Fatal Lies (29 page)

Two suits of armour stood guard on either side of the double doors. Other furniture included assorted chairs, a Japanese lacquered cabinet (shaped like a pagoda), a wall table (on which an antique chess set was displayed), a porcelain stove, some bookshelves, and – rather strangely – a battered leather saddle. Liebermann supposed that this last item must have been of sentimental value to the General, having been of service during some notable campaign. Military men – whose fundamental purpose it was to kill others – could be remarkably sentimental.

The centre of the room was dominated by a mahogany desk: behind it was a high-backed wooden chair, and on this chair sat a stout gentleman with a bulbous pock-marked nose. His hair had receded, and, like many men of his generation, he had – in deference to the Emperor – chosen to sport a fine set of mutton-chop whiskers. He was wearing a quilted smoking jacket, with velvet trimmings, and loose-fitting silk trousers. Liebermann noticed that below the desk the General's big feet occupied a pair of elegant oriental slippers traced with silver thread and with toes that curled upwards.

Liebermann could hear Rheinhardt's baritone through the closed double doors. He was interviewing one of the General's servants in the hallway. Although the Inspector was speaking in hushed tones, his strong voice carried. It was answered by a muffled and considerably weaker tenor.

The General might have been taking a nap – such was his innocent attitude. His left cheek was pressed against the red leather inlay of the desktop, his arms were sprawled out to either side of his head, and his eyes were closed. However, in his right hand he held a bulky Borchardt pistol, and a gaping hole had been blasted through his skull – just above the ear.

A pile of books had toppled as the General fell forward. Most of the titles were by German theoreticians of warfare – but one volume, on closer inspection, turned out to be a light-hearted collection of military anecdotes. The pale calf bindings of the more academic works were spattered with blood and gelatinous globs of brain tissue. On the corner of the desk was a deep, wide ashtray that contained three cigar stubs.

Liebermann heard the sound of brisk footsteps advancing up the hallway, then new voices and a brittle exchange. The double doors opened and a tall man entered, followed by a younger man who was evidently his assistant. Although Liebermann had heard a great deal about Rheinhardt's Nemesis, Victor von Bulow, they had never been formally introduced. Liebermann remembered von Bulow from the detectives' ball and had seen him once before, the previous year, arguing with Rheinhardt outside Commissioner Brügel's office.

Von Bulow swept into the room and came to an abrupt halt on the other side of the General's desk. He and Liebermann looked at each other – although the
manner
in which the two men observed each other was curiously intense and searching. It did not suggest passive reception but, rather, an active seeking-out. They were
inspecting
. And as is always the case when two well-dressed men meet the object of their attention was, first and foremost, clothing: value, quality, and provenance.

They recoiled slightly when they both observed – simultaneously – that they were wearing identical astrakhan coats, supplied almost certainly by the very same shop. This resulted in their expressions shifting – in tandem – from mild indignation to what might have been a form of grudging respect. However, their tacit truce was quickly dissolved. In a transparent attempt to assert his sartorial advantage, von Bulow tugged at his shirt cuffs to reveal the glitter of his diamond cuff links. Rheinhardt, who had followed von Bulow in, witnessed
this silent but perfectly comprehensible exchange with some amusement.

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann?' said von Bulow, icily.

‘Inspector von Bulow,' said Liebermann, inclining his head.

Von Bulow walked around the desk, his stare fixed on the General.

‘I trust you have not touched the body.'

‘That is correct. I have not touched the body.'

‘Good,' Von Bulow crouched down to get a better view of the head wound. ‘Pathology is not your specialism, Herr Doctor . . .'

Von Bulow had subtly stressed his statement so that it sounded a little like a question.

‘Indeed,' Liebermann confirmed. ‘I am not a pathologist. I am a psychiatrist.'

‘You will appreciate, then, I hope,' said von Bulow, ‘that your presence here can serve no purpose.'

It was a blunt and discourteous dismissal.

Liebermann retained his composure and acquiesced with a curt nod. As he walked towards the door von Bulow called out: ‘Oh, and Doctor Liebermann . . .' The young doctor stopped and turned around. ‘Inspector Rheinhardt was acting without proper authority when he invited you to accompany him. You must not tell anyone what you have seen here today. Do you understand?'

‘With respect,' said Rheinhardt, coughing uncomfortably, ‘that really isn't right. I was instructed by the Commissioner to initiate standard investigative procedures until your arrival. And that's exactly what I've done . . . There is nothing irregular about Doctor Liebermann's attendance. He has been of considerable assistance to the security office on many occasions – as you are well aware. If this investigation is – how shall we say? Sensitive? – then perhaps you should ask Commissioner Brügel why he did not make this absolutely clear
vis-à-vis
my instructions.'

Von Bulow paused and stroked the neat rectangle of silver bristle on his chin. He seemed to be reconsidering his position, weighing up costs and benefits on an internal mental balance. His pale grey eyes – almost entirely devoid of colour – stared coldly at Rheinhardt. A sudden reconfiguration of his angular features suggested that his obscure calculations had been successfully completed.

‘Thank you, gentlemen,' he said softly. ‘I am
most
grateful for your help.' His intonation had become unctuous – oily with sarcasm. ‘Be that as it may, now that I am here – you may both leave.'

Rheinhardt, exasperated, strode over to von Bulow and handed him his notebook.

‘You may as well have this. I've just interviewed the head servant. The house staff were all dismissed last night at seven and told not to return until this afternoon.'

Von Bulow flicked through the notes.

‘Rheinhardt, how can you possibly expect me to understand this scribble? I'll interview him again myself.'

Rheinhardt shrugged.

‘As you wish, von Bulow. You should also know that Professor Mathias has been asked—'

‘Professor Mathias!' von Bulow cut in. ‘Dear God, Rheinhardt, you're not still using that lunatic? I'll be appointing my own pathologist, thank you. Now gentlemen, the suicide of one of His Majesty's Generals is nothing less than a national tragedy. I really must be getting on . . .'

He extended his arm towards the doors.

In readiness to leave, Rheinhardt looked over at his friend; however, Liebermann was hesitant.

‘I'm sorry . . .' said Liebermann to von Bulow. ‘But did you just say . . .
suicide
?'

Von Bulow turned on Liebermann with evident impatience.

‘Yes.'

‘You are of the opinion that General von Stoger took his own life?'

‘Well, of course he did!'

‘And why do you say that?'

‘Because General von Stoger is lying here – quite dead – with a gun in his hand and a very large hole in his head. Now, for the last time, Herr Doctor, would you kindly leave? I have work to do.'

Von Bulow's assistant smirked.

‘Forgive me . . .' said Liebermann, making his way back to the body. He beckoned to von Bulow, urging him to examine the General's wound more closely. ‘Observe,' Liebermann continued. ‘There are no powder burns on the General's temple. No grains embedded in the skin. Most people, when they choose to end it all by shooting themselves, place the muzzle of the gun against the epidermis – pressing it in, hard.' Liebermann made a gun shape with his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers into his temple. ‘Presumably,' he continued, ‘to reduce the possibility of making an error. Only rarely – very rarely – will a suicide hold the pistol at a distance. You are correct, I am not a pathologist; however, I
am
a psychiatrist, and it is a sad fact that members of my profession are frequently the first to discover individuals who have committed suicide. I have seen many suicides . . . and one notices certain resemblances between them.'

Von Bulow snorted.

‘It may be very rare – as you suggest – for a suicide to hold the weapon at a distance, but it is not so exceptional as to recommend that we should abandon common sense! Now, Herr Doctor, if you would kindly let me conduct
my
investigation in the manner to which
I
am accustomed!'

Dispensing with any pretence of courtesy, von Bulow flicked his thumb towards the exit.

‘And the absence of a suicide note?' said Liebermann, ignoring von
Bulow's rude gesture. ‘Does that not strike you as being a little odd? Gentlemen of von Stoger's class and rank always leave a suicide note.'

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann,' said von Bulow, coldly. ‘You are testing my patience!'

‘I do apologise,' Liebermann replied. ‘I have neglected to mention the most important of my observations. No powder burns, no suicide note . . . these are simply auxiliary to the principal fact, which, if I may be so bold as to declare, is – in my humble judgement – quite compelling.'

Von Bulow's arm dropped to his side. He was reluctant to ask the young doctor what this compelling
principal fact
was and so cede his authority. He glared at Liebermann, who had chosen this moment to conduct a minute study of his fingernails. He picked off a cuticle. Rheinhardt, the long-suffering victim of Liebermann's irritating penchant for obscurity and mystification, was, for once, delighted.

The ensuing silence became frigid and intractable.

Von Bulow – finally overcome by curiosity – ungraciously spat out his question: ‘What are you talking about!'

‘Simply this,' said Liebermann, smiling. ‘The General's eyes are closed. This is not remarkable in itself, being commonplace when people die naturally. But when people die suddenly – their eyes remain open. In the anguished state that precedes suicide, we can be quite sure that the eyes are wide open – staring, in fact. And this is how we – us psychiatrists – usually find them.' Liebermann paused for just enough time for von Bulow to register von Stoger's heavy, hooded lids. ‘Inspector, someone closed the General's eyes
post-mortem
. And I strongly suspect that the person who did that was also the person who shot him!'

The blood drained from von Bulow's face. He ran an agitated hand over the silver stubble at the back of his head.

‘Good day,' said Liebermann, marching briskly to the closed double
doors. Before opening them, he looked back into the room and added: ‘And don't be fooled by that tight grip. A gun can be placed in the hand immediately after death and then, when
rigor mortis
sets in, it creates the illusion of a holding-fast.'

Rheinhardt bowed, and followed his friend out into the hall. The servant whom Rheinhardt had been interviewing was still waiting.

‘Sir?' said the servant to Rheinhardt. ‘May I retire to my quarters now?'

‘I'm afraid not,' said Rheinhardt. ‘My colleague Inspector von Bulow wishes to ask you some more questions.'

The man acquiesced glumly.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann began walking down the hallway, their footsteps sounding loudly on the shiny, polished ebony.

Unable to restrain himself, Rheinhardt slapped his friend on the back.

‘That was truly excellent, Max, excellent. You made von Bulow look like a complete idiot.'

In response, the young doctor took a sugared almond from his pocket, tossed it in the air, and caught it in his mouth. He bit through the icing and produced a loud, satisfying crunch. ‘Let's go back to Schottenring,' he said. ‘I must see those photographs again.'

WOLF WAS SITTING
in the lost room, alone, smoking his way through a packet of gold-tipped cigarettes. He had acquired them from Bose, a plump and effete baron from Deutsch-Westungarn, whose arm he had twisted until the boy had squealed like a stuck pig. Resting on Wolf's lap was a large book, the cover of which was made of soft green leather and embossed with gold lettering. The endpapers were marbled. Wolf licked his finger and began to turn the pages. The movement of his hand across the spine became faster and faster – each transition was accompanied by a double syllable of friction and release. The sound was not unlike a person gasping for breath. Although he was not reading the text, Wolf's expression was attentive.

The monotony of the task created a void in his mind, which soon filled with recent memories.

Earlier that day Wolf had been summoned to the headmaster's office. The old man had rambled on in his usual way about values, honour and reputation, but in due course his well-practised oratory stalled. He had become somewhat incoherent. Eventually, the headmaster had made an oblique reference to
the matter discussed
on the occasion of their last meeting . . .

‘It appears that Perger has absconded.'

‘Yes,' Wolf had replied.

‘This sort of behaviour cannot be countenanced. When he is found,
I will have no other option but to expel him. Whatever plea is made on his behalf – and I'm sure that at least one well-meaning but misguided advocate will come forward – nothing, and I mean nothing, can possibly excuse such appalling misconduct.'

‘No, sir,' Wolf had agreed. ‘It is quite disgraceful.'

The headmaster had risen and, as was his habit, had gone to the window.

Wolf recalled the nervous catch in his voice: ‘I take it we have understood the situation correctly. Eh, Wolf? I mean . . . Perger
has
absconded, hasn't he?'