by Frank Tallis
“I'm sorry,” said Drexler. “It was dark. It's difficult to judge distances when it's dark. But I can assure you, I buried him somewhere around here. I remember this tree. You see, it has a face in it… an old man.”
“An old man, eh?”
“Please, try here.” Drexler took two paces away from the tree and stamped his feet.
“I tell you what,” said the constable, handing Drexler the shovel. “Why don't you dig for a while?”
The young man recovered his helmet and stomped off to seek shelter under the thickest bough he could find.
Drexler began to dig frantically.
Nothing.
Clay, earthworms, stones, roots…
He started to dig another hole. Nothing. And another…
The drizzle had been succeeded by a persistent saturating downpour.
“All right,” the constable called out. “You've had your fun.… I suppose you and your friends think this sort of thing is very funny. Well, you won't be laughing after I've given you the good hiding you deserve.”
“What?” said Drexler.
“Come here,” said the constable, beckoning with a crooked finger.
“This isn't a joke.… This isn't a joke, you… you…”
Drexler threw the shovel to the ground and fell to his knees. He thrust his hands into the hole he had dug and clawed at the mud. His tears were invisible on his rain-soaked face.
“Perger!” he cried. “Perger?”
The constable's expression altered. He no longer looked angry, more startled and confused. A little shocked, even. Drexler tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but only succeeded in smearing his face with mud.
“Perger?” he shouted. When Drexler raised his hands, the constable could see that his fingers were bleeding. His eyes were shining with a terrible urgency.
“Take it easy,” said the constable, taking a cautious step forward. What was it the boy had said? An old man in the tree…
Maybe this wasn't a joke—maybe the boy wasn't right in the head. He certainly didn't look very well.
“I think we'd better get back to the station,” said the constable. “We'll have some tea, eh? Warm you up a bit? And then I think we'd better call a doctor.”
75
LIEBERMANN PAID THE CAB DRIVER and braced himself against the teeming rain. The carriage rattled away and he walked slowly toward the end of the cul-de-sac. Water was flowing in fast rivulets down the cobbled street and the wind was gathering strength. Low clouds, descending from the west, had created an eldritch twilight.
The battered door—toward which Liebermann was making steady progress—was swinging on its hinges, occasionally crashing loudly against the wall. The fact that nobody had bothered to secure it reinforced the general atmosphere of neglect and desolation.
Liebermann stepped over the threshold and into the tiled arcade. He paused for a moment and pushed a hank of sopping hair out of his eyes. A stream of icy water trickled down the back of his neck. From his shadowy vantage he could see across the courtyard. A man was standing at the foot of the iron stairs. He was facing away from Liebermann and wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. Beyond the stranger, and positioned above him on the covered landing, stood Trezska. She was dressed in readiness to travel, and carried—in addition to her shoulder bag—a small valise. Her violin was in its case at her feet. Yet there had been no sign of a cab waiting for her outside, and the man at the foot of the stairs was clearly making no effort to assist her. Indeed, there was something altogether strange about his situation. He had not chosen to climb the few steps that would have afforded him shelter. Instead, he was standing rather awkwardly, fully exposed to the elements.
Trezska was talking, but Liebermann could not hear her. He was too distant, and the deluge was becoming symphonic. Close by, the rain was drumming on a tin roof and an overflowing gutter was splashing loudly.
A blast of wind threatened to remove the stranger's hat, and the man had to grab quickly at the top of his head to hold it down. Again, Liebermann noted a conspicuous awkwardness—the maneuver had been executed clumsily with the left hand.
Liebermann crept down the passageway, keeping his back close to the wall. When he reached the opposite end, he discovered why it was that the stranger's posture had appeared somewhat unnatural. The man was holding a pistol, the barrel of which was pointed upward, toward Trezska.
The young doctor's response was automatic and unreasoning. He wanted to protect her, even though she had deceived him and even though he suspected that her capacity for deceit was boundless. Such was his disposition that a romantic obligation to a woman would always supersede a political obligation. Besides, he now had so many questions he wanted to ask her—questions that might never be answered if she were shot dead—that no other course of action seemed possible.
Liebermann ventured out into the driving rain and moved toward the stranger. He approached with great care, ensuring that the soles of his shoes landed gently on the cobbles. He held his breath as he had in early childhood when he used to sneak out of his room after his mother had put him to bed. Strange, he thought, how easily the mind supplies correspondent memories from infancy. Professor Freud was right: much of adult behavior had its origins in the nursery.
The rain was streaming down his face, blurring his vision; however, he was satisfied that Trezska had not reacted to his appearance. If she had, the man would have almost certainly turned to see what she was looking at. As Liebermann drew closer, he could hear Trezska's voice.
“I am sure we can come to some arrangement. After all, we are not entirely without common interests. I have in my possession information which might prove very useful.”
Closer—one step at a time…
“But,” she continued, “you cannot expect me to embark upon such an arrangement without some promise of security.”
It was remarkable how calm she sounded, given her predicament, and her German was more fluent and mannered. “You will accept, I hope, that this is not an unreasonable request.”
Liebermann observed a crescent of silver stubble beneath the man's hat. A middle-aged man, perhaps? Not too robust, he hoped.
Closer…
“Of course, you are at liberty to dismiss everything I have said,” Trezska added. “Why should you believe me? But I can assure you that I am speaking the absolute truth.”
Liebermann drew back his arm, clenched his fist, and thumped the man as hard as he could in the region of the occipital bone. The man fell forward on the stairs, unconscious, his pistol skittering away. His hat had become dislodged, revealing a bald pate and a pair of slightly tapering ears. Liebermann knelt down, checked the man's pulse, and turned him over. It was Inspector Victor von Bulow
76
DREXLER WAS LYING IN the infirmary, thinking over the day's events. It had been a miracle, surely. God had interceded in order to give him a second chance. He must use the rest of his life wisely, as the deity rarely acted without purpose.
Dr. Kessler had left more than an hour ago. He was a kindly old fellow and meant well but, in Drexler s estimation, had spoken a lot of nonsense: You were perhaps very… close to Perger? He was your friend? It is indeed upsetting when we lose the company of one for whom we have developed a bond of deep and sincere affection…
Drexler had listened patiently. As far as he could gather, it seemed that the good doctor was proposing that Pergers precipitate departure had had the effect of placing his mind in a state of disequilibrium. Drexler was willing to concede that this was true, in one sense, but also recognized that it was entirely inaccurate in another. He had subsequently agreed to take some pills that were supposed to calm his agitation, but as time passed he was forced to conclude that they were largely ineffective.
Now he was bored.
He wanted to read something, and the book of military anecdotes provided for him by Nurse Funke was decidedly dull. He remembered that he had left his volume of E.T. A. Hoffmann short stories in the l
ost room, and considered that there would be no great risk associated with retrieving it.
“Nurse Funke?” he called.
The nurse appeared at the door and rested her hand against the jamb.
“Nurse Funke, may I collect a book from the dormitory? Some Hoffmann?”
“Dr. Kessler said you should sleep.”
“But it's too early for me to sleep. And I find it easier to sleep if I read first.”
“What about the book I brought you?”
“I do not wish to seem ungrateful; however, to be perfectly honest, Nurse Funke, I've already read it.”
“Very well,” said the nurse. “You can go. But you must come back immediately.”
“Of course.”
Drexler put on his uniform and set off on a circuitous tour of the school that took him—unseen—to the trapdoor.
When he dropped down into the lost room, he discovered that it was already occupied. Steininger was sitting in the wicker chair, smoking a cigarette, with his feet up on a stool. The Serbian boy, Stojakovic, was kneeling before him, vigorously cleaning his shoes. Freitag and another stocky boy called Gruber were standing close by.
When Drexler landed, Stojakovic stopped brushing. Steininger immediately lashed out and delivered a blow to the side of his head.
“Who told you to stop?” Steininger barked.
Stojakovic reapplied the polish and resumed his Sisyphean labor.
“Where's Wolf?” asked Drexler.
“Gone,” said Steininger, stroking his downy mustache. “His parents came and collected him today. I don't think he'll be coming back.”
“Poor Wolf,” said Freitag. “An excellent fellow—but prone to getting big ideas. Too big, eh? He was bound to overstretch himself one day.”
“What did he do?” said Drexler.
“I managed to speak to him just before he left, while he was packing his bags,” Steininger replied. “Apparently he was blackmailing Sommer and the police found out!”
“Is that why Sommer killed himself?”
“Who knows?” Steininger nonchalantly flicked some ash onto Stojakovic's hair. “So… where the hell have you been?”
“In the infirmary.”
“What! We'd heard that someone had gone mad and the headmaster had called Kessler. My God, it wasn't you, was it?”
Freitag and Gruber were amused by the jibe and burst out laughing.
“Yes—it was,” Drexler replied calmly.
The laughing died down and Steininger glanced uneasily at Freitag.
“Get up, Stojakovic,” said Drexler. He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet. “Go on…” He jerked his head toward the trapdoor.
“What in God's name do you think you're doing, Drexler?” Steininger cried. “Can't you see? I‘m in command now! I‘m giving the orders!” He jabbed his finger at the Serbian boy. “Stojakovic— you try to leave and you'll regret it!”
Drexler pushed Stojakovic, who stumbled away from Steininger.
“Take no notice of him. Go.”
The boy was too frightened to leave. He stood, rooted to the spot where he had come to rest.
Steininger caught Freitag's eye and nodded.
“You really have gone mad, Drexler,” said Freitag.
“Yes, quite mad,” echoed Gruber.
The two lieutenants moved forward.
“Don't you understand?” continued Freitag, pushing his unfinished canine face into Drexler's. “We're tired of all your nonsense.”
“And I'm tired of you!” said Drexler.
Without warning, he brought his knee up sharply into Freitag's groin. As the boy buckled over in pain, Drexler delivered an upper-cut to his heavy chin, which sent him reeling over onto the floor. Drexler then thrust his elbow back into Gruber's face, knocking out several teeth. Steininger attempted to jump up, but Drexler placed both hands against his chest and pushed him back down.
Gruber retreated, his hand over his mouth, blood streaming through his fingers and splashing onto the floor. Freitag was rolling from side to side, moaning and clutching his genitals.
“Stojakovic,” said Drexler calmly, “if any of these imbeciles pick on you again, let me know. Now, for the last time, will you please go.”
The Serbian boy jumped up onto the box and pulled himself up through the trapdoor. His accelerating footsteps could be heard crossing the floor above.
Drexler went to the old suitcase, opened the lid, and took out his volume of E.T.A. Hoffmann short stories. He slowed as he passed Steininger.
“Now that Wolf's gone, things are going to change around here,” he said.
77
“WELL, HERR DOCTOR,“ said Trezska. The impersonal term of address was employed knowingly, and Liebermann detected in its use a purposeful distancing. “Once again I am indebted. You know, I really think he was about to pull the trigger.”
Liebermann reached for von Bulow's hat and slipped it beneath his head. The insensible inspector's breathing was shallow, but not so shallow as to cause the young doctor alarm. Von Bulow would probably wake with blurred vision, dizziness, and nausea: nothing that twenty-four hours’ bed rest wouldn't put right.
“You're a spy—aren't you?” said Liebermann.
Trezska observed him without emotion. He grabbed the stair rail and pulled himself up.
“They call you… the Liderc?”
Trezska raised one of her eyebrows, indicating that she was impressed.
“And I presume,” Liebermann continued, “that this name was chosen because of your willingness to use your feminine charms in the service of your cause?”
“You have many flaws, Herr Doctor, but I had never, till this moment, counted prudery among them.”
Liebermann ignored her barbed riposte.
“Your mission,” he continued, “was to steal a document from General von Stoger—a top secret document called Studie U. The unwitting general was encouraged to expect your favors and invited you to his apartment. I wonder, did you always plan to kill him? Or did something go wrong that necessitated his murder?”
“I was supposed to keep the old man occupied,“ Trezska responded euphemistically, “while a comrade opened his safe. The fool made so much noise that von Stoger picked up a poker and went to see what was going on. My comrade panicked. It was most unfortunate.”
“And what about me?” said Liebermann. “Was I part of your mission too?”
“You flatter yourself, Herr Doctor. We met by chance.”
“In which case… you swiftly calculated that I might have some other use: the provision of an alibi, perhaps?”
“If this is to be a frank exchange of views,” said Trezska, “then I must admit, the idea did cross my mind; however, that was all. I sought your further acquaintance because I felt indebted to you. We Hungarians are nothing if not appreciative. Moreover, I found you very…” she paused before adding, “…desirable.”
A gust of wind lashed the side of Liebermann's face. A fresh cascade of water tumbled from the second story, contributing yet more volume to the existing downpour.
“I see from your expression,” said Trezska, “that you find my candid admission distasteful—unbecoming of a lady? Of course, if I were a man, you would think nothing of it. You are not nearly so enlightened as you suppose, Herr Doctor. Now, before I take my leave—which I really must—tell me, what are you doing here? I cannot recall issuing you with an invitation.”
“I came here to confront you.”
“Why? For what purpose?”
“To see if my deductions were correct.”
Trezska laughed. “Another of your flaws, Herr Doctor: intellectual vanity! Well, at the risk of aggravating your conceit, I must applaud you! Your deductions were indeed correct. Which brings me to my next question: How ever did you become so well informed? There are aides in the Hofburg who have never heard of Studie U. And as for my code name… If you hadn't rendered our poor friend here unconscious”—she gestured toward von Bulow—”I wou
ld be considering whether or not you had been recruited by the secret service.”
“And what if I was?” said Liebermann.
Before she could answer, a male voice resounded across the courtyard: “Don't move.”
Liebermann turned. Coming out of the arcade was a swarthy-looking young man. He was holding a gun and walking straight toward him.
78
THE FOREST WAS VIRTUALLY IMPENETRABLE; however, the woodman was able to find his way by following a series of marks he had made on the tree trunks with his knife: gouges, gashes, and occasionally a rough cross. His furs were heavy with rain, and the sack he was carrying had become burdensome.
No one ever passed this way. Even the local people kept a safe distance. It wasn't only that the little forest was remote and inhospitable. There were stories: of wild animals, of murderous Gypsies—and of children who had entered and never come out again.
It was true that Gypsies were unaccountably fond of parking their brightly painted caravans close by. Moreover, they traveled immense distances to get there—from Russia, Galicia, and the Carpathians. They rarely stayed for more than a day.
Once, the woodman had overheard some men in the Aufkirchen inn gossiping about the forest. Someone had said that the king of the Ruthenian Gypsies had buried a hoard of stolen treasure in the middle of it. A young man who was staying at the inn had insisted that they should saddle up their horses at once. They should ride out to this forest, equipped with lamps and shovels, and they might return the very same night, fabulously rich. But the older men laughed uneasily. It was only a legend—and they plied the young man with so much drink that he fell off his stool and had to be carried to his room.
The woodman emerged in a small clearing. In the center was an ancient stone well and a tumbledown shack. Thick smoke was coming from the chimney, and the air was filled with an acrid odor. He lumbered over to the entrance and knocked gently.