Fatal Lies (44 page)

Drexler pushed Stojakovic, who stumbled away from Steininger.

‘Take no notice of him. Go.'

The boy was too frightened to leave. He stood, rooted to the spot where he had come to rest.

Steininger caught Freitag's eye and nodded.

‘You really have gone mad, Drexler,' said Freitag.

‘Yes, quite mad,' echoed Gruber.

The two lieutenants moved forward.

‘Don't you understand?' continued Freitag, pushing his unfinished, canine face into Drexler's. ‘We're tired of all your nonsense.'

‘And I'm tired of
you
!' said Drexler.

Without warning, he brought his knee up sharply into Freitag's
groin. As the boy buckled over in pain, Drexler delivered an uppercut to his heavy chin, which sent him reeling over onto the floor. Drexler then thrust his elbow back into Gruber's face, knocking out several teeth. Steininger attempted to jump up, but Drexler placed both hands against his chest and pushed him back down.

Gruber retreated, his hand over his mouth, blood streaming through his fingers and splashing on the floor. Freitag was rolling from side to side, moaning and clutching his genitals.

‘Stojakovic,' said Drexler calmly, ‘if any of these imbeciles pick on you again, let me know. Now, for the last time, will you please go.'

The Serbian boy jumped up on the box and pulled himself up through the trapdoor. His accelerating footsteps could be heard crossing the floor above.

Drexler went to the old suitcase, opened the lid, and took out his volume of E. T. A. Hoffmann short stories. He slowed as he passed Steininger.

‘Now that Wolf's gone, things are going to change around here,' he said.

‘WELL, HERR DOCTOR . . .'
said Trezska. The impersonal term of address was employed knowingly, and Liebermann detected in its use a purposeful distancing. ‘Once again I am indebted. You know, I really think he was about to pull the trigger.'

Liebermann reached for von Bulow's hat and slipped it beneath his head. The insensible Inspector's breathing was shallow, but not so shallow as to cause the young doctor alarm. Von Bulow would probably wake with blurred vision, dizziness, and nausea: nothing that twenty-four hours' bed rest wouldn't put right.

‘You're a spy – aren't you?' said Liebermann.

Trezska observed him without emotion. He grabbed the stair rail and pulled himself up.

‘They call you . . . the
Liderc
?'

Trezska raised one of her eyebrows, indicating that she was impressed.

‘And I presume,' Liebermann continued, ‘that this name was chosen because of your willingness to use your feminine
charms
in the service of your cause?'

‘You have many flaws, Herr Doctor, but I had never, till this moment, counted prudery among them.'

Liebermann ignored her barbed riposte.

‘Your mission,' he continued, ‘was to steal a document from General von Stober – a top-secret document called
Studie U
. The unwitting
General was encouraged to expect your favours and invited you to his apartment. I wonder, did you always plan to kill him? Or did something go wrong which necessitated his murder?'

‘I was supposed to keep the old man
occupied
,' Trezska responded euphemistically, ‘while a comrade opened his safe. The fool made so much noise that von Stober picked up a poker and went to see what was going on. My comrade panicked. It was most unfortunate.'

‘And what about me?' said Liebermann. ‘Was I part of your mission too?'

‘You flatter yourself, Herr Doctor. We met by chance.'

‘In which case . . . you swiftly calculated that I might have some other use: the provision of an alibi, perhaps?'

‘If this is to be a frank exchange of views,' said Trezska, ‘then I must admit, the idea
did
cross my mind; however, that was all. I sought your further acquaintance because I felt indebted to you. We Hungarians are nothing if not appreciative. Moreover, I found you very . . .' she paused before adding, ‘. . . desirable.'

A gust of wind lashed the side of Liebermann's face. A fresh cascade of water tumbled from the second storey, contributing yet more volume to the existing downpour.

‘I see from your expression,' said Trezska, ‘that you find my candid admission distasteful – unbecoming of a lady? Of course, if I were a man you would think nothing of it. You are not nearly so enlightened as you suppose, Herr Doctor. Now, before I take my leave – which I really must – tell me, what are you doing here? I cannot recall issuing you with an invitation.'

‘I came here to confront you.'

‘Why? For what purpose?'

‘To see if my deductions were correct.'

Trezska laughed.

‘Another of your flaws, Herr Doctor: intellectual vanity! Well, at
the risk of aggravating your conceit, I must applaud you! Your deductions were indeed correct. Which brings me to my next question: how ever did you become so well informed? There are aides in the Hofburg who have never heard of
Studie U
. And as for my code name . . . If you hadn't rendered our poor friend here unconscious,' she gestured towards von Bulow, ‘I would be considering whether or not you had been recruited by the secret service.'

‘And what if I was?' said Liebermann.

Before she could answer, a male voice resounded across the courtyard: ‘Don't move.'

Liebermann turned. Coming out of the arcade was a swarthy-looking young man. He was holding a gun and walking straight towards him.

THE FOREST WAS
virtually impenetrable; however, the woodman was able to find his way by following a series of marks he had made on the tree trunks with his knife: gouges, gashes, and occasionally a rough cross. His furs were heavy with rain, and the sack he was carrying had become burdensome.

No one ever passed this way. Even the local people kept a safe distance. It wasn't only that the little forest was remote and inhospitable. There were stories: of wild animals, of murderous gypsies – and of children who had entered and never come out again.

It was true that gypsies were unaccountably fond of parking their brightly painted caravans close by. Moreover, they travelled immense distances to get there – from Russia, Galicia, and the Carpathians. They rarely stayed for more than a day.

Once, the woodman had overheard some men in the Aufkirchen inn gossiping about the forest. Someone had said that the king of the Ruthenian gypsies had buried a hoard of stolen treasure in the middle of it. A young man who was staying at the inn insisted that they should saddle up their horses at once. They should ride out to this forest, equipped with lamps and shovels, and they might return the very same night, fabulously rich. But the older men laughed uneasily. It was only a legend – and they plied the young man with so much drink that he fell off his stool and had to be carried to his room.

The woodman emerged in a small clearing. In the centre was an
ancient stone well and a tumbledown shack. Thick smoke was coming from the chimney, and the air was filled with an acrid odour. He lumbered over to the entrance and knocked gently.

‘Come in.' The voice was old and cracked.

The woodman pulled the door open and went inside.

In the centre of the room was an open fire over which a black cauldron was suspended. Only a few tongues of flame danced around the steaming logs but they supplied enough light to reveal the squalid surroundings: a dirty pallet bed, bottles, a shelf of earthenware pots, and several cages on the floor. The cages were occupied, and green eyes flashed behind the chicken wire.

Next to the cauldron an old woman sat on a low bench. She had a schoolmaster's black cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and she wore a necklace made from the bones of animals. Her hair was long and grey, and when she smiled her lips receded to reveal a row of blackened teeth. The upper central incisors were missing.

‘Is it him?' she croaked.

The woodman nodded and dropped the jute sack next to the cauldron. Zhenechka got up and hobbled over. Reaching into a worn leather pouch she produced a silver coin, which she pressed into the woodman's hand.

‘Good,' she said. ‘Very good.'

She was delighted with the woodman's find – and could put it to many irregular uses.

‘
PUT YOUR HANDS
above your head.'

The man was wearing a shabby coat, a floppy hat tilted at an acute angle and a long embroidered scarf. Black curly hair fell from behind his exposed ear, and his moustache was so well waxed that the wind and rain hadn't displaced a single hair. It projected out from his face, defiantly horizontal.

Liebermann obeyed.

‘Don't look at me – turn back round,' the man continued.

‘This is quite unnecessary, Lázár,' said Trezska. ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is a friend. Had he not come to my assistance,' she gestured towards the supine body of von Bulow, ‘everything would now be over.'

Liebermann felt the barrel of the gun dig into the back of his neck.

‘No,' said the man. ‘He's not
our
friend: he's a friend of the fat detective – the one who was following me. I told you not to mess around – not with so much at stake. Now look what's happened.'

Trezska looked down at Liebermann. ‘Ah, now I see why you are so well informed . . .'

‘Well informed?' asked the man. ‘What does he know?'

‘He knows about
Studie U
.'

‘Then we must kill him.'

‘I have no idea what
Studie U
is!' Liebermann protested. ‘I am
very
well acquainted with Inspector Rheinhardt – the person whom I
think you just referred to as the
fat detective
– and I sometimes help him with his inquiries. His assistant overheard a conversation between
this
gentleman – Inspector von Bulow – and the Commissioner.
Studie U
and the
Liderc
were discussed.' The gunman took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Neither Inspector Rheinhardt nor I,' Liebermann continued, ‘have the slightest idea what
Studie U
is, beyond the obvious – that it is a document that must contain some highly sensitive information. As for your code name . . .' Liebermann appealed to Trezska. ‘You will allow, I hope, that you gave me certain reasons for suspicion on the Kohlmarkt and I am not an absolute fool.'

Before Trezska could respond the man interjected, ‘He's lying.'

The gunman's intention to fire his weapon was reflected in Trezska's horrified expression.

‘No,' she shouted. ‘Wait!'

‘What for?'

‘If he's lying, why did he knock out von Bulow?'

‘Maybe he didn't – maybe it's all a ruse and von Bulow is just pretending to be unconscious, waiting for his moment!'

‘Lázár, that's absurd.'

‘Look, I don't know what's happening here – and neither do you. But we do know that
this
man,' Liebermann felt the gun's muzzle being lodged under the bony arch at the base of his skull, ‘
this
man knows far more than he should and if you let him live it will threaten the success of the operation – everything we've worked for! If you don't want to watch, go and wait for me at the Südbahnhof. I'll deal with them both.'

The ensuing hiatus was filled with the noise of the roaring deluge: the slop and spatter, the plash and spill – unrelenting, indifferent, merciless.

Trezska threw her arms up in the air, as if she was beseeching a higher authority for assistance. When she let them drop her bag
slipped from her shoulder. It landed on the ironwork with a resonant clang. She crouched down to pick it up.

There was a loud report.

The pressure of the gun barrel at the back of Liebermann's neck was suddenly relieved. Then there was a dull thud, followed by the clatter of Lázár Kiss's revolver hitting the ground.

Trezska was clutching a small smoking pistol.

Liebermann remembered that first night, when he had lifted her bag in the alley and found it unusually heavy. Now he knew why.

He wheeled around. Lázár was sprawled out on the cobbles, blood leaking from a neat circular hole in his forehead.

‘You've killed him,' whispered Liebermann.

‘Yes,' said Trezska. ‘You were telling the truth.' She smiled at him, and her distinctive features took on a diabolic cast: ‘I had a . . .
feeling
. And, as you know, I trust my feelings.'

‘Who is he?' said Liebermann, extending a trembling hand to the stair rail for support.

‘Lázár Kiss – a fellow nationalist. But I have long suspected him of being a collaborator – a double agent. Now, you will forgive me, I have a train to catch. I trust you won't experience a sudden surge of patriotism and try to stop me.' Trezska pointed her gun at Liebermann. ‘I hope you will agree that I have now redeemed my debt – and I have no further obligation to you.'

‘Would you really shoot me?' Liebermann glanced at the pistol. It was a beautiful weapon, chased with filigree. The handgrip was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

‘What do you think?'

‘I think you would.'

‘Then you would think right.'

‘Is it in your valise –
Studie U
?'

‘Yes.'

‘What is it? What can be
so
valuable . . .'

Trezska paused. Her expression suggested inner conflict – a struggle of conscience that finally resolved itself in a sigh.

‘The Emperor's plans to invade Hungary.'

‘What?' said Liebermann, drawing back in disbelief. ‘But that's impossible!'

‘Before you condemn me, just think how many lives would be lost if the old fool and his senile generals decided to march on Budapest. At least with
Studie U
in our possession we can attempt to avert such a catastrophe.'