Fatal Lies (21 page)

‘Would you like me to call Albert to escort you?' asked Becker.

‘No, I think we can find our own way.'

‘Good. Herr Sommer lives in the fourth lodge – on the ground floor. You will find his name on the door.'

‘Thank you,' said Rheinhardt.

The two guests got up to leave. However, the Inspector hesitated a moment and said, somewhat tentatively: ‘Might I ask, Deputy Headmaster, where you and your wife met?'

Becker frowned and replied ‘Styria.'

‘Indeed?' Rheinhardt prompted.

‘I met her while I was on a summer walking holiday. She was . . .' He swallowed before proceeding. ‘She was a waitress – at one of the guest houses.' A slightly pained expression twisted his mouth.

‘Forgive me for asking a delicate question.' Rheinhardt continued. ‘But has Frau Becker asked you for more money recently – in addition to her usual housekeeping?'

The deputy headmaster's cheeks reddened with embarrassment and anger.

‘Our domestic arrangements are a private matter.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Rheinhardt. ‘I did not mean to offend.'

Aware that they had now very much overstayed their welcome, Rheinhardt and Liebermann removed themselves from the deputy headmaster's office with unceremonious haste.

RHEINHARDT AND LIEBERMANN
paused by the statue of St Florian. Close by, some cadets were presenting arms and, beyond them, more boys could be seen quick marching around a square of tar-grouted macadam. An order from a rifle lieutenant brought the fast-moving column to an abrupt halt. The two friends looked at each other, and their gazes communicated a mutual disquiet – a tacit suspicion of martial virtues.

They walked around the school building, past another parade ground, and found the path that led to the lodges. Two rows of small terraced houses came into view. The final house at the end of the second row had
Herr G. Sommer
painted in small white letters on the door. It was sandwiched between the names of two other masters:
Herr Paul Lang and Doctor Artur Düriegl
. The second of these was barely visible, being much faded and partially scratched out.

Rheinhardt rapped on the door with the plain iron knocker but there was no response. He tried again, and whistled a snippet of melody from Schubert's
Unfinished Symphony
.

‘He's not in,' said Liebermann.

Rheinhardt consulted his pocket watch.

‘Sommer sent me a telegram yesterday, confirming that he would be here at two ‘o clock. How very odd . . . What should we do?'

‘I am confident that he will come – but we may have to wait a while.'

‘What makes you say that?'

Liebermann shrugged his shoulders and pretended that his remark was nothing more than a superficial off-the-cuff observation.

‘Come, Oskar,' said Liebermann cheerily. ‘Let us find somewhere to sit.'

Behind the living quarters the two men discovered a bench. It was positioned to afford a picturesque view of the hills. Ominous banks of nimbostratus were gathering in the east; however, the prospect had a certain romantic charm – particularly when the wind became stronger, bending the trees and sweeping flossy tatters of cloud overhead. Rheinhardt and Liebermann made some desultory conversation but soon fell silent, choosing instead to smoke cigars and contemplate the brooding majesty of the landscape.

Once again, Liebermann found himself thinking about Miss Lydgate. The image of her falling into the stranger's embrace flickered into life – accompanied by a flash of anger. He had to remind himself that such feelings were unjustified. She had not misled him. He had not been deceived. However, he soon discovered that his anger could not be extinguished, only diverted. If he wasn't being angry with her, he was being angry with himself. It was most frustrating. He did not want his peace of mind to be hostage to a memory. Besides, there was something to look forward to now . . . He was taking Trezska Novak to the Prater on Saturday. He should be thinking about
her
– not about Amelia Lydgate!

Almost an hour had passed before Liebermann nudged Rheinhardt, alerting him to the approach of a pitiful figure hopping along with the aid of a crutch, his right leg bent at the knee to keep his bandaged foot from touching the ground.

The two men rose from the bench and introduced themselves.

‘Inspector Rheinhardt, Herr Doctor Liebermann,' said the man, propping himself up. ‘Gerold Sommer.' In spite of his disability, he
accomplished a perfectly respectable bow. ‘Please . . . this way.' He glanced up at the sky. ‘I think it's about to rain.' Stabbing the ground with his crutch, he propelled himself up the path with renewed energy.

The mathematics master led Rheinhardt and Liebermann back to the lodges. As he searched his pockets for the key, he asked: ‘Have you been waiting long, gentlemen?'

‘Since two o' clock,' Rheinhardt replied.

‘Why so early, Inspector?'

‘That was the time you specified, Herr Sommer.'

‘Good heavens, I could have sworn I'd said three.' He unlocked the front door and pushed it open. ‘If I am mistaken, I do apologise. I usually have a very good head for figures . . .'

Sommer ushered his visitors through a narrow hallway and into his study. The overall impression was one of neglect and untidiness. A table had been pushed up against one of the walls. Its top was covered in exercise books and various calculating instruments: a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree protractor, triangles, compasses, and a very large slide rule. Sommer's library was scattered around the floor, with some volumes being lined up against the skirting board. Beneath the window a row of large tomes supported a precariously balanced second tier.

Sommer limped over to a scuffed leather reading chair and attempted to sit down. He refused Rheinhardt's assistance and managed, in due course, to position himself so that he could fall back safely. He landed heavily on the cushion.

‘Please, gentlemen . . .' said Sommer. ‘There are two stools beneath the table.'

Rheinhardt pulled one out for himself, but Liebermann declined the offer. It was his preference to stand.

‘Well,' said Sommer, staring at Rheinhardt with large, moist eyes. ‘How can I assist?'

The mathematics master was in his early thirties. His hair was parted in the centre and his moustache neatly trimmed. He was a handsome man; however, the nobility of his face was mercilessly subverted by a pair of protruding ears.

Rheinhardt glanced at Sommer's bandaged foot.

‘I fell down some stairs and sprained my ankle,' Sommer continued, feeling obliged to explain his condition. ‘It was extremely painful. The joint became horribly swollen. Like this . . .' He demonstrated with his hands. ‘I thought I'd done myself a very serious injury; but, fortunately, it turned out to be nothing more than a torn ligament. I've been convalescing near Linz: a small sanatorium run by Professor Baltish.' He looked across the room at Liebermann. ‘Do you know it, Herr Doctor?' Liebermann shook his head. ‘A very fine establishment . . .' Sommer added, his gaze oscillating nervously from one guest to the other.

‘Herr Sommer,' said Rheinhardt, detecting the man's discomfort and trying to disarm him with an avuncular smile. ‘Your accident – when did it happen?'

‘A few weeks ago.'

‘When, exactly?'

‘I could hardly forget. It was the day we heard the dreadful news about Zelenka.'

‘We?'

‘Herr Lang and myself . . . the headmaster came to tell us
that
morning.' Sommer shook his head. ‘We were stunned.'

Rheinhardt asked the mathematics master about the dead boy.

It transpired that he had known Zelenka very well, choosing to describe him as a
favourite
. However, when he talked about his relationship with the boy, he said nothing that Rheinhardt didn't already know. Indeed, repeated exposure to certain words and phrases –
mature, sensitive, an able student, interested in science, could be shy
– had rendered them almost meaningless.

As Sommer spoke, Liebermann sidled towards the window and surreptitiously examined some of the book titles. The larger volumes were mathematical texts and standard works of reference – a dictionary, an atlas, an encyclopaedia – and on top of these were some histories of ancient Greece and a volume titled
The Nude – Photographic Studies
.

‘Tell me, Herr Sommer,' said Rheinhardt, shifting his plump haunches on the hard wooden stool. ‘What do you know of Zelenka and the deputy headmaster's wife, Frau Becker?'

Sommer's expression altered, his eyes quickened by curiosity.

‘Zelenka was very fond of her. I know that because he told me so. And I believe that fondness was reciprocated . . .' His sentence ended on an imperfect cadence as if he had intended to say more but had changed his mind.

‘“Fondness”, Herr Sommer?'

The mathematics master sighed.

‘Ordinarily I would be more circumspect, but as this is a police matter . . . I must confess, I have heard things said. It is possible that Frau Becker and Zelenka . . .' He raised his eyebrows and nodded knowingly.

‘Frau Becker and Zelenka were, what? Having a sexual relationship?'

‘Well, I don't know about
that
,' said Sommer, taken aback by Rheinhardt's directness. ‘I don't know what went on!'

‘Then what are you suggesting?'

‘That their friendship was not . . . entirely innocent. The boys make jibes at each other. You overhear conversations in class, in the corridors . . . And Herr Lang—'

‘Herr Lang?'

‘Look, Inspector, Lang's a decent enough fellow. I don't want to get him into trouble.'

‘We will treat everything you say confidentially.'

‘Thank you, thank you . . . Herr Lang is the art master – he lives upstairs. Sometimes he comes down for a brandy and cigars. Naturally, we talk . . . I am certain he knew that something was going on.'

‘What did he say?'

‘That the boy had a crush on Frau Becker, that he had made some drawings of her, that they had spoken, and that the boy had said things . . . I don't know what. But, evidently, enough to make Lang suspicious.'

‘We spoke to Frau Becker about a week ago,' said Rheinhardt, producing his notebook and flicking through the pages. ‘She said that Zelenka and boys like him – that is to say, boys from poor backgrounds – are often bullied and persecuted at St Florian's.' Rheinhardt leaned forward. ‘Is that true?'

The muscles around Sommer's jaw relaxed and he smiled faintly. He seemed strangely relieved.

‘Yes, that is true. The boys do terrible things to each other – quite terrible.'

‘What, exactly?'

‘In the past, some boys have confided in me – spoken of their torment. Weapons have been used . . . knives, sabres.'

‘And who is responsible for performing these abominable acts?'

‘There are ringleaders, of that I'm sure. But none of the boys I've spoken to would ever disclose their identities. They are simply too fearful.'

‘Do you know a boy called Wolf? Kiefer Wolf?'

‘Yes – I do . . .'

‘Is it possible that he is a ringleader?'

‘Wolf, Wolf . . .' Sommer repeated the name, and stroked his chin. ‘It wouldn't surprise me – he is a deeply unpleasant boy.'

‘And who else do you think might be involved?'

‘Steininger, perhaps . . . and Freitag . . . and another boy called Drexler. I've often seen them together, smoking – just outside.' Sommer gestured towards the window. ‘There's a plane tree they stand under.'

‘Herr Sommer, have you spoken to the headmaster about this?'

‘Yes, I have. And Lang has too . . . but . . . This is confidential?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Professor Eichmann has never been very concerned about such behaviour. This may be because he thinks that bullying is inevitable and that there is little point in trying to stamp it out. However, I am also of the opinion that he believes bullying serves some educative function. Through bullying, the boys are prepared for the harsher realities of life . . . It is not a view that I would subscribe to, but I know that there are many masters who would not disagree with Professor Eichmann.'

‘Who?'

‘Osterhagen, Gärtner . . .'

Rheinhardt scribbled their names in his notebook.

‘You won't tell them, will you?' said Sommer, anxiously. ‘You won't tell them it was me who—'

‘No,' Rheinhardt cut in. ‘Rest assured, you have my word.'

‘Good,' said Sommer, worrying a loose stud on the arm of his chair.

‘Are you aware, Herr Sommer, that an anonymous article – extremely critical of Professor Eichmann – has been published in the
Arbeiter Zeitung
?'

‘No, no,' said the mathematics master, shaking his head. ‘I wasn't aware. No.'

Rheinhardt summarised Herr G's comments and allegations.

‘Have you heard anything about this punishment, this so-called
night watch
?'

‘No . . . no, I can't say I have.'

‘What about the boy who died – Pikler? Do you know anything about him?'

‘No, I'm afraid not. I wasn't teaching here then.'

Rheinhardt looked up at Liebermann to see if he wished to ask a question. But the young doctor signalled that he was content to observe and listen.

‘Do you recognise this?'

Rheinardt handed Sommer Zelenka's exercise book.

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Then could you tell me the significance of these numbers?' Rheinhardt turned some pages. ‘You see . . . here, and here . . . these number pairs in the margin are in your hand.'

‘Ah yes,' said Sommer, suddenly laughing. But his laugh was far too loud for someone whose eyes appeared so fearful. ‘Yes, they are a kind of game I used to play with Zelenka. A memory game. I would write some numbers down and he would try to remember them . . . and then
he
would write some numbers down, and
I
would try to remember them.'