“Which would, of course, be entirely consistent with Sommer's story… the memory game.” Liebermann leaned back in his chair and tapped his temple gently. “Yet everything about him suggested to me that he was trying to hide something.”
“What, though? And how could it have been connected with Zelenka?”
Liebermann pursed his lips, and after a lengthy pause said: “I have absolutely no idea.”
Rheinhardt picked up his pen again. “Brügel has reassigned me to von Bulow's team. As far as the commissioner is concerned, once this report is submitted, the Saint Florian's case will be consigned to the archive.”
“Where he will want it to remain, gathering dust.”
“Exactly. I keep on thinking of that dreadful nephew of his. I have no solid evidence to support the allegation, but I am convinced that Kiefer Wolf was torturing Zelenka… and he is probably torturing others right now—as we speak. It weighs heavily on my conscience.”
Liebermann remembered the boy Perger: his stutter, his timidity, his respectful compliance—the innocent happiness that illuminated his features as he moved his knight forward. Checkmate. The excitement in his treble voice had been touching. It was sad that this poor, sensitive boy was now bound for some distant shore where God only knew what fate might befall him.
“If only there were someone willing to speak out against Wolf,” Rheinhardt continued. “But of course, there never is… and so it goes on. I dread to think what kind of officer he will make.”
Liebermann pulled at his lower lip. “If none of the boys can be relied on to give evidence against him, then logically there is only one other way by which he could ever be exposed. Confession. He must make a confession.”
The inspector looked disappointed. “Well, that's hardly going to happen—is it?”
“Persecution is as much about exercising control as it is about deriving sadistic pleasure. Therefore we might ask ourselves what kind of person desires absolute control?” Rheinhardt gestured for Liebermann to continue. “A simple answer—surely—suggests itself: one who fears loss of control. I am reminded of some of Adler's ideas.…”
“Max,” said Rheinhardt, “what are you thinking?”
Liebermann smiled. “Allow me to explain.”
63
THEY WERE SEATED IN the disused classroom.
“Does my uncle know that you are here?” said Kiefer Wolf to Rheinhardt.
The inspector did not reply.
“I doubt that he does,” Wolf continued. “In which case, I can assure you that I shall be writing to him again.”
“Just answer my question.”
“The investigation is over. Uncle Manfred told me so. Inspector Rheinhardt, I believe you are acting without authority.”
“That is an extremely insolent remark.”
“No, Inspector, it is merely an accurate one.”
The boy folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. The line of his thin lips twisted slightly, suggesting modest satisfaction.
“There were cuts on Zelenka's body,” Rheinhardt persevered. “How did they get there?”
“I don't know,” said Wolf.
“I think you do.”
“Then you are mistaken.” Wolf made a languid movement with his hand and added, “Inspector, I would very much like to present myself for rifle practice. A Tyroler Kaiserjäger is coming this afternoon to give us special instruction. I have been selected to represent Saint Florian s at the end-of-year shooting tournament against Saint Polten and the headmaster was anxious that I should attend.”
“I am afraid that you will have to stay here until I am satisfied that you are telling me the truth.”
“The headmaster will be very displeased.”
“For the last time, Wolf, what do you know about those cuts?”
“Nothing, Inspector.”
The boy's complexion was clear and his skin as smooth as alabaster. He seemed preternaturally calm.
“Very well,” said Rheinhardt. Turning to his friend, he called out, “Herr Doctor?”
Liebermann, who had been patiently waiting by the window, picked up his black leather bag and crossed the room. He sat in front of Wolf and smiled.
“Do you study botany here?” he asked.
The boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Yes… we have had a few classes.”
“And what did you learn about?”
“The structure of plants… the different families.”
“Then perhaps you were introduced to the perennials of the Solanaceae family? They can be found in the local woods and meadows.”
“I am afraid I cannot remember,” said Wolf. “It is not a subject that interests me.”
“Even so, I suspect that you would recognize the name of at least one of the Solanaceae.” Liebermann inserted a dramatic pause before proclaiming: “Belladonna!”
The young doctor raised his eyebrows, encouraging a response.
“Yes,” said Wolf. “Of course I recognize that name. But what of it?”
“The plant grows from a thick fleshy root—about this high.” Liebermann sliced a horizontal plane through the air. “It has a dingy purple-brown bell-shaped flower, and smooth black berries that ripen in September.”
The neutrality of Wolf's expression was interrupted by a series of brief, flickering emotional responses that oscillated between perplexity and amusement. He was about to speak, but Liebermann silenced him by wagging an admonitory finger.
“I understand,” Liebermann continued, “that belladonna acquired its appellation in the Middle Ages, when young women employed the plant's extracts to dilate their pupils.” Liebermann observed Wolf's blank visage and added for clarification: “So they would seem more beautiful.”
“Herr Doctor,” said Wolf, “as I have already said, I am not very interested in botany.”
“I promise you, my purpose will soon become clear.” Again, Liebermann smiled. “Now, where was I? Oh yes… it was not only a favorite of young women—it was also valued by men of dubious morality whose intention it was to seduce them.” Wolf rocked his head to one side, and a scintilla of interest nuanced the vacancy of his steady gaze. Liebermann continued. “You see, it was soon discovered that if belladonna was secreted into a young woman's drink, she would become remarkably compliant, forgetting virtue and agreeing readily to suggestions of an improper nature. She would become— as it
