Liebermann took off his spectacles and dropped them into the pocket of his coat.
“Not a great deal,” he said innocently.
Rheinhardt turned to his assistant and, raising his eyebrows, asked, “Well, Haussmann?”
The young man shook his head.
“See, Max?” Rheinhardt continued. “Even Haussmann doesn't believe you.”
60
“I SUPPOSE I SHOULD congratulate you, Rheinhardt,” said Commissioner Brugel, “but I cannot do so without first raising the issue of your absence. You received my memorandum, didn't you?”
“I did, sir.”
“And yet you chose to ignore it.”
“With respect, sir, you requested that officers should make every effort to remain close to the Schottenring station.”
“The meaning of which was quite clear—or at least it was to everybody else.”
“I'm sorry, sir. I misunderstood.” Brugel's eyes narrowed. “Was the operation successful, sir?”
“No,” said Brugel. “It wasn't.”
“I heard that some arrests were made.”
“Two gentlemen were detained for questioning—but they were released early this morning. Mistaken identity.”
“I'm sorry, sir.”
Brugel emitted a low growl that rose from the pit of his stomach. “Well, Rheinhardt, I trust there will be no
His knowing emphasis made Rheinhardt feel ashamed.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Good.” The commissioner shuffled some papers. “I would like you to submit a complete account of the Saint Florian affair by tomorrow evening, after which you will report to Inspector von Bulow for further instruction. There is a pianist, Jozsef Kalman, who—”
Rheinhardt felt a stab of resentment. He did not want to report to von Bulow. They were of the same rank— and it was not right that he should be treated as if he were nothing more than von Bulow's assistant.
“Sir?” Rheinhardt interposed.
“What is it, Rheinhardt?”
“I have not completed my investigation… at Saint Florian's.”
Brugels head swung forward. “What
“The cuts on the boy's body, sir. The bullying…”
“Don't be ridiculous, Rheinhardt! The case is closed!” Brugels hand came down on his desk, creating a hollow thud—the quality of which suggested the snapping shut of a great tome. “Now,” Brugel resumed, “Kalman breakfasts at a disreputable coffeehouse in the third district—a place called Zielinski's.…”
61
LIEBERMANN RAN HIS FINGER down Trezska's back, tracing the flowing contour of her spine. As he did, he admired the smoothness of her olive skin—its depth and lustre. He stroked her buttocks and allowed his hand to fall between her thighs.
On the bedside cabinet was an absinthe bottle and the trappings of Trezska's habit—a sugar bowl, a miniature trowel, and a carafe of water. Two tall glasses stood in front of the bottle, one of them three-quarters full. Through its pallid contents the candle shone like a burning emerald.
The bouquet of their lovemaking still permeated the atmosphere. Liebermann inhaled and registered a hint of perfume amid a blend of darker fragrances—musk-orchid, attar, and oysters.
His perceptual universe was strangely altered. Everything seemed removed, distant, and dreamlike. Yet, paradoxically, minute phenomena acquired unnatural prominence. A mote—floating upward on the air—commanded his attention as if it were an entire world. Its inconsequential ascent was majestic and beguiling.
Liebermann became aware of Trezska's voice. It was muffled, and her speech was slurred. She was talking into the pillow, her face concealed beneath a shock of black hair. She was extolling the virtues of the Hungarian nobility.
“They have real charm… style, panache. The Telekis and Karolyis. The late empress appreciated their company—as did her son… poor Rudolf. But that's another matter. There was once a peasants’ revolt in the sixteenth century. They caught the leader—and do you know what they did with him? They made him sit on a red- hot throne. They pressed a red-hot crown on his head… and made him hold a red-hot scepter. His retinue were made to eat his flesh— while it was still sizzling.”
“Where did you hear such a story?” Liebermann asked.
“It's not a story—it's true.”
“Like the vampire countess. What was she called?”
“Bathory—Erzsebet Bathory.”
Liebermann leaned forward and let his lips touch the nape of Trezska's neck. She shivered with pleasure and rolled back onto her side.
“That man,” said Liebermann. “The one who stopped you outside Demel's.”
“What?”
“The man who called you Amelie—Franz…”
“Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?”
Trezska brushed her hair away, but it sprang forward again— hanging across her face like a curtain.
“You knew him, really, didn't you?”
Trezska's eyes flashed and her full lips widened into a smile. She began to laugh. “Are you jealous?”
“He seemed so certain… so sure.”
“You
Trezska threw her arms around Liebermann s shoulders and raised herself up, pressing her breasts against his chest. She kissed him, forcing her tongue between his teeth and taking possession of his senses. She tasted of anise, mint, and licorice. When Trezska finally released him, she grinned, and kissed him once more, gently on the nose—a comic peck.
“Don't be jealous,” she whispered. “Don't be jealous.”
The candle flickered and the glasses filled with green lightning.
“Othello,” he said.
Trezska drew back. “What?”
“A play by Shakespeare. If the green fairy doesn't get me, then the green-eyed monster will.”
“You are very drunk,” said Trezska gently. “Lie down, my love.”
Trezska tugged at his arm, and Liebermann was surprised by his own lack of resistance. He fell, and when his head hit the mattress, he closed his eyes—it was like being knocked out. He was dimly conscious of Trezska's limbs, wrapping around his hips and shoulders. She pulled him close, smothering him with her flesh.
“Sleep,” she whispered. “Sleep…”
Liebermann could hear her heart beating.
He wanted to say something else. But words failed him, and seconds later he was asleep.
