Fatal Lies (10 page)

He registered the good-humoured curve of Else's mouth, the thickness of Mitzi's hair, and the straightness of Therese's back – the way that something of his own likeness lingered in the lineaments of both his daughters and, by some miracle, did so without diminishing their beauty.

Thomas Zelenka was only one year older than Therese. Although
Zelenka wore a uniform and had been taught to use a sabre, he was still – like Therese – a child.

To die so very young . . .

It was a disturbance in the order of things that Rheinhardt could not – would not – accept as
natural
.

The music suddenly shifted into a minor key, as if responding to his thoughts. He remembered visiting Zelenka's parents – the empty birdcage, the unoccupied bedroom, the void behind Fanousek's eyes: the four gas towers, like massive mausoleums, breaking the line of a bleak horizon, the terrible, suffocating atmosphere of desolation, misery and loss.

How could any parent survive the loss of a child? How would he ever cope, if the piano playing ceased, the humming subsided, and the parlour was chilled by his daughters' absence? The silence would be intolerable.

Yes, Liebermann was probably right – by denying juvenile mortality he, Rheinhardt, was railing against fate, attempting to safeguard his children. But did that really matter? The existence of such a mechanism did not invalidate his feelings. Perhaps intuition originated in parts of the mind too deep for psychoanalysis to fathom. Moreover, Rheinhardt comforted himself with the thought that even Liebermann was beginning – albeit reluctantly – to accept that there might be something more to Zelenka's death than Professor Mathias's autopsy had revealed.

Rheinhardt looked at his daughters again and was overwhelmed by a force of emotion that made his breath catch. It was not comparable to the comfortable affection he felt for his wife, the companionate closeness that had mellowed and matured over the years. No – it was something quite different. A raw, primitive emotion – a violent, visceral, instinctive attachment combined with a desire to protect, whatever the cost. And yet, at the same time, it was remarkably
satisfying and joyful. It defied description, characterised by contradictions.

The music had recovered the tonic major key, and the principal subject was being recapitulated. The Inspector counted his blessings and raised the police journal to conceal his watering eyes and the peculiar shame associated with the expression of uncontrollable, improvident love.

LIEBERMANN AND HIS
friend, Doctor Stefan Kanner, were seated in a private, windowless dining room. The food they had eaten was traditional fare, simply prepared but deeply satisfying: semolina dumplings in beef broth, Tyrolean knuckle of veal with rice, and
schmalzstrauben
– spirals of sweet batter, fried until golden brown, and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. A few
schmalzstrauben
remained, untouched and quite cold, on a metal rack. The wine was unusually good: a local red, the colour of garnet, redolent of bonfires, plums and raspberries. Bleary-eyed, flushed – neckties draped over their shoulders – and gloriously drunk, the two men conversed under an awning of cigar smoke.

‘It was a beautiful day,' said Kanner, tracing a flamboyant arc with his hand to evoke the cloudless empyrean. ‘Jeanette and I drove out to Dobling and had dinner, alfresco . . . and the following Sunday we went across the Kahlenberg to Klosterneuburg. On our way home, in the railway compartment, her head fell on my shoulder – and she said that she loved me.'

Kanner pushed the box of cigars into the middle of the table, and encouraged Liebermann to take another.

‘Go on – help yourself. They're Havanas. A gift from a grateful patient (well, her husband, actually) whom I cured of a zoöpsia accompanied by gastric pains.'

‘What animals did she hallucinate?'

‘Only one: a dancing bear.'

‘And how did you treat her?'

‘Maxim. Just take a cigar and let me finish my story, will you?'

Liebermann muttered an apology and signalled that his friend should proceed.

‘Still under the benign influence of the sweet
vin de paille
from the cloister cellar,' said Kanner, ‘I was quite ready to believe her. My customary scepticism vanished, and when our lips met I was . . .' Kanner's eyes rolled upwards. ‘Transported. The following day, however, my scepticism returned . . .'

‘Which is just as well,' Liebermann interjected.

Kanner thrust out his lower lip and blinked at his friend.

‘Have I told you this story before?'

‘No.'

Kanner shrugged and continued: ‘I spent the afternoon in Café Landtmann . . . and when the street lights came on, I went for a stroll in the Rathauspark. It was quite dark – but I'm sure it was her.'

‘Jeanette?'

‘In the arms of Spitzer.'

‘The throat specialist?'

‘The very same.'

Liebermann threw his head back and directed a jet of smoke at the ceiling. The gaslight flared and made a curious respiratory sound – like a gasp.

‘So, she wants to be an actress.'

Kanner sat up straight – surprised.

‘How did you know that?'

‘Throat specialists always have a large number of famous actors and singers among their patients. They are frequently invited to first nights, gala performances, and other glamorous occasions. Among the medical specialities, throat specialists are by far the most well
connected with respect to the arts. Subsequently, they are common prey to a particular type of young woman: pretty, intelligent, coquettish, of slender means, and with theatrical ambitions.'

‘Jeanette.'

‘
Quod erat demonstrandum
.'

‘Yes,' said Kanner. ‘You know, for a psychiatrist, I can be a remarkably poor judge of character.' Kanner stared glumly into the ruby bowl of his wine glass before adding: ‘Shame about old Professor von Krafft-Ebing.'

In his inebriated state, Liebermann accepted the sudden change of subject as though it was entirely logical.

‘Yes, he will be sadly missed.'

‘I used to enjoy his public lectures.'

‘They were very entertaining,' said Liebermann, ‘but I always found them weak, theoretically.'

Kanner shrugged again: ‘People will be reading his
Psychopathia Sexualis
for centuries. What a collection of cases! And what a fine eye for detail! Do you have a favourite? I have always been rather fond of case fifty, Herr Z, the technologist who was only satisfied by women wearing high heels and short jackets, Hungarian fashion.'

Liebermann shook his head.

‘That one escapes me . . .'

‘He was particularly partial to ladies' calves,' Kanner continued, ‘but only when the ladies concerned wore elegant shoes. Nude legs – or nudity in general – did not arouse his interest. I was always amused by Krafft-Ebing's somewhat irregular inclusion of the fact that Herr Z had a weakness for cats – and that simply looking at a cat could lift him from the deepest depression.'

Kanner raised his bloodshot eyes. He scratched his head, leaving a tuft of oiled hair standing on end.

‘I too,' he said in a distant, somewhat bewildered voice, ‘am partial
to women in short jackets . . . and to be perfectly honest, my spirits have often been lifted by the antics of a cat.'

‘Well, Stefan,' said Liebermann, ‘perhaps you would benefit from one of the late Professor's cures. I would be happy to prescribe regular cold baths and monobromide of camphor, if you wish?'

Kanner made a dismissive gesture.

‘Baths are ineffective. When I was a student I spent a summer in Bad Ischl where I allowed a retired opera singer to believe she was seducing me. She frequently took a beauty treatment which involved immersion in a tub filled with crushed ice; however, this had no effect on her libido whatsoever. Her sensual appetite was just as keen whether she had had the treatment or not.' Kanner swayed in his chair. ‘Be that as it may' – his delivery had become comically pompous – ‘it is our duty to honour the memory of a great man.' He raised his glass. ‘To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing . . . rest in heavenly peace.'

‘No, no, no,' said Liebermann, banging his fist on the table. ‘May he go to hell. Surely.'

‘What?'

‘The author of
Psychopathia Sexualis
would be bored to tears among the heavenly hosts – angels, seraphim and cherubim, et cetera, et cetera.' Liebermann yawned, patting his open mouth. ‘Clearly, Krafft-Ebing would prefer hell, where he would find the company much more stimulating – lust murderers, necrophiliacs, and sadists – why, he could start work on the next edition of the
Psychopathia
immediately on arrival!'

Kanner raised his glass again:

‘To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing . . . may you go to hell – and thoroughly enjoy eternal damnation!'

Liebermann reached across the table and touched Kanner's glass with his own, producing a chime that sang with bell-like clarity.
Outside, a woman passed their dining room, laughing loudly. It was a young voice – that of a shop girl, no doubt, who was being entertained by a ‘respectable' bourgeois husband. The grumble of the man's bass produced a lascivious counterpoint to the girl's contrived gaiety.

‘Stefan,' said Liebermann, ‘do you think it would be permissible to have relations with a patient?'

This thought, which had arisen in his mind apropos of nothing, had been translated into speech without conscious effort. Liebermann found himself listening to his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Not a patient in treatment, of course,' said Liebermann, now obliged to continue. ‘But a former patient – assuming that she was fully recovered and that a significant period of time had elapsed since her discharge.'

‘No. I can't see anything wrong with that . . . In fact . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘In fact, I did have a little tryst once, with a former patient.' Kanner toyed with his necktie. ‘We arranged to meet a few times in the Volksgarten, but the erotic frisson that had enlivened our conversations in hospital was curiously absent. I suspect that it was only because we were forbidden to embrace there that the prospect seemed so alluring. Once the prohibition was lifted, there was nothing left to excite our imaginations. Or perhaps . . .' Kanner swirled the wine and examined the translucent liquid more closely. ‘Perhaps, once removed from the hospital, and deprived of the emblems of power – my black bag, my stethoscope, my potions and elixirs – my imperfections were more readily observed. I was no longer the great healer and became just another philanderer – indistinguishable from all the others, going about their tawdry business behind the bushes.'

Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lydgate. Her supine body on a
hospital bed: a plain white gown – the rise and fall of her breasts. Her copper hair, pulled back tightly, aflame in a ray of sunlight.

‘Why?' said Kanner. ‘Is there someone at the hospital who has taken your fancy?'

Liebermann shook his head – and as he did so, the room began to rotate. Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum – like the carousel on the Prater.

‘Stefan . . . I have drunk far too much.'

Kanner picked up the bottle and filled Liebermann's empty glass: ‘Maxim, we haven't even started!'

VON BULOW WAS
immaculately dressed in a dark frock coat, grey striped trousers and patent leather shoes. A beautifully folded blue cravat was held in place by a diamond tie pin and his starched cuffs (which protruded from beneath the sleeves of his coat) were fastened with matching studs. Merely looking at von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel slovenly and unkempt.

His old rival was seated opposite the Commissioner. Two empty teacups on Manfred Brügel's desk and a shallow bowl containing a solitary
Mannerschnitten
wafer biscuit suggested that the two men had been in conversation for some time.

Although Rheinhardt and von Bulow were both Detective Inspectors, von Bulow had always been treated as Rheinhardt's superior – largely on account of his privileged background. The practices of preferment and favour were commonplace in Viennese organisations, and the Commissioner, being a highly ambitious man, was mindful that von Bulow hailed from an elevated family. The man had relatives in the upper house
and
in the Hofburg. Informed by the notion that goodwill was often reciprocated, the Commissioner frequently afforded von Bulow special treatment – usually at Rheinhardt's expense. However, given that this odious situation was entirely unremarkable, and that there was no obvious person to whom a complaint could be directed (other than to the Commissioner himself), Rheinhardt had no choice but to tolerate this indignity.

‘Come along, Rheinhardt,' said the Commissioner, beckoning him in with an impatient hand gesture. ‘Don't just stand there.'

Von Bulow stood up – as if in readiness to leave – then, to Rheinhardt's surprise, sat down again. The Commissioner registered Rheinhardt's perplexity and grumbled: ‘Von Bulow will be staying – there is a matter concerning his current investigation that we need to discuss with you. All will be explained in due course. Now . . . where did I put them?' Brügel sifted through the papers scattered on his desk and found a wad of forms under a jug of milk. ‘I've read your reports, and everything seems to be in order. Although in future, Rheinhardt, I'd appreciate it if you could do something about the quality of your handwriting.'

Rheinhardt squirmed with embarrassment. It was obvious that Commissioner Brügel had only recently compared Rheinhardt's hurried script with von Bulow's elegant copperplate.

‘Yes, sir.'

The Commissioner tossed the reports aside and picked up a photograph of Thomas Zelenka's body in the mortuary. Then he selected another, showing the lacerations under the boy's arm.