Fatal Lies

Liebermann and Rheinhardt knew exactly where Lang would have taken Frau Becker. The city was full of private dining rooms—in Leopoldstadt, Neubau, and Mariahilf—where couples could conduct their illicit liaisons without fear of discovery.

“We made our arrangements,” Frau Becker continued, “through Zelenka. He delivered our notes to each other—he was our go-between, our messenger. I was very fond of him… very fond. But our relationship was innocent. I knew that my husband suspected that something was going on; however, God forgive me, I did nothing to make him think otherwise. In fact, I encouraged his mistrust. On the days that Zelenka came, I always wore something special. And all the time, I knew that whatever inquiries Bernhard made would ultimately come to nothing. The more my husband worried about Zelenka, the better—it put him off, helped to conceal the truth, misdirected his attention. Herr Lang thought I was being very clever— and said that he would do something too. He knew that Herr Sommer was a dreadful gossip, and told him things… made suggestions about Zelenka and me, knowing full well that Sommer would be indiscreet. It worked. Soon the whole school was talking—but about the wrong affair! An affair that wasn't happening! You look shocked, Herr Doctor. And I know what you are thinking: ‘What sort of woman would do such a thing? What sort of woman would knowingly destroy her own reputation?’ But you see, I had no reputation to protect. People said horrible things about me whatever I did, and at least this way the slander was serving some purpose. Besides, I would only have to endure it for a short time. Herr Lang is leaving Saint Florian's soon. He intends to join a commune of artists living in the Tenth District. I was going to join him, and may still do so. I've been told that such people do not make a habit of judging others.”

Frau Becker paused and looked from Liebermann to Rheinhardt, then to Haussmann and back again. Her chin was raised and there was something defiant in the set of her jaw; but the challenge was short-lived. She brought her hands together, nestling the closed fist of her right hand in the palm of her left—and bowed her head.

“If I had known…,” Frau Becker continued. “If we had known that Bernhard was capable of such insane jealousy, we would never have done this… but we did. And because of that, we must now share his guilt.”

Liebermann leaned back in his chair.

“I don't think so. You could never have foreseen your husband's actions.”

“I'm his wife. I should have—”

“Not in this instance, Frau Becker,” Liebermann interrupted. “The man you fell in love with no longer exists. You said earlier that your husband changed. I believe that this alteration in his personality had a very specific cause.”

“I don't understand.”

“Are you aware that your husband took medicine—a white powder which he dissolved in alcohol?”

“Yes. He took it for his headaches.”

“Frau Becker, your husband never suffered from headaches. He was deceiving you. The medication he took was an extract of the South American coca plant—cocaine. It is a substance once thought to improve mood and increase… stamina.”

A carriage drew up outside, and Liebermann was momentarily distracted.

“Forgive me for being forthright, Frau Becker,” Liebermann continued. “But it is my belief that your husband —being considerably older than you—doubted his ability to satisfy a healthy young wife. He started taking cocaine, having probably heard of its use as a tonic by the German army. However, cocaine is a highly addictive substance that, taken in large quantities, can disturb the mind's delicate balance. It can cause various forms of paranoia, a particularly disturbing example of which is pathological or morbid jealousy.” A loud knock resounded through the house. “Men are particularly prone to jealous feelings—but these can be grotesquely exaggerated under the influence of such a potent chemical agent. If Dr. Becker had not been addicted to cocaine, I very much doubt whether he would have behaved so irrationally—and with such tragic consequences.”

There was the sound of movement in the hallway, and a gentle tap on the door.

“Come in,” said Frau Becker.

The maid entered.

“What is it, Ivana?”

“Frau Becker, a police constable has arrived. He would like to speak with you.”

“You had better show him in.”

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt quizzically, but the inspector was only able to respond with a shrug.

Haussmann stepped out of the way to let in the constable—a large youth with ruddy cheeks and a forelock of orange hair that peeped out from beneath his spiked helmet. He looked around the room, observing the gathering, but seemed quite unable to explain his presence. Indeed, his expression suggested confusion—complicated by anxiety.

Rheinhardt stood up and introduced himself, which did not seem to help matters. Indeed, the constable now seemed even more nervous and shifted the weight of his body from one foot to the other.

“Well, man,” said Rheinhardt, becoming impatient. “What is it?”

“Sir,” said the constable. Then, looking toward Frau Becker, he said, “Madam… there's been an accident. A carriage left the road and the driver was thrown off! The landlord of the inn at Aufkirchen was passing—and he has identified the body. I am sorry, madam. Your husband… he's dead.”

Through the window Liebermann could see the city lights: rings of increasing intensity contracting around a central luminescent hub. This pool of stardust was home to nearly two million people. Germans, Italians, Slovaks, Poles, Ruthenians, Slovenians, Romanians, Gypsies, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, princes, archdukes, shop girls, and paupers. Liebermann fancied that each glimmering lamp was a human soul—a unique life, illuminated by hopes, fears, and aspirations. Such a vast collection of humanity was humbling. Yet he felt an odd, vainglorious compulsion to raise his arm and eclipse the great metropolis with his hand.

Would it be there forever? he wondered. After all, archaeologists had found the ruins of entire civilizations buried beneath the sand.

Liebermann opened his fingers and allowed the lights to reappear. Their constancy was mildly reassuring.

The mood in the carriage was subdued. None of the three men had spoken much since leaving Aufkirchen. They had passed the time, somewhat self-absorbed, smoking Haussmann's French cigarettes. The black Syrian tobacco produced an intransigent fug that smelled unmistakably of burning tar; however, the pungency and excoriating consequence of each draw had not deterred them, and the box—illustrated with a camel and a palm tree—was now completely empty.

Rheinhardt caught sight of his reflection in the window and squeezed the horns of his mustache.

“He could so easily have got away with it.”

The sentence was not addressed to Liebermann or Haussmann but to himself.

“Yes,” said Liebermann, “and I am struck by a certain irony. If it wasn't for the school bullies, Becker might have succeeded. I doubt very much that you would have been so tenacious had there not been signs of torture on Zelenka's body. In this instance at least, cruelty has served some greater purpose.”

“Indeed, but it is a twist of fate from which I will derive little consolation.” Rheinhardt turned and peered through the smoke at his friend. “Max, there is something I don't understand.” Liebermann invited the inspector to proceed. “What alerted you to the significance of the almond tart in the first place? You never said.”

“Have you ever tasted absinthe, Oskar?”

“No.”

“Nor had I until last week. I was given some to drink by a friend—and I found that it had an extraordinary effect on the workings of my brain. My thinking seemed to loosen up—suddenly, I was capable of making bold associations. Some of them were complete nonsense… but others… My companion had been eating sugared almonds, and it occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that almonds contain traces of cyanide.… Then I remembered that hydrocyanic gas is deadly—but difficult to isolate postmortem. The photographs of the murder scene came into my mind, and I was troubled by the presence of the pastry. Why was it there? And why wasn't it eaten? After all, adolescent boys are not renowned for their ability to delay gratification. Hydrocyanic gas taints the air with the smell of almonds. The rest—as I have already explained—followed.”

“And in order to achieve this… this… emancipation of the mind, how much absinthe did you drink, exactly?”