“The deputy headmaster and I…” Eichmann resumed his story with renewed firmness of purpose, and his raised voice suggested he was a little piqued that Rheinhardt s attention had shifted to his junior. “The deputy headmaster and I hurried down to the laboratory, accompanied by Professor Gärtner. We tried to rouse the boy… but our ministrations had no effect. I returned to my office and made the telephone calls I referred to earlier, to the police and Herr Dr. Kessler. The deputy headmaster went to get Nurse Funke—she lives in one of the lodges.”
“The lodges?”
“Accommodation for the staff: built on our grounds and mostly occupied by masters. Nurse Funke has rooms in the building nearest the school.”
“And what did Professor Gärtner do?”
“He organized the transfer of Zelenka from the laboratory to the infirmary with the help of Albert and two prefects.”
The mention of prefects made Rheinhardt ask: “Where are the boys? I haven't seen one of them.”
“Asleep, of course,” said the headmaster. “In the dormitories. They have to get up early for drill.”
“And Professor Gärtner? Where is he?”
“I believe he is resting in the common room. I suggested he retire there with a brandy. He was very upset.”
As they ascended the staircase, Rheinhardt noticed that the walls were very bare: blank expanses of grubby whitewash, no regimental photographs, trophies, or flags—in fact, nothing to please the eye. He also noticed the smell. A musty institutional smell—redolent of boiled vegetables, poor ventilation, and latrines. It was a smell that permeated virtually all official buildings in Austria, and had attracted its own special appellation: the “treasury” smell. It was one that had followed Rheinhardt throughout his life. Sometimes, even outside on a cold, clear day, he could smell that distinctive cloying odor in his nostrils.
They arrived at the top floor and the infirmary. A constable was standing outside.
“Security office?” asked the constable.
“Yes, yes,” said the inspector, now becoming rather irritated by the effect of his clothes. “Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt— and my assistant, Haussmann. You will kindly open the door, please.”
The constable, detecting both tetchiness and authority in Rheinhardt s voice, clicked his heels and meekly did as he was told.
Rheinhardt entered a stark, featureless room, painted over in the same monotonous whitewash. The ceiling was low, and four beds occupied most of the space. A tin sink was fixed to the wall, into which a dripping tap was reproducing the rataplan of a snare drum. On one of the beds was the body of the boy, Zelenka. A sheet had been thrown over him.
Sitting at a small desk, next to the door, was a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform. She stood up as the men entered. The headmaster thanked her for waiting, and introduced Rheinhardt and his assistant. She then went to the nearest bed and gently pulled at the cover. It slipped away, revealing the face of a young boy.
“Thomas Zelenka,” said the nurse.
“How old was he?”
“Fifteen.”
“I see.”
As far as Rheinhardt could make out, the boy was of medium build. He had a handsome, stoic face: a square chin and full, sensuous lips. His light brown hair—which originally must have been closely cropped—had grown out a little, producing a covering of dense bristles.
“What happened?” Rheinhardt asked, puzzled.
“I don't know,” said the nurse, shaking her head. “He was already dead when I arrived. I tried to resuscitate him—but there was little point in trying.”
“And the cause of death?”
“I am afraid you will have to ask Dr. Kessler when he arrives. I have no idea.”
Rheinhardt leaned forward and examined Zelenka's head. As he did so, he registered a light dappling of juvenile freckles on the boy's cheeks.
“No bleeding? No signs of the boy having been struck?”
“No,” said the nurse, sounding a sudden note of surprise.
Rheinhardt looked into her eyes. They were gray and watery.
“Did you know the boy?” he asked.
“Yes,” Nurse Funke replied. “I knew Thomas Zelenka very well.” She blinked a tear from her eye. “He was always catching colds.… I used to give him a balsam inhalation to help him breathe.”
“Did he suffer from any serious ailments?”
“No—not to my knowledge. Although you had better ask Dr. Kessler.”
Rheinhardt turned to face the headmaster.
“I would be most grateful if you would allow my assistant to call for a mortuary van. There will have to be an autopsy, and it is my preference that this be conducted at the Physiological Institute.” He then turned to Haussmann. “See if you can speak to Professor Mathias. I'd like him to perform an autopsy as soon as possible.”
“Tonight, sir?”
“Yes. Why not? Professor Mathias is a famous insomniac and is always happy to assist. And while you're at it, see if you can get a photographer… but tell him to get a driver who is familiar with the woods around Aufkirchen. Otherwise they'll never get here!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will then meet me in the laboratory, equipped with pencils, paper, a notebook, and…” He broke off to address Eichmann. “Is art taught in this school, headmaster?”
“Yes,” Eichmann replied. “We have a drawing and calligraphy master—Herr Lang.”
“Good,” said Rheinhardt, before continuing to address Haussmann: “Some clean paintbrushes—preferably unused—and about twenty stiff isinglass envelopes. I am sure that the deputy headmaster will help you to find these items. You, headmaster, will kindly escort me to the laboratory.”
For the first time, the headmaster and his deputy were looking at Rheinhardt with something approaching respect.
“Well?” said Rheinhardt, his voice rising in a fair imitation of the headmaster's earlier reproach. “What am I supposed to do—find it myself?”
5
LIEBERMANN HAD HAILED A CAB for Else Rheinhardt and was about to do the same for Amelia when she surprised him by saying:
“No, Dr. Liebermann. I would very much like to walk home. I am still excited and will not sleep. A walk will do me good.”
“Very well,” said Liebermann. “You will, of course, permit me to escort you?”
Amelia offered the young doctor her arm, and they set off in the direction of Alsergrund. At first, their conversation was given over entirely to the subject of Fasching. Amelia showed a keen interest in the historical origins of the ball season; however, in due course, Liebermann inquired how her studies at the university were progressing and she began to speak of more serious matters: microscopy, anatomy, diseases of the blood. She had also chosen to attend a course of philosophy lectures and had become very interested in the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.
“Are you familiar with his works, Dr. Liebermann?”
“No, I'm afraid not.”
“A pity. As a devotee of Professor Freud, you would appreciate his thoughts on the importance of unconscious mental processes. I have been somewhat preoccupied of late by his notion of eternal recurrence.”
“Oh? And what is that, exactly?”
“The idea that we are destined to repeat our lives again and again—in perpetuity.”
Liebermann was taken aback by Amelia's comment. She possessed a very logical mind, and he could not understand why such a whimsical notion had captured her attention.
“As in reincarnation?” said Liebermann disdainfully. “The transmigration of souls?”
Amelia shook her head.
“No, Herr Doctor—not at all. Nietzsche's proposal is rather different, and should not be confused with Pythagorean or Hindu doctrines.”