Fatal Lies

happen to Herr Sommer now?”

“His final words to you were very powerful—and I could see that you were moved by his appeal. However, the fact remains that the man abused his position. He assaulted a pupil—for that is how the authorities will view his degeneracy. He spread malicious rumors about Zelenka and Frau Becker—which had fatal consequences. He was prepared to falsify Wolf's examination results, and he submitted an article to the Arheiter- Zeitung, the sole purpose of which was to confuse a police inquiry. I would say, without fear of exaggeration, that Herr Sommer's prospects are not good. Incidentally,” Rheinhardt continued, tilting his head to one side, “how did you discover that the Arbeiter-Zeitung article was written by Sommer?”

“When we first visited Herr Sommer, I observed his name—Herr G. Sommer—painted by the door. The article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung was by Herr G. This coincidence did not escape my notice. Perhaps Herr Sommer was unable to stop himself from signing the article with his own initial because of some strange compulsion—or perhaps he just made a thoughtless error, a slip.” Liebermann rested his cigar in the ashtray, which was positioned in the carriage door. “Or perhaps,” he continued, “Herr Sommer reasoned that no one would expect a man intent on deceit to implicate himself by employing his real initial—and he therefore acted counterintuitively as a subtle ruse. Whatever the psychic mechanism underlying his action, he succeeded in rousing my curiosity. Human beings are always revealing their secrets in the little things that they do.”

The young doctor shrugged and recovered his cigar. He then held up the cheroot and smiled, as if to say, There will even be a reason why I put this down only to pick it up again!

“Had Herr Sommer not written his article,” Liebermann continued, “things might have turned out very differently. After all, it was Herr Sommer's article that resulted in your reassignment to the Saint Florian case.”

“Indeed,” Rheinhardt replied. “Zelenka's death would have been attributed to natural causes, and the investigation would have ended quite prematurely.”

Rheinhardt twirled his mustache and emitted a pensive growl.

“What?” Liebermann asked.

“I was just thinking. It's odd, isn't it, that my reluctance to abandon this case was due—at least initially—to Zelenka's youth? I found it difficult to accept the death of a…” He hesitated before saying “child.” Then, pronouncing the words with bitter irony he added: “The death of an innocent! And yet… This same angelic-looking boy…” His sentence trailed off into an exasperated silence.

“Professor Freud,” said Liebermann softly, “does not believe that we humans ever enjoy a state of grace—a period of infantile purity. He is of the opinion that we can observe presentiments of adulthood even in the nursery. The toddler's tantrum prefigures murderous rage… and even the contented sucking of a thumb may provide the infant with something alarmingly close to sensual comfort and pleasure.”

“I find that hard to accept,” said Rheinhardt.

“Well—you are not alone,” said Liebermann, grinning.

When Liebermann entered his apartment, he discovered that his serving man—Ernst—had left an envelope for him, conspicuously placed on the hall stand. Liebermann opened it and discovered a note inside. He recognized the small, precise handwriting immediately. It was from Miss Amelia Lyd gate: an apology—and an invitation.

67

GEROLD SOMMER SAT AT his table next to a pile of exercise books. He had already finished marking most of them, but there were a few that he hadn't yet looked at. Given his predicament, he had been surprised to find that his thoughts had kept returning to this unfinished task. The sense of incompletion had been so persistent, so troubling, that in due course he had dragged himself from his reading chair where he had sat brooding, and repositioned himself at the table where he was now working.

The work he had set concerned triangles. In his most recent class, he had shown the boys how to calculate the area of a triangle using the method attributed to Heron of Alexandria. Sommer remembered standing by the blackboard, chalk in hand, looking at their bored faces, and saying in a conversational manner: This attribution is probably incorrect, as Archimedes almost certainly knew the formula, and it may have been employed by many anonymous mathematicians before him.…

This nugget of information had not made the subject any more interesting for the boys. Indeed, one of them—a scrawny fellow with greasy hair—had covered his mouth to disguise a yawn.

It was extraordinary, Sommer pondered, how so many people— boys and men alike—found mathematics tedious. It was such an elegant subject. In any right-angled triangle, the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides. Where else could you find such universal certainty, such indisputable truth, such perfection?

Sommer opened the first exercise book, which belonged to Stojakovic. He was gratified to find that the Serbian boy was deserving of a good mark. He liked Stojakovic. The other exercise books contained work of varying quality, but Sommer was a conscientious teacher. He made an effort to write something helpful or encouraging whenever he could—even if he knew the boy concerned to be innumerate and uninterested.

Triangles…

Herr Lang, Frau Becker, Zelenka…

Dr. Becker, Zelenka, Frau Becker…

Frau Becker, Zelenka… myself.

Sommer dismissed these intrusive triangulations from his mind. He did not want to think about such things.

When he had finished marking the exercise books, the mathematics master unwrapped some bread and cheese (which he had collected from the kitchen earlier) and opened a bottle of Cote de Brouilly The wine had been a gift from his uncle Alfred, and Sommer had been saving it for a special occasion. It was dark, full-bodied, and left a fruity aftertaste. After drinking only two glasses, the mathematics master collected his personal papers together and examined them to make sure that his affairs were in order. He then wrote a brief note addressed to his mother, apologizing for his conduct, and another addressed to a friend in Salzburg, which made reference to an outstanding financial debt that he wished to be settled. He then pressed the muzzle of a pistol firmly against his temple and pulled the trigger.

His eyes remained open.

68

AS LIEBERMANN MARCHED THROUGH the streets of Alsergrund, his thoughts took the form of questions and doubts: moreover, his general disquietude was exacerbated by an unpleasant fluttering sensation in his chest. It made him feel light-headed and breathless. He put his hand in his pocket and touched Miss Lyd gate s note.

He wondered why he had accepted her invitation, when he might just as well have replied with a polite refusal. Even though it had been his intention to decline, Liebermann had found himself writing courteous phrases that moved—inexorably—toward a bald statement that she should expect him at the appointed time.

What was Miss Lyd gate s purpose? Would she give him some indication, however small, of her changed circumstance, or would she eschew mention of her romantic involvement altogether, choosing instead to pour tea, offer biscuits, and share with him her latest philosophical enthusiasm. He was not sure he could tolerate such a conversation. The temptation to press her for some revelation—or even a complete confession—might be too powerful to resist.

Liebermann was surprised by the strength of his feelings—and shamefully aware of their proprietorial nature. He thought of Professor Freud, the most rational of men, driven to the very brink of demanding satisfaction— because of jealousy. He thought of Dr. Becker, motivated to kill another human being—because of jealousy. And he thought of himself, reeling away from the Cafe Segel, delirious with disappointment and rage—because of