Fatal Lies

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 Karntner 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 naive, 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!”