Fatal Lies (42 page)

Liebermann placed the note on his desk and stared at it. For once in his life, he desperately wanted to be wrong.

AN OBSERVER UNACCUSTOMED
to life at St Florian's might have described the prevailing mood of the school as subdued. Drexler, however, knew otherwise. He could read the signs like a haruspex: signs that were no less vivid or portentous, as far as he was concerned, than the hot entrails of a freshly slaughtered goat – the whispering, the sidelong glances, the sudden silences, the pursed lips of the masters, the cancelled classes. The school was not subdued at all, but seething with nervous excitement.

Drexler was sitting on his own in the dining room, toying with his
bruckfleisch
– a stew consisting largely of innards, blood and sweetbreads. A pallid piece of offal surfaced among the slices of heart, liver and spleen, making him feel slightly nauseous. He was thinking about what had happened that morning. He had been standing in the washroom, waiting his turn to use one of the tin sinks.

A line of hunched white backs – goose-pimpled and shivering – the relentless hammering of the old pipes . . .

Drexler had rushed over to claim a vacant basin. While he was splashing tepid water onto his face, he overheard the two boys next to him speaking in hushed tones.

‘Murdered . . . in The Lodges . . . there for a whole day before they found him.'

‘What did you say?' Drexler had asked.

The boy next to him had been about to reply, but was silenced by
a prefect who struck his calves with a riding crop (carried especially for this purpose).

‘Shut up,' the prefect had shouted. ‘You're worse than a bunch of fishwives!'

By mid-morning Drexler had been able to establish that there hadn't been a murder at all but a suicide – and that the dead master was Herr Sommer.

This news saddened Drexler, as he had been rather fond of Herr Sommer. When, in the previous year, Drexler had been experiencing difficulties understanding algebra, Herr Sommer had invited him to his rooms and given him extra tuition. Away from the classroom the mathematics master was much more relaxed – much more amusing. He had once told Drexler an extremely risqué joke about a priest and a choirboy. ‘Our secret,' he had said confidentially. Towards the end of that year, Sommer's invitations became less frequent. He seemed to have found a new favourite – Thomas Zelenka. Drexler hadn't minded very much. In truth, he had begun to find Herr Sommer's company less diverting – especially after he'd made the acquaintance of Snjezana.

Drexler tried to swallow a kidney but didn't have the stomach for it. He pushed it back onto the spoon with his tongue and decided he wasn't hungry.

Everything was beginning to unravel.

Zelenka, Becker, Sommer . . .

Even Wolf hadn't been himself lately. He had been summoned to the headmaster's office on Thursday and had refused to say why.

‘Did he ask about Perger?'

‘Just forget Perger, will you!' Wolf had replied angrily, ‘He
ran away
, for God's sake! And no one gives a shit where he's gone!'

Drexler was no longer sure whether he could trust Wolf. Greater leniency was shown in courts of law to criminals who confessed
their misdeeds and showed remorse. Was that what Wolf was up to?

Before Drexler left the dining hall he went over to another boy and said: ‘I'm not feeling well. If Osterhagen asks where I am, tell him I've gone to the infirmary.'

It was not difficult to leave the school unnoticed at that time of day and soon he was walking eastwards, cross-country towards Vienna. He gave Aufkirchen a wide berth, but could still see the onion dome and spire of the Romanesque church. For a moment he was tempted to change direction. Snjezana would probably be lying on her bed, smoking, and reading one of her novels. He could see her one last time. What harm would it do?

‘No,' Drexler said out loud, lengthening his stride. ‘I must get this over with.'

He continued walking for over an hour and eventually came to a tiny hamlet – no more than a cluster of ramshackle dwellings huddled together on a rough track. Drexler followed the path around the base of a hillock, and in due course it took him to a much wider road. He paused in order to get his bearings.

A low, weak sun hovered above the horizon. It was suspended in the sky like a communion wafer: a perfect, lustreless white circle. All around, crows were either taking off or landing, and the air reverberated with their raucous laughter.

Drexler stepped onto the road and continued his descent. Soon he came to another village. He had been to this place several times before but had never stayed very long. Although larger than Aufkirchen, it offered little in the way of entertainment. The inn was fairly respectable and a frequent destination for well-heeled patrons. His parents had taken rooms there once when they'd visited the school.

Opposite the inn was an impressive baroque church, painted bright yellow, and next to this was the police station. It was not a very
auspicious building. Indeed, it might have been described more accurately as an outpost – or guardhouse.

When Drexler opened the door he was struck by the modesty of the interior: roughcast walls, a single paraffin lamp, and a battered table – behind which sat a big-boned constable with orange hair. He was staring glumly at a silent telephone.

Drexler's appearance seemed to raise his spirits.

‘Hello,' he said cheerfully. ‘Are you from the school?'

‘Yes,' Drexler replied.

‘You've come a fair way – lost, are you?'

‘No. I've come to report something.'

‘What's that, then?'

‘A murder.'

The constable's expression changed.

‘A murder?'

‘Yes,' said Drexler. ‘I shot a boy called Perger. I want to confess . . . I want to make a statement.'

LIEBERMANN WATCHED THE
late-afternoon traffic rolling by: fiacres, omnibuses, trams, and an impressive four-horse carriage with a gold crest emblazoned on its black lacquered door. The occupant – a visiting royal of some description – could just be discerned inside, a shadowy figure craning to get a better view of the opera house.

It was a grand building, constructed in the Neo-Renaissance style. However, when it had been completed the Emperor had been overheard agreeing with one of his aides concerning the appearance of the new opera house: it looked . . .
a trifle low, perhaps?
The architect dutifully hanged himself and two months later his collaborator died of a heart attack. Thereafter, Franz Josef only praised the work of civic artists. ‘Beautiful, beautiful . . .' became his unvarying response.

Inside the opera house, the orchestra and singers were rehearsing
Siegfried
. Liebermann had discovered this by talking to the doorman who – for two krone – was easily persuaded to give him advance notice of the musicians' imminent departure.

The young doctor had stationed himself by one of the two stone fountains that flanked the loggia. He had stood by this particular fountain on numerous occasions but had never troubled to examine it closely. The female figure seated at the summit was the legendary siren Lorelei, and below the elegant bowl were three sentries representing Love, Grief, and Vengeance. Liebermann laughed bitterly. The themes dramatised his circumstance perfectly.

He had fallen in love with Trezska: he had been beguiled by her beauty, virtuosity, and mystery. In the virid halo of an absinthe stupor, she was as irresistible and strange as Lorelei. Yet there was a natural order of things, a universal logic, which insisted that love must always – at some point – be associated with grief. Small partings – which pained the heart – were a mere prelude to the great sundering which awaits all lovers. Deceit, calamity, death – grief could not be postponed indefinitely. Liebermann had already started to grieve – even though the outcome of his inquiries was still uncertain. It did not feel premature. He was not psychic, but he wasn't stupid either. Love had been followed by Grief, and he wondered whether Vengeance was now waiting in the wings. Presumably, She could only come at
his
behest. Would he summon that dark spirit, and become acquainted with all three personifications of the operatic triumvirate?

Liebermann was familiar with the legend of Lorelei through Liszt's setting of an eponymous poem by Heine. He recollected the opening bars: yearning, ambiguous harmonies, falling for a moment into silence – and then the voice, entering:

It was a romantic tale of men fatally fascinated by beauty. Liebermann looked up at the Rhine maiden. She was seated on a decorated pedestal, her body half-turned – carelessly exposing her breasts. She was slim – her arms delicately poised – and her corrugated hair flowed off her shoulders. Her expression was wickedly indifferent to masculine worship.

The sound of a voice floated above the traffic. The doorman had come out from beneath the loggia and was waving his hands in the air. Liebermann acknowledged his presence and walked towards the lobby. When he arrived, two men were emerging. The first was taller than the second. His thick dark hair was combed to the side and his beard was neatly trimmed. He wore spectacles, a fine grey suit, and a necktie loosely set to produce a wide knot. The second man was small and wiry, but his face was distinguished by an exceptionally high forehead and a strong, square chin. His hair – which was thinning a little – was brushed back and slightly horripilated. He wore similar spectacles to the first man, a dark jacket, and a white bow tie. Liebermann noticed that his gait was rather unusual: somewhat jerky and uneven.

The first man was Alfred Rosé. The second was Rosé's brother-in-law, Director Mahler. Although Liebermann had been waiting to address the first, the mere presence of the second made his step falter. For Liebermann, Director Mahler was only slightly less than a god.

‘Concert master?' Liebermann called hoarsely. Rosé didn't hear him and the young doctor had to call again: ‘Concert master?'

The violinist stopped and turned.

‘Yes?'

‘Herr Rosé, I have a message . . . from one of your pupils.'

Rosé didn't respond, but simply looked at his interlocutor inquisitively. Liebermann noticed that Mahler's right leg was twitching. This movement suggested impatience, but his expression was perfectly calm. The director finally stamped the ground lightly and the twitching stopped.

‘Fräulein Novak?' Liebermann added.

‘Who did you say?'

‘Fräulein Novak.'

‘I'm sorry,' said the concert master, shaking his head. ‘You must have been misinformed. I have no pupil called Novak.'

It was the answer that Liebermann had expected: but he wanted to make absolutely sure that later there would be no room for doubt in his mind.

‘A Hungarian lady,' he persisted. ‘She recently sought your advice on the Spring Sonata?'

Rosé shook his head again – this time more vigorously.

‘No, my friend. You
really do
have the wrong person.'

‘So it seems . . . forgive me.'

Liebermann bowed, and the two men walked on. Mahler immediately began talking.

‘I've agreed to the guest engagements – and Salter has confirmed that at least one of my works is to be included in every programme.' In spite of his severe features, the director spoke cheerily.

‘And the fee?' asked Rosé.

‘I said I wouldn't accept less than two thousand krone.'

‘Two thousand . . .' repeated Rosé, impressed.

As they receded, their voices faded beneath the clatter and thrum of the Ringstrasse traffic.

Liebermann's attention was drawn upwards. A dark cloud was floating over the roof of the opera house.

EICHMANN PLACED THE
letter in front of him – a carefully executed, fastidious movement. He took care to ensure that the upper horizontal line of the paper was exactly parallel with the edge of his desk, let his finger run over the embossed seal, and took a deep breath.

‘From the Minister of Education.'

Gärtner took a swig from his hip flask.

‘I see.'

‘He is going to attend the next meeting of the board of governors. He wishes to raise a number of issues.'

‘Issues?'

‘The minister makes several allusions to the Emperor's desire to create a more
inclusive
military – and he writes of the moral obligation incumbent upon educational institutions to respect His Majesty's wishes. The implications, I'm afraid, are all too clear.'

‘Headmaster? Are you suggesting that . . .'

‘I will almost certainly be asked to tender my resignation. And so – I am sorry to say – will my closest allies.'

‘We must fight them!' said Gärtner. ‘We must argue our case.'

Eichmann leaned forward and ran his finger down the margin of the letter.

‘Listen to this: “
Young minds are easily misguided, and great care must be taken to ensure that any philosophical instruction given in military schools is concordant with the Emperor's vision.
” It is over, my friend.'

Gärtner took another swig.

‘The ingratitude, headmaster.'

‘I have given the best years of my life to this school.'

Gärtner pulled his gown around his shoulders, as though he had suddenly felt the temperature drop in his old bones.

‘Was it Wolf?'

‘He wrote a letter to his uncle – the Commissioner of the security office.'

‘And have you spoken with him? The boy?'

‘He sat where you are now, straight-faced, explaining to me how he felt he had been manipulated, corrupted. How he had been mesmerised in your special tutorial group – made to believe things through relentless repetition – that he now understands were disloyal to the Emperor . . . not in sympathy with the spirit of an Empire comprised of so many great and proud nations.'