Fatal Lies (41 page)

‘Lydgate is not so common a name in the British Isles . . . and, having resolved to begin my inquiries among the better educational establishments of London, I was soon rewarded with success. However, I was reluctant to approach Samuel directly. I did not know what manner of man he was – or how he might respond if I presented myself at his door.

‘I am accustomed to uncovering facts – it is, indeed, what constitutes the greater part of my work. I decided that I should discover a little more about Samuel's circumstances before alerting him to my existence. I wanted to know more about him in order to better judge whether or not my appearance would be welcome. My agent in London later informed me that Samuel Lydgate had a daughter – Amelia – who was currently studying at the University of Vienna . . .

‘Doctor Liebermann, you cannot imagine how this intelligence affected me. A sister. I had a younger sister!' Randall looked at Amelia and his expression, Liebermann noticed, was still – in spite of the passage of time – incandescent with joyful disbelief. ‘I do not know why I was so profoundly moved – but
moved
I most certainly was. Further, it occurred to me that there might be certain advantages if I took the trouble to contact my sister before I approached my father: a younger person might be less rigid – better equipped to assimilate such dramatic news. She might even be prepared to act as a kind of intermediary. So I resolved to travel to Vienna . . . and here I am.'

‘A remarkable story,' said Liebermann. ‘Truly remarkable.'

The subsequent discussion was somewhat circular, returning again and again to reiterations of the fact that Randall Lydgate's history
was – without doubt –
remarkable
! Indeed, it seemed to Liebermann that repetitions of this nature were something of a necessity and an unspecified number were required before the conversation was free to proceed beyond general expressions of amazement. Eventually, however, a turning point was reached and the issue of how best to inform Samuel Lydgate of Randall's appearance was given careful and sensitive consideration.

Liebermann's curiosity had been aroused by something that Randall had said earlier, and at an appropriate juncture he said:

‘I trust that you will not consider my question impertinent. But you mentioned in passing that your work involves . . . uncovering facts? What is it that you do?'

‘I am an archaeologist,' said Randall.

‘And a respected authority,' said Amelia, ‘on the ancient civilisations of Mexico and Peru.'

‘Please . . . Amelia,' said Randall, embarrassed by his sister's advocacy. ‘Most of my work takes place in old libraries – poring over ancient maps and mythologies. But on occasion it is my privilege to visit the holy places of the Toltecs, where it is still possible to find – and save – examples of their sublime artistry.'

‘The Toltecs?'

‘A race alluded to in a migration myth as the first Nahua immigrants to the region of Mexico. The name “Toltec” came to be regarded by the surrounding peoples as synonymous with “artist”, and as a kind of hallmark which guaranteed the superiority of any Toltec workmanship.' As Randall spoke, his voice acquired a mellifluous, dreamy quality, and his eyes seemed to search out a far horizon. ‘Everything in and about their city was eloquent of the taste and artistry of its founders. The very walls were encrusted with rare stones, and their masonry was so beautifully chiselled and laid as to resemble the choicest mosaic.'

It transpired that Randall had clearly inherited some of his mother's appetite for adventure. For he often accepted commissions from North American universities and museums to journey south – into sometimes remote and dangerous territories – in order to recover lost treasures, the existence of which he ascertained from close readings of native legends (recorded by historians with exotic names such as Zumarraga and Ixtlilxochitl).

As the evening progressed, the conversation ranged over an extraordinarily broad range of topics: Amelia's research under the supervision of Landsteiner, King Acxitl, dream interpretation, the hallucinatory properties of certain desert mushrooms (an example of which, curiously, Randall happened to have in his pocket), Nietzsche's concept of eternal recurrence, and the syncopated music of the black people of New Orleans (which Randall obligingly whistled while tapping his foot).

Discussion of rags and ragtime led, by some oblique conversational manoeuvring, to the Waltz, which prompted Amelia to enthuse – at some length – about the ball she had attended with Liebermann. Randall – to Liebermann's surprise – expressed much interest (perhaps anthropological) in
Fasching
, and the young doctor found himself offering to take both brother and sister to the clockmakers' ball, which was scheduled to take place the following week.

When Liebermann finally took his leave he felt quite dazed. It had turned out to be an evening very different to the one he had expected. He walked the streets for some time – smoking and thinking – before returning home. When Miss Lydgate had said goodbye, she had reached out and gently touched his hand. After taking a few steps he had looked back, and the image of her standing in the doorway had impressed itself on his memory. Her white dress had billowed in the breeze, and strands of her spun copper hair had streamed across her face. She had pushed them aside, revealing those arresting eyes.
The smile that had been fleetingly present throughout the entire evening was gone, and her expression was intense, penetrating – as if she was looking directly into his soul. Liebermann identified the thought as fanciful, but nevertheless felt a shiver of unease.

He had been so very wrong about Miss Lydgate. Indeed, on reflection, Liebermann concluded that in matters of the heart he had something of a gift for being wrong . . .

THE SILENCE THAT
prevailed in the Commissioner's office was absolute. It was the kind of stillness that Rheinhardt associated with mortuaries and provincial churches in winter: an icy, unyielding soundlessness – as obstinate as frozen loam. He wanted to speak but whenever he tried, his courage failed.
This
silence demanded the utmost care – and if he broke it carelessly the consequences would be catastrophic.

The Commissioner had not moved for some time. His eyes were fixed on a folder occupying the pool of light beneath his desk lamp. It contained Rheinhardt's supplementary report on the murder of Thomas Zelenka. Brügel's hand crept into the illuminated circle like a grotesque insect emerging from beneath a stone, the first and second fingers raised and testing the air like feelers. Sustaining a convincing illusion of self-determination, Brügel's hand halted before touching the folder – as if it had detected something repellent or dangerous therein. The Commissioner's profound, contemplative silence seemed to presage alarming possibilities: not only the prospect of punishment, but actual
expulsion
from the security office.

Rheinhardt had always been a policeman and could imagine no other life. What else could he do? He tried to console himself with the thought that he had acted conscientiously. But, in truth, he knew that he had been impulsive, naive and somewhat vainglorious. Now he would suffer the consequences.

Brügel's hand moved forward and his raised fingers dropped down on the folder. The inconsequential beat this movement produced sounded – to Rheinhardt – like the boom of a ceremonial drum: an invitation in some ancient rite to ritual slaughter.

‘You disobeyed my orders,' said the Commissioner, in a low, gravelly voice. ‘I distinctly recall telling you that as far as I was concerned the St Florian's case was closed.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Rheinhardt. ‘You did. However, with the greatest respect . . .'
I have nothing to lose, now,
he thought.
I might as well defend myself
. Rheinhardt took a deep breath. ‘Sir: I hold the rank of Detective Inspector. Although it is my duty to obey
you
– my commanding officer – it is also my duty to serve the Justizpalast, the people of Vienna, and ultimately, His Majesty the Emperor.'

Rheinhardt glanced up at the portrait of Franz Josef – only just visible in the reflected lamplight – and fancied that he saw a glimmer of approval in the old man's expression. ‘I believe,' he continued, ‘that I acted correctly and in accordance with the obligations and necessities of my office.'

The Commissioner's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a tight fist – the knuckles rising up beneath his leathery skin to form a bloodless ridge. On his temple a knotty blood vessel pulsed with febrile malevolence. The Commissioner seemed to be on the brink of exploding with rage when – quite suddenly – his expression changed. He sighed, his shoulders fell, and his clenched fist slowly opened.

‘My nephew,' said Brügel hoarsely, ‘has been disgraced . . .' Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. Their gazes met, and the Commissioner continued. ‘His mother was so proud of him. This will break her heart.' As on the previous occasion when Brügel had mentioned his sister, tender sentiments seemed to diminish him.

‘I am very sorry, sir,' said Rheinhardt, sincerely.

The Commisioner opened his drawer and removed a letter which he placed carefully on the folder containing Rheinhardt's report.

‘From Kiefer,' he said softly. ‘It does not exonerate him . . . but it may go some way towards helping us to understand his conduct. You see, the boy claims to have been influenced by certain teachings promulgated by the masters – Eichmann, Gärtner, Ostergagen – a philosophy of power. Young minds, Rheinhardt. They are so malleable – so easily corrupted . . . I have already spoken to the Minister of Education – who has promised to attend the next meeting of the board of governors.'

The Commissioner fell silent again.

‘Sir,' said Rheinhardt. ‘Am I to be disciplined?'

The Commissioner grunted and shook his head.

‘Thank you, sir,' said Rheinhardt. Not wishing to tempt fate, he stood up and clicked his heels. ‘Should I report to Inspector von Bulow tomorrow morning?'

‘No,' said the Commissioner. ‘He doesn't need
your
assistance anymore.' Brügel succeeded in investing the possessive pronoun with utter contempt.

‘Very good, sir,' said Rheinhardt. He bowed – and walked briskly to the door.

LIEBERMANN HAD FIRST
met Oppenheim in one of the coffee houses close to the hospital. Although the young man was studying classics at the university he was a keen amateur psychologist and always willing to discuss – in his words –
the life of the soul
. He was an enthusiastic, open-minded fellow, and much more at ease with topics such as sexuality and the conflicts arising between
nature
and culture than most of Liebermann's colleagues. Their friendship was sustained – as it had begun – by occasional, unplanned encounters in the coffee houses of the Ninth District.

Liebermann had risen early and, on his way to the hospital, was pleasantly surprised to discover Oppenheim sitting outside the Café Segal, warming his hands around a steaming, frothy
mélange
, and reading a volume of Greek.

They greeted each other cordially and Oppenheim invited Liebermann to join him for breakfast. Glancing at his wristwatch, Liebermann saw that he had plenty of time to spare and seated himself beside the student.

‘What are you reading?' asked Liebermann.

‘
A True Story
– by Lucian of Samosata,' Oppenheim replied. ‘An extraordinary piece of writing about a group of adventuring heroes who travel to the moon. It is – at one and the same time – a very early example of fantastic literature and a criticism of ancient authorities that describes mythical events as though they are real.'

This weighty gambit was typical of Oppenheim, whose appetite for intellectual stimulation was not very much affected by the hour of the day. Liebermann – prematurely aged by the youth's indecent vitality – ordered a
very
strong
schwarzer
, two
Kaisersemmel
rolls, and some plum conserve.

Their conversation ranged up and down the narrow isthmus that connected classical literature and psychiatry, and touched upon Aristotle's
De Anima
, Hippocrates' essay on epilepsy, and sundry poetical works which took melancholia as their principal theme. After they had been talking for a while, Liebermann began to wonder whether the young scholar might know the answer to a certain question that had been annoying him like the minor but persistent presence of a small stone in a shoe.

‘Tell me,' Liebermann asked, ‘do you have any idea what a
Liderc
is?'

‘A what?'

‘A
Liderc
.'

‘Is it a Hungarian word?'

‘I believe it is . . .'

Oppenheim stroked his short beard.

‘It sounds vaguely familiar . . . and I think I may have come across it in a book of folklore. But . . . I can't quite remember. Will you be at the hospital today?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I'll look it up and let you know if I find anything.'

The sound of church bells reminded Liebermann that he should be on his way. He rose and deposited a pile of coins on the table: more than enough to cover his own and Oppenheim's breakfast. Before Oppenheim could object – as he usually did – Liebermann declared: ‘You can pay next time.'

It was of course what Liebermann always said on such occasions.
Later in the day Liebermann received a short note from Oppenheim.