Fatal Lies

and Nurse Funke said he was sickly—that he always had colds.”

“Perhaps Zelenka feigned illness in order to avoid gymnastics.”

“And why would he do that?”

“The boys probably do their physical training bare-chested.”

“Which would have necessitated exposure of the cuts?”

“Indeed. He might have wished to keep them concealed.”

“But why?”

“Embarrassment, shame… However, there is a much simpler explanation. He avoided gymnastics because any form of vigorous exercise was painful.”

Rheinhardt took Perger's letter from his pocket and pushed it across the table.

“I found this in Zelenka's bedroom—there were two letters, actually, but this is the most interesting.”

Liebermann put on his spectacles and unfolded the paper. He read in silence, until he reached the salient passages: “Needless to say, I do not want to go back.… Sometimes I wonder whether I should tell my father what is happening. But what good would that do?… He doesn't care—no one does.”

Rheinhardt sipped his brandy, and summarized his encounter with Lang.

“Why didn't you interview Perger?” asked Liebermann.

“I did,” Rheinhardt replied. “And Lang was right—he wouldn't cooperate. I told Perger what I thought: that he and other boys— particularly from poor backgrounds—were being persecuted, and that if he told me who was responsible I would see to it that they were punished. He pretended not to know what I was talking about.… So then I showed him his own letter to Zelenka. I could see he was shocked, but to his credit the boy managed to sustain his subterfuge. He insisted that I had misunderstood the contents—it meant nothing. It was a joke, of course—particularly the part about running away. He said that he and Zelenka were always joking about doing such things.”

Liebermann lifted the letter and tilted it in the light.

“At that point—where he mentions running away—it is possible to detect a faint tremor in the script. He was terrified. Whatever he was hoping to escape from, it made his hand shake.”

Rheinhardt leaned across the table and looked at the letter more closely.

“It all looks the same to me.”

“There is a definite tremor.”

Rheinhardt sat back in his chair, a mote of skepticism still glimmering in his eye.

“I thought about interviewing some of the other boys—but there are more than three hundred of them. It would be pointless to select names randomly from the register. Do you think you could persuade Perger to disclose the identity of his persecutors?”

“Perhaps.”

“Would you hypnotize him?”

Liebermann shrugged. “Perhaps.”

The young doctor's economic response—combined with his arch expression—suggested to Rheinhardt that he had already thought of a possible solution.

Liebermann lit a cigar and exhaled a large nimbus of smoke.

“Of course,” he said, “none of this new information shines further light on the death of Thomas Zelenka. Which, I believe, was your original purpose.”

“That is true. But in spite of your analysis of my unconscious motives, the defensive denial of premature death, and so forth, I cannot rid myself of a persistent conviction that if I continue with this investigation, something relevant, something explanatory with regard to Zelenka's death, will eventually arise.”

Liebermann took another puff of his cigar.

“Well… you might just be right.”

“What?” said Rheinhardt, turning his head in disbelief. “Have you changed your mind, then, about policeman's intuition?”

“Not at all.” Liebermann tapped his cigar on the ashtray. “However, if there is something new to be learned about Zelenka's death— and it is a very substantial if—then I am afraid to say, Oskar, that you have failed to interview someone who—in my humble opinion— merits the closest questioning.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The mathematics master.”

“What makes you think he's important? I haven't even told you his name. You know nothing about him!”

“I know enough,” said Liebermann, smiling into his brandy.

14

DREXLER STUBBED OUT HIS CIGARETTE and immediately lit another. They were a cheap Turkish brand that produced pungent wreaths of fulvous smoke. He had sunk deep into a wicker chair and was hunched over a well- thumbed volume of E.T.A. Hoffmann's short stories, the print of which was illuminated by a candle. His only other source of light was a paraffin lamp, some distance away, suspended from a beam.

“Do you know why you're here, Stojakovic?” It was Kiefer Wolf's voice, emanating from a dark recess on the other side of the room.

Drexler lifted his head. A scrawny Serbian boy was standing between Barend Steininger and Odo Freitag. Steininger was tall, big-boned, and mature enough to sport a downy mustache and fuzzy sideburns. Freitag was much shorter but stocky, possessing a thick, muscular neck and facial features that thrust forward like those of a pit bull terrier.

The Serbian boy peered into the shadows and blinked.

“Come on, Stojakovic,” said Steininger, digging his elbow into the boy's side.

“Yes, come on, Stojakovic,” Freitag repeated, clapping his hands on his shoulders.

The Serbian boy opened his mouth, but no sound escaped.

“I asked you a question, Stojakovic!” Wolf's disembodied voice grew louder.

“He did,” said Steininger, grinning. “Wolf asked you a question.”

“Yes, don't be impolite, Stojakovic,” said Freitag, tightening his grip. “Be a good fellow and answer Wolf.”

The boy glanced at Drexler—but it was a wasted appeal. Drexler shook his head.

“I don't know what passes for good manners in your country, Stojakovic,” Wolf barked. “But it is our custom to give an answer when asked a question.”

“Very true,” said Steininger. “Very true.”

The boy's mouth opened again. He produced an unintelligible wavering noise.

“What did you say?” asked Steininger.

“I'm…,” the boy croaked. “I'm sorry.… What was the question?”

“I don't believe it,” said Steininger.

“He wants you to repeat the question, Wolf,” said Freitag.

“Are you hard of hearing, Stojakovic?” said Steininger. “A little deaf, perhaps?”

The boy shook his head.

Steininger bent down and looked into the boy's ear. “Then perhaps your ears are dirty?”

Freitag looked into the boy's other ear. “Yes, I believe they are.”

“Were you, by any chance, raised on a farm, Stojakovic?” asked Steininger.

“I think he must have been,” said Freitag.

“That would explain a great deal,” said Steininger.

“Indeed,” said Freitag.

“I wonder, do you have soap and water where you come from, Stojakovic?” said Steininger.

They suddenly burst out laughing and looked to Drexler for approval, but his face remained impassive.