Fatal Lies (36 page)

‘Hysterical,' said Liebermann, quite unable to resist making this particular correction.

The pale skin around Frau Becker's eyes had reddened. The flesh looked sore, grazed – flecked with tiny raised welts. Liebermann noticed the unusual length and brightness of her lashes, which glinted in the lamplight.

‘I
did
love Bernhard . . .' she said, her voice rising in pitch as if she was responding to an accusation of falsehood. ‘I did. I had never met anyone like him before – an educated man – a distinguished man – a generous man. But he changed. He started to complain about how much money I was spending . . . he was always in a foul temper. He became angry with me if I didn't understand what he was talking about . . . I felt neglected, lonely – and Herr Lang . . . Herr Lang was kind to me. He's an artist . . . he
appreciated
me, accepted me . . . and he cared about all the bad things happening up at the school.'

The young woman suddenly stopped, and tugged at her blouse, her expression suggesting utter contempt.

‘I have a large wardrobe full of beautiful clothes . . . but I have never been interested in fashion. I used to tell Bernhard that I needed a new dress every time I wanted to get away. I used shopping as an excuse, so that I could go to Vienna. Sometimes it was possible for me to meet Herr Lang there. He knew places where . . .' Her cheeks flushed like a beacon. Modesty prevented her from disclosing the intimate details of their assignation, but Liebermann and Rheinhardt knew exactly where Lang would have taken Frau Becker. The city was full of private dining rooms – in Leopoldstadt, Neubau and Mariahilf – where couples could conduct their illicit liaisons without fear of discovery.

‘We made our arrangements,' Frau Becker continued, ‘through Zelenka. He delivered our notes to each other – he was our
go-between
, our messenger. I
was
very fond of him . . . very fond. But our relationship was innocent. I knew that my husband suspected that something was going on; however, God forgive me, I did nothing to make him think otherwise. In fact, I encouraged his mistrust. On the days that Zelenka came I always wore something special. And all the time, I knew that whatever inquiries Bernhard made would ultimately come to nothing. The more my husband worried about Zelenka, the
better – it put him off, helped to conceal the truth, misdirected his attention. Herr Lang thought I was being very clever – and said that he would do something too. He knew that Herr Sommer was a dreadful gossip, and told him things . . . made suggestions about Zelenka and me, knowing full well that Sommer would be indiscreet. It worked . . . soon the whole school was talking – but about the wrong affair! An affair that wasn't happening! You look shocked, Herr Doctor. And I know what you are thinking:
What sort of woman would do such a thing? What sort of woman would knowingly destroy her own reputation?
But you see, I had no reputation to protect. People said horrible things about me whatever I did . . . and at least this way the slander was serving some purpose. Besides, I would only have to endure it for a short time. Herr Lang is leaving St Florian's soon. He intends to join a commune of artists living in the Tenth District. I was going to join him . . . and may still do so. I've been told that such people do not make a habit of judging others.'

Frau Becker paused and looked from Liebermann to Rheinhardt, then to Haussmann, and back again. Her chin was raised and there was something defiant in the set of her jaw; but the challenge was short-lived. She brought her hands together, nestling the closed fist of her right hand in the palm of her left – and bowed her head.

‘If I had known,' Frau Becker continued. ‘If
we
had known that Bernhard was capable of such insane jealousy, we would never have done this . . . but we did. And because of that we must now share his guilt.'

Liebermann leaned back in his chair.

‘I don't think so. You could never have foreseen your husband's actions.'

‘I'm his wife. I should have—'

‘Not in this instance, Frau Becker,' Liebermann interrupted. ‘The man you fell in love with no longer exists. You said earlier that your
husband
changed
. I believe that this alteration in his personality had a very specific cause.'

‘I don't understand . . .'

‘Are you aware that your husband took medicine – a white powder which he dissolved in alcohol?'

‘Yes, he took it for his headaches.'

‘Frau Becker – your husband never suffered from headaches. He was deceiving you. The
medication
he took was an extract of the South American coca plant – cocaine. It is a substance once thought to improve mood and increase . . . stamina.'

A carriage drew up outside and Liebermann was momentarily distracted.

‘Forgive me for being forthright, Frau Becker,' Liebermann continued. ‘But it is my belief that your husband – being considerably older than you – doubted his ability to
satisfy
a healthy young wife. He started taking cocaine, having probably heard of its use as a tonic by the German army. However, cocaine is a highly addictive substance which, taken in large quantities, can disturb the mind's delicate balance. It can cause various forms of paranoia, a particularly disturbing example of which is pathological or morbid jealousy.' A loud knock resounded through the house. ‘Men are particularly prone to jealous feelings – but these can be grotesquely exaggerated under the influence of such a potent chemical agent. If Doctor Becker had not been addicted to cocaine, I very much doubt whether he would have behaved so irrationally – and with such tragic consequences.'

There was the sound of movement in the hallway, and a gentle tap on the door.

‘Come in,' said Frau Becker.

The maid entered.

‘What is it, Ivana?'

‘Frau Becker . . . a police constable has arrived. He would like to speak with you.'

‘You had better show him in.'

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt quizzically, but the Inspector was only able to respond with a shrug.

Haussmann stepped out of the way to let in the constable – a large youth with ruddy cheeks and a forelock of orange hair that peeped out from beneath his spiked helmet. He looked around the room, observing the gathering, but seemed quite unable to explain his presence. Indeed, his expression suggested confusion – complicated by anxiety.

Rheinhardt stood up and introduced himself, which did not seem to help matters. Indeed, the constable now seemed even more nervous and shifted the weight of his body from one foot to the other.

‘Well, man,' said Rheinhardt, becoming impatient. ‘What is it?'

‘Sir . . .' said the constable. Then, looking towards Frau Becker, he said, ‘Madam . . . there's been an accident. A carriage left the road and the driver was thrown off! The landlord of the inn at Aufkirchen was passing – and he has identified the body. I am sorry, madam . . . your husband . . . he's dead.'

Through the window Liebermann could see the city lights: rings of increasing intensity contracting around a central luminescent hub. This pool of stardust was home to nearly two million people. Germans, Italians, Slovaks, Poles, Ruthenians, Slovenians, Romanians, gypsies, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, princes, archdukes, shop girls and paupers. Liebermann fancied that each glimmering lamp was a human soul – a unique life, illuminated by hopes, fears, and aspirations. Such a vast collection of humanity was humbling. Yet he felt an odd, vainglorious compulsion to raise his arm and eclipse the great metropolis with his hand.

Would it be there for ever? he wondered. After all, archaeologists had found the ruins of entire civilisations buried beneath the sand . . .

Liebermann opened his fingers and allowed the lights to reappear. Their constancy was mildly reassuring.

The mood in the carriage was subdued. None of the three men had spoken much since leaving Aufkirchen. They had passed the time, somewhat self-absorbed, smoking Haussmann's French cigarettes. The black Syrian tobacco produced an intransigent fug that smelled unmistakably of burning tar; however, the pungency and excoriating consequence of each draw had not deterred them, and the box – illustrated with a camel and a palm tree – was now completely empty.

Rheinhardt caught sight of his reflection in the window and squeezed the horns of his moustache.

‘He could so easily have got away with it.'

The sentence was not addressed to Liebermann or Haussmann, but to himself.

‘Yes,' said Liebermann, ‘and I am struck by a certain irony. If it wasn't for the school bullies, Becker might have succeeded. I doubt very much that you would have been so tenacious had there not been signs of torture on Zelenka's body. In this instance at least, cruelty has served some greater purpose.'

‘Indeed, but it is a twist of fate from which I will derive little consolation.' Rheinhardt turned and peered through the smoke at his friend. ‘Max, there is something I don't understand . . .' Liebermann invited the Inspector to proceed. ‘What alerted you to the significance of the almond tart in the first place? You never said . . .'

‘Have you ever tasted absinthe, Oskar?'

‘No.'

‘Nor had I until last week. I was given some to drink by a friend – and I found that it had an extraordinary effect on the workings of my brain. My thinking seemed to loosen up – suddenly, I was
capable of making bold associations. Some of them were complete nonsense . . . but others . . . My companion had been eating sugared almonds, and it occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that almonds contain traces of cyanide . . . Then I remembered that hydrocyanic gas is deadly – but difficult to isolate
post-mortem
. The photographs of the murder scene came into my mind, and I was troubled by the presence of the pastry. Why was it there? And why wasn't it eaten? After all, adolescent boys are not renowned for their ability to delay gratification. Hydrocyanic gas taints the air with the smell of almonds . . . the rest – as I have already explained – followed.'

‘And in order to achieve this . . . this . . . emancipation of the mind – how much absinthe did you drink, exactly?'

Liebermann took off his spectacles and dropped them into the pocket of his coat.

‘Not a great deal,' he said innocently.

Rheinhardt turned to his assistant and, raising his eyebrows, asked: ‘Well, Haussmann?'

The young man shook his head.

‘See, Max?' Rheinhardt continued. ‘Even Haussmann doesn't believe you.'

‘
I SUPPOSE I
should congratulate you, Rheinhardt,' said Commissioner Brügel, ‘but I cannot do so without first raising the issue of your absence. You received my memorandum – didn't you?'

‘I did, sir.'

‘And yet you chose to ignore it.'

‘With respect, sir, you requested that officers should make every effort to remain close to the Schottenring station . . .'

‘The meaning of which is quite clear – or at least it was to everybody else.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. I misunderstood . . .' Brügel's eyes narrowed. ‘Was the operation successful, sir?'

‘No,' said Brügel. ‘It wasn't.'

‘I heard that some arrests were made.'

‘Two gentlemen were detained for questioning – but they were released early this morning. Mistaken identity.'

‘I'm sorry, sir.'

Brügel emitted a low growl which rose from the pit of his stomach: ‘Well, Rheinhardt, I trust there will be no
misunderstandings
of this kind in future.'

His knowing emphasis made Rheinhardt feel ashamed.

‘Indeed, sir.'

‘Good.' The Commissioner shuffled some papers. ‘I would like you to submit a complete account of the St Florian affair by tomorrow
evening, after which you will report to Inspector von Bulow for further instruction. There is a pianist, József Kálman, who—'

Rheinhardt felt a stab of resentment. He did not want to report to von Bulow. They were of the same rank – and it was not right that he should be treated as if he was nothing more than von Bulow's assistant.

‘Sir?' Rheinhardt interposed.

‘What is it, Rheinhardt?'

‘I have not completed my investigation . . . at St Florian's.'

Brügel's head swung forward: ‘What
are
you talking about, Rheinhardt? We know who killed Zelenka – and why. There is nothing more to investigate.'

‘The cuts on the boy's body, sir. The bullying . . .'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Rheinhardt! The case is closed!' Brügel's hand came down on his desk, creating a hollow thud – the quality of which suggested the snapping shut of a great tome. ‘Now,' Brügel resumed. ‘Kálman breakfasts at a disreputable coffee house in the Third District – a place called Zielinski's . . .'

LIEBERMANN RAN HIS
finger down Trezska's back, tracing the flowing contour of her spine. As he did so, he admired the smoothness of her olive skin – its depth and lustre. He stroked her buttocks and allowed his hand to fall between her thighs.

On the bedside cabinet was an absinthe bottle and the trappings of Trezska's habit – a sugar bowl, a miniature trowel, and a carafe of water. Two tall glasses stood in front of the bottle, one of them three-quarters full. Through its pallid contents the candle shone like a burning emerald.

The bouquet of their lovemaking still permeated the atmosphere. Liebermann inhaled and registered a hint of perfume amid a blend of darker fragrances – musk-orchid, attar, and oysters.

His perceptual universe was strangely altered. Everything seemed removed, distant, and dreamlike. Yet, paradoxically, minute phenomena acquired unnatural prominence. A mote – floating upwards on the air – commanded his attention as if it were an entire world. Its inconsequential ascent was majestic and beguiling.