Fatal Lies - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Frank Tallis (ч. 4)

LIEBERMANN HAD FIRST MET OPPENHEIM in one of the coffee-houses close to the hospital. Although the young man was studying classics at the university he was a keen amateur psychologist and was always willing to discuss—in his words—the life of the soul. He was an enthusiastic, open-minded fellow, and much more at ease with topics such as sexuality and the conflicts arising between nature and culture than most of Liebermann's colleagues. Their friendship was sustained—as it had begun—by occasional, unplanned encounters in the coffeehouses of the ninth district.

Liebermann had risen early and, on his way to the hospital, was pleasantly surprised to discover Oppenheim sitting outside the Café Segel, warming his hands around a steaming, frothy mélange and reading a volume of Greek.

They greeted each other cordially, and Oppenheim invited Liebermann to join him for breakfast. Glancing at his wristwatch, Liebermann saw that he had plenty of time to spare and seated himself beside the student.

“What are you reading?” asked Liebermann.

“A True Story—by Lucian of Samosata,” Oppenheim replied. “An extraordinary piece of writing about a group of adventuring heroes who travel to the moon. It is—at one and the same time—a very early example of fantastic literature and a criticism of ancient authorities that describes mythical events as though they are real.”

This weighty gambit was typical of Oppenheim, whose appetite for intellectual stimulation was not very much affected by the hour of the day. Liebermann—prematurely aged by the youth's indecent vitality—ordered a very strong schwarzer, two kaisersemmel rolls, and some plum conserve.

Their conversation ranged up and down the narrow isthmus that connected classical literature and psychiatry and touched upon Aristotle's De Anima, Hippocrates’ essay on epilepsy and sundry poetical works that took melancholia as their principal theme. After they had been talking for a while, Liebermann began to wonder whether the young scholar might know the answer to a certain question that had been annoying him like the minor but persistent presence of a small stone in a shoe.

“Tell me,” Liebermann asked, “do you have any idea what a Liderc is?”

“A what?”

“A Liderc.”

“Is it a Hungarian word?”

“I believe it is.”

Oppenheim stroked his short beard.

“It sounds vaguely familiar… and I think I may have come across it in a book of folklore. But I can't quite remember. Will you be at the hospital today?”

“Yes.”

“Then I'll look it up and let you know if I find anything.”

The sound of church bells reminded Liebermann that he should be on his way. He rose and deposited a pile of coins on the table: more than enough to cover his own and Oppenheim's breakfast. Before Oppenheim could object—as he usually did—Liebermann declared: “You can pay next time.”

It was of course what Liebermann always said on such occasions. Later in the day Liebermann received a short note from Oppenheim.

Dear Friend,

Have just been to the library and managed to run your Liderc to ground in Kóbor's Myths and Legends of the Transylvanian Peoples. The Liderc is a kind of satanic lover—ördögszereto in Hungarian—and is similar to an incubus or a succubus. Victims often die of exhaustion on account of the Liderc's stamina and enthusiasm. Well, I should be so lucky! What on earth do you want to know this for? Did one of your patients mention it—and if so, in what context? Until the next time— when you will allow me to buy you breakfast.

Oppenheim

Liebermann placed the note on his desk and stared at it. For once in his life, he desperately wanted to be wrong.

AN OBSERVER UNACCUSTOMED TO life at Saint Florian's might have described the prevailing mood of the school as subdued. Drexler, however, knew otherwise. He could read the signs like a haruspex: signs that were no less vivid or portentous, as far as he was concerned, than the hot entrails of a freshly slaughtered goat—the whispering, the sidelong glances, the sudden silences, the pursed lips of the masters, the canceled classes. The school was not subdued at all, but seething with nervous excitement.

Drexler was sitting on his own in the dining room, toying with his bruckfleisch—a stew consisting largely of innards, blood, and sweetbreads. A pallid piece of offal surfaced among the slices of heart, liver, and spleen, making him feel slightly nauseous. He was thinking about what had happened that morning. He had been standing in the washroom, waiting his turn to use one of the tin sinks.

A line of hunched white backs—goose-pimpled and shivering—the relentless hammering of the old pipes…

Drexler had rushed over to claim a vacant basin. While he was splashing tepid water onto his face, he overheard the two boys next to him speaking in hushed tones.

“Murdered… in the lodges… there for a whole day before they found him.”

“What did you say?” Drexler had asked.

The boy next to him had been about to reply, but was silenced by a prefect who struck his calves with a riding crop (carried especially for this purpose).

“Shut up,” the prefect had shouted. “You're worse than a bunch of fishwives!”

By midmorning Drexler had been able to establish that there hadn't been a murder at all but a suicide—and that the dead master was Herr Sommer.

This news saddened Drexler, as he had been rather fond of Herr Sommer. When, in the previous year, Drexler had been experiencing difficulties understanding algebra, Herr Sommer had invited him to his rooms and given him extra tuition. Away from the classroom the mathematics master was much more relaxed—much more amusing. He had once told Drexler an extremely risqué joke about a priest and a choirboy. “Our secret,” he had said confidentially. Toward the end of that year, Sommer's invitations became less frequent. He seemed to have found a new favorite—Thomas Zelenka. Drexler hadn't minded very much. In truth, he had begun to find Herr Sommer's company less diverting—especially after he'd made the acquaintance of Snjezana.

Drexler tried to swallow a kidney but didn't have the stomach for it. He pushed it back onto the spoon with his tongue and decided he wasn't hungry.

Everything was beginning to unravel.

Zelenka, Becker, Sommer…

Even Wolf hadn't been himself lately. He had been summoned to the headmaster's office on Thursday and had refused to say why.

“Did he ask about Perger?”

“Just forget Perger, will you!” Wolf had replied angrily, “He ran away, for God's sake! And no one gives a shit where he's gone!”

Drexler was no longer sure whether he could trust Wolf. Greater leniency was shown in courts of law to criminals who confessed their misdeeds and showed remorse. Was that what Wolf was up to?

Before Drexler left the dining hall he went over to another boy and said: “I'm not feeling well. If Osterhagen asks where I am, tell him I've gone to the infirmary.”

It was not difficult to leave the school unnoticed at that time of day and soon he was walking eastward, cross-country toward Vienna. He gave Aufkirchen a wide berth, but could still see the onion dome and spire of the Romanesque church. For a moment he was tempted to change direction. Snjezana would probably be lying on her bed, smoking, and reading one of her novels. He could see her one last time. What harm would it do?

“No,” Drexler said out loud, lengthening his stride. “I must get this over with.”

He continued walking for more than an hour and eventually came to a tiny hamlet—no more than a cluster of ramshackle dwellings huddled together on a rough track. Drexler followed the path around the base of a hillock, and in due course it took him to a much wider road. He paused in order to get his bearings.

A low, weak sun hovered above the horizon. It was suspended in the sky like a communion wafer: a perfect, lustreless white circle. All around, crows were either taking off or landing, and the air reverberated with their raucous laughter.

Drexler stepped onto the road and continued his descent. Soon he came to another village. He had been to this place several times before but had never stayed very long. Although larger than Aufkir chen, it offered little in the way of entertainment. The inn was fairly respectable and a frequent destination for well-heeled patrons. His parents had taken rooms there once when they'd visited the school.

Opposite the inn was an impressive baroque church, painted bright yellow, and next to this was the police station. It was not a very auspicious building. Indeed, it might have been described more accurately as an outpost—or guardhouse.

When Drexler opened the door, he was struck by the modesty of the interior: roughcast walls, a single paraffin lamp, and a battered table—behind which sat a big-boned constable with orange hair. He was staring glumly at a silent telephone.

Drexler s appearance seemed to raise his spirits.

“Hello,” he said cheerfully. “Are you from the school?”

“Yes,” Drexler replied.

“You've come a fair way—lost, are you?”

“No. I've come to report something.”

“What's that, then?”

“A murder.”

The constable's expression changed. “A murder?”

“Yes,” said Drexler. “I shot a boy called Perger. I want to confess.… I want to make a statement.”

LIEBERMANN WATCHED THE LATE-AFTERNOON traffic rolling by: fiacres, omnibuses, trams, and an impressive four-horse carriage with a gold crest emblazoned on its black lacquered door. The occupant—a visiting royal of some description—could just be discerned inside, a shadowy figure craning to get a better view of the opera house.

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

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

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

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

Liebermann was familiar with the legend of Lorelei through Liszt's setting of an eponymous poem by Heine. He recollected the opening bars: yearning, ambiguous harmonies, falling for a moment into silence—and then the voice, entering:

“Ic

weiß nicht, was soil es heieuten,

Daß, ich so traurighin.”

I do not know what it means

That I should feel so sad.

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

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

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

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

The violinist stopped and turned. “Yes?”

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

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

“Fräulein Novak?” Liebermann added.

“Who did you say?”

“Fräulein Novak.”

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

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

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

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

“So it seems.… Forgive me.”

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

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

“And the fee?” asked Rosé.

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

“Two thousand,” repeated Rosé, impressed.

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

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

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

“From the minister of education.”

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

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

“Issues?”

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

“Headmaster? Are you suggesting that…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was it Wolf?”

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

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

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

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

Eichmann smiled: a humorless display of teeth.

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

THE CIRCLE OF TREES looked different by daylight, and Drexler was uncertain whether he had brought the constable to the right place.

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

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

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

“Looking for something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How far down did you bury him?”

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

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

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

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

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

“An old man, eh?”

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

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

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

Drexler began to dig frantically.

Nothing.

Clay, earthworms, stones, roots…

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

The drizzle had been succeeded by a persistent saturating downpour.

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

“What?” said Drexler.

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

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

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

“Perger!” he cried. “Perger?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Closer—one step at a time…

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

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

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

Closer…

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

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

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

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

Drexler had listened patiently. As far as he could gather, it seemed that the good doctor was proposing that Pergers precipitate departure had had the effect of placing his mind in a state of disequilibrium. Drexler was willing to concede that this was true, in one sense, but also recognized that it was entirely inaccurate in another. He had subsequently agreed to take some pills that were supposed to calm his agitation, but as time passed he was forced to conclude that they were largely ineffective.

Now he was bored.

He wanted to read something, and the book of military anecdotes provided for him by Nurse Funke was decidedly dull. He remembered that he had left his volume of E.T. A. Hoffmann short stories in the lost room, and considered that there would be no great risk associated with retrieving it.

“Nurse Funke?” he called.

The nurse appeared at the door and rested her hand against the jamb.

“Nurse Funke, may I collect a book from the dormitory? Some Hoffmann?”

“Dr. Kessler said you should sleep.”

“But it's too early for me to sleep. And I find it easier to sleep if I read first.”

“What about the book I brought you?”

“I do not wish to seem ungrateful; however, to be perfectly honest, Nurse Funke, I've already read it.”

“Very well,” said the nurse. “You can go. But you must come back immediately.”

“Of course.”

Drexler put on his uniform and set off on a circuitous tour of the school that took him—unseen—to the trapdoor.

When he dropped down into the lost room, he discovered that it was already occupied. Steininger was sitting in the wicker chair, smoking a cigarette, with his feet up on a stool. The Serbian boy, Stojakovic, was kneeling before him, vigorously cleaning his shoes. Freitag and another stocky boy called Gruber were standing close by.

When Drexler landed, Stojakovic stopped brushing. Steininger immediately lashed out and delivered a blow to the side of his head.

“Who told you to stop?” Steininger barked.

Stojakovic reapplied the polish and resumed his Sisyphean labor.

“Where's Wolf?” asked Drexler.

“Gone,” said Steininger, stroking his downy mustache. “His parents came and collected him today. I don't think he'll be coming back.”

“Poor Wolf,” said Freitag. “An excellent fellow—but prone to getting big ideas. Too big, eh? He was bound to overstretch himself one day.”

“What did he do?” said Drexler.

“I managed to speak to him just before he left, while he was packing his bags,” Steininger replied. “Apparently he was blackmailing Sommer and the police found out!”

“Is that why Sommer killed himself?”

“Who knows?” Steininger nonchalantly flicked some ash onto Stojakovic's hair. “So… where the hell have you been?”

“In the infirmary.”

“What! We'd heard that someone had gone mad and the headmaster had called Kessler. My God, it wasn't you, was it?”

Freitag and Gruber were amused by the jibe and burst out laughing.

“Yes—it was,” Drexler replied calmly.

The laughing died down and Steininger glanced uneasily at Freitag.

“Get up, Stojakovic,” said Drexler. He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet. “Go on…” He jerked his head toward the trapdoor.

“What in God's name do you think you're doing, Drexler?” Steininger cried. “Can't you see? I‘m in command now! I‘m giving the orders!” He jabbed his finger at the Serbian boy. “Stojakovic— you try to leave and you'll regret it!”

Drexler pushed Stojakovic, who stumbled away from Steininger.

“Take no notice of him. Go.”

The boy was too frightened to leave. He stood, rooted to the spot where he had come to rest.

Steininger caught Freitag's eye and nodded.

“You really have gone mad, Drexler,” said Freitag.

“Yes, quite mad,” echoed Gruber.

The two lieutenants moved forward.

“Don't you understand?” continued Freitag, pushing his unfinished canine face into Drexler's. “We're tired of all your nonsense.”

“And I'm tired of you!” said Drexler.

Without warning, he brought his knee up sharply into Freitag's groin. As the boy buckled over in pain, Drexler delivered an upper-cut to his heavy chin, which sent him reeling over onto the floor. Drexler then thrust his elbow back into Gruber's face, knocking out several teeth. Steininger attempted to jump up, but Drexler placed both hands against his chest and pushed him back down.

Gruber retreated, his hand over his mouth, blood streaming through his fingers and splashing onto the floor. Freitag was rolling from side to side, moaning and clutching his genitals.

“Stojakovic,” said Drexler calmly, “if any of these imbeciles pick on you again, let me know. Now, for the last time, will you please go.”

The Serbian boy jumped up onto the box and pulled himself up through the trapdoor. His accelerating footsteps could be heard crossing the floor above.

Drexler went to the old suitcase, opened the lid, and took out his volume of E.T.A. Hoffmann short stories. He slowed as he passed Steininger.

“Now that Wolf's gone, things are going to change around here,” he said.

“WELL, HERR DOCTOR,“ said Trezska. The impersonal term of address was employed knowingly, and Liebermann detected in its use a purposeful distancing. “Once again I am indebted. You know, I really think he was about to pull the trigger.”

Liebermann reached for von Bulow's hat and slipped it beneath his head. The insensible inspector's breathing was shallow, but not so shallow as to cause the young doctor alarm. Von Bulow would probably wake with blurred vision, dizziness, and nausea: nothing that twenty-four hours’ bed rest wouldn't put right.

“You're a spy—aren't you?” said Liebermann.

Trezska observed him without emotion. He grabbed the stair rail and pulled himself up.

“They call you… the Liderc?”

Trezska raised one of her eyebrows, indicating that she was impressed.

“And I presume,” Liebermann continued, “that this name was chosen because of your willingness to use your feminine charms in the service of your cause?”

“You have many flaws, Herr Doctor, but I had never, till this moment, counted prudery among them.”

Liebermann ignored her barbed riposte.

“Your mission,” he continued, “was to steal a document from General von Stoger—a top secret document called Studie U. The unwitting general was encouraged to expect your favors and invited you to his apartment. I wonder, did you always plan to kill him? Or did something go wrong that necessitated his murder?”

“I was supposed to keep the old man occupied,“ Trezska responded euphemistically, “while a comrade opened his safe. The fool made so much noise that von Stoger picked up a poker and went to see what was going on. My comrade panicked. It was most unfortunate.”

“And what about me?” said Liebermann. “Was I part of your mission too?”

“You flatter yourself, Herr Doctor. We met by chance.”

“In which case… you swiftly calculated that I might have some other use: the provision of an alibi, perhaps?”

“If this is to be a frank exchange of views,” said Trezska, “then I must admit, the idea did cross my mind; however, that was all. I sought your further acquaintance because I felt indebted to you. We Hungarians are nothing if not appreciative. Moreover, I found you very…” she paused before adding, “…desirable.”

A gust of wind lashed the side of Liebermann's face. A fresh cascade of water tumbled from the second story, contributing yet more volume to the existing downpour.

“I see from your expression,” said Trezska, “that you find my candid admission distasteful—unbecoming of a lady? Of course, if I were a man, you would think nothing of it. You are not nearly so enlightened as you suppose, Herr Doctor. Now, before I take my leave—which I really must—tell me, what are you doing here? I cannot recall issuing you with an invitation.”

“I came here to confront you.”

“Why? For what purpose?”

“To see if my deductions were correct.”

Trezska laughed. “Another of your flaws, Herr Doctor: intellectual vanity! Well, at the risk of aggravating your conceit, I must applaud you! Your deductions were indeed correct. Which brings me to my next question: How ever did you become so well informed? There are aides in the Hofburg who have never heard of Studie U. And as for my code name… If you hadn't rendered our poor friend here unconscious”—she gestured toward von Bulow—”I would be considering whether or not you had been recruited by the secret service.”

“And what if I was?” said Liebermann.

Before she could answer, a male voice resounded across the courtyard: “Don't move.”

Liebermann turned. Coming out of the arcade was a swarthy-looking young man. He was holding a gun and walking straight toward him.

THE FOREST WAS VIRTUALLY IMPENETRABLE; however, the woodman was able to find his way by following a series of marks he had made on the tree trunks with his knife: gouges, gashes, and occasionally a rough cross. His furs were heavy with rain, and the sack he was carrying had become burdensome.

No one ever passed this way. Even the local people kept a safe distance. It wasn't only that the little forest was remote and inhospitable. There were stories: of wild animals, of murderous Gypsies—and of children who had entered and never come out again.

It was true that Gypsies were unaccountably fond of parking their brightly painted caravans close by. Moreover, they traveled immense distances to get there—from Russia, Galicia, and the Carpathians. They rarely stayed for more than a day.

Once, the woodman had overheard some men in the Aufkirchen inn gossiping about the forest. Someone had said that the king of the Ruthenian Gypsies had buried a hoard of stolen treasure in the middle of it. A young man who was staying at the inn had insisted that they should saddle up their horses at once. They should ride out to this forest, equipped with lamps and shovels, and they might return the very same night, fabulously rich. But the older men laughed uneasily. It was only a legend—and they plied the young man with so much drink that he fell off his stool and had to be carried to his room.

The woodman emerged in a small clearing. In the center was an ancient stone well and a tumbledown shack. Thick smoke was coming from the chimney, and the air was filled with an acrid odor. He lumbered over to the entrance and knocked gently.

“Come in.” The voice was old and cracked.

The woodman pulled the door open and went inside.

In the center of the room was an open fire over which a black cauldron was suspended. Only a few tongues of flame danced around the steaming logs, but they supplied enough light to reveal the squalid surroundings: a dirty pallet bed, bottles, a shelf of earthenware pots, and several cages on the floor. The cages were occupied, and green eyes flashed behind the chicken wire.

Next to the cauldron an old woman sat on a low bench. She had a schoolmaster's black cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and she wore a necklace made from the bones of animals. Her hair was long and gray, and when she smiled, her lips receded to reveal a row of blackened teeth. The upper central incisors were missing.

“Is it him?” she croaked.

The woodman nodded and dropped the jute sack next to the cauldron. Zhenechka got up and hobbled over. Reaching into a worn leather pouch, she produced a silver coin, which she pressed into the woodman's hand.

“Good,” she said. “Very good.”

She was delighted with the woodman's find—and could put it to many irregular uses.

“PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD.”

The man was wearing a shabby coat, a floppy hat tilted at an acute angle, and a long embroidered scarf. Black curly hair fell from behind his exposed ear, and his mustache was so well waxed that the wind and rain hadn't displaced a single hair. It projected out from his face, defiantly horizontal.

Liebermann obeyed.

“Don't look at me—turn back round,” the man continued.

“This is quite unnecessary, Lázár,” said Trezska. “Herr Dr. Liebermann is a friend. Had he not come to my assistance”—she gestured toward the supine body of von Bulow—”everything would now be over.”

Liebermann felt the barrel of the gun dig into the back of his neck.

“No,” said the man. “He's not our friend: he's a friend of the fat detective—the one who was following me. I told you not to mess around—not with so much at stake. Now look what's happened.”

Trezska looked down at Liebermann. “Ah, now I see why you are so well informed.”

“Well informed?” asked the man. “What does he know?”

“He knows about Studie U.“

“Then we must kill him.”

“I have no idea what Studie U is!” Liebermann protested. “I am very well acquainted with Inspector Rheinhardt—the person whom I think you just referred to as the fat detective—and I sometimes help him with his inquiries. His assistant overheard a conversation between this gentleman—Inspector von Bulow—and the commissioner. Studie U and the Liderc were discussed.” The gunman took a sharp intake of breath. “Neither Inspector Rheinhardt nor I,” Liebermann continued, “have the slightest idea what Studie U is, beyond the obvious—that it is a document that must contain some highly sensitive information. As for your code name…” Liebermann appealed to Trezska. “You will allow, I hope, that you gave me certain reasons for suspicion on the Kohlmarkt, and I am not an absolute fool.”

Before Trezska could respond, the man interjected, “He's lying.”

The gunman's intention to fire his weapon was reflected in Trezska's horrified expression.

“No,” she shouted. “Wait!”

“What for?”

“If he's lying, why did he knock out von Bulow?”

“Maybe he didn't—maybe it's all a ruse and von Bulow is just pretending to be unconscious, waiting for his moment!”

“Lázár, that's absurd.”

“Look, I don't know what's happening here—and neither do you. But we do know that this man”—Liebermann felt the gun's muzzle being lodged under the bony arch at the base of his skull—”knows far more than he should, and if you let him live, it will threaten the success of the operation—everything we've worked for! If you don't want to watch, go and wait for me at the Südbahnhof. I'll deal with them both.”

The ensuing hiatus was filled with the noise of the roaring deluge: the slop and spatter, the splash and spill—unrelenting, indifferent, merciless.

Trezska threw her arms up in the air, as if she were beseeching a higher authority for assistance. When she let them drop, her bag slipped from her shoulder. It landed on the ironwork with a resonant clang. She crouched down to pick it up.

There was a loud report.

The pressure of the gun barrel at the back of Liebermann's neck was suddenly relieved. Then there was a dull thud, followed by the clatter of Lázár Kiss's revolver hitting the ground.

Trezska was clutching a small smoking pistol.

Liebermann remembered that first night, when he had lifted her bag in the alley and found it unusually heavy. Now he knew why.

He wheeled around. Lázár was sprawled out on the cobbles, blood leaking from a neat circular hole in his forehead.

“You've killed him,” whispered Liebermann.

“Yes,” said Trezska. “You were telling the truth.” She smiled at him, and her distinctive features took on a diabolic cast. “I had a… feeling. And, as you know, I trust my feelings.”

“Who is he?” said Liebermann, extending a trembling hand to the stair rail for support.

“Lázár Kiss—a fellow nationalist. But I have long suspected him of being a collaborator—a double agent. Now, you will forgive me, I have a train to catch. I trust you won't experience a sudden surge of patriotism and try to stop me.” Trezska pointed her gun at Liebermann. “I hope you will agree that I have now redeemed my debt— and I have no further obligation to you.”

“Would you really shoot me?” Liebermann glanced at the pistol. It was a beautiful weapon, chased with filigree. The handgrip was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“What do you think?”

“I think you would.”

“Then you would think right.”

“Is it in your valise—Studie U?”

“Yes.”

“What is it? What can be so valuable…”

Trezska paused. Her expression suggested inner conflict—a struggle of conscience that finally resolved itself in a sigh.

“The emperor's plans to invade Hungary.”

“What?” said Liebermann, drawing back in disbelief. “But that's impossible!”

“Before you condemn me, just think how many lives would be lost if the old fool and his senile generals decided to march on Budapest. At least with Studie U in our possession we can attempt to avert such a catastrophe.”

She picked up her violin case and descended the staircase. As she passed him, she pressed the gun against his chest and kissed him on the lips. When she withdrew, he was dizzy with the sweet fragrance of clementine.

“Until the next time, Herr Doctor.”

After taking only a few steps she stopped.

“Oh—and one last thing. If I were you, I would pretend this didn't happen. You know nothing—do you understand? Nothing. If certain individuals suspected that you had been informed of the content of Studie U, you would be in great danger. You can, of course, depend on me to exercise the utmost discretion.”

She walked to the arcade—and did not look back.

Liebermann checked von Bulow's pulse again and ran across the courtyard. When he came out the other side of the vaulted passageway, the cul-de-sac was empty.

The Liderc.

It was an appropriate name.

LIEBERMANN PLAYED THE GENTLE introduction and raised his gaze to meet Rheinhardt s. The inspector rested his hand on the side of the Bösendorfer and began to sing—a sweet melody that possessed the transparent simplicity of a lullaby. It was Schubert's setting of Wilhelm Müller s Des Müllen Blumen—The Miller's Flowers.

Rheinhardt rocked gently from side to side, conjuring with his lyric baritone a dewy morning of sunlight and rolling hills.

“Der Bach ier ist des Mülles Freuni,

“Uni hellhlau Liehchens Auge scheint.”

The brooklet is the miller's friend,

And my sweetheart's eyes are brightest blue.

Schubert's writing was deceptive. The sweet melody, while retaining its mellifluous charm, was suddenly imbued with painful, inconsolable yearning.

“Drum sini es meine Blumen…”

Therefore they are my flowers…

Liebermann scrutinized the notes on the page and marveled at Schubert's genius. Somehow he had managed to conceal in an arc of seemingly harmless values and pitches the absolute anguish of unrequited love. As the song progressed, the phrase was repeated, and with each repetition the listener was obliged to conclude that the young miller's heart would inevitably be broken. The bright blue eyes that he had laid claim to would never be his. Liebermann experienced this realization viscerally, as though he were hearing the song for the first time, and he found his chest tightening—until the constrictive feeling was relieved by a sigh.

When the final chord was reached, the young doctor bowed his head and allowed the notes to fade into a prolonged, respectful silence.

In due course, the two men retired to the smoking room, where they assumed their customary places. Liebermann s serving man had laid out the brandy and cigars, and the fire was already blazing. Rheinhardt noticed that Liebermann's old ashtray had been replaced by a new one—a metal box with a hinged lid.

The young doctor observed Rheinardt's nose wrinkling.

“You don't like it?”

“Well… it's a little plain, don't you think?”

“That's the point. It's by Josef Hoffmann.”

“Hoffmann?”

“Yes, Hoffmann. Surely you've heard of Hoffmann! He's a designer—and a very gifted one.”

“It doesn't take such a great talent to design a featureless box.”

“It isn't featureless. If you look closely, you'll see that the surface has been hammered.”

Rheinhardt peered at the ashtray and pushed out his lower lip.

“How much did you pay for this?”

“Clearly too much in your opinion; however, the exterior is silver-plated, and it came with a mirrored candle-stand and a cigarette case. One day, Oskar, Hoffmann's designs”—Liebermann flicked the metal so that it made a ringing sound—”will be exhibited in museums of art.”

Rheinhardt smiled indulgently, but it was perfectly clear that he thought this unlikely.

The brandy was promptly decanted, the cigars were lit, and soon the room was filled with a pungent haze. Their conversation became fluid and agreeable—touching upon some amusing articles they had both read in Die Facfeel. Eventually, however, their mood changed, becoming more subdued, and an extended silence signaled their readiness to discuss matters of greater importance.

The inspector tapped his cigar over the new Hoffmann ashtray and addressed his friend:

“Did you hear about Sommer?”

“Yes,” said Libermann. “It was reported in the Neue Freie Presse.”

“A sorry business.”

“Indeed.”

“And something else—something rather odd—happened up at Saint Florian's last week.”

“Oh?”

“One of the boys—a lad called Martin Drexler—presented himself at a local police station, claiming to have killed Isidor Perger in a shooting accident. The boy said that he had buried Pergers body in the woods. He led a constable to the spot—but there was nothing there. Subsequently, Drexler became very distressed and the constable began to have doubts about his sanity. The boy was returned to the school and attended by Dr. Kessler, who prescribed some sedative medication.”

“Do you want me to examine him?”

“No—that won't be necessary. I spoke to Dr. Kessler this morning, and apparently the boy is doing well. I mention it only because it struck me as a peculiar… codetta to the events with which we have been so closely involved.” Rheinhardt directed his gaze into the fire. “Even more curious events have transpired concerning von Bulow and his special assignment.”

Liebermann's heart skipped a beat. “Really?” he said, feigning nonchalance.

“Once again, Max,” said Rheinhardt, turning toward his friend, “I am obliged to remind you that what I am about to say must be treated in the strictest confidence.”

Liebermann nodded and began an unusually thorough examination of the pattern on his brandy glass.

“I was called to the commissioner's office and knew as soon as I arrived that something significant had happened. His attitude was completely different. I wouldn't say that he was being polite… but he was certainly being a lot less rude. I could see that he was finding this act quite difficult to sustain, agreeableness not being one of his natural endowments. After some preliminary and somewhat strained courtesies, he announced that von Bulow's assignment had ended rather badly—and that von Bulow was currently indisposed and receiving medical care at a sanitarium. It seems that my esteemed colleague was engaged in the pursuit of a Hungarian spy—a woman, known in nationalist circles as the Liderc.”

“If my memory serves me correctly,” Liebermann interjected, “that is the name that Haussmann overheard, is it not?”

“Precisely. Well, von Bulow managed to find her hideaway—at an address in Landstrasse—and actually had the woman at gunpoint when someone came up behind him and struck him on the head. He lost consciousness instantly, and when he woke up, his bird had flown… However, next to him he discovered the body of a gentleman known as Lázár Kiss—a man connected with the nationalists and whom Brügel and von Bulow had asked me to follow, when I had wanted to continue the investigation at Saint Florian's. Well, since von Bulow's debacle in Landstrasse, the commissioner has received some extremely discomfiting intelligence. Kiss was indeed a very high-ranking agent. Not one of theirs, however, but one of ours! He was in the Austrian secret service and had infiltrated a nationalist cell. He was on the brink of finding out the identities of several spymasters. As you can imagine, all this places Brügel in a very difficult position: he authorized von Bulow's assignment, and this may have resulted, ultimately, in the failure of Kiss's mission.”

“So Brügel fears an investigation?”

“Without a doubt—which is why he is being so civil. I am sure that when the time comes he will expect me to answer questions in such a way as to deflect blame from himself. The old rogue actually had the audacity to say that he had always considered von Bulow a headstrong fellow and wasn't I inclined to agree?”

Liebermann turned his glass. “What actually happened in Landstrasse? Who shot Lázár Kiss?”

“How ever did you know he was shot?” asked Rheinhardt. “Was it something I said? Another of your Freudian slips?”

“Never mind,” said Liebermann nervously. “Please continue.”

“It might have been her—the Liderc—or it might have been someone else who arrived at the scene after her departure. And as for who struck von Bulow, who can say? It might have been Kiss—or, again, it could have been someone else entirely.… We simply don't know.”

Liebermann swallowed. His mouth had gone quite dry.

“Tell me… was any attempt made to collect any forensic evidence? Dust particles, hairs, footprints?”

“Yes, of course,” Rheinhardt replied. “But nothing of any significance was found. On Friday, you will recall, there was a storm. Everything got washed away.”

The young doctor sipped his brandy and settled more comfortably into his chair. “Do you know anything more about this… Liderc woman? She sounds fascinating.”

“Fascinating but extremely dangerous,” said Rheinhardt, throwing his head back and expelling a column of roiling smoke. “The commissioner mentioned that she is a very competent violinist and had begun a modest concert career. She traveled widely under the auspices of a respectable cultural initiative, which—can you believe—received state sponsorship with the emperor's approval! Such brazenness!”

“Where do you think she is now?”

“I suspect that she has gone south. Italy, perhaps. But she will return—when she thinks she can journey home in safety.”

Liebermann set his glass aside. “But how does all this relate to von Stoger?”

“Good heavens, Max, isn't it obvious? It was the Liderc who stole the documents from the general's safe—and it must have been her too who murdered him in cold blood.”

“She might have had an accomplice?”

“Well, that's possible… but what does it matter now? She got away.… There will be no trial. She will not be called to account.”

“What do you think was in those stolen documents? Did the commissioner give you any idea—any clue?”

“Military secrets, I imagine. But if Brügel knew more, he wasn't very forthcoming.” Rheinhardt paused, twisted the horns of his mustache thoughtfully, and continued: “Of course, it is possible that the Austrian secret service intended the Liderc to acquire von Stoger's documents so that she would, in the fullness of time, lead Kiss to her masters. Thus, von Stoger's death might have been the result of misadventure—an accident. Whatever, one thing is certain: their plans went horribly wrong—and most probably because of von Bu -low's meddling.”

Liebermann allowed himself a half smile. “You must be quite satisfied with the way things have turned out.”

Rheinhardt appeared flustered for a moment. He coughed and produced an embarrassed mumble.

“Von Bulow wasn't entirely at fault. I'm sure that some of the confusion must have arisen because of bureaucracy. I suppose the various departments concerned were simply too occupied filling in forms and registering reports to talk to each other. Von Bulow should have been better informed about Kiss. Even so, if—after his recovery— von Bulow is not invited to resume his duties at the security office, you are quite correct: I will not spend very much time lamenting his professional demise.”

The inspector lit another cigar—and he looked, that instant, more like a man at a wedding or some other grand celebratory occasion. Seeing his friend so happy went at least some way toward mitigating Liebermann's feelings of guilt. Von Bulow had been the bane of Rheinhardt's life at the security office. And now, at last, he was gone.

“It is truly remarkable,” Rheinhardt continued, “how close we came to the perilous world of espionage and counterespionage; still, I am glad that we were not drawn in any further. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that I am grateful for von Bulow's vanity, grateful that he excluded us from the von Stoger investigation. Otherwise we might have strayed onto some very treacherous and dangerous ground. I must say, I am uncomfortable with that world—the world of spies—with its deceptions, double deceptions, feints, and ruses—its fatal lies. It is a world where nothing is as it seems, and nobody can be trusted.”

Liebermann stared into the flames and felt a stab of shame.

His friend was so much wiser than his modest exterior ever betrayed.

“Oskar,” Liebermann whispered, “I have a confession to make. Something has been weighing heavily on my conscience the whole evening.”

“Oh?” Rheinhardt's face filled with concern.

“I promised to get some tickets for the Zemlinsky concert next Saturday… but, what with one thing and another, it completely slipped my mind—and it's sold out.”

Rheinhardt laughed: a generous, booming laugh.

“God in heaven,” he cried. “Is that all? You had me worried! I thought you were going to say something of consequence!”

THE CLOCK MAKERS’ BALL was a grand affair and was attended by a diverse group of patrons. There were boulevardiers whose glazed eyes, ruddy cheeks, and uncertain feet declared that they were attending their second or even third ball of the evening. There were debutantes in radiant white, and various representatives of the imperial army: infantrymen in blue, artillerymen in chocolate-brown tunics and red collar flashes, and hussars—their short fur-trimmed and golden-braided coats slung casually over one shoulder. A distinguished gentleman with a mane of silvery curls who was surrounded by laughing ladies was identified very quickly as the Dutch ambassador, and it was rumoured that a striking woman wearing a glimmering peau de soie gown was a member of the Italian aristocracy.

As soon as Liebermann took Amelia into his arms, he was aware of a difference. She was more confident and followed his lead with less effort.

“Have you been to see Herr Janowsky for a lesson?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “Although I still intend to, once my brother leaves.”

“Well, I have to say,” Liebermann remarked, “your dancing is much improved.”

“I think,” said Amelia, “that I understand—although ‘understand’ is not really the correct word—I think I now appreciate the value of your initial advice: to listen to the music with greater care. To…” She hesitated, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Feel it?”

She was dressed in the same clothes that she had worn for the detectives’ ball: a skirted décolleté gown of green velvet. Yet she appeared to Liebermann more elegant than he remembered. As they passed beneath a massive crystal chandelier, the light fell on her pewter eyes and he experienced momentarily a sensation like falling. It was not the same feeling as a physical descent but something more profound.

“My brother seems to have made a friend,” said Amelia, and, once again, a fleeting smile illuminated her face.

Randall was talking to a dark-haired lady who was wearing an exquisite creation of red silk, black lace, and pearls. She was holding a feathered carnival mask on a long handle and made extravagant use of her free hand while speaking. Liebermann guessed that she was French.

Just before Randall slipped from view they saw him produce a rose from behind his back.

The orchestra was playing with sparkling virtuosity—a great, carousing, fortissimo waltz in which extraordinary liberties were being taken with meter. The melody was held back by the introduction of subtle hesitations, which made the music hover for the briefest moment before each reprieve of the principal theme.

Liebermann recalled a passage from von Saar's Marianne: a waltz could melt away years of repression, fanning flirtation into passion. The rapid motion, the relentless turning, the dizzy euphoria, the heat of a woman's back felt in the palm of one's hand…

Amelia looked up at him, and her eyes had never appeared more beautiful. He rediscovered the shock of when he had first noticed their inimitable color, neither blue nor gray but something in between: their depth enhanced by a darkening at the edges of each iris. Liebermann drew her closer, and his lips brushed the silver ribbons in her flaming hair.

The impetuous élan of the orchestra was contagious.

Is this the time?

He had asked himself this question before—on so many occasions.

Is this the time?

Suddenly the tension dissipated, and he whirled Amelia around with such enthusiasm that she briefly achieved flight.

“Dr. Liebermann?”

He laughed, and the vertical crease with which he had become so very familiar appeared on her forehead.

“What is it?” she asked.

How appropriate, thought Liebermann, that we are attending the clock makers’ ball.

There would be time enough…

Even if Nietzsche was right and there was such a thing as eternal recurrence and every man and woman was destined to revisit the lost opportunities of the past in perpetuity—he no longer cared. Psychoanalysis had taught him the importance of little things, and perhaps it was these little things that made human beings human: the mistakes, the blunders, the qualms, the petty vacillations and doubting. Liebermann understood—better than most—that there were hidden virtues in human frailty.

Yes, there was time enough: the promise of days and months and years to come.

Amelia was still looking at him quizzically—waiting for an answer. When it came, it was intellectually disingenuous but emotionally sincere. It felt right.

“There's no place like Vienna!” Liebermann cried. And, once again, Amelia's feet parted company with the ground.

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK: Hannah Black, Clare Alexander, Nick Austin, and Steve Mathews—once again—for invaluable editorial and critical assistance; Paul Taunton, Jennifer Rodriguez, and Bara MacNeill for their assistance in preparing the U.S. edition. Professor Ignaz Hammerer and Dr W. Etschmann (Militärgeschichtliche Forschungsabteilung des Heeresgeschichtlichen Museum) for information concerning Austrian military academies; Mirko Herzog (Technisches Museum Wien) for erudite answers with respect to the media and postal services in turn-of-the-century Vienna; Professor Thomas Olechowski (University of Vienna) for advising me on press censorship under the Habsburg monarchy and recommending the Arbeiter-Zeitung for the puposes of my plot; Clive Baldwin for alerting me to the existence of Erzsébet Báthory; Luitgaard Hammerer for acting as my unpaid translator, research assistant, and city guide in Vienna (and for finding out about the employment of specialist pastry cooks in Demel); Simon Dalgleish for checking my German and correcting several linguistic errors; and Nicola Fox for continuing to put up with it all.

Saint Florian's military school owes an enormous debt to the oberrealschule described in Musil s The Confusions of Young Torless.

I have unashamedly raided this masterpiece for useful detail, atmosphere, specific settings, and even the odd character. Other books that were informative on the subject of education in fin de siècle Vienna were Arthur Schnitzler's My Youth in Vienna and The World of Yesterday by Stefan Zweig. Quotations from Nietzsche are mostly from A Nietzsche Reader (selected and translated with an introduction by R. J. Hollingdale). Translations of songs were by William Mann, Lionel Salter, and Richard Stokes. Studie U was a real document—and is referred to in chapter four (“Politics and Powers”) of Budapest 1900: A Historical Portrait of a City and Its Culture by John Lukacs. Descriptions of “Venice in Vienna” were based on photographs in Blickfänge einer Reise nach Wien published by the Historisches Museum der Stadt Wien.

Information on the history of the inkblot test (before Rorschach) can be found in “The Origins of Inkblots” by John T R. Richardson, an article published in The Psychologist in June 2004. Biographical details on Justinus Kerner can be found in The Discovery of the Unconscious, by Henri F. Ellenberger. Frau Becker's dream is based on case material reported by Freud in Introductory Lectures on Psychoanalysis, lecture 7. The opening of Freud's university lecture is a transcription of lecture 20 from the same work. Freud's episode of jealousy is exactly as described by Ernest Jones in The Life and Work of Sigmund Freud.

The description of Mahler's “funny walk” and leg movements can be found in Gustav Mahler: Letters to His Wife (edited by Henry-Louis de La Grange and Günther Weiss in collaboration with Knud Martner). Randall Lyd gate's description of Toltec civilization is taken from The Myths of Mexico and Peru by Lewis Spence, published in 1913 by George C. Harrap and Co. The absinthe ritual (as performed by Trezska Novak) is described in Barnaby Conrad's Absinthe: History in a Bottle. The Erotes —translated into English as Affairs of the Heart — was once attributed to Lucian but is now thought to be the work of an unknown author referred to as Pseudo-Lucian. I took a few liberties with my interpretation of what Pseudo-Lucian wrote—but Herr Sommer's fundamental arguments based on this work are accurate. Liebermann's advice to Amelia Lyd gate on waltzing is adapted from a description of the waltz that can be found at

http://www.vienneseball.org.

Frank Tallis

London, 2007

THE INSPIRATION FOR ONE BOOK often comes from reading another—and for Fatal Lies that other book was The Confusions of Young Torless by Robert Musil (1880-1942). It is not particularly well-known among English and American readers, but it is regarded as a classic in Austria and Germany.

Musil was born in Klagenfurt and attended military school from the age of eleven but eventually decided on a career in engineering. After a short stint writing technical papers, he resumed his studies in Berlin, where his subjects were philosophy and psychology. The Confusions of Young Torless was completed in 1905, several years before he was awarded his doctorate.

Musil's most celebrated work is the monumental The Man Without Qualities—still unfinished at the time of his death. It is often linked with James Joyce's Ulysees and Marcel Proust's Remembrance of Things Past, and together these three books are said to represent the apogee of twentieth-century modernist fiction.

As you might expect, The Man Without Qualities is not an easy read; however, The Confusions of Young Torless is very accessible. It is fewer than two hundred pages long, is set in a military academy (just like the one Musil attended), and catalogues the psychological development of a young man as he struggles to make sense of a world in which bullying and ritual humiliation are commonplace. Musil's novel is much more ambitious than it first appears. It is a chilling exploration of the origins of fascism.

At one point, a bully provides a justification for violence that owes a debt to Friedrich Nietszche (1844-1900), the philosopher who suggested that the Übermensch or superman, does not respect moral constraints. The idea of making a new morality—beyond conventional notions of good and evil—was one endorsed by the Nazi party for obvious reasons. The conceptual leap required to construe genocide as a reasonable goal is a very considerable one and required new intellectual tools that Nietszche unwittingly provided.

In Fatal Lies, I named the headmaster of the military academy Eichmann, in order to raise the spectre of Adolf Eichmann—the Nazi who proposed “the final solution to the Jewish question.” It was Eichmann who inspired Hannah Arendt to coin a phrase that has since found its way into numerous works of history and social commentary: “the banality of evil.”

Arendt attended the trial of Eichmann in Jerusalem in 1961 and was amazed by his ordinariness. He was more like a petty functionary than a monster. He had become totally preoccupied by the organizational problems and technical details of genocide, at the expense of any moral concerns. He was a simple man who was just obeying orders. Arendt responded poetically, asserting that Eichmann demonstrated the “fearsome, word-and-thought defying banality of evil.”

During WWII, “normal” German citizens—when in uniform— were able to commit appalling acts of violence. This phenomenon was so perplexing to postwar social psychologists that they conducted numerous experiments in order to elucidate the factors and processes that might transform teachers, accountants, and doctors into mass murderers. This tradition began with Solomon Asch s studies of conformity, continued through Stanley Milgram's studies of obedience—and culminated with Philip Zimbardo's Stanford prison experiment. Collectively, this body of work yielded results that were entirely consistent with Arendt's notion of “the banality of evil.” It seemed that ordinary experimental subjects could be persuaded to inflict pain on others with remarkable ease. Under the right circumstances, almost anyone can become a monster.

This conclusion became received wisdom in the social psychology literature, and was seen as such for more than thirty years; however, in a recent article that appeared in The Psychologist (published by the British Psychological Society), Professor S. Alexander Haslam and Professor Stephen D. Reicher have raised significant questions concerning the legitimacy of this long-held view.

It is a surprising fact that Hannah Arendt never saw the end of Eichmann's trial. If she had, her conclusions would have been very different. Early on, Eichmann made efforts to present himself as an innocent “pen-pusher”—only doing his job. But in due course, the mask began to slip, revealing a Nazi ideologue and committed anti-Semite. He appeared, to later observers, as an individual who'd set about his work with visionary zeal and who was proud of his “achievements.”

Eichmann and his fellow Nazis were capable of atrocities not because they were ordinary decent folk in uniforms but because they believed passionately in their cause.

Recently, a number of revisionist books have been published highlighting this point. In addition, the validity of the classic experimental studies of conformity and obedience—which supported the banality-of-evil hypothesis—have since been challenged on several counts (including methodological weaknesses). Professors Haslam and Reicher assert:

…from Stanford, as from the obedience studies, it is not valid to conclude that people mindlessly and helplessly succumb to brutality. Rather both studies (and also the historical evidence) suggest that brutality occurs when people identify strongly with, brutal group that have a brutal ideology.

According to this new view, people commit atrocities because they believe what they are doing is right. Ordinary people are not closet monsters after all; however, they can become monsters if they subscribe to certain beliefs. Today, social psychologists should no longer be asking the question: How is it that ordinary people can be persuaded to do terrible things? A better question would be: What are the factors that cause ordinary people to identify with brutal belief systems? In the modern world, the answer to this question is needed with some urgency.

The wide appeal of fundamentalist ideologies—of which national socialism is an example—reveals a flaw in our intellectual and emotional apparatus. The world is a complex place, and we yearn for the comforting solidity of absolute truths. Freud posited that human beings have an infantile wish to experience again the certainty of parental declarations, the tidy polarities of good and bad, wrong and right. Such answers keep the chaos at bay—the complexities of reality, our insignificance, and our likely appointment with oblivion.

The first of our existential crises probably coincides with the onset of adolescence—a fact that provides us with a further reason to admire Robert Musil. He sets The Confusions of Young Torless in a military academy—not only to exploit the obvious resonances relating to nationalism and war, but also because such institutions are full of adolescents. Brutality is one of the things that human beings employ to make the world a simpler place—and the generation of Austrians depicted in Musil s masterpiece chose to simplify the world with devastating consequences.

Frank Tallis

London, 2008

“Questioning the Banality of Evil.” S. Alexander Haslam and Stephen D. Reicher. In The Psychologist, vol. 21, no. 1, January 2008. Published by the British Psychological Society.

“Introduction.” J. M. Coetzee. In The Confusions of Young Torless (2001) by Robert Musil. London: Penguin Harmondsworth.

The Death of Sigmund Freud: Fascism, Psychoanalysis and the Rise of Fundamentalism (2007). Mark Edmundson. London: Bloomsbury