Fatal Lies (22 page)

‘But there are only a few numbers in most of the columns. Look here, for example: 224, 106 11, 34 48 . . . It would be no great feat of memory to remember these.'

‘I know – and I couldn't agree more.' Sommer's protruding ears turned red. ‘It was quite ridiculous.'

‘Why did you arrange the numbers in pairs?'

‘No reason, really. I happened to do so the first time and Zelenka copied thereafter. It became a convention. They are completely random. Just random numbers, that's all.'

‘And what was the purpose of this . . . this game?'

‘Amusement.'

‘Amusement?' said Rheinhardt, incredulously.

‘It amused Zelenka.' Again Sommer laughed. ‘Ridiculous, I know.'

Rheinhardt looked at Liebermann.

‘Herr Doctor, would you like to ask Herr Sommer any questions?'

‘No,' said Liebermann.

‘Are you
quite
sure?' said Rheinhardt.

‘Yes,' replied Liebermann. ‘Quite sure.'

WOLF AND DREXLER
were sitting on the roof of St Florian's, close to the upper storeys of an old tower. The lower storeys, still intact, were not visible. They were below the roof itself. The tower may once have been free-standing, or part of the old religious foundation that predated the school. But the capricious architecture of St Florian's – having an organic quality – had somehow absorbed this ancient edifice. It was now a redundant cylinder of stone that sank through three floors. No one had yet discovered a way of getting inside the tower. Walls closed it off. A doorway in the basement might have been the original entry point, but it too had been sealed off with enormous stone slabs.

Why would one do that?
thought Drexler.
To keep people out? Or to keep something inside?

On a parapet that circled the turret were three winged gargoyles – one of which, Drexler realised, bore a striking resemblance to Professor Gärtner.

‘So,' said Drexler. ‘What
are
you going to do?'

Wolf did not react.

‘I'm intrigued,' Drexler added. ‘I won't tell anyone.' He stood up and pushed his cigarette into the gargoyle's mouth. ‘If there is a hell, I wonder if such things exist . . .'

‘You should stop reading those stupid Hoffmann stories: you're becoming fanciful.'

‘Come on,' said Drexler, ignoring Wolf's jibe. ‘What's this plan of yours?'

Wolf blew out two streams of smoke from his nostrils.

‘I'm going to get a position at the Hofburg – and in due course join the Emperor's personal guard.'

‘No . . . seriously, Wolf,' Drexler said, pressing him.

‘I
am
being serious.'

Drexler leaned forward to inspect Wolf's face.

‘Yes,' Drexler said, more to himself than to his companion. ‘I think you are.'

‘My uncle is head of the security office,' Wolf continued. ‘He's quite well connected – and can pull a few strings. It wasn't my idea originally . . . it was my mother's.'

Drexler laughed.

‘Your mother's!'

‘Yes. She's overprotective.' He permitted himself a crooked grin.

‘The Hofburg, eh?' said Drexler. His expression suddenly changed. ‘But surely you'll need to get better examination results. You've hardly been applying yourself lately.'

‘I am quietly confident.'

‘The chances of you mastering trigonometry between now and the final examinations are – in my opinion – vanishingly small. If this is your great plan, Wolf, then I'm afraid I am singularly unimpressed.'

‘Remember that,' said Wolf. ‘Remember what you just said. And when you're crouching behind a bush, cold, hungry, your boots covered in cow shit, trying to dodge the bullets of the next would-be King of the Carpathians, think of me. Yes, think of me, in my clean uniform with its razor-sharp creases, warm, well fed, accompanying the Emperor to state openings and banquets, drinking champagne at the opera, and watching comedies at the Court Theatre.'

‘You are deluding yourself, Wolf.'

‘Go to hell, Drexler.'

‘Well – to be frank, I think that's a lot more likely than you going to the Hofburg.'

Wolf glanced at his watch. He flicked his cigarette into the air and stood. A powerful gust of wind made him stumble and he steadied himself by trouching the stone arc of a demon's wing.

‘Drill,' he said.

The two boys set off, climbing over the bizarre terrain: fallen chimneys, a scattering of tiles – and the ruin of a small observatory. Inside the little cabin, Drexler spotted the rusting remains of an antique orrery. He would take a closer look next time.

‘Where are you going?' Wolf called as Drexler veered off.

‘This way.' Drexler gestured. ‘It's quicker.'

‘You can't get down that way.'

‘Yes, you can,' said Drexler, indignant.

They came to an area where the surface on which they were walking was interrupted by a deep channel. Water had collected at the bottom.
Wolf looked over the edge and saw the reflection of his head, silhouetted against the bilious sky. It was a long way down and there was no way round. The channel stretched from one side of the roof to the other.

‘See?' said Wolf. ‘I told you we shouldn't have come this way.'

‘What are you talking about?' said Drexler. ‘You just have to jump across. Some iron steps are attached to the side of the building – and they lead to a window. It's always open.'

‘Jump across? Don't be ridiculous. The gap's too wide.'

‘No, it isn't.'

‘You'll break your neck.'

‘I won't.'

Drexler took a few steps backwards and then ran towards the precipice. He glided through the air and a second later landed safely on the other side. ‘See? Easy. It's narrower than you think.'

Wolf looked at Drexler, then up at the octahedral spires of the Gothic façade.

‘You're not scared, are you, Wolf?' Drexler called.

‘Of course not.'

Wolf ran – but just before leaping he pulled up short.

‘Come on, Wolf – it's easy.'

‘Your legs are longer than mine,' said Wolf. ‘You have an unfair advantage.'

‘
Life
's unfair, Wolf! Now jump, will you?'

Another gust of wind destroyed Wolf's confidence completely.

‘No . . . I can't do it.'

‘Well, you'll have to go the long way down – and you'll be late.'

Drexler raised his hand and loped off.

‘Drexler,' Wolf fumed.

‘What?'

Wolf's anger suddenly subsided.

‘Make up an excuse for me.'

Drexler nodded, found the top of the iron steps, and swung himself over the parapet.

LIEBERMANN MAINTAINED A
pensive silence as the carriage rattled down the hill towards Aufkirchen. He appeared to be wholly occupied by the patterns produced by runnels of rainwater on the window. Raising his hand, he allowed his forefinger to trace the length of a silvery braid that was being blown sideways across the glass.

‘Well?' said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann started.

‘I'm sorry, Oskar. Did you say something?'

‘Surely the rain cannot be so very interesting.'

‘Forgive me,' said Liebermann, removing his hand from the glass. ‘I've been thinking . . .'

‘Indeed,' said Rheinhardt. He made an interrogatory hand gesture, inviting Liebermann to elaborate.

A gust of wind buffeted the carriage and the driver cursed loudly. Liebermann, ignoring the string of colourful expletives, made a steeple with his fingers and peered at his friend.

‘I believe we can now be certain,' he began slowly, ‘that Zelenka and Frau Becker were lovers.'

Rheinhardt nodded: ‘I had not expected Sommer to be so candid.'

‘Although, to be frank,' Liebermann continued, ‘with respect to this matter, I found your interview with Becker more revealing – and more compelling – than your interview with Sommer.'

Rheinhardt tilted his head.

‘But Becker didn't say anything about his wife's liaison with Zelenka!'

‘You will recall,' said Liebermann, ‘that he said his wife was compassionate and easily moved to sympathy. He then said that Zelenka had taken advantage of her kind nature. However, he hesitated for a fraction of a second in the middle of the sentence.'

‘What of it?'

‘Well, it sounded like this: “
Zelenka took advantage of her
” . . . and then Becker added, almost as an afterthought . . . “
kind nature
”. Psychoanalysis teaches us that there is much to be learned from a careful study of the subtleties of speech. The truth was too much to hold back. He could not stop himself from telling us what he knew. Moreover, when you asked him why he hadn't mentioned Frau Becker's fondness for Zelenka before, he made a significant verbal blunder. He said: “
Why should I have? It's entirely relevant
.” Of course, what he meant to say was: “
Why should I have? It's entirely
ir
relevant
.” The more an individual tries to conceal something of importance, the more he betrays himself with such errors! Finally, did you notice that whenever he spoke of his wife he kept on touching his wedding ring? He was like a patient suffering from an obsessional neurosis, checking to ensure that some valued possession has not been entirely lost.'

‘Most interesting,' said Rheinhardt, twirling his moustache, ‘Most interesting; however, the principal purpose of our visit to St Florian's today was to interview Herr Sommer, a man who you, for reasons still unclear to me, have always insisted would shine some light on the mystery of Zelenka's death. Now, as far as I'm concerned, our investigation has not been furthered greatly. He has simply confirmed what was already suspected: that Zelenka and Frau Becker were having an illicit liaison, that boys like Wolf torment scholarship boys, and that the headmaster turns a blind eye to such behaviour.'

‘I can assure you, Herr Sommer is . . .' Liebermann paused to select an appropriate word. ‘Involved.'

‘How do you mean, “
involved
”? I don't understand.'

Liebermann tapped his fingers together.

‘Immediately after Sommer learned of Zelenka's death, he fell down some stairs and sprained his ankle – which gave him an ideal excuse to get away from St Florian's.'

‘But it was an accident, Max! And it must have been a genuine accident or he wouldn't have volunteered the name of his physician, Professor Baltish. We can easily check his story.'

‘No, Oskar. You misunderstand me. I am sure his sprain
is
real; however, as Professor Freud has explained, if one really examines the context of any accident, one can often see how it might have served some purpose. In other words, accidents are motivated. This motivation is, however, unconscious. The individual does not
plan
to have an accident . . . as far as they are concerned, it just happens.'

‘All right, then what does Herr Sommer's stumble mean?'

‘Well, quite obviously, that he did not want to be questioned about Zelenka. He wished to postpone questioning for as long as possible – and he stood to benefit in two ways. Firstly, the police investigation might have been closed before his return, thus he would have succeeded in avoiding questioning altogether. Secondly, if the police investigation was still in progress on the date of his return he would have had sufficient time to collect himself and would be better prepared. Of course, it was always possible that you would travel to Linz in order to interview him – but even if you had, he would still have secured himself a period of respite. The fact that he needed time to think things through suggests the existence of a complex situation in which many factors needed to be taken into consideration. I had always suspected Herr Sommer's
involvement
– from the moment you mentioned his accident; however, my suspicions were confirmed
beyond doubt when he arrived an hour late. Again, his error speaks volumes. He did not want to be interviewed. He was still attempting to avoid you. And the question you must ask yourself, Oskar, is: why?'

Rheinhardt frowned.

‘What are you suggesting, Max? That Sommer killed Zelenka?'

‘Zelenka died of natural causes.'

Rheinhardt rolled his eyes.

‘According to Professor Mathias . . . but you have already admitted that the more we probe the world of St Florian's, the more we discover conditions and circumstances ordinarily associated with murder.'

Liebermann stared at his hands, and continued to tap his fingers together.

‘He was lying about the article in the
Arbeiter Zeitung
.'

‘What?' said Rheinhardt.

‘You asked him if he was aware of the article, and he replied: “
No, no . . . I wasn't aware . . . no
.” He denied knowledge of the article four times. A perfect example of overcompensation.'

‘But people often repeat things.'

‘Not four times, Oskar,' said Liebermann. He paused, and then mischievously drove his point home with a repetition: ‘Not four times.'

‘Why on earth would he lie about that?'

‘Consistency. I think it highly unlikely that Professor Baltish's sanatorium takes a socialist daily . . . and needless to say, Sommer also lied about the numbers in Zelenka's textbook.'

‘Did he?'

‘Oh yes. Did you see how red his ears went?'

‘I attributed that to embarrassment.'

‘No . . . his laughter was completely false, and he was far too eager to stress that the numbers were random. His story about the memory game was complete nonsense – although, on reflection, I imagine it
was probably the best bogus explanation that he, or anybody else, might fabricate.'