Fatal Lies

by Frank Tallis

  “Dr. Liebermann.” Her voice floated over the traffic. “I am delighted you could come. Please, do come in.”

  As was his custom, Liebermann spent a few minutes with Frau Rubenstein before following Amelia up the stairs to her apartment. Although Frau Rubenstein's conversation had been unremarkable, he thought he had detected a certain wry amusement in her tone—a certain knowingness. He might even have commented on this had he not had other things on his mind.

  “It must be nearly a month since you last visited us,” said Amelia. “I believe it was shortly after the detectives’ ball.”

  “Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Mid-January I think.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him: “How time flies.… Unfortunately, I have not had sufficient opportunity to organize dancing lessons with Herr Janowsky… but I still intend to do so.”

  “You have been busy… at the university?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “And there have been other matters.…”

  Again she looked over her shoulder and smiled.

  When they reached the top landing, Amelia Lyd gate ushered Liebermann into her small parlor. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he came to an abrupt halt. There, sitting at the gateleg table, on the chair that he had so frequently occupied, sat the gentleman in whose arms Miss Lyd gate had swooned outside the Café Segel. The man looked relaxed. His legs were crossed, revealing one of his boots, which was stitched with an ornate and somewhat garish pattern. His wide-brimmed hat was hanging off the back of his chair, and he sported a curious necktie that seemed to be no wider than a shoelace.

  The gentleman stood up and extended his hand.

  “You will forgive me for addressing you in my native language, Herr Dr. Liebermann, but I have a strong suspicion that your English will be very much superior to my German—which is lamentably poor. It is a great honor to meet a man of whom I have heard such good report.” He grasped Liebermann's hand, and squeezed it hard. The man's English was peculiarly inflected. Indeed, it was very different from the English that Liebermann remembered from the time he'd spent in London. Nor was the man's clothing particularly British-looking.

  “Permit me to introduce myself,” the man continued. “Randall Pelletier-Lyd gate—at your service, sir.” “You are Miss Lyd gate's… cousin?” Amelia came forward. “No. Randall is my brother.” “But…” Liebermann looked at the woman standing beside him. She was glowing with pride. “It was my understanding that you do not have—”

  “A brother… Indeed.” Amelia interrupted him. “That was my understanding too, but apparently I was mistaken.”

  Liebermann was thrown into a state of confusion. He experienced a sense of intense relief—almost joy—but was then immediately alarmed by his reaction. He was in love with Trezska—wasn't he? “I think,” said Liebermann. “I think… you had better explain.” “With great pleasure,” Amelia replied. “However, before we proceed, you will no doubt require refreshment—so I must first make some tea.”

  “Many years before making the acquaintance of Greta Buchbinder— that is to say Amelia's mother—our father, Samuel Lyd gate, had enjoyed a brief but intimate dalliance with an actress: Constance Vaughn.” Randall's voice was mellow, and his narrative flowed like the song of a lyric tenor. “Their acquaintance was prematurely ended when the English Shakespeare Company—with whom Constance played as a principal—boarded the White Star vessel Oceanic, bound for New York. The company was embarked upon a tour of America that would take them through the southern states. Although Constance had promised to write to Samuel Lyd gate, he never heard from her again—and so he never learned that she had departed from Liverpool pregnant, carrying his child. Constance—my mother—was an unconventional woman. She was impulsive, prone to violent passions, and—I fear—in her youth might reasonably have been described as a little… cranky.”

  “I'm sorry?” Liebermann said.

  “Mentally unstable,” Amelia interjected in German.

  “Ah, of course. Please continue.”

  Randall took a sip of Earl Grey.

  “In New Orleans, the English Shakespeare Company performed two tragedies and a comedy. One of these tragedies was Romeo and Juliet—and my mother played the lead. In the audience was a local businessman called George Pelletier. So impressed was he by the young actress that he sent her flowers and showered her with gifts. A single dinner engagement sufficed to convince him that she was the love of his life, and he proposed that they should be married. My mother, being an indefatigable romantic—her senses assailed by the exotic sights and sounds of New Orleans, drunk with the prospect of adventure and excitement—agreed to the proposal immediately, and one week later when the English Shakespeare Company left town, they did so with one less actress in their troupe.

  “I do not know whether my mother and her new husband discussed my paternity—but what I do know is that I was raised in the belief that George Pelletier was my father, and he accordingly treated me like a son. Indeed, a boy could not have wished for a more devoted parent.…He died five years ago, and if grief is a measure of affection, then the depth of my sorrow confirmed the strength of our bond. He was a kind, generous man, and I continue to miss his counsel and laughter. Alas, this great loss was soon to be compounded by another. Last year my mother succumbed to a tubercular infection, and on her deathbed—for reasons that I still can only guess at—she decided that the time had come to reveal the truth concerning my provenance. I discovered the name, occupation, and nationality of my real father: a revelation the effect of which—I trust you will appreciate— cannot be overestimated.

  “Lyd gate is not so common a name in the British Isles, and, having resolved to begin my inquiries among the better educational establishments of London, I was soon rewarded with success. However, I was reluctant to approach Samuel directly. I did not know what manner of man he was—or how he might respond if I presented myself at his door.

  “I am accustomed to uncovering facts—it is, indeed, what constitutes the greater part of my work. I decided that I should discover a little more about Samuel's circumstances before alerting him to my existence. I wanted to know more about him in order to better judge whether or not my appearance would be welcome. My agent in London later informed me that Samuel Lyd gate had a daughter— Amelia—who was currently studying at the University of Vienna.…

  “Dr. Liebermann, you cannot imagine how this intelligence affected me. A sister. I had a younger sister!” Randall looked at Amelia, and his expression, Liebermann noticed, was still—in spite of the passage of time—incandescent with joyful disbelief. “I do not know why I was so profoundly moved—but moved I most certainly was. Further, it occurred to me that there might be certain advantages if I took the trouble to contact my sister before I approached my father: a younger person might be less rigid—better equipped to assimilate such dramatic news. She might even be prepared to act as a kind of intermediary. So I resolved to travel to Vienna… and here I am.”

  “A remarkable story,” said Liebermann. “Truly remarkable.”

  The subsequent discussion was somewhat circular, returning again and again to reiterations of the fact that Randall Lyd gate's history was—without doubt—remarkable! Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that repetitions of this nature were something of a necessity and an unspecified number were required before the conversation was free to proceed beyond general expressions of amazement. Eventually, however, a turning point was reached and the issue of how best to inform Samuel Lyd gate of Randall's appearance was given careful and sensitive consideration.

  Liebermann's curiosity had been aroused by something that Randall had said earlier, and at an appropriate juncture he said:

  “I trust that you will not consider my question impertinent. But you mentioned in passing that your work involves… uncovering facts? What is it that you do?”

  “I am an archaeologist,” said Randall.

  “And a respected authority,” said Amelia, “on the ancient civilizations
of Mexico and Peru.”

  “Please… Amelia,” said Randall, embarrassed by his sister's advocacy. “Most of my work takes place in old libraries—poring over ancient maps and mythologies. But on occasion it is my privilege to visit the holy places of the Toltecs, where it is still possible to find— and save—examples of their sublime artistry.”

  “The Toltecs?”

  “A race alluded to in a migration myth as the first Nahua immigrants to the region of Mexico. The name ‘Toltec’ came to be regarded by the surrounding peoples as synonymous with ‘artist,’ and as a kind of hallmark that guaranteed the superiority of any Toltec workmanship.” As Randall spoke, his voice acquired a mellifluous, dreamy quality, and his eyes seemed to search out a far horizon. “Everything in and about their city was redolent of the taste and artistry of its founders. The very walls were encrusted with rare stones, and their masonry was so beautifully chiseled and laid as to resemble the choicest mosaic.”

  It transpired that Randall had clearly inherited some of his mother's appetite for adventure. For he often accepted commissions from North American universities and museums to journey south— into sometimes remote and dangerous territories—in order to recover lost treasures, the existence of which he ascertained from close readings of native legends (recorded by historians with exotic names such as Zumarraga and Ixtlilxochitl).

  As the evening progressed, the conversation ranged over an extra ordinarily broad range of topics: Amelia's research under the supervision of Landsteiner, King Acxitl, dream interpretation, the hallucinatory properties of certain desert mushrooms (an example of which, curiously, Randall happened to have in his pocket), Nietz sche's concept of eternal recurrence, and the syncopated music of the black people of New Orleans (which Randall obligingly whistled while tapping his foot).

  Discussion of rags and ragtime led, by some oblique conversational maneuvering, to the waltz, which prompted Amelia to enthuse— at some length—about the ball she had attended with Liebermann. Randall—to Liebermann's surprise—expressed much interest (perhaps anthropological) in Fasching, and the young doctor found himself offering to take both brother and sister to the clock makers’ ball, which was scheduled to take place the following week.

  When Liebermann finally took his leave, he felt quite dazed. It had turned out to be an evening very different from the one he had expected. He walked the streets for some time—smoking and thinking—before returning home. When Miss Lyd gate had said goodbye, she had reached out and gently touched his hand. After taking a few steps he had looked back, and the image of her standing in the doorway had impressed itself on his memory. Her white dress had billowed in the breeze, and strands of her spun copper hair had streamed across her face. She had pushed them aside, revealing those arresting eyes. The smile that had been fleetingly present throughout the entire evening was gone, and her expression was intense, penetrating—as if she were looking directly into his soul. Lieber-mann identified the thought as fanciful, but nevertheless felt a shiver of unease.

  He had been so very wrong about Miss Lyd gate. Indeed, on reflection, Liebermann concluded that in matters of the heart he had something of a gift for being wrong.…

  69

  THE SILENCE THAT PREVAILED in the commissioner's office was absolute. It was the kind of stillness that Rheinhardt associated with mortuaries and provincial churches in winter: an icy, unyielding soundlessness—as obstinate as frozen loam. He wanted to speak, but whenever he tried, his courage failed. This silence demanded the utmost care—and if he broke it carelessly, the consequences would be catastrophic.

  The commissioner had not moved for some time. His eyes were fixed on a folder occupying the pool of light beneath his desk lamp. It contained Rheinhardt's supplementary report on the murder of Thomas Zelenka. Brügels hand crept into the illuminated circle like a grotesque insect emerging from beneath a stone, the first and second fingers raised and testing the air like feelers. Sustaining a convincing illusion of self-determination, Brügels hand halted before touching the folder—as if it had detected something repellent or dangerous therein. The commissioner's profound, contemplative silence seemed to presage alarming possibilities: not only the prospect of punishment, but actual expulsion from the security office.

  Rheinhardt had always been a policeman and could imagine no other life. What else could he do? He tried to console himself with the thought that he had acted conscientiously. But, in truth, he knew that he had been impulsive, naïve, and somewhat vainglorious. Now he would suffer the consequences.

  Brügel's hand moved forward and his raised fingers dropped down on the folder. The inconsequential beat this movement produced sounded—to Rheinhardt—like the boom of a ceremonial drum: an invitation in some ancient rite to ritual slaughter.

  “You disobeyed my orders,” said the commissioner, in a low, gravelly voice. “I distinctly recall telling you that as far as I was concerned the Saint Florian's case was closed.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “You did. However, with the greatest respect…” I have nothing to lose, now, he thought. I might as well defend myself. Rheinhardt took a deep breath. “Sir, I hold the rank of detective inspector. Although it is my duty to obey you—my commanding officer—it is also my duty to serve the Justizpalast, the people of Vienna, and, ultimately, His Majesty the emperor.”

  Rheinhardt glanced up at the portrait of Franz Josef—only just visible in the reflected lamplight—and fancied that he saw a glimmer of approval in the old man's expression. “I believe,” he continued, “that I acted correctly and in accordance with the obligations and necessities of my office.”

  The commissioner's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a tight fist—the knuckles rising up beneath his leathery skin to form a bloodless ridge. On his temple a knotty blood vessel pulsed with febrile malevolence. The commissioner seemed to be on the brink of exploding with rage when—quite suddenly—his expression changed. He sighed, his shoulders fell, and his clenched fist slowly opened.

  “My nephew,” said Brügel hoarsely, “has been disgraced.” Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. Their gazes met, and the commissioner continued. “His mother was so proud of him. This will break her heart.” As on the previous occasion when Brügel had mentioned his sister, tender sentiments seemed to diminish him.

  “I am very sorry, sir,” said Rheinhardt sincerely.

  The commisioner opened his drawer and removed a letter, which he placed carefully on the folder containing Rheinhardt s report.

  “From Kiefer,” he said softly. “It does not exonerate him… but it may go some way toward helping us to understand his conduct. You see, the boy claims to have been influenced by certain teachings promulgated by the masters—Eichmann, Gärtner, Osterhagen—a philosophy of power. Young minds, Rheinhardt. They are so malleable— so easily corrupted.… I have already spoken to the minister of education—who has promised to attend the next meeting of the board of governors.”

  The commissioner fell silent again.

  “Sir,” said Rheinhardt, “am I to be disciplined?”

  The commissioner grunted and shook his head.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Rheinhardt. Not wishing to tempt fate, he stood up and clicked his heels. “Should I report to Inspector von Bulow tomorrow morning?”

  “No,” said the commissioner. “He doesn't need your assistance anymore.” Brügel succeeded in investing the possessive pronoun with utter contempt.

  “Very good, sir,” said Rheinhardt. He bowed—and walked briskly to the door.

  70

  LIEBERMANN HAD FIRST MET OPPENHEIM in one of the coffee-houses close to the hospital. Although the young man was studying classics at the university he was a keen amateur psychologist and was always willing to discuss—in his words—the life of the soul. He was an enthusiastic, open-minded fellow, and much more at ease with topics such as sexuality and the conflicts arising between nature and culture than most of Liebermann's colleagues. Their friendship was sustained—as
it had begun—by occasional, unplanned encounters in the coffeehouses of the ninth district.

  Liebermann had risen early and, on his way to the hospital, was pleasantly surprised to discover Oppenheim sitting outside the Café Segel, warming his hands around a steaming, frothy mélange and reading a volume of Greek.

  They greeted each other cordially, and Oppenheim invited Liebermann to join him for breakfast. Glancing at his wristwatch, Liebermann saw that he had plenty of time to spare and seated himself beside the student.

  “What are you reading?” asked Liebermann.

  “A True Story—by Lucian of Samosata,” Oppenheim replied. “An extraordinary piece of writing about a group of adventuring heroes who travel to the moon. It is—at one and the same time—a very early example of fantastic literature and a criticism of ancient authorities that describes mythical events as though they are real.”

  This weighty gambit was typical of Oppenheim, whose appetite for intellectual stimulation was not very much affected by the hour of the day. Liebermann—prematurely aged by the youth's indecent vitality—ordered a very strong schwarzer, two kaisersemmel rolls, and some plum conserve.

  Their conversation ranged up and down the narrow isthmus that connected classical literature and psychiatry and touched upon Aristotle's De Anima, Hippocrates’ essay on epilepsy and sundry poetical works that took melancholia as their principal theme. After they had been talking for a while, Liebermann began to wonder whether the young scholar might know the answer to a certain question that had been annoying him like the minor but persistent presence of a small stone in a shoe.

  “Tell me,” Liebermann asked, “do you have any idea what a Liderc is?”

  “A what?”

  “A Liderc.”

  “Is it a Hungarian word?”

  “I believe it is.”

  Oppenheim stroked his short beard.