by Frank Tallis
“Come in.” The voice was old and cracked.
The woodman pulled the door open and went inside.
In the center of the room was an open fire over which a black cauldron was suspended. Only a few tongues of flame danced around the steaming logs, but they supplied enough light to reveal the squalid surroundings: a dirty pallet bed, bottles, a shelf of earthenware pots, and several cages on the floor. The cages were occupied, and green eyes flashed behind the chicken wire.
Next to the cauldron an old woman sat on a low bench. She had a schoolmaster's black cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and she wore a necklace made from the bones of animals. Her hair was long and gray, and when she smiled, her lips receded to reveal a row of blackened teeth. The upper central incisors were missing.
“Is it him?” she croaked.
The woodman nodded and dropped the jute sack next to the cauldron. Zhenechka got up and hobbled over. Reaching into a worn leather pouch, she produced a silver coin, which she pressed into the woodman's hand.
“Good,” she said. “Very good.”
She was delighted with the woodman's find—and could put it to many irregular uses.
79
“PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD.”
The man was wearing a shabby coat, a floppy hat tilted at an acute angle, and a long embroidered scarf. Black curly hair fell from behind his exposed ear, and his mustache was so well waxed that the wind and rain hadn't displaced a single hair. It projected out from his face, defiantly horizontal.
Liebermann obeyed.
“Don't look at me—turn back round,” the man continued.
“This is quite unnecessary, Lázár,” said Trezska. “Herr Dr. Liebermann is a friend. Had he not come to my assistance”—she gestured toward the supine body of von Bulow—”everything would now be over.”
Liebermann felt the barrel of the gun dig into the back of his neck.
“No,” said the man. “He's not our friend: he's a friend of the fat detective—the one who was following me. I told you not to mess around—not with so much at stake. Now look what's happened.”
Trezska looked down at Liebermann. “Ah, now I see why you are so well informed.”
“Well informed?” asked the man. “What does he know?”
“He knows about Studie U.“
“Then we must kill him.”
“I have no idea what Studie U is!” Liebermann protested. “I am very well acquainted with Inspector Rheinhardt—the person whom I think you just referred to as the fat detective—and I sometimes help him with his inquiries. His assistant overheard a conversation between this gentleman—Inspector von Bulow—and the commissioner. Studie U and the Liderc were discussed.” The gunman took a sharp intake of breath. “Neither Inspector Rheinhardt nor I,” Liebermann continued, “have the slightest idea what Studie U is, beyond the obvious—that it is a document that must contain some highly sensitive information. As for your code name…” Liebermann appealed to Trezska. “You will allow, I hope, that you gave me certain reasons for suspicion on the Kohlmarkt, and I am not an absolute fool.”
Before Trezska could respond, the man interjected, “He's lying.”
The gunman's intention to fire his weapon was reflected in Trezska's horrified expression.
“No,” she shouted. “Wait!”
“What for?”
“If he's lying, why did he knock out von Bulow?”
“Maybe he didn't—maybe it's all a ruse and von Bulow is just pretending to be unconscious, waiting for his moment!”
“Lázár, that's absurd.”
“Look, I don't know what's happening here—and neither do you. But we do know that this man”—Liebermann felt the gun's muzzle being lodged under the bony arch at the base of his skull—”knows far more than he should, and if you let him live, it will threaten the success of the operation—everything we've worked for! If you don't want to watch, go and wait for me at the Südbahnhof. I'll deal with them both.”
The ensuing hiatus was filled with the noise of the roaring deluge: the slop and spatter, the splash and spill—unrelenting, indifferent, merciless.
Trezska threw her arms up in the air, as if she were beseeching a higher authority for assistance. When she let them drop, her bag slipped from her shoulder. It landed on the ironwork with a resonant clang. She crouched down to pick it up.
There was a loud report.
The pressure of the gun barrel at the back of Liebermann's neck was suddenly relieved. Then there was a dull thud, followed by the clatter of Lázár Kiss's revolver hitting the ground.
Trezska was clutching a small smoking pistol.
Liebermann remembered that first night, when he had lifted her bag in the alley and found it unusually heavy. Now he knew why.
He wheeled around. Lázár was sprawled out on the cobbles, blood leaking from a neat circular hole in his forehead.
“You've killed him,” whispered Liebermann.
“Yes,” said Trezska. “You were telling the truth.” She smiled at him, and her distinctive features took on a diabolic cast. “I had a… feeling. And, as you know, I trust my feelings.”
“Who is he?” said Liebermann, extending a trembling hand to the stair rail for support.
“Lázár Kiss—a fellow nationalist. But I have long suspected him of being a collaborator—a double agent. Now, you will forgive me, I have a train to catch. I trust you won't experience a sudden surge of patriotism and try to stop me.” Trezska pointed her gun at Liebermann. “I hope you will agree that I have now redeemed my debt— and I have no further obligation to you.”
“Would you really shoot me?” Liebermann glanced at the pistol. It was a beautiful weapon, chased with filigree. The handgrip was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“What do you think?”
“I think you would.”
“Then you would think right.”
“Is it in your valise—Studie U?”
“Yes.”
“What is it? What can be so valuable…”
Trezska paused. Her expression suggested inner conflict—a struggle of conscience that finally resolved itself in a sigh.
“The emperor's plans to invade Hungary.”
“What?” said Liebermann, drawing back in disbelief. “But that's impossible!”
“Before you condemn me, just think how many lives would be lost if the old fool and his senile generals decided to march on Budapest. At least with Studie U in our possession we can attempt to avert such a catastrophe.”
She picked up her violin case and descended the staircase. As she passed him, she pressed the gun against his chest and kissed him on the lips. When she withdrew, he was dizzy with the sweet fragrance of clementine.
“Until the next time, Herr Doctor.”
After taking only a few steps she stopped.
“Oh—and one last thing. If I were you, I would pretend this didn't happen. You know nothing—do you understand? Nothing. If certain individuals suspected that you had been informed of the content of Studie U, you would be in great danger. You can, of course, depend on me to exercise the utmost discretion.”
She walked to the arcade—and did not look back.
Liebermann checked von Bulow's pulse again and ran across the courtyard. When he came out the other side of the vaulted passageway, the cul-de-sac was empty.
The Liderc.
It was an appropriate name.
80
LIEBERMANN PLAYED THE GENTLE introduction and raised his gaze to meet Rheinhardt s. The inspector rested his hand on the side of the Bösendorfer and began to sing—a sweet melody that possessed the transparent simplicity of a lullaby. It was Schubert's setting of Wilhelm Müller s Des Müllen Blumen—The Miller's Flowers.
Rheinhardt rocked gently from side to side, conjuring with his lyric baritone a dewy morning of sunlight and rolling hills.
“Der Bach ier ist des Mülles Freuni,
“Uni hellhlau Liehchens Auge scheint.”
The brooklet is the mille
r's friend,
And my sweetheart's eyes are brightest blue.
Schubert's writing was deceptive. The sweet melody, while retaining its mellifluous charm, was suddenly imbued with painful, inconsolable yearning.
“Drum sini es meine Blumen…”
Therefore they are my flowers…
Liebermann scrutinized the notes on the page and marveled at Schubert's genius. Somehow he had managed to conceal in an arc of seemingly harmless values and pitches the absolute anguish of unrequited love. As the song progressed, the phrase was repeated, and with each repetition the listener was obliged to conclude that the young miller's heart would inevitably be broken. The bright blue eyes that he had laid claim to would never be his. Liebermann experienced this realization viscerally, as though he were hearing the song for the first time, and he found his chest tightening—until the constrictive feeling was relieved by a sigh.
When the final chord was reached, the young doctor bowed his head and allowed the notes to fade into a prolonged, respectful silence.
In due course, the two men retired to the smoking room, where they assumed their customary places. Liebermann s serving man had laid out the brandy and cigars, and the fire was already blazing. Rheinhardt noticed that Liebermann's old ashtray had been replaced by a new one—a metal box with a hinged lid.
The young doctor observed Rheinardt's nose wrinkling.
“You don't like it?”
“Well… it's a little plain, don't you think?”
“That's the point. It's by Josef Hoffmann.”
“Hoffmann?”
“Yes, Hoffmann. Surely you've heard of Hoffmann! He's a designer—and a very gifted one.”
“It doesn't take such a great talent to design a featureless box.”
“It isn't featureless. If you look closely, you'll see that the surface has been hammered.”
Rheinhardt peered at the ashtray and pushed out his lower lip.
“How much did you pay for this?”
“Clearly too much in your opinion; however, the exterior is silver-plated, and it came with a mirrored candle-stand and a cigarette case. One day, Oskar, Hoffmann's designs”—Liebermann flicked the metal so that it made a ringing sound—”will be exhibited in museums of art.”
Rheinhardt smiled indulgently, but it was perfectly clear that he thought this unlikely.
The brandy was promptly decanted, the cigars were lit, and soon the room was filled with a pungent haze. Their conversation became fluid and agreeable—touching upon some amusing articles they had both read in Die Facfeel. Eventually, however, their mood changed, becoming more subdued, and an extended silence signaled their readiness to discuss matters of greater importance.
The inspector tapped his cigar over the new Hoffmann ashtray and addressed his friend:
“Did you hear about Sommer?”
“Yes,” said Libermann. “It was reported in the Neue Freie Presse.”
“A sorry business.”
“Indeed.”
“And something else—something rather odd—happened up at Saint Florian's last week.”
“Oh?”
“One of the boys—a lad called Martin Drexler—presented himself at a local police station, claiming to have killed Isidor Perger in a shooting accident. The boy said that he had buried Pergers body in the woods. He led a constable to the spot—but there was nothing there. Subsequently, Drexler became very distressed and the constable began to have doubts about his sanity. The boy was returned to the school and attended by Dr. Kessler, who prescribed some sedative medication.”
“Do you want me to examine him?”
“No—that won't be necessary. I spoke to Dr. Kessler this morning, and apparently the boy is doing well. I mention it only because it struck me as a peculiar… codetta to the events with which we have been so closely involved.” Rheinhardt directed his gaze into the fire. “Even more curious events have transpired concerning von Bulow and his special assignment.”
Liebermann's heart skipped a beat. “Really?” he said, feigning nonchalance.
“Once again, Max,” said Rheinhardt, turning toward his friend, “I am obliged to remind you that what I am about to say must be treated in the strictest confidence.”
Liebermann nodded and began an unusually thorough examination of the pattern on his brandy glass.
“I was called to the commissioner's office and knew as soon as I arrived that something significant had happened. His attitude was completely different. I wouldn't say that he was being polite… but he was certainly being a lot less rude. I could see that he was finding this act quite difficult to sustain, agreeableness not being one of his natural endowments. After some preliminary and somewhat strained courtesies, he announced that von Bulow's assignment had ended rather badly—and that von Bulow was currently indisposed and receiving medical care at a sanitarium. It seems that my esteemed colleague was engaged in the pursuit of a Hungarian spy—a woman, known in nationalist circles as the Liderc.”
“If my memory serves me correctly,” Liebermann interjected, “that is the name that Haussmann overheard, is it not?”
“Precisely. Well, von Bulow managed to find her hideaway—at an address in Landstrasse—and actually had the woman at gunpoint when someone came up behind him and struck him on the head. He lost consciousness instantly, and when he woke up, his bird had flown… However, next to him he discovered the body of a gentleman known as Lázár Kiss—a man connected with the nationalists and whom Brügel and von Bulow had asked me to follow, when I had wanted to continue the investigation at Saint Florian's. Well, since von Bulow's debacle in Landstrasse, the commissioner has received some extremely discomfiting intelligence. Kiss was indeed a very high-ranking agent. Not one of theirs, however, but one of ours! He was in the Austrian secret service and had infiltrated a nationalist cell. He was on the brink of finding out the identities of several spymasters. As you can imagine, all this places Brügel in a very difficult position: he authorized von Bulow's assignment, and this may have resulted, ultimately, in the failure of Kiss's mission.”
“So Brügel fears an investigation?”
“Without a doubt—which is why he is being so civil. I am sure that when the time comes he will expect me to answer questions in such a way as to deflect blame from himself. The old rogue actually had the audacity to say that he had always considered von Bulow a headstrong fellow and wasn't I inclined to agree?”
Liebermann turned his glass. “What actually happened in Landstrasse? Who shot Lázár Kiss?”
“How ever did you know he was shot?” asked Rheinhardt. “Was it something I said? Another of your Freudian slips?”
“Never mind,” said Liebermann nervously. “Please continue.”
“It might have been her—the Liderc—or it might have been someone else who arrived at the scene after her departure. And as for who struck von Bulow, who can say? It might have been Kiss—or, again, it could have been someone else entirely.… We simply don't know.”
Liebermann swallowed. His mouth had gone quite dry.
“Tell me… was any attempt made to collect any forensic evidence? Dust particles, hairs, footprints?”
“Yes, of course,” Rheinhardt replied. “But nothing of any significance was found. On Friday, you will recall, there was a storm. Everything got washed away.”
The young doctor sipped his brandy and settled more comfortably into his chair. “Do you know anything more about this… Liderc woman? She sounds fascinating.”
“Fascinating but extremely dangerous,” said Rheinhardt, throwing his head back and expelling a column of roiling smoke. “The commissioner mentioned that she is a very competent violinist and had begun a modest concert career. She traveled widely under the auspices of a respectable cultural initiative, which—can you believe—received state sponsorship with the emperor's approval! Such brazenness!”
“Where do you think she is now?”
“I suspect that she has gone south. Italy, perhaps. But s
he will return—when she thinks she can journey home in safety.”
Liebermann set his glass aside. “But how does all this relate to von Stoger?”
“Good heavens, Max, isn't it obvious? It was the Liderc who stole the documents from the general's safe—and it must have been her too who murdered him in cold blood.”
“She might have had an accomplice?”
“Well, that's possible… but what does it matter now? She got away.… There will be no trial. She will not be called to account.”
“What do you think was in those stolen documents? Did the commissioner give you any idea—any clue?”
“Military secrets, I imagine. But if Brügel knew more, he wasn't very forthcoming.” Rheinhardt paused, twisted the horns of his mustache thoughtfully, and continued: “Of course, it is possible that the Austrian secret service intended the Liderc to acquire von Stoger's documents so that she would, in the fullness of time, lead Kiss to her masters. Thus, von Stoger's death might have been the result of misadventure—an accident. Whatever, one thing is certain: their plans went horribly wrong—and most probably because of von Bu -low's meddling.”
Liebermann allowed himself a half smile. “You must be quite satisfied with the way things have turned out.”
Rheinhardt appeared flustered for a moment. He coughed and produced an embarrassed mumble.
“Von Bulow wasn't entirely at fault. I'm sure that some of the confusion must have arisen because of bureaucracy. I suppose the various departments concerned were simply too occupied filling in forms and registering reports to talk to each other. Von Bulow should have been better informed about Kiss. Even so, if—after his recovery— von Bulow is not invited to resume his duties at the security office, you are quite correct: I will not spend very much time lamenting his professional demise.”
The inspector lit another cigar—and he looked, that instant, more like a man at a wedding or some other grand celebratory occasion. Seeing his friend so happy went at least some way toward mitigating Liebermann's feelings of guilt. Von Bulow had been the bane of Rheinhardt's life at the security office. And now, at last, he was gone.