Fatal Lies (43 page)

‘Disgraceful. And he seemed such a receptive boy – so full of promise. Did we teach him nothing?'

Eichmann smiled: a humourless display of teeth.

‘No, you are mistaken, old friend,' said the headmaster. ‘I fear we taught him too much.'

THE CIRCLE OF
trees looked different by daylight and Drexler was uncertain whether he had brought the constable to the right place.

‘Just a moment,' he said, pausing to consider the landscape.

Drexler went over to a large gnarled trunk, and ran his fingers over the rough surface.

‘What are you doing?' the constable called out.

‘Looking for something . . .'

The face was less distinct than Drexler had remembered – but it was there nevertheless. An old greybeard, trapped in the timber: two knotty projections serving to create the illusion of a pair of weary, anguished eyes.

‘Here,' said Drexler, pointing at the ground. ‘I buried him here.'

The constable marched over, swinging the shovel off his shoulder. He stamped the blade into the ground and angled it back, raising a wedge of turf. The ease with which the soil came up was conspicuous, suggesting recent disturbance. The constable grunted, and set about his task with renewed conviction. He was a strong, big-boned youth, and he tossed the earth aside with mechanical efficiency.

‘Why did you do it?' he asked Drexler.

‘It was an accident,' Drexler replied. ‘We were playing with a revolver . . . and it just went off. I didn't mean to do it.'

‘If it was an accident, why didn't you tell the headmaster? Accidents happen . . .'

‘I don't know. I panicked, I suppose.'

‘And you carried him – the dead boy – all this way on your own?'

‘No. I stole a horse and trap and got as far as the road.'

‘That's odd. None of the locals reported a theft.'

‘It belonged to the school. I returned the trap before anyone noticed it was missing.'

The constable shrugged, took off his spiked helmet and handed it to Drexler. Then he wiped his brow and continued to dig. Gravid clouds had begun to gather overhead and Drexler felt the first faint chill of rain on his cheeks. The hole deepened – but there was no sign of Perger's jute shroud.

‘How far down did you bury him?'

‘Not
that
far,' said Drexler, perplexed. ‘You must have just missed him . . . Try here.' He pointed to another spot.

The constable sighed, moved a little closer to the tree and began to dig again. He interrupted his task to look up at the malignant sky.

‘We're going to get soaked,' he said, swearing softly under his breath.

The shovel's blade met some resistance, and the constable caught Drexler's eye. However, the next downward thrust produced a loud clang that identified the obstruction as nothing more than a rock. Soon the constable had dug another hole, equal in depth to the first.

‘I'm sorry,' said Drexler. ‘It was dark. It's difficult to judge distances when it's dark. But I can assure you, I buried him somewhere around here. I remember this tree. You see, it has a face in it . . . an old man.'

‘An old man, eh?'

‘Please . . . try here.' Drexler took two paces away from the tree and stamped his feet.

‘I tell you what,' said the constable, handing Drexler the shovel. ‘Why don't
you
dig for a while?'

The young man recovered his helmet and stomped off to seek shelter under the thickest bough he could find.

Drexler began to dig frantically.

Nothing.

Clay, earthworms, stones, roots . . .

He started to dig another hole. Nothing. And another . . .

The drizzle had been succeeded by a persistent saturating downpour.

‘All right,' the constable called out. ‘You've had your fun . . . I suppose you and your friends think this sort of thing is very funny. Well, you won't be laughing after I've given you the good hiding you deserve.'

‘What?' said Drexler.

‘Come here,' said the constable, beckoning with a crooked finger.

‘This isn't a joke . . . this isn't a joke, you . . . you . . .'

Drexler threw the shovel to the ground and fell to his knees. He thrust his hands into the hole he had dug and clawed at the mud. His tears were invisible on his rain-soaked face.

‘Perger!' he cried. ‘Perger?'

The constable's expression altered. He no longer looked angry, more startled and confused. A little shocked, even. Drexler tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but only succeeded in smearing his face with mud.

‘Perger?' he shouted. When Drexler raised his hands the constable could see that his fingers were bleeding. His eyes were shining with a terrible urgency.

‘Take it easy,' said the constable, taking a cautious step forward.

What was it the boy had said? An old man in the tree . . .

Maybe this wasn't a joke – maybe the boy wasn't right in the head. He certainly didn't look very well.

‘I think we'd better get back to the station,' said the constable. ‘We'll have some tea, eh? Warm you up a bit? And then I think we'd better call a doctor.'

LIEBERMANN PAID THE
cab driver and braced himself against the teeming rain. The carriage rattled away and he walked slowly towards the end of the
cul-de-sac
. Water was flowing in fast rivulets down the cobbled street and the wind was gathering strength. Low clouds, descending from the west, had created an eldritch twilight.

The battered door – towards which Liebermann was making steady progress – was swinging on its hinges, occasionally crashing loudly against the wall. The fact that nobody had bothered to secure it reinforced the general atmosphere of neglect and desolation.

Liebermann stepped over the threshold and into the tiled arcade. He paused for a moment and pushed a hank of sopping hair out of his eyes. A stream of icy water trickled down the back of his neck. From his shadowy vantage he could see across the courtyard. A man was standing at the foot of the iron stairs. He was facing away from Liebermann and wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. Beyond the stranger, and positioned above him on the covered landing, stood Trezska. She was dressed in readiness to travel, and carried – in addition to her shoulder bag – a small valise. Her violin was in its case at her feet. Yet there had been no sign of a cab waiting for her outside, and the man at the foot of the stairs was clearly making no effort to assist her. Indeed, there was something altogether strange about his situation. He had not chosen to climb the few steps that would have afforded him shelter. Instead, he was standing rather awkwardly, fully exposed to the elements.

Trezska was talking, but Liebermann could not hear her. He was too distant and the deluge was becoming symphonic. Close by, the rain was drumming on a tin roof and an overflowing gutter was splashing loudly.

A blast of wind threatened to remove the stranger's hat and the man had to grab quickly at the top of his head to hold it down. Again, Liebermann noted a conspicuous awkwardness – the manoeuvre had been executed clumsily with the left hand.

Liebermann crept down the passageway, keeping his back close to the wall. When he reached the opposite end, he discovered why it was that the stranger's posture had appeared somewhat unnatural. The man was holding a pistol, the barrel of which was pointed upward, towards Trezska.

The young doctor's response was automatic and unreasoning. He wanted to protect her, even though she had deceived him and even though he suspected that her capacity for deceit was boundless. Such was his disposition that a romantic obligation to a woman would always supersede a
political
obligation. Besides, he now had
so
many questions he wanted to ask her – questions that might never be answered if she was shot dead – that no other course of action seemed possible.

Liebermann ventured out into the driving rain and moved towards the stranger. He approached with great care, ensuring that the soles of his shoes landed gently on the cobbles. He held his breath as he had in early childhood when he used to sneak out of his room after his mother had put him to bed. Strange, he thought, how easily the mind supplies correspondent memories from infancy. Professor Freud was right: much of adult behaviour had its origins in the nursery . . .

The rain was streaming down his face, blurring his vision; however, he was satisfied that Trezska had not reacted to his appearance. If she
had, the man would have almost certainly turned to see what she was looking at. As Liebermann drew closer, he could hear Trezska's voice.

‘I am sure we can come to some arrangement. After all, we are not entirely without common interests. I have in my possession information which might prove very useful.'

Closer – one step at a time . . .

‘But,' she continued, ‘you cannot expect me to embark upon such an arrangement without some promise of security.'

It was remarkable how calm she sounded, given her predicament, and her German was more fluent and mannered: ‘You will accept, I hope, that this is not an unreasonable request.'

Liebermann observed a crescent of silver stubble beneath the man's hat. A middle-aged man, perhaps? Not too robust, he hoped.

Closer . . .

‘Of course, you are at liberty to dismiss everything I have said,' Trezska added. ‘Why should you believe me? But I can assure you that I am speaking the absolute truth.'

Liebermann drew back his arm, clenched his fist, and thumped the man as hard as he could in the region of the occipital bone. The man fell forward on the stairs, unconscious, his pistol skittering away. His hat had become dislodged, revealing a bald pate and a pair of slightly tapering ears. Liebermann knelt down, checked the man's pulse, and turned him over. It was Inspector Victor von Bulow.

DREXLER WAS LYING
in the infirmary, thinking over the day's events. It had been a miracle, surely. God had interceded in order to give him a second chance. He must use the rest of his life wisely, as the deity rarely acted without purpose.

Doctor Kessler had left over an hour ago. He was a kindly old fellow and meant well but, in Drexler's estimation, had spoken a lot of nonsense: ‘
You were perhaps very . . . close to Perger? He was your friend? It is indeed upsetting when we lose the company of one for whom we have developed a bond of deep and sincere affection . . .
'

Drexler had listened patiently. As far as he could gather, it seemed that the good doctor was proposing that Perger's precipitate
departure
had had the effect of placing his mind in a state of disequilibrium. Drexler was willing to concede that this was true, in one sense, but also recognised that it was entirely inaccurate in another. He had subsequently agreed to take some pills that were supposed to calm his agitation, but as time passed he was forced to conclude that they were largely ineffective.

Now he was bored.

He wanted to read something, and the book of military anecdotes provided for him by Nurse Funke was decidedly dull. He remembered that he had left his volume of E. T. A. Hoffmann short stories in the lost room, and considered that there would be no great risk associated with retrieving it.

‘Nurse Funke?' he called.

The nurse appeared at the door and rested her hand against the jamb.

‘Nurse Funke, may I collect a book from the dormitory? Some Hoffmann?'

‘Doctor Kessler said you should sleep.'

‘But it's too early for me to sleep. And I find it easier to sleep if I read first.'

‘What about the book I brought you?'

‘I do not wish to seem ungrateful; however, to be perfectly honest, Nurse Funke, I've already read it.'

‘Very well,' said the nurse. ‘You can go. But you must come back immediately.'

‘Of course . . .'

Drexler put on his uniform and set off on a circuitous tour of the school that took him – unseen – to the trapdoor.

When he dropped down into the lost room, he discovered that it was already occupied. Steininger was sitting in the wicker chair, smoking a cigarette, with his feet up on a stool. The Serbian boy, Stojakovic, was kneeling before him, vigorously cleaning his shoes. Freitag and another stocky boy called Gruber were standing close by.

When Drexler landed, Stojakovic stopped brushing. Steininger immediately lashed out and delivered a blow to the side of his head.

‘Who told you to stop?' Steininger barked.

Stojakovic reapplied the polish and resumed his Sisyphean labour.

‘Where's Wolf?' asked Drexler.

‘Gone,' said Steininger, stroking his downy moustache. ‘His parents came and collected him today. I don't think he'll be coming back.'

‘Poor Wolf,' said Freitag. ‘An excellent fellow – but prone to getting big ideas.
Too
big, eh? He was bound to overstretch himself one day.'

‘What did he do?' said Drexler.

‘I managed to speak to him just before he left, while he was packing his bags,' Steininger replied. ‘Apparently he was blackmailing Sommer and the police found out!'

‘Is that why Sommer killed himself?'

‘Who knows?' Steininger nonchalantly flicked some ash on Stojakovic's hair. ‘So . . . where the hell have you been?'

‘In the infirmary.'

‘What! We'd heard that someone had gone mad and the headmaster had called Kessler. My God, it wasn't
you
, was it?'

Freitag and Gruber were amused by the jibe and burst out laughing.

‘Yes – it was,' Drexler replied calmly.

The laughing died down and Steininger glanced uneasily at Freitag.

‘Get up Stojakovic,' said Drexler. He reached down and pulled the boy to his feet. ‘Go on . . .' He jerked his head towards the trapdoor.

‘What in God's name do you think you're doing, Drexler?' Steininger cried. ‘Can't you see?
I
'm in command now!
I
'm giving the orders!' He jabbed his finger at the Serbian boy. ‘Stojakovic – you try to leave and you'll regret it!'