Fatal Lies (37 page)

Liebermann became aware of Trezska's voice. It was muffled and her speech was slurred. She was talking into the pillow, her face concealed beneath a shock of black hair. She was extolling the virtues of the Hungarian nobility.

‘They have real charm . . . style, panache. The Telekis and Károlyis. The late Empress appreciated their company – as did her son . . .
poor Rudolf. But that's another matter. There was once a peasants' revolt in the sixteenth century. They caught the leader – and do you know what they did with him? They made him sit on a red-hot throne. They pressed a red-hot crown on his head . . . and made him hold a red-hot sceptre. His retinue were made to eat his flesh – while it was still sizzling.'

‘Where did you hear such a story?' Liebermann asked.

‘It's not a story – it's true.'

‘Like the vampire countess. What was she called?'

‘Báthory – Erzsebet Báthory.'

Liebermann leaned forward and let his lips touch the nape of Trezska's neck. She shivered with pleasure and rolled back onto her side.

‘That man . . .' said Liebermann. ‘The one who stopped you outside Demel's'

‘What?'

‘The man who called you Amélie – Franz . . .'

‘Oh yes . . . strange, wasn't it?'

Trezska brushed her hair away, but it sprang forward again – hanging across her face like a curtain.

‘You knew him . . . really. Didn't you?'

Trezska's eyes flashed and her full lips widened into a smile. She began to laugh.

‘Are you jealous?'

‘He seemed so certain . . . so sure . . .'

‘You
are
jealous!'

Trezska threw her arms around Liebermann's shoulders and raised herself up, pressing her breasts against his chest. She kissed him, forcing her tongue between his teeth and taking possession of his senses. She tasted of anise, mint and liquorice. When Trezska finally released him, she grinned, and kissed him once more, gently on the nose – a comic peck.

‘Don't be jealous . . .' she whispered. ‘Don't be jealous.'

The candle flickered and the glasses filled with green lightning.

O, beware, my Lord, of jealousy.

It is the green-ey'd monster . . .

‘Othello . . .' he said.

Trezska drew back.

‘What?'

‘A play by Shakespeare. If the green fairy doesn't get me, then the green-eyed monster will.'

‘You are very drunk,' said Trezska gently. ‘Lie down, my love.'

Trezska tugged at his arm and Liebermann was surprised by his own lack of resistance. He fell and when his head hit the mattress he closed his eyes – it was like being knocked out. He was dimly conscious of Trezska's limbs, wrapping around his hips and shoulders. She pulled him close, smothering him with her flesh.

‘Sleep,' she whispered. ‘Sleep . . .'

Liebermann could hear her heart beating.

Too fast
, he thought.
Too fast . . .

He wanted to say something else. But words failed him, and seconds later he was asleep.

LIEBERMANN HAD ARRIVED
at the Schottenring police station late in the afternoon, having spent a tiring day listening to – among others – the old jurist (who was still expounding upon his unique metaphysical system), a milliner with an irrational fear of horses, and an accountant who suffered from impotence – but only in rooms hung with yellow flock wallpaper. He had agreed to help Rheinhardt with the St Florian report, which was, at that exact moment, distributed in several incomplete parts over the top of the Inspector's desk. They had reached a problematic juncture and Rheinhardt was gazing gloomily at a page, the lower half of which was conspicuously devoid of his hieroglyphic scrawl.

‘What am I supposed to say here?' said Rheinhardt, tapping the empty space. ‘That my esteemed colleague – Herr Doctor Liebermann – was inspired to link the presence of the pastry in the laboratory with cyanide poisoning due to the effect of absinthe on the . . . What did you just say?'

‘The paracerebellar nuclei.'

‘My dear fellow,' said Rheinhardt. ‘No matter how many anatomical terms you employ, the fact remains that you were – not to put to fine a point on it – drunk.'

‘I'm afraid I can't agree with you. The action of absinthe on the cerebrum merits special consideration. It engenders a unique mental state . . . To say that I was merely
drunk
hardly does justice to its
mind-altering properties. It is – after all – the favoured spirit of artists and visionaries.'

The crescents of loose flesh beneath Rheinhardt's eyes seemed to sag a little further.

‘Although such an appeal might be received sympathetically by the Chief of the Sûreté,' said the Inspector, ‘I can assure you that Commissioner Brügel will be singularly unimpressed.'

‘Then write that my suspicions were aroused when I interviewed Perger and discovered that almond tarts were not sold at the Aufkirchen bakery.'

‘But that would imply that you had already identified the pastry in the photograph as an almond tart. In fact, you didn't go to Demel's until . . .' Rheinhardt thumbed through his papers and recovered a particular sheet. ‘Until Saturday the seventh of February.'

‘Couldn't you just omit the date?'

‘Absolutely not.' Rheinhardt scowled: however, before he had exploited the full dramatic effect of his exaggerated expression he added in a lighter, conversational tone: ‘He's disappeared, you know.'

‘Who?'

‘Perger. He seems to have absconded. You will recall, perhaps, that he had wanted to run away with Zelenka . . .'

‘Where do you think he's gone?'

‘If his letters are anything to go by, he's probably hiding in the hold of an Italian cargo vessel, heading for South America!' Rheinhardt sighed, shook his head and laid down his pen. ‘This is supposed to be a final report,' he continued, waving his hand over the chaotic spread of papers. ‘Yet there are still unanswered questions. The number pairs in Zelenka's exercise book, the cuts on his body . . . I received a note from Miss Lydgate yesterday morning. She said that she had tried all kinds of substitutions and transformations – but without success. She concluded that if the number pairs
are
a code, it is one that can
only be broken with the aid of a unique formula or “key”. Alternatively, the number pairs may have been simply chosen at random and have no special meaning.'

‘Which would, of course, be entirely consistent with Sommer's story . . . the memory game.' Liebermann leaned back in his chair and tapped his temple gently. ‘Yet everything about him suggested to me that he was trying to hide something.'

‘What, though? And how could it have been connected with Zelenka?'

Liebermann pursed his lips and after a lengthy pause said: ‘I have absolutely no idea.'

Rheinhardt picked up his pen again.

‘Brügel has reassigned me to von Bulow's team. As far as the Commissioner is concerned, once this report is submitted the St Florian's case will be consigned to the archive.'

‘Where he will want it to remain, gathering dust.'

‘Exactly. I keep on thinking of that dreadful nephew of his. I have no solid evidence to support the allegation, but I am convinced that Kiefer Wolf was torturing Zelenka . . . and he is probably torturing others, right now – as we speak. It weighs heavily on my conscience.'

Liebermann remembered the boy Perger: his stutter, his timidity, his respectful compliance – the innocent happiness that illuminated his features as he moved his knight forward:
checkmate
. The excitement in his treble voice had been touching. It was sad that this poor, sensitive boy was now bound for some distant shore where God only knew what fate might befall him.

‘If only there was someone willing to speak out against Wolf,' Rheinhardt continued. ‘But of course, there never is . . . and so it goes on. I dread to think what kind of officer he will make.'

Liebermann pulled at his lower lip.

‘If none of the boys can be relied on to give evidence against him,
then logically there is only one other way by which he could ever be exposed. Confession. He must make a confession . . .'

The Inspector looked disappointed.

‘Well, that's hardly going to happen – is it?'

‘Persecution is as much about exercising control as it is about deriving sadistic pleasure. Therefore we might ask ourselves what kind of person desires absolute control?' Rheinhardt gestured for Liebermann to continue. ‘A simple answer – surely – suggests itself: one who fears
loss of control.
I am reminded of some of Adler's ideas . . .'

‘Max,' said Rheinhardt, ‘what are you thinking?'

Liebermann smiled.

‘Allow me to explain.'

THEY WERE SEATED
in the disused classroom.

‘Does my uncle know that you are here?' said Kiefer Wolf to Rheinhardt.

The Inspector did not reply.

‘I doubt that he does,' Wolf continued. ‘In which case, I can assure you, I shall be writing to him again.'

‘Just answer my question.'

‘The investigation is over. Uncle Manfred told me so. Inspector Rheinhardt, I believe you are acting without authority.'

‘That is an extremely insolent remark.'

‘No, Inspector, it is merely an accurate one.'

The boy folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. The line of his thin lips twisted slightly, suggesting modest satisfaction.

‘There were cuts on Zelenka's body,' Rheinhardt persevered. ‘How did they get there?'

‘I don't know,' said Wolf.

‘I think you do . . .'

‘Then you are mistaken.' Wolf made a languid movement with his hand and added: ‘Inspector, I would very much like to present myself for rifle practice. A Tiroler Kaiserjäger is coming this afternoon to give us special instruction. I have been selected to represent St Florian's at the end-of-year shooting tournament against St Polten and the headmaster was anxious that I should attend.'

‘I am afraid that you will have to stay here until I am satisfied that you are telling me the truth.'

‘The headmaster will be very displeased.'

‘For the last time, Wolf: what do you know about those cuts?'

‘Nothing, Inspector.'

The boy's complexion was clear and his skin as smooth as alabaster. He seemed preternaturally calm.

‘Very well,' said Rheinhardt. Turning to his friend he called out: ‘Herr Doctor?'

Liebermann, who had been patiently waiting by the window, picked up his black leather bag and crossed the room. He sat in front of Wolf and smiled.

‘Do you study botany here?' he asked.

The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

‘Yes . . . we have had a few classes.'

‘And what did you learn about?'

‘The structure of plants . . . the different families.'

‘Then perhaps you were introduced to the perennials of the
Solanaceae
family? They can be found in the local woods and meadows.'

‘I am afraid I cannot remember,' said Wolf. ‘It is not a subject that interests me.'

‘Even so, I suspect that you would recognise the name of at least one of the
Solanaceae
.' Liebermann inserted a dramatic pause before proclaiming: ‘Belladonna!'

The young doctor raised his eyebrows, encouraging a response.

‘Yes . . .' said Wolf. ‘Of course I recognise that name. But what of it?'

‘The plant grows from a thick fleshy root – about this high.' Liebermann sliced a horizontal plane through the air. ‘It has a dingy, purple-brown, bell-shaped flower, and smooth black berries that ripen in September.'

The neutrality of Wolf's expression was interrupted by a series of brief, flickering emotional responses that oscillated between perplexity and amusement. He was about to speak, but Liebermann silenced him by wagging an admonitory finger.

‘I understand,' Liebermann continued, ‘that belladonna acquired its appellation in the Middle Ages, when young women employed the plant's extracts to dilate their pupils.' Liebermann observed Wolf's blank visage and added for clarification: ‘So they would seem more beautiful . . .'

‘Herr Doctor,' said Wolf. ‘As I have already said – I am not very interested in botany.'

‘I promise you, my purpose will soon become clear.' Again, Liebermann smiled. ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes . . . it was not only a favourite of young women – it was also valued by men of dubious morality whose intention it was to seduce them.' Wolf rocked his head to one side and a scintilla of interest nuanced the vacancy of his steady gaze. Liebermann continued: ‘You see, it was soon discovered that if belladonna was secreted into a young woman's drink, she would become remarkably compliant, forgetting virtue and agreeing readily to suggestions of an improper nature. She would become – as it were – less inhibited. Belladonna was also found to have medical applications. The great tenth-century Persian physician Avicenna recommended belladonna as an anaesthetic – and it has been intermittently used by surgeons ever since. For example, only a few years ago some colleagues of mine at the university published a fascinating paper on the development of a new pre-anaesthetic. By combining one of the alkaloids of Japanese belladonna with morphine, they were able to induce a somnolent state in their patients which they designated
twilight sleep
. Now, while undertaking this research, my colleagues noticed something very interesting: patients in twilight sleep would often mumble. However, if asked questions, they were able to reply
– and these replies were perfectly coherent. Moreover, all answers to questions were somewhat literal – and invariably honest.'