorway, extended his hand. The professor dug deep into his pocket and tossed a coin in the man's direction.

“But the next morning,” he continued, “my heart hardened. I felt that I had been weak. Wahle was now my enemy, and I should have been ruthless. He was clearly in love with Martha. I wrote to her, explaining this—but she would have none of it! She sprang to his defense. They were friends, nothing more, like brother and sister! Her refusal to condemn his behavior played on my mind. I began to think about Wahle's threat: perhaps he did have some hold over her. Perhaps he could make her give me up. I experienced an attack of appalling dread. It drove me quite frantic. I wandered the streets for hours, every night: thinking, thinking, thinking.… What had really passed between them? Why had she not taken my side—as she so obviously should have done? In the end, I could stand it no longer. I had to see her. I borrowed enough money to travel to Wandsbeck, and we met—for the sake of propriety—in secret. We talked and reached… an understanding.

“I returned to Vienna much calmer. But only a week later, that appalling dread returned. I was tormented by the slightest notion that Wahle might be—in any way—dear to her. Something took possession of my senses… something demonic. I gave Martha an ultimatum. I demanded that she renounce their friendship completely, and stated that if she failed to do this, I would… I would settle the affair with him—finally.”

“Finally? You intended to…” Liebermann dared not finish the sentence.

Freud shook his head.

“Thinking about it now, I'm not sure what I meant. These events were such a long time ago.” As though surfacing from a dream, Freud blinked and turned to look at Liebermann. His eyes seemed to contract—recovering their piercing vitality. “Fortunately, for all of us, Martha agreed. Wahle vanished from our lives, but the wound that he inflicted took many years to heal. So you see—even the most rational of men…”

It was an extraordinary confession, but not unprecedented. Liebermann had known the professor to disclose personal details of his life before: his openness was not so remarkable, given that his masterpiece The Interpretation of Dreams contained much that would ordinarily be described as autobiographical—and not all of it flattering, by any means. Freud had included in the section on somatic sources an account of one of his own dreams, which he attributed ultimately to an apple-size boil that had risen at the base of his scrotum.

“Indeed,” Liebermann responded. “You are the most rational of men. So much so that I wonder whether the disturbed mental state that you describe might require a more compelling explanation than simply the human condition.”

“A more compelling explanation?” Freud repeated, a trail of pungent cigar smoke escaping from his mouth.

“Did these events take place when you were conducting your research into cocaine?”

“Why, yes…I used to take it as an antidepressant. To relieve my despair.”

“Isn't cocaine—taken in large doses—associated with insomnia, restlessness, nervous agitation?” Freud's pace slowed as he considered Liebermann's conjecture. He appeared quite self-absorbed, and again pulled at his beard. In a different register, Liebermann added casually: “Cocaine has never been used for headaches—has it?”

Freud started. “I beg your pardon?”

“Cocaine… has it ever been used for headaches?”

“No… no, not to my knowledge.” The professor seemed to gather himself together—although the lines that appeared on his forehead demonstrated that this was only accomplished with much effort. “I had always thought,” he continued, “that it might be useful primarily as a treatment for depression and anxiety. For a time, it was administered as a tonic for the German army: and a small amount of cocaine added to salicylate of soda is good for indigestion. But it has had strictly limited application in the sphere of pain relief. You know, perhaps, that Koller's discovery of cocaine as an anesthetic for use during eye surgery owed something to my original research?”

“No, I'm afraid I didn't.”

Freud pulled a face that suggested moderate pique—and then, recovering his natural mien, added: “Headaches? No. Never for headaches.”

54

THE CARRIAGE HAD NOT yet reached the outskirts of Vienna.

“So,” said Liebermann. “It was Gärtner who actually discovered Zelenka's body?”

“Yes,” Rheinhardt replied, consulting his notebook. “After which, he rushed upstairs to inform the headmaster—who had just begun a meeting with Becker.”

“And did anyone else enter the laboratory?”

Rheinhardt turned a page. “The old soldier, Albert, and two prefects: they were the ones who carried Zelenka's body to the infirmary.”

“I see,” said Liebermann, adjusting his necktie and quietly whistling a fragment of Bach.

Haussmann turned toward the window, concealing a half smile.

“You know, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “I really do wish you were more forthcoming! On our return I will be expected to justify this excursion, and if I am unable to, Commissioner Brügel will be particularly aggrieved. Two days ago he circulated a memorandum to all senior officers, requesting that we make every effort to remain close to the Schottenring station. He intimated that an unusual circumstance had arisen that might require our participation in a special operation at very short notice.”

“This ‘unusual circumstance,’ “ said Liebermann, “is it something to do with von Bulow's special assignment?”

Rheinhardt caught his assistant's eye.

“Oh, confound it, Haussmann, I'm going to tell him!” Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Young Haussmann here—”

“What are you whispering for?” Liebermann asked. The inspector pointed toward the carriage box. “Oh, don't be ridiculous, Oskar. The driver can't hear! He's outside!”

“I'm not taking any chances,” Rheinhardt replied, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning even closer. “Young Haussmann here was delivering some papers to the commissioner's office. He was about to knock, but held back when he heard raised voices. The commissioner was giving von Bulow—and yes, I did say von Bulow—a serious verbal drubbing. General von Stoger's name was mentioned… and there was talk of something having been stolen from his safe. A document that they called…” Rheinhardt's cheeks reddened.

“Studie U,” said Haussmann, gallantly coming to his superior's aid.

“Did you hear anything else?” asked Liebermann.

“Nothing of consequence,” Haussmann replied—but then added: “Well, there was one other thing. They kept on referring to the Liderc.”

“The Liderc. What does that mean?” Liebermann flashed a look at Rheinhardt.

“I really have no idea.”

“Liderc. Are you sure you heard that correctly?” Liebermann asked the assistant detective.

“Yes, Herr Doctor. It was definitely the Liderc,” said Haussmann.

“So,” Rheinhardt continued, “I strongly suspect that the commissioner is contemplating a large operation, the purpose of which will be to retrieve Studie U. As to the factors that will influence his de cision to proceed with the operation—or not—we can only specu late.”

“Interesting,” said Liebermann.

“Needless to say,” Rheinhardt added, “I am praying that the commissioner decides against briefing his senior detectives this afternoon.” Reminded once again of the matter in hand, the inspector leaned back and spoke now in his usual resonant baritone. “I've sent a telegram to the headmaster and I've made sure that Herr Sommer knows exactly what time we intend to arrive.”

“Herr Sommer?”

“Yes, Herr Sommer.”

“Why ever did you do that?”

“You said he was trying to avoid us… that he was a liar. I assumed—”

“He did try to avoid us, and he is a liar!”

“Then why don't you—”

“Want to speak to him?”

“Yes.”

“Because it isn't necessary: he's not as significant as I once thought.”

“Well, you might have said! What on earth made you change your mind?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Of course I want to know.”

“Sugared almonds!”

Haussmann turned again to look out of the window, his half smile now widening to become an embarrassingly conspicuous grin.

On arriving at Saint Florian's, Rheinardt instructed his assistant to wait outside with the driver. He then ushered Liebermann through the stone arch and into the courtyard of the school. The old soldier, Albert, was seated on a bench, his chin buried in his chest. His stertorous breathing—amplified by the cloisters—sounded curiously mechanical: a repetitive grating and grinding. Rheinhardt approached and touched his shoulder, but did not shake him. The veteran's expression spoke too eloquently of blissful release from the heavy yoke of corporeality. Moved to pity Rheinhardt slowly withdrew his hand.

“I know how to get to Professor Eichmann s office,” he whispered. “We'll let this old fellow enjoy his beauty sleep, eh? You can question him later.”

Liebermann smiled, recognizing in Rheinhardt s small act of charity a justification for hope. Being a psychoanalyst, he saw the salvation of humanity not in great ideologies, religion, or political reforms but in everyday, barely perceptible deeds of kindness. He found this thought consoling, a counterbalance to his certain knowledge that they were about to find out how easily man becomes a thing of darkness—how easily civilized values blacken and curl in the heat of primitive passions.

Professor Eichmann greeted them with frigid condescension.

“You will forgive me, gentlemen, but I am extremely busy and cannot spare you much time.”

Liebermann promised the headmaster that he would be brief.

“Tell me, headmaster,” he said softly, “when you entered the laboratory on the evening that Thomas Zelenka's body was discovered, did you smell anything?”

The headmaster wrinkled his nose—as if the mere mention of smell had triggered some form of malodorous olfactory hallucination.

“The laboratory always smells a little unpleasant.”

“Nothing struck you as unusual?”

“No.”

“Could you describe how it smelled?”

“Herr Doctor, I cannot see how this line of questioning can possibly prove helpful. As I have already explained—”

Liebermann raised his hands, arresting the headmaster's flow with an expression that begged indulgence.

“Headmaster, I have said that I will be brief, and I promise you I will keep my word. With respect, could you please answer the question: what did the laboratory smell of?”

Eichmann shook his head, tutted, and said: “A little like bad eggs.”

Liebermann stared at the headmaster—an inquisitorial, ingressive stare that owed much to his acquaintance with Professor Freud. Then, quite suddenly, he said, “Thank you,” and stood to leave.

The headmaster looked first at Rheinhardt and then back at Liebermann.

“Is that all you wanted to know?” Eichmann asked.

“Yes,” said Liebermann. “I have no further questions. I trust you will concede that we have respected your convenience.”

The headmaster did not appear satisfied—only suspicious.

“Where is Professor Gärtner?” asked Rheinhardt.

“In the staff common room,” said the headmaster.

He observed their departure with eyes that radiated contempt.

Liebermann and Rheinhardt found Professor Gärtner sitting alone, ensconced in a fustian armchair and sipping brandy from a metal hip flask. The book on his lap was Thucydides's great History of the Peloponnesian War. After some introductory civilities—to which the professor responded with considerably more courtesy than the headmaster—Liebermann repeated his question: “Tell me, Professor Gärtner, when you discovered Thomas Zelenka's body, did you smell anything unusual?”

“Unusual?” repeated Gärtner.

“Yes.”

“I don't think so. To be honest, I don't have a very acute sense of smell. It's never been the same since the storming of Brescia back in ‘49. I was serving under Haynau—with the first battalion, no less— and fell very badly ill. The regimental doctor didn't know what it was. He was mystified. I was sick and very weak for more than a month. When I recovered, I felt well enough. All my body parts were working—just as they did before—with the exception of my nose! The sensation of smell was dulled, blunted. In order to detect the fragrance of a flower, I would have to hold it directly under my nostrils, inhaling deeply, and only then would I catch a hint of its bouquet. My sense of taste was affected, too. Subsequently, I've only ever enjoyed foods with very strong flavors. A good spicy goulash, for example.”

Liebermann attempted to interrupt the garrulous professor, but he failed.

“I once met a neurologist from Paris,” Gärtner continued, “who said that he'd heard of such things happening, and he spoke at some length about the bulbs that project from beneath the brain. A clever fellow if ever there was one. He had studied with Charcot and knew his Virgil as well as his anatomies. Apparently, there are some infectious organisms that attack nerve tissue, causing permanent damage; however, I should say—if my memory serves me correctly—he associated such cases with tropical rather than Mediterranean diseases.” Professor Gärtner took a swig from his hip flask, hummed pensively, and added: “I'm sorry, Herr Doctor. I seem to have forgotten your question. What was it you wanted to know?”

Liebermann and Rheinhardt made their excuses and left.

“Well,” said Rheinhardt, as they made their way down the stairs. “This isn't going very well, is it?”

Liebermann shook his head. “No, it isn't; however, at the same time, the science of hereditary constitution gives me good reason to remain optimistic.”

“Max, what are you talking about?”

“I will explain in due course. Now, let us return to the courtyard.”

Albert was still sitting in the same place, although the movement of his head suggested that he was now not sleeping but observing the spiraling of dead leaves in a vortex.

When Rheinhardt and Liebermann arrived, he rose to greet them—saluting and clicking his heels together to produce a hollow knock.

“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt. “There you are. Allow me to introduce a colleague of mine, Herr Dr. Liebermann. He would like to ask you some questions.”

Albert smacked his lips.

“A doctor…”

“Yes.”

“Permission to report—I'm as fit as a fiddle, sir. Haven't had a day's illness in years.”

“Well,” said Rheinhardt, “I'm very glad to hear it; however, the good doctor has not come to inquire about your health. He wants to ask you about the recent tragedy.”

Rheinhardt glanced at his friend.

“Do you remember the boy Thomas Zelenka?” asked Liebermann.

“Permission to report: yes, sir. The boy who died.”

“Do you remember the evening when his body was discovered?”

“I do, sir. He was found in the laboratory, sir.”

“Now, I want you to think back to that evening. I want you to try to remember something for me.” Liebermann extended his hand, and touched the old soldier's arm gently. “When you entered the laboratory… what did it smell like?”

Albert's rheumy-eyed gaze met Liebermann's clearer one. His tongue slipped out of his mouth and proceeded to swing from side to side, coating his lower lip and bristly chin with saliva.

Rheinhardt was about to repeat the question, but Liebermann silenced him with a hand gesture.

They waited. The sound of gunfire could be heard in the distance.

“Permission to report,” said Albert. “A peculiar smell, sir… like almonds.”

55

RHEINHARDT KNOCKED ON the laboratory door. The muffled sound of Becker's voice came from within: “Enter.”

Inside, the deputy headmaster was seated at a table covered with exercise books. His expression was bored and slightly irritated. Becker stood to greet them, but his face was impassive and the absence of chairs (other than his own) seemed sufficient reason to justify the discourtesy of not inviting the policeman and the young doctor to sit.

Liebermann surveyed the room and, in spite of its ugliness, its exposed pipes, and stained walls, he smiled.

“This takes me back,” said Liebermann, nostalgically. “It reminds me of the lab in my old school. I was very fond of chemistry.”

Becker showed no sign of sympathetic interest. Instead, he waved his hand over the table and said: “Gentlemen, I have much to do today.”

This plea for brevity resonated with the headmaster's: Liebermann supposed that the two men had convened earlier, resolving to obstruct the investigators with a show of churlishness and bad manners.

Liebermann sidled up to the deputy headmaster and examined the book he was in the middle of marking. The boy's work was barely visible beneath a descending curtain of red ink.

“Ahh,” said Liebermann recognizing a distinctive illustration from his youth. “The Liebig condenser. You know, I was once told that it wasn't Baron von Liebig who invented the condenser at all but someone else entirely. Is that true, Dr. Becker?”

The deputy headmaster straightened his back and adjusted his gown. Having been presented with an opportunity to demonstrate the depth of his knowledge, he was unable to feign indifference.

“The earliest condenser—to my knowledge—was described by Christian Ehrenfried Weigel in 1771.”

“Is that so?” Liebermann responded. “Extraordinary.”

Rheinhardt had walked over to the geological exhibits, where he renewed his acquaintance with the shiny black trilobite.

“Inspector,” Becker called out, “I would be most grateful if we could proceed expeditiously I am certain that you and your colleague”—he threw a contemptuous look at Liebermann—”must have many matters awaiting your urgent attention in Vienna.”

Rheinhardt rolled back on his heels. “Indeed.”

“Then shall we begin?” said Becker, talking across Liebermann.

Rheinhardt inclined his head in Liebermann's direction. “Please continue, Herr Doctor.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Liebermann.

Becker tossed the pen he was holding onto the table. It rolled away, declaring his hostility with each clattering revolution. In the ensuing stillness, the hissing of leaking pipes filled the air with an unnerving, serpentine sibilance.

“I trust your wife is well?” said Liebermann.

“Well enough,” Becker replied.

“She is fully recovered?”

“Recovered, Herr Doctor? She was never ill.”

“You said that she had been tearful… after our visit?”

“She was tearful… but that is no longer the case.”

“Good, I'm glad to hear it. Inspector Rheinhardt and I clearly misjudged the degree to which she had been affected by Zelenka's death.” Then, stepping back and looking out over the benches, Liebermann added: “So, this is where the unfortunate boy was discovered. Could you tell me where exactly?”

“There,” Becker pointed to the front bench.

Liebermann gazed at the empty floor space between two high stools.

“It is interesting, is it not,” said Liebermann, imitating the manner in which he had seen Professor Freud begin his lecture the previous evening, “that we often appropriate the word ‘chemistry’ when language fails to furnish us with terms adequate to the task of describing the mysteries of love. We are often unable to say why it is that one relationship works and another doesn't. We say that the chemistry is right, or the chemistry is wrong, or perhaps that the chemistry is absent! This instinctive appropriation acknowledges that love is a very physical experience: it quickens the pulse and the breath… tears fall. Ironic ally, love—the most transcendent of all emotions—reminds us that we are mortal. I am of the opinion that our deepest passions are animated by a fierce chemistry, the reactions of which—by virtue of their association with corporeal processes—bring us inexorably closer to death.”

Becker tilted his head, and his spectacles became circles of opaque brilliance. “I am sorry, Dr. Liebermann,” said Becker. “But I really haven't a clue what you're talking about.”

“Do you believe that there is a chemistry of love, Herr Doctor Becker? There is certainly a chemistry of death.” Liebermann positioned himself between the first two benches and leaned forward, supporting his weight on outstretched arms. “We are—as yet— ignorant of the substances that create bonds of affection, but we are not so ignorant of those that extinguish life.”

Becker glared at Liebermann, but said nothing.

“How, I wonder,” Liebermann continued, “would you describe the bond of affection that existed between Frau Becker and Thomas Zelenka? Is it enough to say that they were fond of each other? That they were friends? Or do you think we would do better to borrow once again the most potent of scientific metaphors. I am disposed to believe that they shared a chemical affinity.”

The deputy headmaster suddenly turned around and faced the wall.

“Frau Becker and Thomas Zelenka,” Liebermann continued. “They were lovers, weren't they?”

“Yes, they were lovers!” Becker exploded. “Are you satisfied now, Dr. Liebermann? Are you satisfied, now that I have admitted it? Now that I am shamed?”

Liebermann's reply was delivered with clinical neutrality. “It was never my purpose to derive any pleasure from your misfortune. I merely desired to establish some important facts.”

“Well, there you are! You've succeeded! And what of it?”

Liebermann did not respond. He simply waited. With every passing second a subtle pressure mounted—a tacit demand for explanation. It seemed to weigh down on Becker until resistance was no longer possible. The deputy headmaster raised his hands, and then let them fall—a gesture that suggested both defeat and anger.

“Poldi was never happy here,” he blurted out. “Right from the beginning. I could do nothing to raise her spirits. She spent half my monthly salary in the shops on Kärntner Strasse—and she was still inconsolable. She expected too much—from me, and from Saint Florian's. We became more and more estranged, and as we did so, she became more and more obsessed with the boys—the bullying, the persecution. She made a complete fool of herself in front of the other masters’ wives—attempting to foment some kind of women's revolt! It was utterly absurd. She came perilously close to losing me my position! Had I not remonstrated with her in the strongest possible terms…” Becker hesitated, and the shadow that passed across his face intimated violence. “My prospects at Saint Florian's would have been irrevocably damaged! Zelenka exploited her sympathy—and he did so at a time when our marital relations were at their worst. His presence at the house became an embarrassment. Even the staff made jokes about it. Can you imagine what that is like, Herr Doctor? To have the gardener, the cook, the maid sniggering behind your back—enjoying the spectacle of your humiliation.”

“Then why didn't you put a stop to it?” asked Liebermann gently. “Why didn't you prohibit Zelenka's visits?”

“To what end? By the time I had discovered their secret, it was too late. What good would it have done, Herr Doctor, had I acted in such a way as to draw even more attention to my predicament? What good? I am a rational man—a civilized man. I decided to conduct myself in a dignified fashion. Zelenka intended to join the civil service in the summer. I knew that Poldi would follow him.…It was simply a question of biding my time until then.” Becker glanced back at Liebermann. “Well, there it is, Herr Doctor. You've had it out of me.” His gaze took in Rheinhardt, and he added, “I trust you will both say nothing of this to anyone.”

“And what of your marriage now?” asked Liebermann.

“I don't know. Poldi and I do not talk… not as a husband and wife should; however…”

“You still nurse a hope that—notwithstanding what has transpired—your marriage might yet survive?”

“I am not so naïve, Dr. Liebermann, as to think that just because Zelenka is dead all will be well again. Zelenka was a consequence, not a cause. Our estrangement had begun long before Poldi and Zelenka discovered their… chemical affinity; however, since Zelenka's death, I believe Poldi has changed—a little. We have—of late—been more civil with each other. Perhaps Zelenka's death has made her realize that life is precious and that we are sometimes obliged to make the most of what little we are given. And if I can find it within myself to forgive her… then, yes, it might not be so foolish to hope for some form of reconciliation.”

Liebermann sighed, joined his hands together, and allowed his fingers to bounce on his lips.

“And there we might leave it,” he said, his sentence—like an imperfect cadence—failing to find a satisfactory resolution. “Were it not,” he then continued, “for the almond tart.”

Becker started. “I beg your pardon?”

“The almond tart that you instructed your wife to purchase on one of her many trips into town. You may not know this, but she bought it at the Royal and Imperial Bakers. If you had eaten it, I dare say you would have recognized its very superior qualities— the lightness of the pastry, the moistness of the sponge, the subtle lemon and anise flavorings, and the burnished, sweet caramelized almonds. But, of course, you didn't eat it. Instead, you placed it next to Zelenka's dead body—right here”—Liebermann rapped the bench top—”before rushing upstairs to meet with the headmaster. Is that not so?”

Becker stumbled forward, as if his legs had suddenly lost all their strength. He clutched the handles of a glass-fronted cupboard for support and raised his head as if appealing to heaven for mercy. The effect was vaguely religious, iconic. With his forked beard, long hair, and black gown, Becker seemed to be re-creating the passion of an obscure old saint, as might be depicted among the illuminations on a thirteenth-century altar panel. Inside the cupboard the contents rattled, producing a delicate tintinnabulation.

“Perhaps,” Liebermann pressed, “you would care to explain why you did this?”

The deputy headmaster held his fixed attitude and said nothing. It was as if his private torment excused him from any further obligation to speak.

“Dr. Becker?” Rheinhardt took a few steps toward the deputy headmaster. “Are you… well?”

Becker's head slumped forward. “Stay away from me, Inspector,” he cried. “I don't want your pity! Do you hear? Stay away from me. I will not be humiliated. I have been humiliated enough. Enough, I say, enough!”

The cupboard was suddenly open, and two bottles fell from the deputy headmaster's hands. They smashed on the floor, throwing up shards of colored glass. Liebermann and Rheinhardt watched in dumb amazement as Becker dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A key, turning in the lock, filled the laboratory with the sound of percussive engagement, its grim reverberations evoking the closure of a vault.

Liebermann leaped into the aisle, intercepting Rheinhardt as the inspector instinctively began his pursuit. They collided and both of them almost fell.

“What in God's name!” Rheinhardt gasped. “He'll get away—”

“Hold your breath,” Liebermann commanded, grabbing Rheinhardt's arm and dragging him to the back of the laboratory. “Or you'll die!”

Liebermann tried to open one of the windows, banging the frame furiously—but it held fast. He then tried another, which, after repeated blows, gradually yielded. Throwing the window open, he clambered onto the sill and pulled himself up. Grasping the frame for support, he offered Rheinhardt his hand. The inspector was difficult to lift; however, drawing on some inner reserve, Liebermann heaved, and Rheinhardt scrambled out.

When the inspector became fully conscious of their precarious situation, he clutched at a projecting mullion and, looking down at the ground, was moved once again to invoke the deity: “God in heaven!”

Liebermann eased the window down and shut it with the heel of his shoe.

“You can breathe now,” he said.

“Max! Why… what…” There were simply too many questions to articulate. Liebermann rested a calming hand on his friend's shoulder.

“The two bottles Becker threw to the floor contained cyanide and an acid of some description. When the two combine, hydrocyanic gas is produced: freshly created, one sniff can be fatal.”

“That's how he killed Zelenka?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann. “Potassium cyanide looks like sugar. Vinegar is an acid. The chemistry assignment that he set the boy was fatal. Zelenka would have followed Becker's instructions and—”

“Monstrous,” Rheinhardt interrupted, shaking his head.

Beyond the hem of his trousers and the welting of his shoes, the inspector could see their carriage and the statue of Saint Florian. This unusual perspective made him feel quite unsteady, and he pulled back.

“Perhaps you had better not look down,” said Liebermann.

“Haussmann?” Rheinhardt bellowed. “Haussmann?”

The door of the carriage did not open.

“Haussmann?” he cried again—inquiry turning into irritation.

In the distance, swaths of fir were turning olive-black in the failing afternoon light.

“The driver seems to have vanished too,” said Liebermann.

“That foolish boy!” said Rheinhardt desperately. “Where on earth has he gone!”

“Let's try calling together,” said Liebermann. “After three: one, two, three.”

“Haussmann.”

Liebermann shifted slightly, and a small wedge of masonry broke from the ledge. It plummeted through the air and landed on the gravel, far below, with a barely perceptible whisper. On closer inspection, Liebermann noticed that the stonework around his feet was webbed with numerous tiny cracks. He did not draw the parlous state of the ledge to Rheinhardt s attention. Instead, he counted to three, and they both called out again:

“Haussmann…”

“Haussmann…”

“Haussmann!”

56

HAUSSMANN AND THE DRIVER were standing in the courtyard listening to Albert, whose rambling speech concerned his involvement with what the young men assumed must be a famous military campaign.

They had been waiting by the carriage, smoking and discussing the driver's intention to marry a flower girl called Fännchen in the spring, when the old soldier had appeared under the archway. He'd beckoned them into the courtyard and suggested that they might continue their conversation in the cloisters, where they could escape the wind and derive more pleasure from their tobacco. The two young men had been touched by the old man's thoughtfulness and, not wishing to offend him, had accepted his hospitable suggestion. Albert had lowered himself onto his favorite bench, hawked a soapy pellet of chartreuse phlegm onto a flagstone, and touched his medals with shaky liver-spotted fingers. The sensation of silk and metal between his thumb and forefinger had evoked memories of his youth and he had subsequently embarked on an epic (and seemingly interminable) tale of martial folly and eventual salvation.

The old soldier's reminiscences were incoherent and digressive, but the two young men listened politely. He spoke of the Austrian occupation of Buda and Pest, a dreaded Hungarian general called Görgey a bloody siege, a meeting with the czar, and the arrival of two hundred thousand Russian troops.

“We would have been in trouble without them,” said Albert, gazing across the courtyard at the chapel but obviously seeing something quite different—a host of ghostly Cossacks, perhaps, heaving into view over a flat steppe. “We were overconfident,” he continued. “We underestimated Görgey! A terrible misjudgment, that's what it was—a terrible misjudgment. Thank God for the old czar! God bless him! Although—it has to be said—he was only helping out because of the Poles. See, they'd sided with the revolutionaries, and that had him worried—”

A door suddenly opened with considerable violence, banging against the wall. The deputy headmaster appeared, looking harried and overwrought. He tripped, recovered his balance, and came to an undignified, stumbling halt. Looking anxiously from side to side, he caught sight of Haussmann's group and froze. The attitude that he struck was unnatural, as if balancing on the tips of his toes in readiness to jump. Becker's elbows were crooked at an acute angle and held away from his torso, extending his gown transversely like the wings of a bat: these peculiarities of posture and dress created an illusion of supernatural visitation—something hellish preparing for flight.

The deputy headmaster, however, did not make a vertical ascent. Instead, he composed himself and marched purposefully toward the small gathering.

As he approached, the old soldier stood to attention.

“Permission to report… invited these security office gentlemen inside, sir, because of the wind. And then I—”

“Very good, Albert, very good,” said Becker brusquely, holding his hand up to show that he did not require further enlightenment. Then, turning toward Haussmann, he said, “If I am not mistaken, you are the inspector's assistant?”

“Haussmann, sir.”

“Yes, that's right, Haussmann.… I remember you, of course. Inspector Rheinhardt wishes to see you immediately. Albert, take these young men to the infirmary, please.”

Haussmann's companion looked somewhat embarrassed.

“Not me, sir. I'm just the driver.”

“No,” said Becker. “You are to go too.”

“Me?” said the driver, touching his chest in disbelief.

“Yes. That is what Inspector Rheinhardt said: ‘Tell my men to come up here at once.’

“Has someone been injured, sir?” Haussmann asked.

“No.”

“Then what is he doing in the infirmary?”

“At this precise moment, I believe he is conversing with Nurse Funke. Now, I trust you will excuse me, gentlemen. Albert, the infirmary, please.”

Becker bowed, turned sharply on his heels, and walked off toward the courtyard entrance. Albert muttered something under his breath. It sounded like an obscenity, but was rendered unintelligible by the abrasive grinding of a persistent cough.

“Permission to report,” he uttered between rasps. “This way, sir.”

Haussmann did not follow the old soldier but stood quite still, watching the receding figure of the deputy headmaster. He felt uneasy, troubled. Why did the inspector want the driver? Did he need to lift something heavy? And there was something about that message… “Tell my men to come up here at once.” It wasn't the sort of thing that Rheinhardt would say. Rheinhardt almost always phrased his orders as if he were simply making a polite request: “Would you be so kind… I would be most grateful if…”

“Are you coming?” It was the driver.

Haussmann did not reply. His gaze remained fixed on the deputy headmaster, whose pace seemed to be quickening. Once he was through the archway, the wind caught his gown and it rose up, billowing and flapping. Haussmann cocked his head to one side. He thought he could hear something—a tonal inflection—that dropped with the soughing. At first he wondered whether he was imagining things, but then it came again, this time more clearly: voices—a faint cry.

“Haussmann…”

“Haussmann…”

“Deputy headmaster! Dr. Becker!”

Through the archway, only the sky and hills were visible. The bellying sail of the deputy headmaster's gown was gone.

Haussmann ran.

“Dr. Becker…”

He could hear the jangling of the horses’ bridles, the distinctive clop of restive hooves. He ran beneath the arch, and cursed as he saw Becker climbing up onto the driver's box. A whip cracked, and the carriage began to move. Haussmann rounded the statue of Saint Florian and reached out, his fingers almost touching the back of the escaping carriage. But it was too late. The horses were gathering speed and the gap widened.

“Dr. Becker,” he called out, helplessly.

The carriage pulled away—and Haussmann reluctantly abandoned his pursuit. Bending forward, with his hands resting on his thighs, he tried to catch his breath. He was immediately startled by the sound of Inspector Rheinhardt calling his name.

“Haussmann!”

The assistant detective stood up and spun around. But there was no one there.

“Haussmann!”

He looked up—and gasped in disbelief.

57

AS HAUSSMANN MADE HIS WAY back to the statue of Saint Florian, Rheinhardt and Liebermann watched Becker's progress. The deputy headmaster was whipping the horses with pitiless ferocity. Tracing a wide arc, the carriage careened as it rumbled toward the school gates. Rheinhardt turned away and sighed: a loud, operatic sigh that demonstrated the magnitude of his frustration.

“Never mind,” said Liebermann. “He won't get far. I doubt he is carrying very much money, and as soon as we're back on terra firma, you can use the headmaster's telephone and notify the security office.”

“I fear that you have forgotten the commissioner's memorandum,” said Rheinhardt bitterly. “Brügel will be disinclined to spare me any men this weekend.”

“What? Not even to assist with the apprehension of a murderer?”

Haussmann arrived back at the statue of Saint Florian as the driver and Albert emerged from beneath the stone arch. The inspector cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted down: “Dr. Becker has filled the laboratory with a poisonous gas. He has locked the door, but he might not have removed the key. Ensure that no one can enter. Albert will guide you to the laboratory. Leave him there to stand guard. No one must be admitted—do you understand? No one. Please notify the headmaster of our… situation. Then return with a ladder.”

Haussmann's face was a pale oval.

“It was Dr. Becker? He did it?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry I let him get away.”

The young man expected his apology to be answered with a strongly worded reprimand; however, the inspector, studying Haussmann's pitiful expression from his godlike vantage, merely shrugged and replied: “Better luck next time, eh, Haussmann?”

“Yes, sir,” said the assistant detective, humbled—once again— by his superior's humanity. The young man took Albert by the arm and, lending him robust locomotor assistance, set off for the laboratory.

A gaggle of boys appeared over the crest of a nearby hill. They were trudging across open country and were led by a man with a limp. The man had taken his cap off, and even from a distance it was easy to make out the color of his cropped blond hair.

“I think that's Lieutenant Osterhagen,” said Rheinhardt. “The gymnastics master.”

The boys were not marching in an orderly fashion but following their leader in a loose band, with a few stragglers trailing behind. They had clearly been on some kind of exercise, and their uniforms were covered in mud. It was not long before one of the more observant youths noticed Liebermann and Rheinhardt. Several boys started waving, pointing, and gesticulating, and Osterhagen stopped to raise his field glasses.

In due course, the bedraggled troop arrived, and Osterhagen stepped forward.

“What are you doing up there?” he demanded.

This remark was bluntly delivered and caused considerable amusement among the boys. Osterhagen glared at the worst offenders, silencing their laughter.

“All will be explained,” Rheinhardt shouted, “but now is not the time. Lieutenant Osterhagen, would you be so kind as to get a ladder so that my colleague and I can get down.”

“Why don't you just smash the window if it's stuck.”

“The window is not stuck,” said Rheinhardt, impatience creeping into his voice. “With respect, would you please get a ladder.”

“That may not be easy,” said Osterhagen. “I don't know where the ladders—if we possess any at all—are kept.”

“Then might I suggest,” Rheinhardt returned, “that you start looking.”

At this point, a section of the ledge—directly beneath Rheinhardt's left foot—gave way. His arms flailed around as he desperately sought to recover his balance. The rotations became more frantic— but he was unable to achieve the necessary redistribution of weight. Slowly, he began to lean into the void. Liebermann—reacting with reflexive speed—grabbed Rheinhardt's coat and pulled him back, steadying his wild movements in a tight embrace.

“It's all right, Oskar. I have you.”

Rheinhardt took a deep breath and emptied his lungs slowly, producing as he did so an attenuated whistle.

“Dear God,” he expostulated. “That was close!”

Liebermann looked down and saw Lieutenant Osterhagen contemplating the fallen masonry. It had landed perilously close to where he was standing.

“The ledge won't hold for much longer,” Liebermann cried. “Please hurry.”

Osterhagen—roused from an impromptu meditation on the contingent nature of fate and his own mortality—issued various instructions to the boys, who then began to disperse in pairs. He looked up and said: “I'll be back shortly.”

The lieutenant vanished from sight, his asymmetric stride creating a hissing sound on the gravel as he dragged the weaker of his two legs behind him. Only the driver remained, his gaze oscillating between the shattered block of stone and the crumbling ledge.

“Well, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “I am indebted. You might have gone over with me. You saved my life.”

“But it remains to be seen how much of your life I have actually saved,” said Liebermann. “Unless we get down soon, your gratitude may prove excessive.”

“Then perhaps we should get back inside?”

“The gas will dissipate over time—but hydrocyanic gas is deadly. I think we had better take our chances out here.”

Rheinhardt shook his head. “Max,” he said with great solemnity, “why did you ever let me eat so many cakes? If I were a more lissome fellow, then perhaps this ledge might hold a little longer.” Liebermann smiled at his comrade, who was penitently contemplating the curvature of his stomach. “If we survive this, I swear to you, I'm going on a diet.”

Another piece of stone—about the size of an apple—fell to the ground. The sound of its impact startled the driver. His worried face showed that he had already calculated the effect of such a drop on the human body.

Rheinhardt reached into his coat pocket and took out his notebook and pencil. Leaning back against the window, he began scribbling furiously.

“Oskar?” asked Liebermann. “What are you doing?”

Rheinhardt held out the notebook so that Liebermann could read what he had written:

My dearest Else,

I love you. Kiss Therese and Mitzi for me—and tell them how much I love them too. My heart, my all, my everything! You have given me so much more than I ever deserved.

Eternally yours,

Oskar

“Do you think it's enough?” asked Rheinhardt.

“If you had time enough to write a whole book,” Liebermann replied, “you could not say more.”

“Perhaps you would like to…”

Rheinhardt offered Liebermann the notebook—but the young doctor did not take it. What could he write, and to whom? There was no obvious recipient. Trezska was his lover—but were they really in love? His relationship with his father had never been very good. His mother adored him, but he always experienced her presence as vaguely suffocating. He was very fond of his youngest sister… but he could hardly write to her alone.

The imminence of death exposed an uncomfortable truth: there was no one special in his life. In his firmament, there were no stars that constellated true happiness, no bright lights to compare with Rheinhardt's wife and daughters. For a brief moment, he found himself thinking of Miss Lyd gate, of the times they had spent in her rooms discussing medicine and philosophy, of the companionate closeness they had shared.

Another piece of masonry fell.

“Hurry, Max,” Rheinhardt urged.

Attempting to conceal his embarrassment, Liebermann said, somewhat presumptuously: “Put the notebook away, Oskar—we're not going to die!”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, just a feeling!”

“Max, you are an exceptionally contrary fellow.” Rheinhardt put the notebook and pencil back into his pocket, adding softly: “But I hope you are right.”

“Look!” said Liebermann, pointing down.

Osterhagen had reappeared, followed by a column of boys who were bearing the weight of a long flagpole on their shoulders. They came to a halt by the statue and, guided by the lieutenant's stentorian directions, raised the pole up. Then, releasing it from the vertical, they allowed it to lean toward the ledge.

“Don't let it fall,” Osterhagen barked. “Gently… gently…”

Rheinhardt and Liebermann reached out and, grabbing the shaft, lodged the tip firmly against the central mullion.

“We're saved,” said the inspector, smiling.

Liebermann watched as Rheinhardt slid down. His landing was accompanied by cheers and boyish laughter. The young doctor followed, making an equally swift descent. Within seconds of his feet touching the ground, Liebermann was startled by a loud crash. The ledge had finally worked itself loose, and lay in pieces on the ground.

58

THE WOODMAN RELEASED THE CATCH and pulled the carcass from the metal trap. He was about to add the animal to his carrying strap when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. Its low rumbling rapidly increased in volume, until the air reverberated with the skipping beat of galloping horses. Through the trees, he could see the vehicle hurtling down the road at breakneck speed. The driver was half-standing, lashing his geldings, a black cloak flying out horizontally from his shoulders. The incline was steep, and the carriage veered from side to side. It was a reckless, uncontrolled descent. The din diminished as the carriage passed behind the hillside; however, within seconds there was a sickening crash— augmented by an unholy chorus of terrified equine voices. This dreadful cacophony was suddenly extinguished, leaving in its wake an eerie, hollow silence.

Attaching the carcass to his strap, the woodman reset his trap and set off down the hill. He walked to the muddy road and followed the deep ruts that widened where the carriage had skidded. The ground was pitted with hoof marks and littered with ripped-up clods of black earth. The woodman trudged around the bend and saw that the parallel furrows terminated abruptly at the edge of the road.

At the bottom of a ravine was the carriage, its rear wheel still turning slowly. The horses were lying on top of each other, their heads projecting from their bodies at unnatural angles. Some distance away was the crumpled body of the driver.

The woodman continued along the road until he found a point where he could make a scrambling descent. Once he was on the floor of the ravine, he walked back and inspected the driver's body. The man wasn't breathing, and blood was oozing out of a gash at the back of his head. Working quickly, the woodman removed the gown and slung it over his shoulder. He then paused, contemplating the corpse. He tested the man's weight with one enormous hand.

Yes, he could manage it, of course he could. But it was not quite dark, and they would soon be out looking for this man—the people from the village, the people from the school.

It was unwise—an unnecessary risk.

Even so, he thought. Zhenechka will still be pleased with the black cloak.

He set off into the undergrowth, clutching his booty, and feeling somewhat regretful.

It was a shame to leave all that horse meat.

59

FRAU BECKER WAS SEATED on her chaise longue, a handkerchief clutched in her left hand. She was wearing a black blouse decorated with printed roses—each blossoming from a green stem with two leaves. The collar was fastened with a large oval brooch, on which raised ivory figures promenaded against a terra-cotta background. Her dress was made of satin and ended a little short of her soft doeskin boots, revealing a sliver of her maroon stockings.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were seated opposite, while Haussmann stood by the door.

“As he poured the vinegar,” said Liebermann, “Zelenka thought that he would be observing the effect of a weak acid on a range of innocuous compounds—sugars and salts. He did not know that your husband had replaced one of the test substances with cyanide, probably potassium cyanide. When vinegar and cyanide react, they produce hydrocyanic gas—one of the most poisonous gases known to man. Zelenka would have been killed instantly—and afterward the gas would have dissipated in the atmosphere.”

Frau Becker held the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed.

“Zelenka's body was discovered by Professor Gärtner, who immediately rushed to inform the headmaster. Professor Eichmann was at that moment engaged in a meeting with your husband. Some attempts to revive Zelenka were made—but these proved unsuccessful. Professor Gärtner was very distressed, and the headmaster subsequently went to summon the school doctor. Your husband would have had ample opportunity to remove the cyanide—which he then disposed of on his way to Nurse Funke s lodge. Hydrocyanic gas was an inspired choice of poison. It is virtually undetectable at autopsy— apart from a little congestion in the lungs, perhaps, but nothing more. Dr. Becker had assumed that in the absence of any alternative explanation, the pathologist would conclude that Zelenka had died from an unspecified natural cause. And this—of course—is exactly what happened. However, your husband is clearly a very fastidious gentleman. Even though his plan was exceedingly clever, it was not perfect. He detected one minor flaw. Hydrocyanic gas leaves a smell in the air—a faint bitter almondlike odor—that might serve as a clue.”

Liebermann paused, and allowed the fingers of both hands to touch, each digit finding its twin in a serial sequence.

“Unfortunately, perfectionism—when taken to its extreme—is always self-defeating. You may recall that just before Zelenka s death, your husband asked you to buy him an almond tart.”

Frau Becker looked puzzled.

“Which you purchased,” Liebermann continued undeterred, “from Demel's.”

The young woman's eyes suddenly opened wide.

“How did you…,” she whispered.

“The smell of almonds in the laboratory,” Liebermann went on, “might have aroused suspicion; however, your husband reasoned that if there was an obvious source of such a smell, it would seem less conspicuous. He kept the almond tart concealed in his desk, and, while he was removing the cyanide, he deposited the pastry next to Zelenka's body.”

“But, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “Professor Eichmann didn't smell anything.”

“Not everyone can, Oskar,” said Liebermann, turning to his friend and adopting a more confidential tone. “An inherited factor determines whether an individual can detect the residual odor of hydrocyanic gas. If that constitutional factor is absent, the individual cannot smell it.”

The young doctor crossed his legs and returned his attention to Frau Becker.

“Your husband was aware that Zelenka intended to leave Saint Florian's in the summer. Dr. Becker did not want to lose you.”

The woman's expression suddenly changed. Her features hardened and the blood drained from her face. She was no longer crying. Indeed, she seemed to have been overcome by a strange, almost sinister calm. When she finally spoke, her words shattered the silence like stones falling through panes of glass.

“I killed Zelenka.”

“What?” Rheinhardt cried.

Liebermann gestured to his friend to remain silent. The young doctor put on his spectacles, leaned forward, and observed Frau Becker very closely.

“I killed Zelenka,” she said again.

Psychoanalysis had taught Liebermann to respect silences. They were never merely the absence of speech. They could be many things: a tool, a consequence, a protest. Liebermann allowed the silence to consolidate. Undisturbed, Frau Becker's thoughts would clarify. When she was ready to speak, she would.

Outside, in the hallway, a grandfather clock was ticking loudly.

Frau Becker twisted a coil of blond hair around her finger. Her stare remained fixed on the floor.

“I have done a terrible thing… or should I say we—yes, we have done a terrible thing… but you must understand, we never meant this to happen. If I… if we had known…”

She stopped, released her hair, and lowered her hand. Its descent was slow, and mannered, like an object sinking in water. Her breast heaved—but no more tears came.

“We?” said Liebermann softly.

Frau Becker looked up, and her gaze met Liebermann's.

“Myself and Herr Lang.”

“The art master,” interjected Rheinhardt, discreetly reminding his friend of Herr Lang's identity.

“Since September last year, Herr Lang and I, we have…” Frau Becker's resolve faltered. “We have been…”

“Lovers?”

She nodded.

Liebermann was unable to maintain his clinical reserve. He craned forward, his eyebrows ascending above the rim of his spectacles.

“My husband was not the man that I believed him to be… and this is an awful place, Herr Doctor. A place where someone like me can never fit in. The masters’ wives are narrow-minded, and thought bad things about me from the start. I knew what they were thinking, of course. They regarded me as a stupid girl from the country, a gold digger… and a lot worse. I tried to get to know them, but it was useless. They didn't want to know me—they didn't accept me. And when I talked to them about the plight of some of the boys—the bullying, the persecution—they weren't interested. It made things worse. They thought I was being ridiculous. One of them called me… hys-hystorical?”

“Hysterical,” said Liebermann, quite unable to resist making this particular correction.

The pale skin around Frau Becker's eyes had reddened. The flesh looked sore, grazed—flecked with tiny raised welts. Liebermann noticed the unusual length and brightness of her lashes, which glinted in the lamplight.

“I did love Bernhard,” she said, her voice rising in pitch as if she were responding to an accusation of falsehood. “I did. I had never met anyone like him before—an educated man—a distinguished man—a generous man. But he changed. He started to complain about how much money I was spending. He was always in a foul temper. He became angry with me if I didn't understand what he was talking about. I felt neglected, lonely—and Herr Lang… Herr Lang was kind to me. He's an artist. He appreciated me, accepted me… and he cared about all the bad things happening up at the school.”

The young woman suddenly stopped, and tugged at her blouse, her expression suggesting utter contempt.

“I have a large wardrobe full of beautiful clothes, but I have never been interested in fashion. I used to tell Bernhard that I needed a new dress every time I wanted to get away. I used shopping as an excuse, so that I could go to Vienna. Sometimes it was possible for me to meet Herr Lang there. He knew places where…” Her cheeks flushed like a beacon. Modesty prevented her from disclosing the intimate details of their assignation, but Liebermann and Rheinhardt knew exactly where Lang would have taken Frau Becker. The city was full of private dining rooms—in Leopoldstadt, Neubau, and Mariahilf—where couples could conduct their illicit liaisons without fear of discovery.

“We made our arrangements,” Frau Becker continued, “through Zelenka. He delivered our notes to each other—he was our go-between, our messenger. I was very fond of him… very fond. But our relationship was innocent. I knew that my husband suspected that something was going on; however, God forgive me, I did nothing to make him think otherwise. In fact, I encouraged his mistrust. On the days that Zelenka came, I always wore something special. And all the time, I knew that whatever inquiries Bernhard made would ultimately come to nothing. The more my husband worried about Zelenka, the better—it put him off, helped to conceal the truth, misdirected his attention. Herr Lang thought I was being very clever— and said that he would do something too. He knew that Herr Sommer was a dreadful gossip, and told him things… made suggestions about Zelenka and me, knowing full well that Sommer would be indiscreet. It worked. Soon the whole school was talking—but about the wrong affair! An affair that wasn't happening! You look shocked, Herr Doctor. And I know what you are thinking: ‘What sort of woman would do such a thing? What sort of woman would knowingly destroy her own reputation?’ But you see, I had no reputation to protect. People said horrible things about me whatever I did, and at least this way the slander was serving some purpose. Besides, I would only have to endure it for a short time. Herr Lang is leaving Saint Florian's soon. He intends to join a commune of artists living in the Tenth District. I was going to join him, and may still do so. I've been told that such people do not make a habit of judging others.”

Frau Becker paused and looked from Liebermann to Rheinhardt, then to Haussmann and back again. Her chin was raised and there was something defiant in the set of her jaw; but the challenge was short-lived. She brought her hands together, nestling the closed fist of her right hand in the palm of her left—and bowed her head.

“If I had known…,” Frau Becker continued. “If we had known that Bernhard was capable of such insane jealousy, we would never have done this… but we did. And because of that, we must now share his guilt.”

Liebermann leaned back in his chair.

“I don't think so. You could never have foreseen your husband's actions.”

“I'm his wife. I should have—”

“Not in this instance, Frau Becker,” Liebermann interrupted. “The man you fell in love with no longer exists. You said earlier that your husband changed. I believe that this alteration in his personality had a very specific cause.”

“I don't understand.”

“Are you aware that your husband took medicine—a white powder which he dissolved in alcohol?”

“Yes. He took it for his headaches.”

“Frau Becker, your husband never suffered from headaches. He was deceiving you. The medication he took was an extract of the South American coca plant—cocaine. It is a substance once thought to improve mood and increase… stamina.”

A carriage drew up outside, and Liebermann was momentarily distracted.

“Forgive me for being forthright, Frau Becker,” Liebermann continued. “But it is my belief that your husband—being considerably older than you—doubted his ability to satisfy a healthy young wife. He started taking cocaine, having probably heard of its use as a tonic by the German army. However, cocaine is a highly addictive substance that, taken in large quantities, can disturb the mind's delicate balance. It can cause various forms of paranoia, a particularly disturbing example of which is pathological or morbid jealousy.” A loud knock resounded through the house. “Men are particularly prone to jealous feelings—but these can be grotesquely exaggerated under the influence of such a potent chemical agent. If Dr. Becker had not been addicted to cocaine, I very much doubt whether he would have behaved so irrationally—and with such tragic consequences.”

There was the sound of movement in the hallway, and a gentle tap on the door.

“Come in,” said Frau Becker.

The maid entered.

“What is it, Ivana?”

“Frau Becker, a police constable has arrived. He would like to speak with you.”

“You had better show him in.”

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt quizzically, but the inspector was only able to respond with a shrug.

Haussmann stepped out of the way to let in the constable—a large youth with ruddy cheeks and a forelock of orange hair that peeped out from beneath his spiked helmet. He looked around the room, observing the gathering, but seemed quite unable to explain his presence. Indeed, his expression suggested confusion—complicated by anxiety.

Rheinhardt stood up and introduced himself, which did not seem to help matters. Indeed, the constable now seemed even more nervous and shifted the weight of his body from one foot to the other.

“Well, man,” said Rheinhardt, becoming impatient. “What is it?”

“Sir,” said the constable. Then, looking toward Frau Becker, he said, “Madam… there's been an accident. A carriage left the road and the driver was thrown off! The landlord of the inn at Aufkirchen was passing—and he has identified the body. I am sorry, madam. Your husband… he's dead.”

Through the window Liebermann could see the city lights: rings of increasing intensity contracting around a central luminescent hub. This pool of stardust was home to nearly two million people. Germans, Italians, Slovaks, Poles, Ruthenians, Slovenians, Romanians, Gypsies, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, princes, archdukes, shop girls, and paupers. Liebermann fancied that each glimmering lamp was a human soul—a unique life, illuminated by hopes, fears, and aspirations. Such a vast collection of humanity was humbling. Yet he felt an odd, vainglorious compulsion to raise his arm and eclipse the great metropolis with his hand.

Would it be there forever? he wondered. After all, archaeologists had found the ruins of entire civilizations buried beneath the sand.

Liebermann opened his fingers and allowed the lights to reappear. Their constancy was mildly reassuring.

The mood in the carriage was subdued. None of the three men had spoken much since leaving Aufkirchen. They had passed the time, somewhat self-absorbed, smoking Haussmann's French cigarettes. The black Syrian tobacco produced an intransigent fug that smelled unmistakably of burning tar; however, the pungency and excoriating consequence of each draw had not deterred them, and the box—illustrated with a camel and a palm tree—was now completely empty.

Rheinhardt caught sight of his reflection in the window and squeezed the horns of his mustache.

“He could so easily have got away with it.”

The sentence was not addressed to Liebermann or Haussmann but to himself.

“Yes,” said Liebermann, “and I am struck by a certain irony. If it wasn't for the school bullies, Becker might have succeeded. I doubt very much that you would have been so tenacious had there not been signs of torture on Zelenka's body. In this instance at least, cruelty has served some greater purpose.”

“Indeed, but it is a twist of fate from which I will derive little consolation.” Rheinhardt turned and peered through the smoke at his friend. “Max, there is something I don't understand.” Liebermann invited the inspector to proceed. “What alerted you to the significance of the almond tart in the first place? You never said.”

“Have you ever tasted absinthe, Oskar?”

“No.”

“Nor had I until last week. I was given some to drink by a friend—and I found that it had an extraordinary effect on the workings of my brain. My thinking seemed to loosen up—suddenly, I was capable of making bold associations. Some of them were complete nonsense… but others… My companion had been eating sugared almonds, and it occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that almonds contain traces of cyanide.… Then I remembered that hydrocyanic gas is deadly—but difficult to isolate postmortem. The photographs of the murder scene came into my mind, and I was troubled by the presence of the pastry. Why was it there? And why wasn't it eaten? After all, adolescent boys are not renowned for their ability to delay gratification. Hydrocyanic gas taints the air with the smell of almonds. The rest—as I have already explained—followed.”

“And in order to achieve this… this… emancipation of the mind, how much absinthe did you drink, exactly?”

Liebermann took off his spectacles and dropped them into the pocket of his coat.

“Not a great deal,” he said innocently.

Rheinhardt turned to his assistant and, raising his eyebrows, asked, “Well, Haussmann?”

The young man shook his head.

“See, Max?” Rheinhardt continued. “Even Haussmann doesn't believe you.”

60

“I SUPPOSE I SHOULD congratulate you, Rheinhardt,” said Commissioner Brügel, “but I cannot do so without first raising the issue of your absence. You received my memorandum, didn't you?”

“I did, sir.”

“And yet you chose to ignore it.”

“With respect, sir, you requested that officers should make every effort to remain close to the Schottenring station.”

“The meaning of which was quite clear—or at least it was to everybody else.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I misunderstood.” Brügel's eyes narrowed. “Was the operation successful, sir?”

“No,” said Brügel. “It wasn't.”

“I heard that some arrests were made.”

“Two gentlemen were detained for questioning—but they were released early this morning. Mistaken identity.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

Brügel emitted a low growl that rose from the pit of his stomach. “Well, Rheinhardt, I trust there will be no misunderstandings of this kind in future.”

His knowing emphasis made Rheinhardt feel ashamed.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Good.” The commissioner shuffled some papers. “I would like you to submit a complete account of the Saint Florian affair by tomorrow evening, after which you will report to Inspector von Bulow for further instruction. There is a pianist, József Kálman, who—”

Rheinhardt felt a stab of resentment. He did not want to report to von Bulow. They were of the same rank—and it was not right that he should be treated as if he were nothing more than von Bulow's assistant.

“Sir?” Rheinhardt interposed.

“What is it, Rheinhardt?”

“I have not completed my investigation… at Saint Florian's.”

Brügels head swung forward. “What are you talking about, Rheinhardt? We know who killed Zelenka—and why. There is nothing more to investigate.”

“The cuts on the boy's body, sir. The bullying…”

“Don't be ridiculous, Rheinhardt! The case is closed!” Brügels hand came down on his desk, creating a hollow thud—the quality of which suggested the snapping shut of a great tome. “Now,” Brügel resumed, “Kálman breakfasts at a disreputable coffeehouse in the third district—a place called Zielinski's.…”

61

LIEBERMANN RAN HIS FINGER down Trezska's back, tracing the flowing contour of her spine. As he did, he admired the smoothness of her olive skin—its depth and lustre. He stroked her buttocks and allowed his hand to fall between her thighs.

On the bedside cabinet was an absinthe bottle and the trappings of Trezska's habit—a sugar bowl, a miniature trowel, and a carafe of water. Two tall glasses stood in front of the bottle, one of them three-quarters full. Through its pallid contents the candle shone like a burning emerald.

The bouquet of their lovemaking still permeated the atmosphere. Liebermann inhaled and registered a hint of perfume amid a blend of darker fragrances—musk-orchid, attar, and oysters.

His perceptual universe was strangely altered. Everything seemed removed, distant, and dreamlike. Yet, paradoxically, minute phenomena acquired unnatural prominence. A mote—floating upward on the air—commanded his attention as if it were an entire world. Its inconsequential ascent was majestic and beguiling.

Liebermann became aware of Trezska's voice. It was muffled, and her speech was slurred. She was talking into the pillow, her face concealed beneath a shock of black hair. She was extolling the virtues of the Hungarian nobility.

“They have real charm… style, panache. The Telekis and Károlyis. The late empress appreciated their company—as did her son… poor Rudolf. But that's another matter. There was once a peasants’ revolt in the sixteenth century. They caught the leader—and do you know what they did with him? They made him sit on a red-hot throne. They pressed a red-hot crown on his head… and made him hold a red-hot scepter. His retinue were made to eat his flesh— while it was still sizzling.”

“Where did you hear such a story?” Liebermann asked.

“It's not a story—it's true.”

“Like the vampire countess. What was she called?”

“Báthory—Erzsébet Báthory.”

Liebermann leaned forward and let his lips touch the nape of Trezska's neck. She shivered with pleasure and rolled back onto her side.

“That man,” said Liebermann. “The one who stopped you outside Demel's.”

“What?”

“The man who called you Amélie—Franz…”

“Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?”

Trezska brushed her hair away, but it sprang forward again— hanging across her face like a curtain.

“You knew him, really, didn't you?”

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

“He seemed so certain… so sure.”

“You are jealous!”

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

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

The candle flickered and the glasses filled with green lightning.

O! beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-ey'd monster…

“Othello,” he said.

Trezska drew back. “What?”

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

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

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

“Sleep,” she whispered. “Sleep…”

Liebermann could hear her heart beating.

Too fast, he thought. Too fast.

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

62

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

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

“The paracerebellar nuclei.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Couldn't you just omit the date?”

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

“Who?”

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

“Where do you think he's gone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liebermann smiled. “Allow me to explain.”

63

THEY WERE SEATED IN the disused classroom.

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

The inspector did not reply.

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

“Just answer my question.”

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

“That is an extremely insolent remark.”

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

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

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

“I don't know,” said Wolf.

“I think you do.”

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

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

“The headmaster will be very displeased.”

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

“Nothing, Inspector.”

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

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

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

“Do you study botany here?” he asked.

The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Yes… we have had a few classes.”

“And what did you learn about?”

“The structure of plants… the different families.”

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

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

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

The young doctor raised his eyebrows, encouraging a response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Japanese belladonna and morphine,” he said softly.

Wolf swallowed.

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

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

“You can't do this!”

Rheinhardt s grip tightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then who did?” Rheinhardt asked.

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

Liebermann lowered the syringe.

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

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

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

“Why Herr Sommer?” Rheinhardt pressed.

“They were lovers,” said Wolf.

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

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

“How do you know that?” Liebermann asked.

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

“I see,” said Liebermann.

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

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

The boy looked at him quizzically.

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

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

“Why not?”

“Because he is useful.”

“How is he useful?”

“We have… an arrangement.”

“What kind of arrangement?”

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

“Your examination results!”

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you do?” Rheinhardt repeated.

“I threatened him. That's all.”

“Why?”

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

“Do you know where he went—Perger?”

“No,” said Wolf. “No… no, I don't.”

Rain had begun to fall, and the windows resonated with its gentle drumming.

“Apart from Perger and Freitag,” Rheinhardt continued, “did anyone else know about Herr Sommer's…” The Inspector hesitated. “Herr Sommer's relationship with Zelenka?”

“No.”

“We have no proof, then, other than your word—and Freitag's, of course.”

“I am telling the truth,” said Wolf, darting a nervous glance toward the walnut box on Liebermann's lap.

“What if Herr Sommer denies your allegation?” said Rheinhardt.

“I have something in my possession that once belonged to Zelenka,” said Wolf. “Herr Sommer was very keen to get hold of it— very keen.”

“A dictionary?” said Liebermann.

“Yes,” said Wolf, surprised.

“A Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary?”

“Yes. I thought there might be something incriminating written inside—but there isn't. I've checked.”

“Where is it?” said Rheinhardt.

“I've hidden it,” Wolf replied.

“Somewhere in the school?”

“Yes.”

“Then you had better go and get it,” said Rheinhardt. “Immediately.”

64

“WELL?” SAID RHEINHARDT. “Do you think he's telling the truth?”

“On the whole, yes,” Liebermann replied. “I am confident that his revelation concerning Herr Sommer's homosexuality is true— and that Herr Sommer had become intimate with Zelenka; however, my confidence in Wolf's testimony faltered at two junctures. When Wolf denied harming Zelenka, he said that he had never touched him. Yet I noticed a slight hesitation before he said the word ‘touched’—as though he had met some unconscious resistance.” “Then you do think he was lying. He did harm Zelenka.” “No,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “Quite the contrary.” “I'm sorry, Max, you will have to speak more plainly.” “I am of the opinion that Wolf did touch Zelenka.… And it was the memory of that touching, erotic touching, that impeded the fluency of his denial.”

Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and exhaled, allowing his lips to interrupt the airflow so as to produce a series of plosions. When he had finished, he said, “And the second thing?”

“When Wolf claimed that he did not know Perger's whereabouts, I thought his denial was too insistent.”

“Then perhaps we should administer our truth serum, after all.” Liebermann smiled coyly. “No. There wouldn't be any point.” Rheinhardt's brow furrowed. Liebermann tapped the walnut box and continued: “The bottle contains a saline solution and a harmless stain. I would be very uncomfortable injecting a young man with belladonna and morphine.”

Rheinhardt's mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments before he spluttered, “I… I… I don't believe it! Why on earth didn't you tell me!”

“Authenticity! We needed to play our parts with utter conviction.”

“But all those things you said about belladonna—did you make it all up?”

“No, it's all true—and we might well have used twilight sleep to loosen Wolf's tongue; however, that would have been such an inelegant solution to our problem. The use of psychological devices is considerably more satisfying, don't you think? More subtle. And my ruse has been successful enough. I have not tampered with Wolf's brain chemistry, yet he has told us a great deal.”

Rheinhardt shook his head from side to side. “Sometimes, Max, you test my patience to the very limit.”

“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “But never without reason.”

The young doctor turned the key of the walnut box, and dropped it into the dark, gaping maw of his leather bag.

“What a sorry and sordid state of affairs,” said Rheinhardt. “Frau Becker allowed others to believe that she was having an improper relationship with Zelenka so that she might better conceal her assignations with Lang, and at the very same time Herr Sommer's indiscretions were serving an identical purpose, concealing his assignations with the boy himself! It is a pity that none of them stopped to consider the possible consequences of their mutually advantageous lies—particularly on the all too fragile mind of Dr. Becker.”

“But who could have really foreseen that these machinations would result in the murder of Thomas Zalenka?”

“That,” said Rheinhardt gruffly, “is not the point!”

The two men eschewed further conversation, settling instead for private thoughts and silence. Outside, the rain continued to fall, its persistent pitter-pattering unrelieved and softly insistent. Eventually, Rheinhardt stirred and said, “He will come back—won't he?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann.

A few minutes later, the rapid crescendo of Wolf's footsteps heralded his appearance in the doorway. He looked disheveled, and his breathing was labored, suggesting that he had expended a considerable amount of energy recovering the large green volume that he now held against his chest.

“Ah, there you are, Wolf,” said Rheinhardt. “I was beginning to wonder where you'd got to.”

The boy marched across the room and handed the book to Rheinhardt.

“Zelenka's dictionary,” he said.

Rheinhardt stroked the green binding. “How did you get this?”

“I found it.”

“What do you mean, ‘found it?’ “

“It was under Zelenka's bed.”

“You took it, then?”

Wolf shrugged.

“You said that Herr Sommer wanted Zelenka's dictionary,” Rheinhardt continued. “That he was keen to get hold of it. How do you know that?”

“I discovered him looking for it in Zelenka's locker.”

“When?”

“As soon as he got back… after his fall.”

“Thank you. That will be all, Wolf. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait next door.”

Wolf bowed, clicked his heels, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Rheinhardt opened the dictionary and examined the antique etching of the bearded scholar. His eyes dropped to the foot of the page.

“Hartel and Jacobsen, Leipzig, 1900. Well, this is certainly the missing dictionary.” He then flicked through the pages, toyed with the edges of the marbled endpapers, and poked his finger down the spine. “Wolf seems to be correct. Nothing remarkable or incriminating here.”

Rheinhardt handed the dictionary to Liebermann, who ran his fingers across the gold-embossed leather.

“What did Miss Lyd gate say…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Something about a key?”

“You mean with respect to the number pairs?”

“Yes.”

“She said that the numbers were nonsensical—but they might be made intelligible with a key.”

“What if the number pairs…,” said Liebermann, playing a five-finger exercise on the binding. “What if the number pairs are coordinates?”

“But this is a dictionary, not a map. Besides, what possible—”

“The position of every single word in the German language,” Liebermann interrupted, “can be expressed by using two numbers. The first representing a particular page, and the second representing a specific location on that page. First, second, third… and so on. If two people possess the same dictionary, they can communicate any message at all using number pairs. Oskar—did you record some of Zelenka's number pairs in your notebook?”

“Yes, I did,” said Rheinhardt.

The inspector dug deep into his coat pocket.

“Read them to me.”

“Five hundred and seventy-four—and fourteen.”

Liebermann found the correct page and counted down to the fourteenth word.

“Drink.”

“One thousand two hundred and fifty—paired with thirty-nine.”

Repeating the procedure, Liebermann answered: “My.”

“One hundred and ninety-seven—and two.”

Liebermann licked his finger and turned the flimsy pages with the speed of a bank teller counting cash.

“Extraordinary,” he whispered.

“For heaven's sake, Max—what does it say?”

“ ‘Blood!’ Drink my blood! Now everything makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Oh yes.” Liebermann snapped the dictionary closed. “Perfect sense!”

65

“I AM SORRY TO disturb you, Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt. “But a matter has arisen that requires clarification—and I believe you will be able to assist us.”

The mathematics master peeped out from behind the door. His bloodshot eyes shifted from one visitor to the other. Liebermann inclined his head.

“I trust,” Rheinhardt continued, “that we have not arrived at an inconvenient time.”

“Did you send me a telegram, Inspector?” said Sommer. “If so, it was never delivered.”

His breath smelled of alcohol.

“Unfortunately,” said Rheinhardt, “circumstances did not permit me—on this occasion—to extend such a courtesy.”

“Well,” said Sommer. “Since you ask, Inspector, I am rather busy at present. I wonder whether we could postpone our—”

“No,” interrupted Rheinhardt, extending his hand to stop the insidious progress of the door toward closure. “That will not be possible.”

The firmness with which Rheinhardt spoke made Sommer flinch.

“I see,” said Sommer, taking a step back. “In which case, you had better come in.”

Sommer limped down the hall and guided them into his study. He pulled two stools from under the table and offered his guests some schnapps; however, his hospitality was politely declined. Liebermann noticed that the schnapps bottle was almost empty and a little shot glass was already out on the table. There was nothing in the room to suggest—as Sommer had asserted—that he was in the middle of a task requiring sustained attention.

The mathematics master sat down in his leather reading chair and immediately started talking.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Inspector. None of us would have imagined Dr. Becker capable of such a heinous crime. What an extraordinary turn of events. And yet—you know—I have to say—if I am honest—I never really liked the man. I accept that one should never speak ill of the dead, but the fact of the matter is that Becker was a cold, unapproachable fellow, and quick to express disapproval. He once reprimanded me for gossiping, when I was merely sharing a humorous anecdote with Lang about an old master called Spivakov” Sommer watched nervously as Liebermann approached the window. “I am not sure,” Sommer continued, “that I can tell you very much more about him—but I will endeavor to do my best. Now, you said something needs to be cleared up—or was it clarified?”

Liebermann reached down and picked up a book from the floor. He opened it and examined the frontispiece.

“I notice, Herr Sommer, that you have purchased a new dictionary,” said the young doctor.

“Why, yes,” Sommer replied. “My other one was getting old.”

“Not so old, surely. It was—I believe—a Hartel and Jacobsen… and was published only three years ago.”

“You are most observant, Herr Doctor,” said Sommer. “Yes, I did have a Hartel and Jacobsen, but…” He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “It wasn't very good on technical terms. Not enough detail. My new dictionary is much better suited to my purposes.”

Liebermann turned and walked back across the room. He sat on a stool, opened his bag, and pulled out a large green volume.

“Then why, Herr Sommer,” said Liebermann, “were you so anxious to acquire this?”

The color drained from the mathematics master's face.

“What… what is it?” The hollowness of Sommer's voice betrayed the insincerity of his question.

“Thomas Zelenka's Hartel and Jacobsen dictionary.”

For several seconds the mathematics master presented a blank visage—as if the efferent nerves supplying his face with emotional expressivity had suddenly been severed with a cheese wire. Then, quite suddenly, a burst of galvanic twitches preceded a loud exclamation.

“Ah yes—of course,” cried Sommer, clapping his hands together. “You must have heard something or other from that boy Wolf!”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.

“Yes.… you see, it's a rather expensive dictionary and one that— I'm ashamed to say—I recommended to Zelenka. I should have given the matter more thought, particularly given Zelenka's enthusiasm for the sciences. As you know, Zelenka came from a poor family, so, on my return from Linz, I naturally wanted to make sure that this very valuable item had been safely returned—with the rest of his effects—to his parents. I made some inquiries and discovered that the dictionary had gone missing. I suspected that Wolf was the culprit—and subsequently challenged him. He protested his innocence and made some idle threats.” Sommer paused to shake his head. “Such a disagreeable boy. Now it seems that you have succeeded where I failed. How did you know that Wolf had it? I'm intrigued.”

Liebermann leaned forward and dropped the dictionary on Sommer's lap.

“The number pairs that appeared in the marginalia of Zelenka's exercise books—written in your hand, and his—correspond with the location of certain words in this dictionary. The first number refers to the page; the second number refers to the precise position of a particular word. Herr Sommer, we know what you were writing to each other. We now understand the… nature of your relationship.”

Sommer looked up at the young doctor. A faint smile flickered across his face, and a sound escaped from his mouth—an incomplete, forceful exhalation that carried within it a musical note of surprise. In spite of its brevity, this small vocalization was curiously dramatic, communicating both shock and resignation. The smile faded, and Sommer's features crumpled. He buried his head in his hands and began to sob.

“You knew that an autopsy would take place,” Liebermann continued, “and that the cuts on Zelenka's body would be discovered. However, you reasoned that these wounds would most probably be attributed to bullying, persecution, or torture—rather than to an erotic predilection. To reinforce this misconception, you wrote to the Arbeiter-Zeitung, in the guise of a former—and disaffected—pupil, Herr G. In this article, you denounced the culture of cruelty at Saint Florian's, and made reference to an invented punishment—'doing the night watch’—which had supposedly caused the accidental death of an unfortunate Hungarian boy called Domokos Pikler. In fact, Pikler did not fall to his death—he jumped. He suffered from suicidal melancholia. Your ruse was extremely effective. You did not fail to observe the cardinal rule of successful dissimulation: the inclusion of at least some of the truth.”

The mathematics master looked up and pulled the sleeve of his quilted jacket across his nose, leaving a trail of mucus on the faded silk. On his eyelashes, the remnants of tears caught the fading light.

“What did I do wrong?” Sommer asked Liebermann. “I did not coerce Zelenka. I did not force him. He wanted to do those things. He was a young man—but not so young as to be unconscious of his own actions, and insensible of their consequences…. I did not corrupt him. Our physical intimacies—however repugnant you might find them—created bonds of affection. Deep bonds. I know you will recoil if I claim that we knew love. You have opinions, no doubt, concerning the degree to which love can exist under such circumstances. We inverts are disqualified, on medical grounds, from admission into the higher realms of emotional life… although greater men have disagreed with that view in the past. Have you read the Erotes by Lucian, Herr Doctor?”

“No.”

“Two men debate the merits of loving boys compared to loving women. The defender of love for women argues that such love serves procreation, and is therefore more natural—a superior love. But his opponent reverses the argument. He agrees that love for boys is indeed a cultural rather than a natural phenomenon. But this shows that those who practice love for boys—or who have the imagination to derive pleasure from unusual acts—rise above nature. Love for boys is not yoked to primitive, animal passions. When the imaginative lover makes love, he does so with his aesthetic sensibilities fully engaged. When he makes love, he is—in a way—creating a work of art. He rises above the carnal. When the dialogue of the Erotes reaches its final pages, an adjudicator concludes that love for boys is the natural predilection of philosophers. It is the highest love.…”

Sommer clenched his fist.

“What did I do wrong?” He repeated his question. “You are a doctor and will describe me as a degenerate, an invert, a deviant. But may I remind you that it was Becker who killed Zelenka, not me! Respectable Dr. Becker, who would never have attracted such degrading appellations. And is it so very wrong to try to preserve one's position, one's livelihood? Had I been candid, I would have lost everything. You are fortunate, Herr Doctor, that your erotic instincts are directed toward socially acceptable aims. You did not make that choice—as I did not choose to be as I am. We are simply what we are—and what I am was not always judged to be bad. That is only the opinion of doctors in these modern times, and one day, opinions may change again. Therefore, do not judge me so unkindly.… The moral heights that you occupy are not so elevated as you think.”

Liebermann did not respond. Instead, he stood up and addressed Rheinhardt.

“I'll wait for you outside.”

66

LIEBERMANN GAZED OUT OF the carriage window.

The day was at its end and the hills had become shadowy and indistinct. He noticed the light of a fire—a speck of orange in a sea of darkness—and wondered who might be out there at this time. The temperature had dropped, and the landscape was looking particularly inhospitable.

“Cigar?”

Rheinhardt leaned across and offered him a Trabuco.

“Thank you,” said Liebermann. The young doctor struck a vesta and bent forward, allowing the end of his cheroot to touch the flame. “I still can't believe I was so slow-witted,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “I should have realized the significance of Zelenka's injuries as soon as you showed me the mortuary photographs— particularly those crural lacerations!”

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

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

“Vampiric lust-murder?” Rheinhardt repeated slowly.

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

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

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

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

“Could Sommer suffer from similar adhesions?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rheinhardt twirled his mustache and emitted a pensive growl.

“What?” Liebermann asked.

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

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

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

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

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

67

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

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

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

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

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

Triangles…

Herr Lang, Frau Becker, Zelenka…

Dr. Becker, Zelenka, Frau Becker…

Frau Becker, Zelenka… myself.

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

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

His eyes remained open.

68

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

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

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

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

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

A fragment of conversation:

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

What?

The man who called you Amélie—Franz…

Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?

You knew him, really, didn't you?

Are you jealous?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have been busy… at the university?”

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

Again she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

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

The gentleman stood up and extended his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm sorry?” Liebermann said.

“Mentally unstable,” Amelia interjected in German.

“Ah, of course. Please continue.”

Randall took a sip of Earl Grey.

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

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

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

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

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

“A remarkable story,” said Liebermann. “Truly remarkable.”

The subsequent discussion was somewhat circular, returning again and again to reiterations of the fact that Randall Lyd gate's history was—without doubt—remarkable! Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that repetitions of this nature were something of a necessity and an unspecified number were required before the conversation was free to proceed beyond general expressions of amazement. Eventually, however, a turning point was reached and the issue of how best to inform Samuel Lyd gate of Randall's appearance was given careful and sensitive consideration.

Liebermann's curiosity had been aroused by something that Randall had said earlier, and at an appropriate juncture he said:

“I trust that you will not consider my question impertinent. But you mentioned in passing that your work involves… uncovering facts? What is it that you do?”

“I am an archaeologist,” said Randall.

“And a respected authority,” said Amelia, “on the ancient civilizations of Mexico and Peru.”

“Please… Amelia,” said Randall, embarrassed by his sister's advocacy. “Most of my work takes place in old libraries—poring over ancient maps and mythologies. But on occasion it is my privilege to visit the holy places of the Toltecs, where it is still possible to find— and save—examples of their sublime artistry.”

“The Toltecs?”

“A race alluded to in a migration myth as the first Nahua immigrants to the region of Mexico. The name ‘Toltec’ came to be regarded by the surrounding peoples as synonymous with ‘artist,’ and as a kind of hallmark that guaranteed the superiority of any Toltec workmanship.” As Randall spoke, his voice acquired a mellifluous, dreamy quality, and his eyes seemed to search out a far horizon. “Everything in and about their city was redolent of the taste and artistry of its founders. The very walls were encrusted with rare stones, and their masonry was so beautifully chiseled and laid as to resemble the choicest mosaic.”

It transpired that Randall had clearly inherited some of his mother's appetite for adventure. For he often accepted commissions from North American universities and museums to journey south— into sometimes remote and dangerous territories—in order to recover lost treasures, the existence of which he ascertained from close readings of native legends (recorded by historians with exotic names such as Zumarraga and Ixtlilxochitl).

As the evening progressed, the conversation ranged over an extra ordinarily broad range of topics: Amelia's research under the supervision of Landsteiner, King Acxitl, dream interpretation, the hallucinatory properties of certain desert mushrooms (an example of which, curiously, Randall happened to have in his pocket), Nietz sche's concept of eternal recurrence, and the syncopated music of the black people of New Orleans (which Randall obligingly whistled while tapping his foot).

Discussion of rags and ragtime led, by some oblique conversational maneuvering, to the waltz, which prompted Amelia to enthuse— at some length—about the ball she had attended with Liebermann. Randall—to Liebermann's surprise—expressed much interest (perhaps anthropological) in Fasching, and the young doctor found himself offering to take both brother and sister to the clock makers’ ball, which was scheduled to take place the following week.

When Liebermann finally took his leave, he felt quite dazed. It had turned out to be an evening very different from the one he had expected. He walked the streets for some time—smoking and thinking—before returning home. When Miss Lyd gate had said goodbye, she had reached out and gently touched his hand. After taking a few steps he had looked back, and the image of her standing in the doorway had impressed itself on his memory. Her white dress had billowed in the breeze, and strands of her spun copper hair had streamed across her face. She had pushed them aside, revealing those arresting eyes. The smile that had been fleetingly present throughout the entire evening was gone, and her expression was intense, penetrating—as if she were looking directly into his soul. Lieber-mann identified the thought as fanciful, but nevertheless felt a shiver of unease.

He had been so very wrong about Miss Lyd gate. Indeed, on reflection, Liebermann concluded that in matters of the heart he had something of a gift for being wrong.…

69

THE SILENCE THAT PREVAILED in the commissioner's office was absolute. It was the kind of stillness that Rheinhardt associated with mortuaries and provincial churches in winter: an icy, unyielding soundlessness—as obstinate as frozen loam. He wanted to speak, but whenever he tried, his courage failed. This silence demanded the utmost care—and if he broke it carelessly, the consequences would be catastrophic.

The commissioner had not moved for some time. His eyes were fixed on a folder occupying the pool of light beneath his desk lamp. It contained Rheinhardt's supplementary report on the murder of Thomas Zelenka. Brügels hand crept into the illuminated circle like a grotesque insect emerging from beneath a stone, the first and second fingers raised and testing the air like feelers. Sustaining a convincing illusion of self-determination, Brügels hand halted before touching the folder—as if it had detected something repellent or dangerous therein. The commissioner's profound, contemplative silence seemed to presage alarming possibilities: not only the prospect of punishment, but actual expulsion from the security office.

Rheinhardt had always been a policeman and could imagine no other life. What else could he do? He tried to console himself with the thought that he had acted conscientiously. But, in truth, he knew that he had been impulsive, naïve, and somewhat vainglorious. Now he would suffer the consequences.

Brügel's hand moved forward and his raised fingers dropped down on the folder. The inconsequential beat this movement produced sounded—to Rheinhardt—like the boom of a ceremonial drum: an invitation in some ancient rite to ritual slaughter.

“You disobeyed my orders,” said the commissioner, in a low, gravelly voice. “I distinctly recall telling you that as far as I was concerned the Saint Florian's case was closed.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “You did. However, with the greatest respect…” I have nothing to lose, now, he thought. I might as well defend myself. Rheinhardt took a deep breath. “Sir, I hold the rank of detective inspector. Although it is my duty to obey you—my commanding officer—it is also my duty to serve the Justizpalast, the people of Vienna, and, ultimately, His Majesty the emperor.”

Rheinhardt glanced up at the portrait of Franz Josef—only just visible in the reflected lamplight—and fancied that he saw a glimmer of approval in the old man's expression. “I believe,” he continued, “that I acted correctly and in accordance with the obligations and necessities of my office.”

The commissioner's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a tight fist—the knuckles rising up beneath his leathery skin to form a bloodless ridge. On his temple a knotty blood vessel pulsed with febrile malevolence. The commissioner seemed to be on the brink of exploding with rage when—quite suddenly—his expression changed. He sighed, his shoulders fell, and his clenched fist slowly opened.

“My nephew,” said Brügel hoarsely, “has been disgraced.” Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. Their gazes met, and the commissioner continued. “His mother was so proud of him. This will break her heart.” As on the previous occasion when Brügel had mentioned his sister, tender sentiments seemed to diminish him.

“I am very sorry, sir,” said Rheinhardt sincerely.

The commisioner opened his drawer and removed a letter, which he placed carefully on the folder containing Rheinhardt s report.

“From Kiefer,” he said softly. “It does not exonerate him… but it may go some way toward helping us to understand his conduct. You see, the boy claims to have been influenced by certain teachings promulgated by the masters—Eichmann, Gärtner, Osterhagen—a philosophy of power. Young minds, Rheinhardt. They are so malleable— so easily corrupted.… I have already spoken to the minister of education—who has promised to attend the next meeting of the board of governors.”

The commissioner fell silent again.

“Sir,” said Rheinhardt, “am I to be disciplined?”

The commissioner grunted and shook his head.

“Thank you, sir,” said Rheinhardt. Not wishing to tempt fate, he stood up and clicked his heels. “Should I report to Inspector von Bulow tomorrow morning?”

“No,” said the commissioner. “He doesn't need your assistance anymore.” Brügel succeeded in investing the possessive pronoun with utter contempt.

“Very good, sir,” said Rheinhardt. He bowed—and walked briskly to the door.