Fatal Lies (2 page)

Their ascent was becoming extremely uncomfortable. The narrow track that they had chosen was riddled with potholes, causing the carriage to pitch and roll. Rheinhardt pulled the curtain aside and pressed his face against the glass. He could see nothing. Releasing the catch, he opened the window and leaned out. The air was cold and dank. Ahead, the carriage lamps shone against descending blankets of thick fog.

Rheinhardt looked anxiously at his pocket watch and called out to the driver.

‘Stop, will you? We should have arrived by now!'

The carriage came to a juddering halt.

‘God in heaven, Haussmann,' said the Inspector. ‘At this rate we'll never get there!'

He opened the carriage door and jumped out. His feet sank into the muddy ground, and he felt his best patent leather shoes filling up with freezing ditchwater. Cursing loudly, he squelched up the road, grimacing as the sludge sucked at his heels. One of the horses snorted and shook its bridle. Rheinhardt peered into the opaque distance.

‘Where on earth are we?'

‘Left by the turnstile and left again at the old well,' said the driver, gruffly. ‘That's what you said, sir – and that's what I did. Turned left.' Then he mumbled under his breath: ‘I knew it should have been right.'

‘Then why didn't you say so?'

The driver had not intended his final remark to be heard. He concealed his embarrassment by soothing the horses.

They were in the middle of a dense forest. An owl hooted, and something rustled in the undergrowth. Rheinhardt knew that they were only a short distance from Vienna, but the capital – with its theatres, coffee houses and glittering ballrooms – felt strangely remote.

The trees looked tormented: thick, twisted boles and bare branches that terminated in desperate, arthritic claws. There was something about a deep, dark wood that held unspeakable terrors for the Teutonic imagination.
Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel.
Within every German-speaking adult was a child who, from infancy, had cultivated – under the tutelage of the Brothers Grimm – a healthy respect for the natural habitat of wolves and witches.

Rheinhardt shuddered.

‘Sir?'

Haussmann's head had emerged from the carriage window.

‘Yes?'

‘What's that?'

‘What's what?'

‘
There
. . . Oh, it's gone. No, there it is again. Can't you see it, sir?'

An indistinct luminescence was floating among the trees – a pale glow that seemed to vanish, then reappear.

‘Yes, Haussmann,' said Rheinhardt, consciously modulating his voice to achieve an even delivery. ‘Yes, I can.'

The light was becoming brighter.

Rheinhardt heard the carriage door opening, a splash, and his assistant struggling through the adhesive mud.

‘What is it?' Haussmann repeated his question.

‘I don't know,' said Rheinhardt. ‘But it is my impression that we will find out very soon.'

‘Do you have your revolver, sir?'

‘No, Haussmann,' Rheinhardt replied. ‘This may come as a surprise to you, but when dancing I very rarely carry a firearm. The unequal distribution of weight about my person would make the performance of a perfect turn almost impossible.'

‘Of course, sir,' said Haussmann, noting the appearance of a sly smile on his superior's face.

The advancing light was surrounded by an indistinct shadowy aura, the dimensions of which suggested the approach of something very large. The vague outline was lumbering, ursine. Rheinhardt wondered if the mist might be creating an optical illusion. Nobody could be that big! Yet twigs were snapping beneath a ponderous tread. The horses began to whicker.

‘Gentlemen,' said the driver nervously, ‘perhaps you'd like to get back inside. Shouldn't we be on our way?'

Rheinhardt did not reply.

The footsteps became louder and the light grew more distinct.

‘Well, Haussmann,' said Rheinhardt, ‘I suspect that in a few moments all will be revealed.'

The thick curtains of fog parted and a huge figure stepped out of the darkness, the glow of the flickering candle in his lamp preceding him like a spirit emissary. Rheinhardt heard his young companion gasp.

‘Steady, Haussmann,' Rheinhardt whispered.

The man was well over six feet tall but appeared even more massive on account of his clothing. He was wearing a Russian hat, with the flaps released over his ears, and a long fur coat pulled in at the waist with a thick leather belt. Hanging from it was a cleaver. In one hand he held a tin lamp suspended at the end of a whittled staff, and in the other the hind legs of a brace of bloody animal carcasses that were slung over his shoulder. Almost all of his face was concealed behind a wild, wiry black beard.

‘Good evening,' said Rheinhardt. ‘We are looking for the Aufkirchen
Oberrealschule
.' The mysterious woodman remained silent. Rheinhardt tried again: ‘The military academy? St Florian's?'

At last, something in the big man's eyes showed recognition. He grunted an affirmative and began to speak.

‘Back down the hill.' The sound he produced was low and sonorous. ‘Take the right fork.'

‘Right fork?' Rheinhardt echoed.

The giant grunted again. Then, turning abruptly, he trudged back into the woods.

‘Thank you,' Rheinhardt called out. ‘Much obliged.'

Rheinhardt and Haussmann stood very still, watching, as the mist closed around the giant's shoulders and the shimmering flame faded into obscurity.

‘You see, Haussmann,' said Rheinhardt, straightening his bow tie and adjusting the studs on his cuffs. ‘Country folk: full of stolid virtues, I'm sure. But their conversation always errs on the side of brevity, don't you think?' Rheinhardt turned to address the driver.

‘Well, did you hear what our friend from the forest said?'

‘Down the hill – right fork.'

‘Exactly.'

‘And you want us to follow his directions?'

‘What else would you suggest?'

‘
Himmel
, he was a strange one.'

‘True, but I dare say we looked a little strange to him too.'

THE DORMITORY WAS
pitch black but alive with sounds: snoring, rustling, mumbling, and the occasional terrified cry as one of the boys surfaced from a nightmare.

Kiefer Wolf listened to the breathing darkness. It had an orchestral quality – a heaving, restless depth.

‘Drexler?' He reached out across the narrow space separating his bed from the next, and poked his fingers into the warm eiderdown.

‘Drexler, wake up!'

His neighbour moaned.

‘Drexler, wake up, will you!'

‘Wolf?'

‘Wake up, Drexler. I can't sleep.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Wolf,' said Martin Drexler.

‘I'm going for a smoke. Are you coming?'

The boy sleeping in the bed on the other side began to stir.

‘What . . .' His voice was thick with sleep. ‘What's happening?'

Wolf's fist swung out with ruthless ferocity, slamming into the boy's stomach. The youngster let out an agonised cry.

‘Shut up, Knackfuss!' Wolf hissed. ‘Just shut up!'

The boy began to whimper.

‘Oh, for God's sake, Wolf!' It was Drexler again. ‘What's the matter with you!'

‘I'm going
upstairs
. I'm going to the
lost room
.'

Wolf got out of bed, felt for his clothes, and slipped on his jacket and trousers. He did not bother with his shoes.

‘Well, Drexler? Are you coming or not?'

Wolf heard Drexler turn over, grumbling into his pillow.

‘Sleep, then!' said Wolf angrily. ‘You . . . you baby!'

Wolf groped his way into the central aisle and – orienting himself by touching the bedsteads – took short steps towards the door. Turning the handle very slowly, he pushed it open and peered through the narrow gap. The corridor was empty. Slipping out of the dormitory and closing the door quietly behind him, Wolf took one of the paraffin lamps from the wall and tiptoed off into the shadows. He had not gone very far when he heard something: footsteps, rushing up the stairs, and voices.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Wolf sprinted to the end of the corridor and, skilfully negotiating a sharp corner, pressed his back against the wall. He held his breath and listened. He could hear a man's voice (speaking very quietly) and then a woman's voice.

Nurse Funke?

He had no intention of waiting there long enough to find out. He hurried off.

On one side of the corridor were windows overlooking a courtyard, and on the other side was a row of empty classrooms. At the end of the corridor was a wooden staircase that rose in a series of right angles and small landings. A further staircase ascended to a locked iron door.

Wolf paused – and listened.

Apart from the sound of tiny claws behind the skirting board, there was silence.

The upper level of the school had – over a period of many years – been subject to a series of eccentric modifications and revisions.
Thus, the partitioning of spaces around the attic had led to the creation of many architectural anomalies: redundant corners, blind alleys, pointless niches, and steps that led nowhere at all. Among these architectural anomalies was the
lost room
– a neglected cavity that existed between the attic and the third storey of the building.

Wolf crept underneath the final staircase and, crouching down, ran his hand over the floorboards. The tips of his fingers soon found the edge of a trapdoor, which he lifted gently. He sat on the edge of the hole, dangling his legs in the cold emptiness. Then, lowering himself, he eventually found support on a crate that had been positioned there especially for the purpose. Reaching up, he grabbed the paraffin lamp and then leapt down. He landed with a hollow, dusty thud. Wolf hung up the lamp on an overhead beam and made his way to an old leather suitcase in which he (and his small circle of associates) retained a cache of recreational aids: cigarettes, matches, brandy, some games, and a modest collection of pornographic postcards.

Wolf immediately lit a cigarette and began pacing around the room. He was annoyed with Drexler. Why hadn't he come? He wasn't the same, these days. Something in his character had changed. He was becoming more contrary, obstructive, less willing to go along with things . . .

Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nostrils.

He didn't really want to confront Drexler; however, if he had to, he would. Wolf slumped down on a pile of cushions, and dragged a blanket over himself. Then, reaching into the suitcase, he pulled out a volume of philosophy that Professor Gärtner had given him. It was titled
Beyond Good and Evil
, and it contained a passage that had played on his mind. He didn't quite understand it but he felt that repeated readings might reveal its secret – some special truth that resided just beyond the literal meaning of the printed words.

Wolf lengthened the wick of the paraffin lamp and opened the book at the correct page. He read the passage aloud
: ‘There are no moral phenomena at all, only a moral interpretation of phenomena . . .'

Wolf stubbed the cigarette out on the floor.

Yes, this was true – and so, by implication, one could never really go too far.

RHEINHARDT WONDERED WHETHER
he had treated the driver's remarks too flippantly. The woodman was indeed
a strange one
. Might such a man purposely instruct strangers to follow a dangerous road? Were they – at that very moment – blithely rolling towards some fatal precipice?

Again, he was reminded of the old stories: wolves, witches, and supernatural beings whose appearance invariably presaged death. To dispel his unease, he began humming ‘
Rosen aus dem Süden
'. His thoughts returned to the ball. What would the orchestra be playing now? ‘
Künstlerleben
', perhaps – or ‘
Wein, Weib und Gesang
'?

After some time had passed, the driver let out a cry.

‘Inspector! Inspector! This must be it!'

Rheinhardt opened the window. They were passing between two cast-iron gates set in a crumbling high wall. The fog was less thick and in the distance, across a flat expanse of land, he could see illuminated windows. Rheinhardt sighed with relief.

The carriage rattled down a long drive and finally stopped. The Inspector and his assistant jumped out and took stock of their surroundings. They were standing next to a weather-beaten statue, the features of which had been worn smooth; however, it was still possible to identify a bearded warrior holding a lance, with one foot raised on what appeared to be a tub.

‘St Florian,' said Rheinhardt.

‘He looks more like a Roman soldier,' said Haussmann.

‘Well, that's because he
was
a Roman soldier – a military administrator, posted here, in Austria. But that, alas, is the limit of my knowledge.'

Rheinhardt faced the school.

The building was Gothic in design, possessing three rows of triple lancet windows and four octahedral spires. A cloistered courtyard could be seen through a central stone arch. Rheinhardt and Haussmann entered the courtyard and, as they did so, a door opened through which an elderly man appeared. He was clearly a servant, but he wore a military decoration on his jacket.

‘Gentlemen!' the old man cried.

Rheinhardt and Haussmann stepped forward, but as they did so, the veteran's expression changed from eagerness to disappointment.

‘Oh dear – very sorry – I mistook you for someone else.'

‘I beg your pardon?' asked Rheinhardt.

‘The headmaster is expecting two
gentlemen from the security office.'

‘Indeed. I am Inspector Rheinhardt and this is my assistant, Haussmann.' The old man narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes,' Rheinhardt continued, recognising that their appearance might require an explanation. ‘We
are
somewhat overdressed, but it was our misfortune to be called here directly from a ball.'