Fatal Lies

62

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

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

“The paracerebellar nuclei.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Couldn't you just omit the date?”

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

“Who?”

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

“Where do you think he's gone?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Liebermann smiled. “Allow me to explain.”