Fatal Lies (14 page)

‘Yes indeed, Wolf. Please sit.'

Professor Eichmann was signing and dating documents. On Eichmann's desk was a photograph of himself, looking considerably younger and dressed in the uniform of an artillery officer. The headmaster glanced up from his paperwork.

‘How is your father?'

‘Very well, headmaster.'

‘You will be kind enough to include my salutations when you next write home.'

‘Of course, headmaster.'

Professor Eichmann signed and dated one more document, and said: ‘You will be wondering why I wanted to see you today . . .' He did not pause for a reply, but instead made some polite enquiries after Wolf's health. He then congratulated Wolf, firstly for winning a bronze medal in the school shooting competition, and secondly for having been invited by Professor Gärtner to join his
special
tutorial group.

‘He is very particular about who he accepts,' said the headmaster. ‘Such an invitation is only extended to the most promising pupils – boys with the
right
attitude.'

When their gazes met, they did so with mutual understanding. They had had similar discussions in the past.

The headmaster toyed with his pen, and spoke for some time about the values of the school and about how, for generations now, St Florian's had been producing soldiers of the highest quality: ‘Men who appreciated the importance of loyalty, fidelity, and obedience – men of honour.'

He put his pen down and made some minor adjustments to its position.

‘Of course,' continued the headmaster, ‘latterly St Florian's has been forced to accept a number of boys who do not share our values. Boys who object to our methods, find fault with our principles – and whose families are not acquainted with our traditions. This saddens me, because if an outside party were to question these boys I fear they would misrepresent us. They do not seem to appreciate that we are – as it were – a family. Loose talk damages the school's reputation – and what damages the school's reputation damages
all
of us.'

Eichmann's voice was persuasive, reasonable – but it was also troubled by a trace of anger. The headmaster sighed, smiled, and said: ‘I understand that Professor Gärtner has recently introduced you to the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.'

‘Yes,' said Wolf. ‘We have been reading
Beyond Good and Evil
.'

‘A very stimulating work,' said Eichmann. ‘Although when Professor Gärtner introduces you to
Thus Spake Zarathustra
, you will discover even greater riches.' The headmaster stood up and walked over to the lancet windows. He reached out his right hand and, resting it against the stone casement, leaned forward, allowing his arm to support his pitched body. The sun had dropped below the horizon and rivers of darkness had begun to appear between the hills. ‘The police were here again today.' His voice was even.

‘I know, headmaster.'

‘Something must be done.'

‘Yes, headmaster.'

‘Something decisive.'

‘Of course, headmaster.'

LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING
at the table of an inauspicious coffee house in Landstrasse with Signor Barbasetti (his fencing master) and two other pupils with whom he was moderately acquainted: Brod and Lind. They had just taken part in a competition. However, none of the three aspirants had performed very well.

Signor Barbasetti concealed his disappointment with a lengthy and somewhat philosophical disquisition on the art of fencing, the conclusion of which was that much could be learned from the close examination of small errors.

Yes, like psychoanalysis
, thought Liebermann.

Unfortunately, Barbasetti chose to demonstrate the truth of this maxim by recounting and itemising the failings of his students in such detail that any
bonhomie
slowly ebbed away, leaving in its place an intransigent atmosphere of gloom and despondency. Earlier than anticipated, the men rose from their seats, enacted the requisite courtesies and parted company.

Liebermann was not familiar with the city's Third District – and because his mind was still occupied by his mentor's excoriating critique it took him some time to register that he had strayed from his intended route and was now hopelessly lost. He had wandered into an area consisting mainly of building sites and decrepit terraces: squat buildings with ruined stucco and rotten window frames. The air smelled damp, tainted with a trace of stagnancy (not unlike sewage). At the
end of the road a mangy dog was standing beneath a street lamp, feeding on something in the gutter. As Liebermann approached, the dog stopped eating and gazed up at him with minatory pale lupine eyes: it emitted a cautionary growl, and then began to gnaw on an object that cracked loudly in its mouth. Liebermann turned the corner, and peered down another poorly lit road.

Even though a few windows showed signs of occupancy, most were dark. Indeed, since leaving the coffee house Liebermann had not encountered another human being. It was unnaturally quiet, suggesting abandonment and dereliction. He glanced at his watch – and discovered that it was much later than he had thought.

Liebermann halted to consider his position. If he had been going towards the canal, then he would be able to follow its course into town. If, on the other hand, he had been travelling in the opposite direction, he was sure to come across a train line – which would serve the same purpose . . .

As he contemplated his options, the oppressive silence was broken by a scream – a woman's voice, crying for help. The volume and shrillness of the sound startled Liebermann, who spun around, trying to determine where it was coming from. He then sprinted towards the source, his footsteps sounding loud on the cobbled street. But he had not gone very far when the cries faded. His pace slackened.

An upstairs window flickered into life, its luminescent rectangle inhabited by the silhouette of a man in his nightshirt. The dog began to bark. Ahead, the road curved into darkness.

Where is she?

Liebermann was breathing hard.

The screams had sounded very close. Yet the arc of doors that lay ahead revealed nothing more than the reflected glimmer of a second street lamp.

Liebermann had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace
and almost missed an opening between two houses – a narrow alleyway. Skidding to a halt, he wheeled around. He could hear scuffling – movements and a whimper. Treading softly, he ventured into the passage. His foot made contact with something soft and yielding. Reaching down, he discovered a woman's bag.

Suddenly, voices. Rough-edged voices, speaking in a harsh working-class dialect.

Liebermann edged forward, taking great care not to make a sound. The alleyway led to a walled yard, dimly lit by a street lamp located on the other side of the enclosure. The yard was strewn with crates, bottles and other detritus. A woman was struggling to free herself from a broad-shouldered man who, standing behind her, had clamped a hand over her mouth and wrapped an arm around her waist. Another two men stood in front of the captive, jeering and making obscene remarks. It was obvious what they intended to do.

Liebermann stepped out of his tenebrous hiding place and called out: ‘Let her go.'

The leering duo turned. It was impossible to see their faces in the half-light.

‘Let her go,' Liebermann repeated.

One of the men laughed.

‘What are
you
gonna do about it?'

‘I must insist that you let her go.'

A stream of profanities ended in humourless guffaws.

‘Leave us alone,' the other man said. ‘Leave us alone, all right? Or you're gonna get hurt. Badly.'

‘Yeah, run along – college boy.' This came from the man who was restraining the woman. She began to wriggle. ‘Keep still, you gypsy bitch,' he hissed. The woman groaned as the villain tightened his grip.

Liebermann stood firm.

‘Right,' said the nearest man. Liebermann saw him make a swift
movement – and the glint of a blade flashed in the man's hand. He began to move forward: ‘Let's see if I can change your mind.'

‘As you wish,' Liebermann replied.

The young doctor had been holding his sabre under his arm. Grabbing the hilt, he pulled it from the scabbard – producing as he did so a satisfying ring of resonant steel – and held the sword aloft. Its appearance was greeted with a gasp and another stream of profanities. However, the man with the razor continued his approach, and his companion followed.

Liebermann could now see his adversary's features. He was bald, with swollen ears, a snout nose, and a scar that crossed his lips, disfiguring his mouth. It was a brutish countenance, suggesting the haphazard adhesion of lumps of clay. Liebermann searched the eyes for signs of intelligence but found only savage stupidity and an appetite for mindless violence.

The man jumped forward with surprising speed, swiping his razor close to Liebermann's face. But Liebermann had the superior weapon. Before the man could retreat, the young doctor's sabre had slashed through his forearm. The thug cried out, dropping the razor and falling to his knees. His companion, however, had armed himself with a large plank of wood, from which projected several nails. He was taller than the bald man, and more agile. Dodging Liebermann's first lunge, he swung the plank hard against the doctor's side. It was not a painful blow, but had sufficient force to make Liebermann stumble.

While Liebermann was trying to right himself, the tall man landed a second blow on his shoulder. This time it was extremely painful – sharp and searing. A nail had penetrated his skin, and as he pulled away he heard the sound of ripping.

‘Again,' the bald man shouted.

His companion raised his makeshift club, but on this third occasion he lifted it too high, exposing his torso and conceding the vital
second that Liebermann required. The young doctor swung his sabre horizontally, creating a glimmering semicircle, the tangent of which, if it had been displaced by another two inches, might well have proved fatal. The tall man buckled over – a torrent of blood gushing from his abdomen.

Liebermann waited until the tall man's rapidly weakening legs gave way, and then marched over to the woman and her captor.

‘Release her,' he ordered.

The broad-shouldered man looked over in the direction of his accomplices, both of whom were now cursing and crawling towards the alleyway. He swore, and pushed the woman forward with such force that she crashed into Liebermann, making him reel back. However, the manoeuvre was not a continuation of the fight. The coward simply ran off, and the wretched trio disappeared, yelling florid imprecations.

‘You had better sit down,' said Liebermann.

He gestured towards a crate.

‘Are you hurt?'

The woman shook her head.

Liebermann bent down and examined her face. She pulled back a little, alarmed at the sudden proximity.

‘I'm sorry, do forgive me. Your face . . . your face is grazed . . . I'm a doctor.' Liebermann touched her cheek gently. He could smell her perfume – a distinctive combination of fragrances. ‘There may be some swelling there tomorrow.'

He withdrew and stood up straight.

‘Thank you,' the woman said. ‘Thank you, Herr Doctor . . .?'

‘Liebermann.'

‘Liebermann,' she repeated. There was something odd about her intonation, as if she had expected his name to be Liebermann and that she was satisfied that the expectation had been confirmed.

‘My pleasure,' said the young doctor, bowing.

She glanced towards the alleyway.

‘We shouldn't stay here.' She spoke with a slight Magyar accent. ‘They could come back . . . and with more of their friends.'

‘But are you recovered?' said Liebermann. ‘Perhaps a few more minutes – to compose yourself?'

‘Herr Doctor, I am perfectly capable of walking.'

There was a note of indignation in the woman's voice, a note of pride. It was almost as if she had construed Liebermann's solicitous remarks as a slur – an imputation of weakness. Liebermann also noticed that, for someone who had just survived such a terrible ordeal, she was preternaturally collected.

She stood up, straightened her headscarf and adjusted her clothing. She was wearing the short jacket favoured by Hungarian women and a long, richly embroidered skirt. Liebermann offered her his arm, which she took – naturally and without hesitation.

On entering the alleyway, Liebermann picked up the bag he had discovered earlier. It was remarkably heavy.

‘This must be yours.'

‘Yes, it is. Thank you.' She took it and they proceeded to the street.

‘Well, Herr Doctor Liebermann.' The woman halted and released his arm. ‘I am indebted . . . a debt, I fear, that it will be impossible for me to repay. You have shown uncommon courage and kindness.' She took a step backwards. ‘Good night.'

‘A moment, please,' said Liebermann. ‘If you mean to walk these streets unaccompanied, I cannot allow it. I am obliged – as a gentleman – to escort you home.'

‘That will not be necessary.'

Liebermann was dumbfounded.

‘But . . . but I insist!'

She smiled, and the proud light in her eyes dimmed a little.

‘I have already caused you enough trouble . . .' She reached up and gently brushed his shoulder, where a hank of silk lining sprouted from the torn astrakhan.

‘Think nothing of it,' said Liebermann, crooking his arm. ‘Now, where do you live?'

‘Near the canal.'

‘Then you must show me the way. I am not familiar with the Third District and – to be perfectly honest – I was quite lost when I heard your cries.'

She nodded – and
there it was
, again. A curious, fleeting expression, as if his words had merely confirmed something that she knew already.