Fatal Lies (25 page)

Steininger began to guffaw, but Wolf silenced him with his glazed, humourless stare.

‘I'm afraid, Perger,' said Wolf, ‘that you
must
be punished. However, I am not sure yet what form this punishment should take. Now, even as I speak, I notice that my boots could do with a good clean. Would you be willing to clean my boots, Perger?'

‘Yes, Wolf.'

‘Would you be happy to lick them clean?'

‘Yes, Wolf.'

‘Including the soles? Although I feel obliged to tell you that I went to the stables today and stupidly trod in some manure.'

‘Y-yes, Wolf.'

‘
My
boots could do with a clean, too,' said Freitag.

‘And mine,' said Steininger.

‘Well,' continued Wolf. ‘How about that, Perger? Would you be willing to lick Freitag and Steininger's boots too?'

‘Yes, Wolf.'

‘And you see,' said Wolf, assuming a fatigued expression, ‘in agreeing so readily, you demonstrate the inadequacy of the punishment. It simply isn't enough . . . a fellow like you needs more! Something that will leave a lasting impression, something that will remind you to
perform your duties more diligently in future . . . something that has a reasonable chance of countering your extraordinary laziness!'

Wolf produced a revolver from his pocket. He released the cylindrical block and showed Perger that one of the six chambers contained a cartridge. Then, swinging the cylinder back into alignment, he spun it until it halted with a click. He cocked the hammer with his thumb.

‘Here . . .' said Wolf, offering the gun to Perger. ‘Take it.'

The boy took the weapon in his shaking hands.

‘Put the barrel in your mouth, and pull the trigger. The odds are very much in your favour.'

‘No, Wolf . . . I c-c-can't.'

‘Ah, but you c-can, and you w-will!' said Wolf.

Perger's eyes brimmed, and tears began to roll down his cheeks.

‘Don't be pathetic, Perger!' Wolf shouted. ‘Put the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger. Now!'

Perger raised the gun, but its ascent was slow – as if it had become too heavy to lift. Indeed, Perger's entire body seemed to have become weak and floppy. He began to sway, and his eyelids flickered. Freitag and Steinger gripped his tunic and held him upright.

‘Don't swoon like a woman, you – you . . . you Galician whore's son!' He grabbed Perger's wrist and pulled it up, shoving the gun barrel between the boy's lips. Then, covering Perger's hand with his own, he applied a minute amount of pressure to the distraught boy's trigger finger.

‘Here, let me help. Come on, Perger, be brave. I'm not going to do it for you.'

Perger emitted a strange keening.

Suddenly there was a creaking sound, followed by the thud of feet landing on the floorboards and the
whump
of the trapdoor closing. A few moments later Drexler appeared.

‘What's going on?' he asked.

‘Perger's playing Russian roulette,' Wolf replied.

‘Yes,' said Steininger. ‘He's unhappy at St Florian's – and has decided to end it all. He's not the first.'

‘And he won't be the last,' said Freitag.

‘A tragic waste . . .' said Steininger.

Drexler walked over to Perger and eased the revolver out of his mouth. Perger's hand slowly descended to his lap. He rested the gun on his thigh and bowed his head.

‘What on earth do you think you're doing, Drexler!' Wolf shouted.

The other boy didn't reply. He simply shook his head and bit his lower lip.

‘Look, Drexler,' Wolf continued. ‘I don't know what's got into you lately, but my patience is running out. You're always spoiling things. And if you carry on like this, well, I am obliged to say – you won't be welcome here for very much longer.'

Wolf threw a glance – a silent appeal – in the direction of Steininger and Freitag.

‘Yes, Drexler,' said Steininger. ‘This is our place . . . and if you're not going to join in . . .'

‘You should stay away,' said Freitag.

Drexler ignored the two lieutenants and took a step closer to Wolf.

‘Let him go, Wolf. Look at him . . .' He gestured towards the hunched, crumpled figure on the stool. ‘This is pathetic.'

‘What did you say?'

‘I said, this is pathetic!' It was now Drexler's turn to include Steininger and Freitag. ‘Can't you see, you two? It's all getting out of hand. These stupid games—'

‘You've lost your nerve, Drexler,' Wolf cut in. ‘Go on – admit it.'

‘It doesn't take very much nerve to pick on Perger!'

‘More nerve than you have – evidently.'

‘It's cowardly, Wolf!'

‘What?'

‘You heard.'

‘How dare you call me a coward! How dare you!'

Wolf snatched the revolver from Perger's loose grip and pointed it towards Drexler.

‘Go on, then – shoot,' said Drexler.

‘You think it's a blank cartridge. Don't you?'

Once again, the intensity of Wolf's gaze surprised Drexler, and he was unsettled by a tremor of doubt.

‘I'm a coward, am I?' Wolf continued.

Unexpectedly, he released the cylinder, spun it, and cocked the hammer. Then he pressed the barrel against his own temple and grinned: a maniacal rictus.

Behold, I teach you the Übermensch.

The Übermensch baulks at nothing . . . The Übermensch has no fear . . .

‘Wolf?' said Freitag. He could not conceal his anxiety.

Wolf pulled the trigger. A dead click.

‘Who's the coward now? Eh, Drexler?' He said, handing over the revolver.

Drexler examined the weapon. His mouth went dry and he became aware of an ethereal whistling in his head. Steininger and Freitag were looking at him – their expressions showed intense concentration rather than their usual brutish insouciance. Drexler gripped the end of the barrel between his teeth and squeezed the trigger.

Another dead click. The whistling stopped.

Without hesitation, Wolf took the weapon back, prepared it for firing, and pointed the muzzle between his own eyes. He was still grinning his deranged grin, but this time his hand was shaking. A film of sweat had appeared on his brow. When his finger finally closed on the trigger and the silence was broken only by the hammer's fall on
another empty chamber, he burst out laughing and threw the gun at Drexler. The other boy snatched it out of the air.

‘Only three left, Drexler,' Wolf said. ‘Your turn.'

Drexler looked at the gun, and then at Wolf. He cocked the hammer. The distance that he usually interposed between himself and the world had suddenly vanished. Reality stormed the ramparts of his senses and he became acutely aware of the minutiae of existence: the systolic and diastolic components of his pulse, the expansion and contraction of his lungs, the passage of air in his nostrils, the taste of metal in his mouth, and the lost room, with its familiar contents – the suitcase, the wicker chair (and the permanent fragrance of tobacco, fear, and erotic discharge) – this haven of shabby delights – every part of it acquired a vivid immediacy. He was alive and he did not want to die.

‘This is absurd,' said Drexler. He lifted the revolver and looked into the end of its barrel. Its circularity suggested eternity, and its blackness oblivion. There were other things he could be doing at this moment in time: making love to Snjezana, reading Hoffmann, or simply smoking in the grounds and watching the moon rise. He shook his head.

‘Oh, you're all insane . . .' he said contemptuously, tossing the revolver aside. It landed a few feet away. There was a loud report, a bright flash, and a hazy cloud of gunpowder smoke rose up like a spectral apparition.

‘My God,' said Steininger.

‘It . . . it was live!' gasped Freitag.

In their state of shock, the two lieutenants had loosened their grip on Perger's tunic. The prisoner fell forward and sprawled face down on the floor.

‘Get up, Perger,' said Wolf.

The boy did not reply.

Wolf nudged him with his foot. The body was inert.

‘Get up, Perger,' Wolf repeated.

Drexler fell to his knees and rolled the body over.

‘Oh no . . . God,
no
.' A dark stain had appeared on Perger's tunic.

Silence.

‘What shall we do, Wolf?' said Freitag softly.

Steininger took a step back. The colour had drained from his face. He was fearful, dismayed.

‘Perger?' said Drexler, pushing at the body. ‘Perger? Can you hear me?'

There was no response. The dark stain was expanding – an almost perfect circle, close to Perger's heart.

‘Christ,' said Steininger. ‘He's dead.'

‘No,' said Freitag. ‘He can't be . . .'

Drexler grasped the fallen boy's hand.

‘Come on, Perger, wake up!'

‘It's no good, Drexler,' whispered Wolf. ‘You've killed him.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you! It was
you
who had the gun last.'

‘But it wasn't my . . .' cried Drexler, incoherent with desperation. ‘I didn't . . . I . . .'

‘Wolf's right, Drexler,' said Steininger. ‘It
was
you who had the gun last.'

‘Yes,' Freitag agreed. ‘If you hadn't thrown the gun Perger would still be alive.'

INSPECTOR RHEINHARDT HAD
copied the number pairs from Zelenka's exercise books onto a single sheet of paper, which he now handed to Amelia Lydgate. The Englishwoman fell silent, and simply stared at the figures. Time passed. She was obviously attempting to decipher them, and Rheinhardt was reluctant to disturb her. He glanced across the room at Haussmann and raised a finger to his lips.

Eventually Amelia looked up.

‘Are you absolutely sure that these numbers represent coded messages, Inspector?'

‘Well, not absolutely . . . However, it was Doctor Liebermann's opinion that Herr Sommer did not tell us the truth when he said that these numbers were a memory test and I am inclined to agree. The commitment of random number pairs to memory is surely an activity from which both pupil and master would derive very limited pleasure. And such an activity would be unlikely to keep them amused over a period of several months. Therefore, if the numbers are not a memory test, then they must be some kind of code.'

A vertical crease appeared on Amelia's brow.

‘My father – also a schoolmaster – insisted that I learn the value of the mathematical constant Pi to fifty decimal places. Successful recitations were the source of considerable pleasure and amusement to both of us. Indeed, my father could barely stop himself from joining in when I reached the final ten digits: six, nine, three, nine, nine, three,
seven, five, one, zero.
There!
I can still recall the sequence quite clearly. For those who enjoy mathematics, numbers can be a very satisfying entertainment; however, it is undoubtedly the case that for the non-numerical such pleasures are as recondite as music is to the tone-deaf.'

Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. He glanced at Haussmann, tacitly requesting assistance, only to discover that the young scoundrel was biting his lower lip and that his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

‘Indeed,' said Rheinhardt. ‘Indeed . . .' He twisted the waxed horns of his moustache and said: ‘Am I to take it, then, that you do not share our view?'

‘I am not taking issue with your conclusion, Inspector – merely the reasoning that you employed to reach that conclusion.'

‘Ah,' said Rheinhardt, more encouraged. ‘Then you accept that the numbers might be a code?'

‘Yes,' she said, a little hesitantly. ‘But if they are, the code is not conventional. That much I can determine already.'

‘I see.'

‘May I take this with me?' She raised the paper in her gloved hand.

‘Yes, of course.'

‘I will give it careful consideration.'

‘Once again,' said the Inspector, ‘I am much indebted.'

Amelia rose and Rheinhardt kissed her hand.

‘How is Doctor Liebermann?' she asked.

‘Well.'

Unusually for her, the Englishwoman looked a little flustered.

‘I have not had the pleasure of his company of late, although the fault is entirely mine. I have been somewhat preoccupied with . . . matters . . . various matters.' Amelia fumbled with her reticule and then added: ‘Would you be so kind as to convey my best wishes to the good doctor?'

‘Consider it done, Miss Lydgate.'

‘Thank you, Inspector – you are most kind.'

‘Haussmann,' Rheinhardt addressed his assistant. ‘Please escort Miss Lydgate out of the building and hail her a cab.'

‘That really won't be necessary,' said Amelia. ‘I am perfectly capable of finding my way out of the security office. Good afternoon, gentlemen.'

She looked blankly at the two men, and left the room.

Rheinhardt raised his finger and silently shook it at Haussmann.

The young man blushed, and in an effort to excuse himself whispered: ‘I'm sorry, sir, but her manner is so peculiar . . .'

The Inspector was unable to disagree.

TREZSKA STOOD BESIDE
Liebermann's piano. Their gazes met – and, simultaneously, they began to play. The opening violin melody was fluid and generous – an outpouring of enchanting sweetness. Although the subtitle ‘Spring' was added to Beethoven's F-major Sonata after his death, it was extraordinarily appropriate, capturing completely the mood of the work. The music was bright and blooming – fresh, bursting with vital energy – but there were depths implied by the poignant changes of harmony that elevated this sonata above the usual conventions of pastoral writing. Beethoven, the most human of composers, never merely observed nature – he engaged with it. Thus, the gambolling of lambs and the blossoming trees – which the music so readily suggested – served to introduce a more profound philosophical programme. This was not a sterile description of a season – tuneful meteorology – but an inquiry into that most awe-inspiring of all vernal phenomena: romantic love.