Fatal Lies

57

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

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

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

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

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

Haussmann's face was a pale oval.

“It was Dr. Becker? He did it?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It's all right, Oskar. I have you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then perhaps we should get back inside?”

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

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

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

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

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

Rheinhardt held out the notebook so that Liebermann could read what he had written: My dearest Else,

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

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

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

“Perhaps you would like to…”

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

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

Another piece of masonry fell.

“Hurry, Max,” Rheinhardt urged.

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

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, just a feeling!”

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

“Look!” said Liebermann, pointing down.

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

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

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

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

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