Fatal Lies

by Frank Tallis

  They inspected the menu, and while they did so Trezska extolled the virtues of the head chef. She insisted that Liebermann try his gulyás.

  “They do it correctly here… a traditional recipe, not like the heavy goulashes you might be used to. Gulyás was originally a shepherds’ dish—the midday meal. It shouldn't be too rich.”

  As on all Hungarian tables, there were three rather than two condiment shakers: one for salt, one for pepper, and a third for paprika. When the gulyás arrived, Liebermann was given a soup, instead of a stew, and at the bottom of his bowl he found large tender chunks of mutton. Trezska offered Liebermann the paprika shaker, which he declined—his gulyás having already been seasoned quite enough for his taste.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Trezska.

  “Good—very good,” he replied. The gulyás was just as Trezska had described: wholesome rustic fare, but fragrant with tangy herbs and spices.

  From inside the restaurant, a small band consisting of a cimbalom player and two violinists began a mournful waltz. Swooping glissandi and complicated embellishments suggested a Gypsy origin. It caught Liebermann's attention.

  “An old folk song,” said Trezska, “Dark Eyes. It's all about a young hussar who is rejected and throws himself into the Tisza.”

  A capricious smile played around her lips.

  Their conversation turned to more serious music. They discussed the Bach violin and keyboard sonatas, Marie Soldat-Röger s interpretation of the Brahms D-major concerto, a new Russian opera, and the distinctive tone of pianos made in Vienna. After which, Liebermann encouraged his companion to talk about her own musical accomplishments. Trezska had only just begun to build a reputation as a solo artist in Budapest, having spent two years studying in Rome and Paris; however, she had won several scholarships, a competition in Prague, and had even played at a private function in Berlin for her celebrated countryman, the virtuoso Joseph Joachim.

  “Do you have any more concerts planned? In Vienna?”

  “No, sadly not: next year, perhaps.”

  “Oh,” said Liebermann. “Then, how long will you be staying?” he added hopefully.

  “In Vienna? Another month or so. My old violin professor has arranged for me to take some lessons with Arnold Rosé.”

  Liebermann repeated the name. He was most impressed. Rosé was the concertmaster of the philharmonic.

  “What pieces will you be studying with Rosé?”

  “Beethoven's spring sonata—and Mozart's E minor.”

  “I am familiar with the spring sonata, of course, but I'm not sure that I've ever heard the E minor.”

  “Not a great work, by any means. But it is one for which I have a particular affection. It is the only violin sonata that Mozart wrote in a minor key.” Her black eyes flashed at Liebermann. “There! You see? It must be true what they say about Hungarian melancholy.”

  The gulyás was followed by coffee and two enormous slices of dobostorte: each wedge was comprised of seven alternating layers of sponge and chocolate cream. The dobostorte—named after its creator József Dobos—had become, in just over ten years, the first world-famous Hungarian dessert. And deservedly so, thought Liebermann. The chocolate cream was dense, buttery, and exquisitely rich.

  After discreetly paying the bill, Liebermann offered Trezska his arm, and they set off in the direction of the amusements. As they got closer, they were absorbed into a bustling, noisy crowd. The air was filled with the babble of several languages: German, Hungarian, Slavic, and even occasional snatches of Arabic. On either side, marquees and little huts began to appear. Fortune-tellers, sausage vendors, a troupe of acrobatic dwarves, strong men, and belly dancers were all plying their trade. The most bizarre attraction was an “electrocution extravaganza”—where a long line of venturesome young men were awaiting their turn to be galvanized.

  “Where are we going?” asked Trezska.

  “Venice.”

  Trezska threw Liebermann a puzzled look, but the young doctor simply smiled—as if to say You'll see.

  They continued walking until they came to a wide concourse that was dominated by a massive double arch. Capital letters running across the top read: VENEDIG IN WIEN—Venice in Vienna. The structure was decorated with ornate moldings, at the center of which was a bas-relief of a winged lion, the symbol of Saint Mark. Two giant planets hovered above the columns at either extremity.

  “What on earth?” Trezska's pace slowed.

  “A re-creation of Venice,” said Liebermann, tracing an arc in the air with his hand. “Here, in Vienna.”

  “What… you've reconstructed the whole of Venice, in one of your parks?”

  “Well, not exactly… but something very close to it.”

  Trezska's expression communicated a mixture of amusement and surprise at this astounding demonstration of Viennese hubris.

  “Extraordinary,” she whispered.

  They passed beneath one of the arches and were immediately transported to northern Italy. Renaissance villas overlooked a piazza, on which ladies and gentlemen were milling around—smoking, talking, and sipping champagne—as if they were attending a society function.

  “Come on!” Liebermann tugged Trezska's arm. “This way.”

  They crossed the square, ascended a broad stone staircase, and came to a canal on which black lacquered gondolas were sedately moving in opposite directions.

  Trezska leaned over the balustrade and burst out laughing. “Ridiculous.”

  “Let's get one. There's no better way to see Venice.”

  Only a short distance away, several empty gondolas were tied to colorful mooring poles. Liebermann hired the services of a gondolier and helped Trezska into the boat. Once she was seated, he said “Just one moment,” dashed over to a champagne pavilion, and returned, slightly breathless, carrying a bottle of Moët and two glasses.

  The gondolier cast off and guided his vessel through a network of canals. They glided beneath bridges, past grand palazzos and theaters, past old churches, and through gardens of exotic trees. In due course, the illusion overcame Trezska's resistance. She sipped her champagne, suspended disbelief, and succumbed to the romance of the world's most magical city.

  Sensitive to the demands of the situation, the gondolier sought out a small, secluded pool, overlooked by a façade whose design recalled the Doge's Palace. The door of a little café opened directly onto the water, and from inside came the jangling of mandolins. The gondolier moored his vessel and, catching Liebermann's eye, winked and vanished into the café.

  Immediately, the young doctor and his companion drew closer together. They lowered their voices, and began to speak more intimately. Liebermann told Trezska about his family: his garrulous mother, his disapproving father, his two delightful sisters. He told her about the district where he had grown up, the schools he had attended, and his time at the university. He told her about the cities he had visited and about his fondness for English literature and London. And after a short hiatus, during which they both listened to the delicate, persistent thrumming of the mandolins, Trezska reciprocated. She told Liebermann about her father, who had also been a violinist— but who had died when she'd been very young. She told him about her mother, whose aristocratic family had disowned her when she had married below her station. And she told him about her life in Budapest: of Castle Hill, shrouded in autumn mists, the scent of violets in the spring, and the magnificent, ruthless winters, which froze the Danube, making it possible to walk from Pest to Buda.

  The gondolier reappeared, and soon they were off again, drifting through the gently lapping waters. On the floor, the empty bottle of champagne lay on its side, rolling with the gentle movement of the boat. Liebermann leaned back, and felt Trezska's head resting on his shoulder. An easy silence ensued, one that did not require filling. Above Liebermann s head, the strip of sky between the roofs was becoming darker.

  When the gondola reached the landing from which they had begun their odyssey Liebermann helped Trezska out wi
th one hand while tipping the gondolier with the other.

  “The champagne has made me feel sleepy,” said Trezska. “Shall we go for a walk?”

  “If you like.”

  “Away from all these people…”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Liebermann led Trezska out of the make-believe world of Venedig in Wien and off toward the Freudenau. They strolled down the Haupt Allee, talking with less urgency—increasingly more at ease. As they progressed, Liebermann became conscious of a sudden plunge in temperature. It was getting windy, and a few drops of rain had begun to fall.

  “Quick,” said Liebermann, “let's shelter under there.”

  A large solitary plane tree was close by, and they dashed to take cover beneath its canopy of tangled branches. The patter of rain became louder, and the Prater was bathed in an eldritch luminescence. A subtle flickering illuminated the clouds, and a low rumbling followed. Then, quite suddenly, there was a bright white flash, a tremendous clap of thunder, and the skies opened, releasing a torrential downpour.

  Liebermann noticed that Trezska looked agitated. Her eyes were wide open and she had begun to pace.

  “It's all right,” said Liebermann. “It'll soon stop.”

  His solicitous remark had no effect. She continued to appear uneasy. Liebermann wondered whether she was pathologically frightened of thunderstorms. But the sky had been getting more overcast throughout the day, and she had showed no obvious signs of distress. He dismissed the thought: a brontophobic would have been anxious to get inside hours ago.

  “What's the matter?” Liebermann asked.

  Trezska attempted a smile, but failed miserably.

  “I…” She hesitated and lowered her eyes. “I don't like it here.”

  “Well,” said Liebermann, puzzled. “The rain will stop—and then we can leave.”

  “No. I think… I think we should go now.”

  “But we'll get soaked.”

  “It's only rain. Come, let's go.” Trezska looked at the sky and pouted.

  “Are you afraid?”

  She paused for a moment, and then said: “Yes.”

  “But it's just—” There was another flash and a boom so loud that the ground shook. “A storm.”

  “Come,” she said. “I'm sorry. We can't stay here.”

  “But why not?”

  “We just can't!” A note of desperation had entered Trezska's voice. While Liebermann was still trying to think of something to say, she added, “I'm going.” And with that she marched out into the violent weather.

  Stunned, Liebermann watched her, as she held her hat in place while striding determinedly back toward the amusements. Then, realizing that he was not being very gentlemanly, he ran after her.

  “Trezska?”

  When he caught up with her, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She did not slow down to make his task any easier.

  “We must get away. Now hurry.”

  They maintained their pace, walking briskly into sheets of cold rain. Liebermann s clothes were soon drenched, his hair was plastered to his scalp, and a continuous flow of water streamed down the back of his neck.

  Whatever is the matter with her? thought Liebermann.

  There was another flash, but much brighter than its predecessors. The grass seemed to leap up, each blade sharp and distinct in the dazzling coruscation. The rain looked momentarily frozen, becoming rods of crystal suspended in the air, and a fraction of a second later there was an explosion—a great ripping, accompanied by a shower of bark and smoldering splinters. Liebermann swung around and saw flames licking the trunk of the scorched plane tree. They had been standing exactly where the bolt had struck. If they had not moved, they would have been killed.

  40

  COMMISSIONER MANFRED BRÜGEL looked troubled. In his hands he held a letter.

  “Well, Rheinhardt, this is all very difficult—very difficult indeed. But let me assure you, I would have wanted to talk to you had I received a complaint from any of the Saint Florian pupils. The fact that I am related to Kiefer Wolf is really of little consequence. You understand that, don't you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commissioner was visibly disturbed by the transparency of his own deceit. He coughed into his hand, mumbled something about professionalism, and then concluded his introductory remarks by repeating the word “good” three times.

  Rheinhardt was accustomed to feeling a sense of foreboding whenever he entered the commissioner's office. But on this occasion the presentiment of impending doom was fearfully oppressive.

  “Now, according to my nephew,” said Brügel, “you went to Saint Florian's on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January in order to conduct some interviews. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You interviewed my nephew—and several other boys.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whom I presume you had previously identified as suspects?”

  Rheinhardt crossed his legs and shifted uncomfortably. He could see where this line of questioning might lead and sought to divert the conversation elsewhere.

  “Prior to interviewing the boys, I had spoken to Professor Eich-mann, the headmaster, about the Arbeiter-Zeitung article and—”

  Brügel waved his hand in the air. “Yes, yes—we can discuss Eich-mann later.” He glanced down at the letter and continued, “The boys you interviewed—they were suspects?”

  “Well, only in a manner of speaking.… They were boys who I thought might be able to tell us more about the bullying at Saint Florian's. If the Arbeiter-Zeitung article—”

  Again, Brügel cut in: “And how did you identify these… these suspects?”

  “With the help of Herr Dr. Liebermann.”

  The commissioner snorted. “And how did Dr. Liebermann identify them?”

  “He used a psychological technique to probe the mind of Isidor Perger, the boy who wrote those letters to Thomas Zelenka.”

  “And what was this psychological technique?”

  Rheinhardt grimaced. “He showed Perger”—Rheinhardt's expression became more pained—”inkblots… and asked the boy what he saw in them.”

  “Inkblots.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And by inkblots, you mean… ?”

  “Blots of ink… on paper, sir. I am sure Dr. Liebermann would be willing to explain how the procedure works.”

  “That won't be necessary, Rheinhardt.”

  The commissioner took a deep breath and was evidently struggling to contain himself. A raised vessel appeared on his temple, in which Rheinhardt detected the pulse of Brügel s fast-beating and furious heart.

  “And is it true,” said the commissioner, in an uncharacteristically controlled voice, “that you accused my nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka?”

  For a brief moment, Rheinhardt found himself wondering whether it was not such a bad idea, at this juncture, to simulate a fainting fit. He could very easily relax his muscles and allow his ample frame to slide off the chair, after which he would be lifted onto a stretcher and conveyed to the infirmary, where he might rest, sleep perhaps, even dream of walking holidays in the Tyrol. On further reflection, he decided that he had better get the ordeal over with.

  “Sir,” he said resolutely, “you will appreciate, I am sure, how a direct accusation will sometimes unnerve a suspect. That forceful assertions can even produce a confess—”

  “It's true, then,” Brügel interrupted.

  “Yes,” Rheinhardt sighed. “Yes, it is true.”

  “And on what evidence did you base this accusation?” asked Brügel.

  Policeman's intuition, thought Rheinhardt. Your nephew's crooked smile.

  Rheinhardt shook his head and murmured something that barely qualified as language.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Brügel.

  “Nothing… nothing very firm, sir.”

  The commissioner folded the letter and placed it in a drawer. He then leaned across his desk and be
gan to lecture Rheinhardt on one of his favorite topics: the importance of maintaining standards. Gradu ally, Brügel's voice took on a hectoring tone, and in a very short space of time he was thumping the desk with his fists and reprimanding Rheinhardt for running a shoddy, incompetent investigation. His anger, which he had succeeded in suppressing for so long, now boiled over. The commissioner roared and spat out his invective with apoplectic rage.

  As Rheinhardt listened to this tirade, he experienced it not intellectually, or even emotionally, but physically. It was like being bludgeoned with a heavy club. The irony of his situation did not escape him. He was being bullied. Bizarrely he too had become one of Wolf's victims.

  When the commissioner was spent, he leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily. His face had turned red, and some foamy spittle had collected in his muttonchop whiskers.

  “Please accept my apology, sir,” said Rheinhardt.

  The commissioner grunted and granted the disgraced inspector permission to leave.

  When he reached the door, Brügel called out:

  “Rheinhardt.”

  “Sir?”

  The commissoner was suddenly changed. He looked smaller: older, wearier, and perplexed. It was an extraordinary transformation.

  “He's my youngest sister's boy,” said Brügel. “Her only child. He's no angel, but he would not… No, you are quite wrong. And consider yourself lucky. This will go no further. I'll see to that.”

  Had Liebermann been present, he would have had much to say about the commissioner's sudden transformation, and his curious, incoherent adieu. But Rheinhardt was in no fit state to consider such things. Eager to leave, he bowed, clicked his heels, and left the commissioner's office like a man escaping a fire.

  41

  ISIDOR PERGER WAS SITTING on a stool, flanked by Steininger and Freitag. In front of him stood Wolf. The blond boy drew his sabre and held it up close to Perger s face.

  “Well,” he said. “What do you see?”

  Perger shrugged. “Nothing.… Your sabre, Wolf.”