“If he's lying, why did he knock out von Bulow?”
“Maybe he didn't—maybe it's all a ruse and von Bulow is just pretending to be unconscious, waiting for his moment!”
“Lazar, that's absurd.”
“Look, I don't know what's happening here—and neither do you. But we do know that
The ensuing hiatus was filled with the noise of the roaring deluge: the slop and spatter, the splash and spill —unrelenting, indifferent, merciless.
Trezska threw her arms up in the air, as if she were beseeching a higher authority for assistance. When she let them drop, her bag slipped from her shoulder. It landed on the ironwork with a resonant clang. She crouched down to pick it up.
There was a loud report.
The pressure of the gun barrel at the back of Liebermann's neck was suddenly relieved. Then there was a dull thud, followed by the clatter of Lazar Kiss's revolver hitting the ground.
Trezska was clutching a small smoking pistol.
Liebermann remembered that first night, when he had lifted her bag in the alley and found it unusually heavy. Now he knew why.
He wheeled around. Lazar was sprawled out on the cobbles, blood leaking from a neat circular hole in his forehead.
“You've killed him,” whispered Liebermann.
“Yes,” said Trezska. “You were telling the truth.” She smiled at him, and her distinctive features took on a diabolic cast. “I had a…
“Who is he?” said Liebermann, extending a trembling hand to the stair rail for support.
“Lazar Kiss—a fellow nationalist. But I have long suspected him of being a collaborator—a double agent. Now, you will forgive me, I have a train to catch. I trust you won't experience a sudden surge of patriotism and try to stop me.” Trezska pointed her gun at Liebermann. “I hope you will agree that I have now redeemed my debt— and I have no further obligation to you.”
“Would you really shoot me?” Liebermann glanced at the pistol. It was a beautiful weapon, chased with filigree. The handgrip was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“What do you think?”
“I think you would.”
“Then you would think right.”
“Is it in your valise—
“Yes.”
“What is it? What can be
Trezska paused. Her expression suggested inner conflict—a struggle of conscience that finally resolved itself in a sigh.
“The emperor's plans to invade Hungary.”
“What?” said Liebermann, drawing back in disbelief. “But that's impossible!”
“Before you condemn me, just think how many lives would be lost if the old fool and his senile generals decided to march on Budapest. At least with
She picked up her violin case and descended the staircase. As she passed him, she pressed the gun against his chest and kissed him on the lips. When she withdrew, he was dizzy with the sweet fragrance of clementine.
“Until the next time, Herr Doctor.”
After taking only a few steps she stopped.
“Oh—and one last thing. If I were you, I would pretend this didn't happen. You know nothing—do you understand? Nothing. If certain individuals suspected that you had been informed of the content of
She walked to the arcade—and did not look back.
Liebermann checked von Bulow's pulse again and ran across the courtyard. When he came out the other side of the vaulted passageway, the cul-de-sac was empty.
The Liderc.
It was an appropriate name.
80
LIEBERMANN PLAYED THE GENTLE introduction and raised his gaze to meet Rheinhardt s. The inspector rested his hand on the side of the Bosendorfer and began to sing—a sweet melody that possessed the transparent simplicity of a lullaby. It was Schubert's setting of Wilhelm Muller s
Rheinhardt rocked gently from side to side, conjuring with his lyric baritone a dewy morning of sunlight and rolling hills.
The brooklet is the miller's friend,
And my sweetheart's eyes are brightest blue.
Schubert's writing was deceptive. The sweet melody, while retaining its mellifluous charm, was suddenly imbued with painful, inconsolable yearning.
Therefore they are my flowers…
Liebermann scrutinized the notes on the page and marveled at Schubert's genius. Somehow he had managed to conceal in an arc of seemingly harmless values and pitches the absolute anguish of unrequited love. As the song progressed, the phrase was repeated, and with each repetition the listener was obliged to conclude that the young miller's heart would inevitably be broken. The bright blue eyes that he had laid claim to would never be his. Liebermann experienced this realization viscerally, as though he were hearing the song for the first time, and he found his chest tightening—until the constrictive feeling was relieved by a sigh.
When the final chord was reached, the young doctor bowed his head and allowed the notes to fade into a prolonged, respectful silence.
In due course, the two men retired to the smoking room, where they assumed their customary places. Liebermann s serving man had laid out the brandy and cigars, and the fire was already blazing. Rheinhardt noticed that Liebermann's old ashtray had been replaced by a new one—a metal box with a hinged lid.
The young doctor observed Rheinardt's nose wrinkling.
“You don't like it?”
“Well… it's a little plain, don't you think?”
“That's the point. It's by Josef Hoffmann.”
“Hoffmann?”
“Yes, Hoffmann. Surely you've heard of Hoffmann! He's a designer—and a very gifted one.”
“It doesn't take such a great talent to design a featureless box.”
“It isn't featureless. If you look closely, you'll see that the surface has been hammered.”
