Fatal Lies

by Frank Tallis

  Wolf beat the air with his hand, a burst of quick downward movements indicating that the others should be quiet.

  The boys froze, and listened intently. Wolf lowered the wick of his lamp, and attempted to peer through the opaque veils of turbid brume. Something scampered away, and Wolf sighed with relief. He consulted the compass again and pointed slightly to the left.

  “Wolf,” said Steininger. “Wolf, I can't go on.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “It's too heavy. Let's do it here.… There's no need to go any farther, surely.”

  “Freitag, you take over.”

  “No, Wolf, I'm exhausted. Drexler can carry it on his own—it's all his fault.”

  “It is not my fault!” said Drexler angrily. “If you hadn't insisted on playing your stupid games!”

  “I said keep your voices down!” said Wolf.

  “Really, Wolf,” said Steininger, dropping his end of the sack. It landed with a dull thud. “We've been walking for hours. We don't need to go any farther.”

  “And we have to get back, remember,” said Freitag.

  “And what about our uniforms?” said Steininger. “We can't arrive for drill practice looking like this! We'll need time to get them cleaned up.”

  “I'll wake Stojakovic,” said Wolf.

  “No,” said Drexler. “We can't involve anybody else! Not tonight.”

  Wolf paced around the circle of trees in which they were standing. He then tested the ground with his foot, kicking up some turf.

  “It's not too hard,” he said.

  “Then let's get started,” said Steininger, snatching Freitag's shovel and driving its pointed blade into the earth.

  Drexler leaned against the nearest trunk and rested his forehead on his coat sleeve. His moment of repose was at once disturbed when he opened his eyes and observed in the contours of the bark a peculiar arrangement of knots, whorls, and ridges that suggested the lineaments of a human face—an old, deeply lined face, with bushy eyebrows and a long wavy beard. The sad eyes were full of anguish. It was as if some unfortunate soul had been magically incarcerated in the timber. The image reminded Drexler of the fantastic stories of E.T.A. Hoffmann. The boy drew back—and felt a freakish chill that made him shiver.

  “How deep should the trench be?” asked Steininger.

  “How should I know?” Wolf answered irritably.

  “But what if animals…”

  “Dig him up?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What animals?”

  “I don't know, but it's possible, isn't it?”

  “All right,” said Wolf, glaring. “Make it deeper!”

  Drexler looked over at the abandoned sack and considered its contents. He felt a wave of pity and regret. The swell of emotion that made his eyes burn was only just containable, but his self-control gave him no satisfaction. He knew that this was just the beginning. There would be worse to come: guilt, nightmares, and various forms of mental torture. The terrible millstone of his secret would weigh heavily on his conscience for the rest of his life, and would eventually drag him down to the depths of hell. He had never believed in such a place before, but now it all seemed quite plausible.

  He turned away and stared into the darkness.

  Steininger's digging was creating a hypnotic rhythm: the crunch of the blade penetrating the soil—a heave of effort—and then the dull rain of soil on leaves. Its regularity was comforting and lulled Drexler into a kind of trance. Once or twice, he noticed discontinuities of consciousness: he was so tired that he must have nodded off.…

  Freitag gasped: a sudden intake of breath, cut short and invested with the rising pitch of surprise.

  Steininger stopped digging.

  An owl hooted.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought… I thought I saw something move. Over there.”

  “What?”

  Freitag's voice shook. “It was big, like a bear.”

  “Don't be so ridiculous,” said Wolf. “If it was a bear, we'd soon know about it!”

  “I didn't say it was a bear—I said it was like a bear. Really, I did see something. Something big.”

  “Pull yourself together, Freitag,” Wolf commanded.

  Freitag shook his head. “I'm going. I don't like it here.”

  Wolf grabbed his arm. “Look, it's just your imagination! There's nothing out there!”

  He gestured between the trees and raised his lamp. Nothing was visible, except the restless mist.

  Freitag swallowed—subdued by the steel in Wolf's eyes.

  “Yes…” Freitag smiled—somewhat desperately. “Yes… of course. My imagination.”

  “Don't be a fool, Freitag,” said Wolf, releasing his grip.

  Drexler said nothing, but his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. He had seen something too—exactly as Freitag had said: something large and lumbering—big—like a bear. He marched over to Steininger.

  “Give me the shovel. You're too slow, Steininger. Let's finish this business and get away from this awful place.”

  47

  THE WAITER SWOOPED BY, skilfully replacing Rheinhardt's empty soup bowl with a dish containing dumplings, fried pork chops, a slice of boiled ham, frankfurter sausages, and a steaming mound of cooked sauerkraut. Rheinhardt inhaled the meaty fragrances and dressed his meal with large dollops of bright yellow mustard. Looking over at his companion, he noticed that Liebermann was toying with his food, rather than eating it, fishing noodles out of his broth and watching them slither off his spoon like tiny serpents.

  “What's the matter—lost your appetite?”

  “Yes. I'm feeling a little fragile, to be honest. Last night I…” He massaged his temple and winced. “I drank too much.”

  “Well, there's no better cure for a hangover than a big, hearty meal. Finish your soup and try the onion steak… or the Tyrolean liver. Something substantial!”

  Liebermann stirred the contents of his bowl and observed the stringy ballet with glum indifference.

  “I saw Miss Lyd gate on Tuesday,” Rheinhardt added breezily.

  Liebermann looked up from his soup. “Did you?”

  “Yes. I showed her the number pairs from Zelenka's book.”

  Liebermann's expression was unusually flat: a peculiarity that Rheinhardt attributed to his friend's intemperance of the night before.

  “Was she able to assist?”

  “Well, she said that the numbers might represent some form of code—but, if so, one of a very unconventional type. She promised to study them and give an opinion in due course.”

  Liebermann nodded.

  Rheinhardt sliced his dumpling and speared a strip of boiled ham.

  “This is quite, quite delicious,” he said, chewing with more volume than was really permissible according to the standard prescriptions of etiquette. “Oh, and Miss Lyd gate said something about not having had the pleasure of your company lately… and being otherwise engaged—and that I should convey her best wishes when I next saw you.”

  Liebermann set his jaw and mumbled something inaudible, which Rheinhardt was perfectly content to accept as a token of gratitude.

  The arrival of a pianist was received with restrained applause. The musician adjusted the height of his stool, flicked the tails of his coat, and sat down slowly. When his hands fell on the keyboard, the coffeehouse filled with a mournful dirge. The marchlike accompaniment suggested the trudging feet of a regiment of soldiers, every one of whom yearned to return home. It was an inconsolable song of reminiscence and lamentation.

  “Brahms?” asked Rheinhardt tentatively.

  “Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Hungarian Dance Number Eleven in D minor. It's usually heard in a four-hand arrangement… and he's playing it very slowly.”

  “Still…”

  “It is very affecting, yes.”

  “I rather like it.”

  They listened for a few moments, until a subtle modulation in the music suddenly released them from
its thrall.

  “So tell me,” said Liebermann. “What happened with old Brügel? Did the nephew carry out his threat?”

  Rheinhardt rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

  “Yes. He did write to the commissioner, informing him of my accusation. Subsequently, I was summoned by Brügel and given a complete dressing down. He was furious—I've never seen him so angry.”

  “His overreaction confirms my earlier speculation. He knows what sort of a boy Wolf is. He is simply trying to safeguard the interests of his family.”

  Rheinhardt waved a piece of sausage on the end of his fork. “When I was leaving, Brügel became more subdued. He said that Wolf was the only child of his youngest sister. The boy was no angel, he admitted, but he said I was quite wrong about him.” Rheinhardt paused, his eyes becoming less focused. “There was something about the way he referred to his sister… an uncharacteristic tenderness.”

  “In most families,” said Liebermann knowingly, “the eldest son is often the youngest daughter's special protector—and a mother cannot help but idealize her only child. One does not need to be a very great psychologist to understand Brügel's motive. He loves his sister, and he is trying to stop you from breaking her heart. That is why his anger was so immoderate.”

  Liebermann sat back in his chair, satisfied with his perspicacity. He noticed with irritation that a wayward spot of broth had landed on the cuff of his jacket. He tutted, reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief. As he did so, some pink sugared almonds fell and scattered onto the floor. The young doctor reached down, picked them up, and placed them on the tablecloth.

  Rheinhardt stopped chewing.

  “Sugared almonds,” said Liebermann, with a sheepish half smile.

  “Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.

  “I wasn't expecting them to be there.”

  “Evidently not,” said the inspector, resuming his chewing, and revising his estimate of how much alcohol his friend had imbibed the previous evening.

  Liebermann wiped his cuff clean. Trezska must have put the almonds in his pocket while they were both inebriated—or perhaps he had put them there himself; these innocent bonbons aroused in him a peculiar sense of incompletion and imminence. He stared at the almonds and began to play with them on his napkin—as if he might stumble upon an arrangement that would release their mysterious secret.

  He remembered something that Trezska had said: she had praised the mind-altering properties of absinthe: the inspiration of poets… the favored spirit of visionaries. Why was that important? As hard as he tried, he couldn't think why.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Rheinhardt asked.

  Liebermann dismissed his solicitous remark with a peremptory hand gesture.

  They had returned to his apartment and made love. He could remember that well enough. Then, afterward, he had been lying in bed, still feeling very odd—and… That was it! He had experienced a flash of insight: something to do with almonds, and something very, very important.

  “Ha!” Liebermann exclaimed.

  “Whatever is the matter, Max?” said Rheinhardt, somewhat irritated by his friend's eccentric behavior.

  The young doctor suddenly seemed galvanized. His movements acquired a nervous urgency.

  “I would like to take another look at those photographs.”

  “What photographs?”

  “The photographs of Zelenka… and I would also like to speak to his parents.”

  “Why?”

  Liebermann shook his head. “When you first told me about Zelenka's death, you said—did you not?—that he had been conducting some experiments involving… vinegar?”

  “Yes, that's right. I did say that.”

  Liebermann picked up the almonds and rattled them in his closed fist.

  “How very interesting. Almonds and vinegar!”

  The young doctor's eyes were alight—and he had acquired a slightly fevered look.

  “I don't know what you were drinking last night,” said Rheinhardt. “And I'm not sure that I want to know; however, whatever it was, I would strongly advise, that—at all costs—you eschew it in future.” Before Liebermann could respond, Rheinhardt's expression had changed from dudgeon to despondency. “Oh no, what now?” His assistant, Haussmann, had just walked through the door.

  The young man's arrival at their table coincided with the final bars of the Brahms Hungarian Dance, and when he spoke, he had to compete with a loud round of applause.

  “Instructions from Commissioner Brügel, sir. You must proceed to Herrengasse—immediately. There has been…” He looked around to make sure that no one was listening and lowered his voice. “An incident.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Rheinhardt, cupping his ear.

  “A body, sir,” said the assistant, with a hint of impatience. “In Herrengasse—a high-ranking officer in His Majesty's army.”

  “Who?”

  “General von Stoger.”

  “I see,” said Rheinhardt.

  “Commisioner Brügel… he said that you are to initiate the investigation, but you must expect to be relieved by Inspector von Bulow as soon as he is located.”

  “Why?”

  “Er… don't know, sir. Perhaps it's all to do with…” He glanced at Liebermann, unsure about whether to continue.

  “Yes, yes,” said Rheinhardt. “Von Bulow's confounded assignment—whatever it is!”

  The inspector pressed on his knees to raise his bulky frame, and looked affectionately at his unfinished meal. “What a dreadful waste,” he said. “And I was so looking forward to the chef's topfenstrudel.” Then, addressing Liebermann, he added: “What are you supposed to be doing this afternoon?”

  “Case notes.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “Yes—I could write them up this evening.”

  “Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany us?”

  “If you wish.”

  Rheinhardt turned toward the door, but his dynamism was suddenly extinguished. He seemed to be overcome by a curious lassitude. Retrieving his abandoned fork, he impaled an untouched dumpling and stuffed it into his mouth, whole. He then said something quite unintelligible to Haussmann.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said the bemused assistant. “I didn't quite catch that.”

  “Photographer,” he repeated. “Get the photographer… and find Professor Mathias.”

  As they left, a man at an adjacent table turned to watch them go. He had dark curly hair, an impressive mustache, and the fiery eyes of a zealot.

  48

  PROFESSOR EICHMANN WAS SEATED behind his desk, staring at the photograph of himself as a youthful artillery officer. As a child, he had dreamed of wearing such a uniform, distinguishing himself in battle, and becoming a celebrated general. But in real life his precocious fantasies had come to nothing. His career in the army had not been very remarkable—although this was through no fault of his own. He had been honorably discharged in his early twenties due to ill health. The doctor had attributed his breathlessness to a congenital heart defect. At the time, Eichmann had been devastated; however, he was an intelligent, resourceful young man, and soon turned this misfortune to his advantage. He excelled at university, wrote a modestly succesful history of the Austrian land forces, and won the respect of his academic peer group.

  Yet, in spite of his achievements, the disappointment of his early discharge from the artillery lingered.

  He had wanted to be a man of action, and academia was—for him—far too distant from the battlefield. In due course, he trained as a teacher and sought a more direct relationship with the world. Although he had been denied glory, he could still influence those destined to take his place.

  While still in his thirties, he had written an impressive article on the importance of military schools. It had become commonplace in coffeehouses to hear patrons bemoaning the state of the army. Who could deny that it was underfunded, ill-equipped, and in need of modernization? Eichmann, howe
ver, had argued that the significance of these factors had been exaggerated. What really mattered was “character.” If the army—and in particular the Austrian army—was going to meet the challenges of the new century, then it should be supplied with soldiers of a certain “type.” Thus, military schools had a key role to play in determining the destiny of the dual monarchy. Moreover, Eichmann had proposed that this right sort of character should be modeled on a vision of man described in recent philosophi cal writings. Such works might introduce teachers to some very useful principles.

  It was an argument that had attracted the interest of the headmaster of a military school situated in the Vienna woods. The school was called Saint Florian's. Eichmann was immediately offered a teaching post. Five years later he became deputy headmaster, and three years after that, the headmaster had died and Eichmann had stepped into his shoes.

  On the whole, Eichmann s project had been successful. The school now had a fine reputation. In addition, old boys occupied significant positions in the military hierarchy. The survival of the empire was— to a greater or lesser extent—dependent on these men of character whose thinking he had shaped. Thus, in a sense, he had inveigled his way back onto the battlefield. Some of their glory—at least in part— belonged to him.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Eichmann turned the photograph of his younger self aside.

  “Come in.” It was the deputy headmaster. “Ah… Becker,” said the headmaster, gesturing toward a chair. “Well?”

  Becker advanced, but did not sit.

  “He didn't attend any classes yesterday—and he hasn't been seen all day today. The prefects have undertaken a thorough search of the school, including the outbuildings.”

  “Have you spoken to any of his friends?”

  “Perger doesn't have friends—as such.”

  “All right, then—classmates?”

  “A boy called Schoeps claims to have seen him in the dormitory on Tuesday night. That, I believe, was the last time anyone saw him.”

  “He must have absconded.”

  “Yes, sir, that seems to be the most likely explanation.”