Fatal Lies

33

The carriage turned off the Schottenring at the university and rattled down a long road that took them through the ninth and seventeenth districts.

“Herr G's article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung,” said Rheinhardt, “came to the attention of one of the aides in the education department. He wanted to make sure that if His Majesty got to hear about it, Minister Rellstab could inform him that something was being done, that the matter was being properly dealt with. Brugel-with typical bad grace-performed a volte-face, and I was told, somewhat obliquely, to resume the investigation.”

Liebermann polished his fingernails on his coat sleeve and examined them closely.

“How did Eichmann react when you questioned him?”

“He said that it was all nonsense: that Pikler suffered from constitutional melancholy and had obviously killed himself, that he had never heard of the ‘night watch’… and he said these things with absolute conviction. He didn't look like a worried man-someone trying to keep secrets.”

“Are you trying to discover who ‘Herr G.’ is?”

“I've assigned Haussmann to the task.” Rheinhardt squeezed one of the horns of his mustache and checked the revived point for sharpness with his forefinger. “I also asked Eichmann about Frau Becker.”

Liebermann looked up, his eyebrows elevated in interest.

“He described her,” Rheinhardt continued, “as gullible, naive, and indulgent-inclined to believe the claims of any boy seeking attention and sympathy. In addition, she seems to have made little or no effort to be accepted by the headmaster's wife and her circle. Indeed, I suspect that Frau Becker might have been quite outspoken- openly criticizing the school and Frau Eichmann's opinions.”

The carriage halted in order to let some traffic pass at a crossroads. Looking out of the window, Liebermann observed a Coptic priest standing on a corner. He had a long black beard and was wearing a mitre. A purple waist band was wrapped around his long dark green cassock. The driver cracked his whip, and the priest slowly slipped from view.

“Later the same day,” Rheinhardt continued, “I interviewed some of the schoolboys. You know, the ones who had names suggestive of hunting and predation.”

“And…?”

“Well, I must be candid with you, Max. At first, I had my doubts. That test of yours, the inkblots you showed Perger… The entire enterprise seemed very fanciful.” Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and produced a small box of slim cigars. He offered one to his friend, which Liebermann took. “And to make things worse,” he continued, “the first few boys were amiable, good-natured, harmless fellows.” Rheinhardt struck a vesta and lit Liebermann's cigar, and then his own. “However…” Rheinhardt leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I then questioned a boy called Kiefer Wolf and… well, there was definitely something about him.”

“What do you mean, ‘something’?”

“He was insolent, rude, supercilious… but that wasn't it. No… it was when he smiled. I thought…”

“What?”

The inspector shook his head. “Oh, what's the use! I can't explain-and you are sure to say something disparaging about policeman's intuition.”

“Not necessarily. I must confess that I am developing a grudging respect for your clairvoyance!”

“See? I knew it!”

“Oh, Oskar, you are being oversensitive. Please continue.”

“All right, then, I'll say it plainly: he gave me a bad feeling. In fact, he gave me such a bad feeling that I somewhat rashly accused him of torturing Zelenka. I wanted to see how he would react.”

Rheinhardt looked troubled, and drew on his cigar. “He was very calm… just sat looking at me with dull gray eyes. He pointed out that I had made a very serious and unsubstantiated allegation. Then he advised me that he was going to tell his uncle.”

Liebermann smiled. “Commissioner Brugel?”

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. “How did you know that?”

“A slip of the tongue that you made earlier.” Liebermann made a dismissive gesture. “But it is no matter… I wonder why Brugel never mentioned that he had a nephew boarding at Saint Florian's.”

“I don't know.”

“And has the boy written or spoken to his uncle?”

“It's difficult to say. I haven't seen Brugel since Wednesday.”

Liebermann tapped his cigar above the ashtray set in the carriage door.

“But you didn't do anything very wrong, Oskar.”

“No, that's true. But it complicates matters, doesn't it? Brugel is always irascible. He's hard enough to deal with at the best of times. When he discovers that I have accused his nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off, his head shaking from side to side.

“Perhaps Brugel has some inkling of his nephew's character,” continued Liebermann. “Which would explain why he attempted to stop your investigation… Is it possible that he was protecting his family's interests? Their reputation?”

Rheinhardt considered the young doctor's insight-but did not see how it helped him very much.

“I am in a rather difficult position now. Even if Wolf did torture Zelenka, it doesn't get us very much further with respect to explaining the boy's death.”

“Well, this is what we find when we follow hunches instead of reasoning things out.”

“See?” said Rheinhardt. “You can't stop yourself from mocking me! I have something to show you.” Rheinhardt handed Liebermann a mathematics exercise book. “This was Zelenka's-it was returned to his parents with his other effects. Although…”

“What?”

“There was one item missing. A dictionary.”

“Is that important?”

“I don't think so-but Zelenka's parents do. They said it was very expensive. They had to save up for it. Anyway…” Rheinhardt pointed at the exercise book. “You will see that there are columns of paired numbers on the pages designated for rough work. Similar pairs can be found in the marginalia-written in the master's hand.”

“Herr Sommer?”

“Herr Sommer. I am no mathematician, but these numbers seem to have nothing to do with the surrounding calculations.”

“You think they are… what? Coded messages?”

Rheinhardt nodded.

“Oskar,” said Liebermann, sitting forward, “may I have your notebook and a pencil?”

His expression was eager.

“Of course.”

Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and folded the exercise book so that it would remain open. He then transcribed some of the number pairs into the notebook, and next to these wrote some letters of the alphabet. He repeated the process several times, before flicking over a page and starting again. This time, he constructed an alphanumeric table. He soon became completely engrossed in his task, and Rheinhardt-deprived of conversation-stared out the window.

The rumbling of the carriage wheels on cobblestones was shortly accompanied by noises indicative of frustration. Liebermann shifted his position, tutted, grumbled under his breath, and tapped the pencil against his teeth. His crossings-out became more violent, the flicking of pages more frequent, and eventually he declared: “Impossible… nothing works. I thought it was going to be a simple substitution cipher!”

Rheinhardt turned to face his friend.

“I asked Werkner to take a look-he's one of our laboratory technicians at Schottenring. He's usually quite good at this sort of thing. But he didn't get very far either. Indeed, he was of the opinion that I might be mistaken.”

Liebermann bit his lower lip, and his brows knitted together.

“I wonder,” said Rheinhardt. “Do you think we should consult Miss Lyd gate? She is a woman of such remarkable intelligence-and she has helped us before.”

The young doctor's posture stiffened.

“She is indeed very gifted… but I do not know whether her talents extend to cryptography.”

Liebermann handed the notebook and pencil back to Rheinhardt.

“Yes,” said the inspector. “But it is permissible-is it not-to request her assistance again?”

Rheinhardt looked at his friend quizzically.

“You may do as you wish,” said Liebermann, picking a hair from the fabric of his trousers.