Fatal Lies

“Jeanette.”

“Quoi erat demonstrandum.”

“Yes,” said Kanner. “You know, for a psychiatrist, I can be a remarkably poor judge of character.” Kanner stared glumly into the ruby bowl of his wineglass before adding: “Shame about old Professor von Krafft-Ebing.”

In his inebriated state, Liebermann accepted the sudden change of subject as though it were entirely logical.

“Yes, he will be sadly missed.”

“I used to enjoy his public lectures.”

“They were very entertaining,” said Liebermann, “but I always found them weak, theoretically.”

Kanner shrugged again. “People will be reading his Psychopathia Sexualis for centuries. What a collection of cases! And what a fine eye for detail! Do you have a favorite? I have always been rather fond of case fifty, Herr Z., the technologist who was only satisfied by women wearing high heels and short jackets, Hungarian fashion.”

Liebermann shook his head. “That one escapes me.…”

“He was particularly partial to ladies’ calves,” Kanner continued, “but only when the ladies concerned wore elegant shoes. Nude legs—or nudity in general—did not arouse his interest. I was always amused by Krafft-Ebing's somewhat irregular inclusion of the fact that Herr Z. had a weakness for cats—and that simply looking at a cat could lift him from the deepest depression.”

Kanner raised his bloodshot eyes. He scratched his head, leaving a tuft of oiled hair standing on end.

“I too,” he said in a distant, somewhat bewildered voice, “am partial to women in short jackets… and to be perfectly honest, my spirits have often been lifted by the antics of a cat.”

“Well, Stefan,” said Liebermann, “perhaps you would benefit from one of the late professor's cures. I would be happy to prescribe regular cold baths and monobromide of camphor, if you wish?”

Kanner made a dismissive gesture.

“Baths are ineffective. When I was a student, I spent a summer in Bad Ischl, where I allowed a retired opera singer to believe she was seducing me. She frequently took a beauty treatment that involved immersion in a tub filled with crushed ice; however, this had no effect on her libido whatsoever. Her sensual appetite was just as keen whether she had had the treatment or not.” Kanner swayed in his chair. “Be that as it may”—his delivery had become comically pompous—”it is our duty to honor the memory of a great man.” He raised his glass. “To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… rest in heavenly peace.”

“No, no, no,” said Liebermann, banging his fist on the table. “May he go to hell. Surely.”

“What?”

“The author of Psychopathia Sexualis would be bored to tears among the heavenly hosts—angels, seraphim, and cherubim, et cet era, et cetera.” Liebermann yawned, patting his open mouth. “Clearly, Krafft-Ebing would prefer hell, where he would find the company much more stimulating—lust murderers, necrophiliacs, and sadists— why, he could start work on the next edition of the Psychopathia immediately on arrival!”

Kanner raised his glass again.

“To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… may you go to hell—and thoroughly enjoy eternal damnation!”

Liebermann reached across the table and touched Kanner's glass with his own, producing a chime that sang with a bell-like clarity. Outside, a woman passed their dining room, laughing loudly. It was a young voice—that of a shop girl, no doubt, who was being entertained by a “respectable” bourgeois husband. The grumble of the man's bass produced a lascivious counterpoint to the girl's contrived gaiety.

“Stefan,” said Liebermann, “do you think it would be permissible to have relations with a patient?”

This thought, which had arisen in his mind apropos of nothing, had been translated into speech without conscious effort. Liebermann found himself listening to his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not a patient in treatment, of course,” said Liebermann, now obliged to continue. “But a former patient— assuming that she was fully recovered and that a significant period of time had elapsed since her discharge.”

“No. I can't see anything wrong with that.… In fact…”

“Yes?”

“In fact, I did have a little tryst once, with a former patient.” Kanner toyed with his necktie. “We arranged to meet a few times in the Volksgarten, but the erotic frisson that had enlivened our conversations in the hospital was curiously absent. I suspect that it was only because we were forbidden to embrace there that the prospect seemed so alluring. Once the prohibition was lifted, there was nothing left to excite our imaginations. Or perhaps…” Kanner swirled the wine and examined the translucent liquid more closely. “Perhaps once removed from the hospital, and deprived of the emblems of power—my black bag, my stethoscope, my potions and elixirs—my imperfections were more readily observed. I was no longer the great healer and became just another philanderer—indistinguishable from all the others, going about their tawdry business behind the bushes.”

Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lyd gate. Her supine body on a hospital bed: a plain white gown—the rise and fall of her breasts. Her copper hair, pulled back tightly, aflame in a ray of sunlight.

“Why?” said Kanner. “Is there someone at the hospital who has taken your fancy?”

Liebermann shook his head—and as he did so, the room began to rotate. Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum—like the carousel on the Prater.

“Stefan… I have drunk far too much.”

Kanner picked up the bottle and filled Liebermann s empty glass: “Maxim, we haven't even started!”

17

VON BULOW was immaculately dressed in a dark frock coat, gray striped trousers, and patent leather shoes. A beautifully folded blue cravat was held in place by a diamond tie pin, and his starched cuffs (which protruded from beneath the sleeves of his coat) were fastened with matching studs. Merely looking at von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel slovenly and unkempt.

His old rival was seated opposite the commissioner. Two empty teacups on Manfred Brugel's desk and a shallow bowl containing a solitary Manner Schnitten wafer biscuit suggested that the two men had been in conversation for some time.

Although Rheinhardt and von Bulow were both detective inspectors, von Bulow had always been treated as Rheinhardt's superior— largely on account of his privileged background. The practices of preferment and favor were commonplace in Viennese organizations, and the commissioner, being a highly ambitious man, was mindful that von Bulow hailed from an elevated family. The man had relatives in the upper house and in the Hofburg. Informed by the notion that goodwill was often reciprocated, the commissioner frequently afforded von Bulow special treatment—usually at Rheinhardt's expense. However, given that this odious situation was entirely unremarkable, and that there was no obvious person to whom a complaint could be directed (other than to the commissioner himself), Rheinhardt had no choice but to tolerate this indignity.

“Come along, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner, beckoning him in with an impatient hand gesture. “Don't just stand there.”

Von Bulow stood up—as if in readiness to leave—and then, to Rheinhardt's surprise, sat down again. The commissioner registered Rheinhardt's perplexity and grumbled: “Von Bulow will be staying— there is a matter concerning his current investigation that we need to discuss with you. All will be explained in due course. Now… where did I put them?” Brugel sifted through the papers scattered on his desk and found a wad of forms under a jug of milk. “I've read your reports, and everything seems to be in order. Although in the future, Rheinhardt, I'd appreciate it if you could do something about the quality of your handwriting.”

Rheinhardt squirmed with embarrassment. It was obvious that Commissioner Brugel had only recently compared Rheinhardt's hurried script with von Bulow's elegant copperplate.

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner tossed the reports aside and picked up a photograph of Thomas Zelenka's body in the