After some time had passed, the driver let out a cry. “Inspector! Inspector! This must be it!”
Rheinhardt opened the window. They were passing between two cast-iron gates set in a crumbling high wall. The fog was less thick, and in the distance, across a flat expanse of land, he could see illuminated windows. Rheinhardt sighed with relief.
The carriage rattled down a long drive and finally stopped. The inspector and his assistant jumped out and took stock of their surroundings. They were standing next to a weather-beaten statue, the features of which had been worn smooth; however, it was still possible to identify a bearded warrior holding a lance, with one foot raised on what appeared to be a tub.
“Saint Florian,” said Rheinhardt.
“He looks more like a Roman soldier,” said Haussmann.
“Well, that's because he was a Roman soldier—a military administrator, posted here, in Austria. But that, alas, is the limit of my knowledge.”
Rheinhardt faced the school.
The building was Gothic in design, possessing three rows of triple lancet windows and four octahedral spires. A cloistered courtyard could be seen through a central stone arch. Rheinhardt and Haussmann entered the courtyard, and as they did so, a door opened through which an elderly man appeared. He was clearly a servant, but he wore a military decoration on his jacket.
“Gentlemen!” the old man cried.
Rheinhardt and Haussmann stepped forward, but as they did, the veteran's expression changed from eagerness to disappointment.
“Oh dear—very sorry—I mistook you for someone else.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Rheinhardt.
“The headmaster is expecting two gentlemen from the security office.”
“Indeed. I am Inspector Rheinhardt and this is my assistant, Haussmann.” The old man narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” Rheinhardt continued, recognizing that their appearance might require an explanation. “We are somewhat overdressed, but it was our misfortune to be called here directly from a ball.”
“Ball, you say?”
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt, adding emphatically, “The detectives’ ball.”
The old soldier mumbled something to himself and then, pulling himself up, said: “Humbly report—this way, please.”
He guided them to a door beneath the cloisters, and they entered a long, shadowy corridor. At its end, in a pool of blue light cast by suspended paraffin lamps, stood two men in academic gowns.
“Headmaster,” the old man called out. “They're here, sir. The gentlemen from the security office. Inspector Rheinhardt and his assistant.”
“Thank you, Albert,” said one of the men. “Dismissed.”
The old soldier stamped his feet, saluted, and shuffled away. Catching Rheinhardt's eye, the headmaster whispered. “A good fellow— saw action in ‘48. The Budapest siege.”
The headmaster was a man in his late fifties, with gray, almost white, hair. A snowy thatch had been raked over his head to conceal a thinning crown. Although his cheeks were ruddy and plump, he possessed an alert, severe face, with high, arched eyebrows. A small triangle of hair curled outward from his chin. He executed a perfunctory bow. “Professor Julius Eichmann, school superintendent.” He gestured toward his companion. “And my deputy, Dr. Bernhard Becker.”
The deputy headmaster inclined his head.
“Thank you for coming, Inspector,” Eichmann continued. “And from a social engagement, it seems.” He scrutinized the policeman from head to toe, his expression souring slightly at the sight of Rheinhardt's muddy shoes and splashed trousers.
“An accident,” said Rheinhardt.
The headmaster nodded sharply and said: “Well, Inspector, this is a most unusual circumstance. We are entirely in your hands. How do you wish to proceed?”
“I would like to see the…” He hesitated before choosing to say “boy” instead of “body.”
“Very well. We will take you to the infirmary.”
Rheinhardt frowned. “What? He's been moved?”
“Yes,” said the headmaster.
“Why?”
“Why?” repeated the headmaster. “Why?” His voice suddenly changed, climbing in pitch and volume. “What was I supposed to do? Leave him in the laboratory?” His rhetorical sarcasm revealed years of experience in the classroom. He glanced at his deputy, and something passed between them. When the headmaster resumed, his voice was more steady. “I feared the worst, but was reluctant to pronounce the boy dead. I am not a medical man, Inspector. I thought it best to get him to the infirmary and send for Nurse Funke; however, as I suspected, she could do nothing for him.”
Rheinhardt automatically reached for his notebook but then, suddenly remembering that he was wearing his tails, allowed his hand to drop. The headmaster's expression declared—quite clearly—that he believed Rheinhardt was an idiot. The inspector took a deep breath and continued his questioning.
“And after sending for Nurse Funke?”
“I telephoned Dr. Kessler and the police. Some constables arrived within the hour. They are still here—one is standing outside the infirmary; the other is in the laboratory. I have no idea where Kessler is!”
“Kessler is the school doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he set off from, do you know?”
“His apartment in the sixteenth district.”
“The main road above Aufkirchen is impassable—a fallen tree, apparently. He may have been delayed, as we were.”
The headmaster tutted, almost as if Rheinhardt were a schoolboy presenting a weak excuse for not having completed his homework.
“The infirmary is upstairs, Inspector,” said the headmaster. He then walked off at a brisk pace, calling back, “This way.”
Rheinhardt and Haussmann followed the headmaster and his deputy down an adjoining corridor. They began ascending a narrow staircase. When Rheinhardt caught up with the headmaster, Eichmann proceeded to give an account of the evening's events.
“The deputy headmaster and I were in my office. We had barely begun our meeting when Professor Gärtner appeared at the door. He was evidently distressed. He had seen a light on in the laboratory and had entered, expecting to find the deputy headmaster.”
“Science is my discipline,” Becker interjected.
“Gärtner,” the headmaster continued, “had found the boy, Zelenka, slumped over a workbench.”
“At what time?”
“It must have been…” The headmaster glanced at his deputy for confirmation. “Just before seven?”
Becker agreed.
“What was Zelenka doing in the laboratory?” asked Rheinhardt.
“An assignment,” said Becker.
“Which, presumably, you had set him?”
“Yes,” Becker replied. “A simple inquiry into the effects of vinegar on certain compounds.”
Rheinhardt studied Becker more carefully. He was Eichmann's junior by a decade or so. His hair was relatively long, but receding, which had the effect of increasing the salience of his high, domed forehead. This feature, taken together with his perceptive eyes and gold-rimmed spectacles, conveyed a strong impression of superior intellectual endowment. His mustache was stiff and straight, projecting outward beyond his jawline, and his thick beard was unusually styled, the tip having been clipped to achieve a forked extremity.
“Why was he doing this assignment on his own? Was he being punished?”
“No,” said Becker, “not at all. Zelenka was one of our keener students. He was always requesting additional work.”