Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  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 Mulles Freuni,

  “Uni hellhlau Liehchens Auge scheint.” The brooklet is the miller'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 Rheinhardt noticed that Liebermann's old ashtray had been replaced by a new one-a metal box with a hinged lid.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 Fac fe el. 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 Lazar Kiss-a man connected with the nationalists and whom Brugel 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 Brugel 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 Brugel 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 Lazar 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 she 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 Brugel 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 recoveryvon 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.

  “It is truly remarkable,” Rheinhardt continued, “how close we came to the perilous world of espionage and counterespionage; still, I am glad that we were not drawn in any further. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that I am grateful for von Bulow's vanity, grateful that he excluded us from the von Stoger investigation. Otherwise we might have strayed onto some very treacherous and dangerous ground. I must say, I am uncomfortable with that world-the world of spies-with its deceptions, double deceptions, feints, and ruses-its fatal lies. It is a world where nothing is as it seems, and nobody can be trusted.”

  Liebermann stared into the flames and felt a stab of shame.

  His friend was so much wiser than his modest exterior ever betrayed.

  “Oskar,” Liebermann whispered, “I have a confession to make. Something has been weighing heavily on my conscience the whole evening.”

  “Oh?” Rheinhardt's face filled with concern.

  “I promised to get some tickets for the Zemlinsky concert next Saturday… but, what with one thing and another, it completely slipped my mind-and it's sold out.”

  Rheinhardt laughed: a generous, booming laugh.

  “God in heaven,” he cried. “Is that all? You had me worried! I thought you were going to say something of consequence!”

  81

  The Clock Makers’ Ball was a grand affair and was attended by a diverse group of patrons. There were boulevardiers whose glazed eyes, ruddy cheeks, and uncertain feet declared that they were attending their second or even third ball of the evening. There were debutantes in radiant white, and various representatives of the imperial army: infantrymen in blue, artillerymen in chocolate-brown tunics and red collar flashes, and hussars-their short fur-trimmed and golden-braided coats slung casually over one shoulder. A distinguished gentleman with a mane of silvery curls who was surrounded by laughing ladies was identified very quickly as the Dutch ambassador, and it was rumoured that a striking woman wearing a glimmering peau de soie gown was a member of the Italian aristocracy.

  As soon as Liebermann took Amelia into his arms, he was aware of a difference. She was more confident and followed his lead with less effort.

  “Have you been to see Herr Janowsky for a lesson?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied. “Although I still intend to, once my brother leaves.”

  “Well, I have to say,” Liebermann remarked, “your dancing is much improved.”

  “I think,” said Amelia, “that I understand-although ‘understand’ is not really the correct word-I think I now appreciate the value of your initial advice: to listen to the music with greater care. To…” She hesitated, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Feel it?”

  She was dressed in the same clothes that she had worn for the detectives’ ball: a skirted decollete gown of green velvet. Yet she appeared to Liebermann more elegant than he remembered. As they passed beneath a massive crystal chandelier, the light fell on her pewter eyes and he experienced momentarily a sensation like falling. It was not the same feeling as a physical descent but something more profound.

  “My brother seems to have made a friend,” said Amelia, and, once again, a fleeting smile illuminated her face.

  Randall was talking to a dark-haired lady who was wearing an exquisite creation of red silk, black lace, and pearls. She was holding a feathered carnival mask on a long handle and made extravagant use of her free hand while speaking. Liebermann guessed that she was French.

  Just before Randall slipped from view they saw him produce a rose from behind his back.

  The orchestra was playing with sparkling virtuosity-a great, carousing, fortissimo waltz in which extraordinary liberties were being taken with meter. The melody was held back by the introduction of subtle hesitations, which made the music hover for the briefest moment before each reprieve of the principal theme.

  Liebermann recalled a passage from von Saar's Marianne: a waltz could melt away years of repression, fanning flirtation into passion. The rapid motion, the relentless turning, the dizzy euphoria, the heat of a woman's back felt in the palm of one's hand…

  Amelia looked up at him, and her eyes had never appeared more beautiful. He rediscovered the shock of when he had first noticed their inimitable color, neither blue nor gray but something in between: their depth enhanced by a darkening at the edges of each iris. Liebermann drew her closer, and his lips brushed the silver ribbons in her flaming hair.

  The impetuous elan of the orchestra was contagious.

  Is this the time?

  He had asked himself this question before-on so many occasions.

  Is this the time?

  Suddenly the tension dissipated, and he whirled Amelia around with such enthusiasm that she briefly achieved flight.

  “Dr. Liebermann?”

  He laughed, and the vertical crease with which he had become so very familiar appeared on her forehead.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  How appropriate, thought Liebermann, that we are attending the clock makers’ ball.

  There would be time enough…

  Even if Nietzsche was right and there was such a thing as eternal recurrence and every man and woman was destined to revisit the lost opportunities of the past in perpetuity-he no longer cared. Psychoanalysis had taught him the importance of little things, and perhaps it was these little things that made human beings human: the mistakes, the blunders, the qualms, the petty vacillations and doubting. Liebermann understood-better than most-that there were hidden virtues in human frailty.

  Yes, there was time enough: the promise of days and months and years to come.

  Amelia was still looking at him quizzically-waiting for an answer. When it came, it was intellectually disin
genuous but emotionally sincere. It felt right.

  “There's no place like Vienna!” Liebermann cried. And, once again, Amelia's feet parted company with the ground.

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