Rheinhardt sighed. “You are right, of course. I dare say there is something in my soul that rages against the death of children—and for the very reasons you so eloquently describe. Be that as it may, I cannot free myself of the gnawing suspicion that there is more to Zelenka's death…” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. Then he added: “I will continue with the investigation, in spite of Professor Mathias's findings.”
Liebermann offered Rheinhardt another cigar. “I very much hope, Oskar, that when the time comes, you will be able to satisfy Commissioner Brügel. He will want to know why the resources of the security office have been used to discover the identity of a… sadistic schoolboy, which I fear may be all that this investigation is destined to reveal.”
Rheinhardt took the cigar and repeated: “I have a feeling.”
9
IT WAS A DULL MORNING: the sky was layered with massy strips of dense gray cloud. Rheinhardt took care as he negotiated the damp cobbles, which descended at a steep angle toward a scrubby waterlogged field. On either side were squat bungalows, the walls of which were mottled and streaked with an algal slime. In the distance, he could see four gas towers: enormous structures that loomed beyond a misty veil of persistent mizzle.
Rheinhardt found the bungalow he was looking for. It was cleaner than its neighbors but was not in good repair (the gutter was leaking). A lever pump was situated just outside the entrance, and a number of metal buckets were hanging in a neat row under the eaves. An empty birdcage—swinging forlornly—had been suspended in a recessed casement.
The door was opened by a woman. She was wearing a simple black dress, and the flesh around her sharp, intelligent eyes looked swollen. She had been crying.
“Frau Meta Zelenka?” The woman nodded. “I am Inspector Rheinhardt.”
“Of course,” she said, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief. “I'm sorry—please come in.”
Rheinhardt stepped across the threshold into a dark room that felt oppressively compressed due to its low ceiling. Sitting at a table was a large man with short reddish hair. He wore a brown jacket over a vest, the top buttons of which were undone. On seeing the inspector, the man rose, but very slowly—an uneasy coming together of body parts—such that the simple act of standing appeared to require monumental effort. Rheinhardt noticed the man's hands. They were laborer's hands—oversize, the white knuckles like eggs, the skin leathery, the veins raised and twisted.
“My husband,” said the woman. Her German was nuanced with a Slavic accent. “Fanousek, this is Inspector Rheinhardt.”
The man bowed, although the movement seemed to involve nothing more than a pained hunching of his shoulders.
Beyond the table was a sideboard on which stood a devotional candle and a crucifix.
“Forgive me for intruding on your grief,” said Rheinhardt.
Fanousek lowered himself back into his chair, and Meta drew up a seat beside him. Her slender hand traveled across the surface of the table until it reached her husband's, whereupon his long fingers opened and closed tightly around hers.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me,” said Rheinhardt, sitting opposite the couple. “And please accept my heartfelt condolences.”
“What do you want, Inspector?” said Fanousek. Like Metas, his German was accented; however, the question—although blunt— was not discourteous, merely direct.
“Information. About yourselves—and about Thomas.”
“Why?”
“I must complete a report. For the commissioner.” It was not the precise truth—but it was true enough. Rheinhardt couldn't very well declare, I'm here because of a presentiment, a feeling…
Rheinhardt took out his notebook.
“You are both Czech?”
“Yes.”
“And how long have you been living in Vienna?”
“Ten years.”
Theirs was a typical story—of hardship in rural Bohemia, the promise of prosperity in Vienna, then factory work, and finally disappointment. Fanousek worked in a warehouse. Meta sold cheap rye bread imported from Hungary at a Saturday market.
“With respect,” asked Rheinhardt hesitantly, “how could you afford to send your son to Saint Florian's?”
“We couldn't,” said Meta. “Thomas was awarded a scholarship.”
“Really? How did that happen?”
“Thomas spent a great deal of time in the company of our priest, Father Hanak. He encouraged Thomas, gave him books, even gave him free lessons at the presbytery: Latin, calligraphy, mathematics.… Then the good father found out that one of the breweries, one of the Czech breweries, sponsored a place at the oberrealschule for a boy born in Bohemia and”—Meta swallowed her pride and continued— “from an impoverished household.”
Rheinhardt gestured to indicate that the Zelenkas’ pecuniary circumstances, however straitened, were of little consequence as far as he was concerned.
“Was Thomas happy at Saint Florian's?”
“Yes, as far as we know. He enjoyed his studies—particularly the scientific subjects. He did complain once or twice about having to do drill every day, but that was all.”
“What about the other boys? Did he say anything about them?”
“No.”
“He must have mentioned his friends?”
“Thomas was a quiet boy. Thoughtful. He didn't say much.” She glanced at her husband and produced a gentle smile. “Like his father.”
Through a square window, Rheinhardt saw sheets of rain blowing across the bleak industrial landscape.
Meta opened a drawer in the table and removed a photograph. She looked at it
