“Yes.”
“What is it? What can be so valuable…”
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 Studie U in our possession we can attempt to avert such a catastrophe.”
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 Studie U, you would be in great danger. You can, of course, depend on me to exercise the utmost discretion.”
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 Bösendorfer and began to sing—a sweet melody that possessed the transparent simplicity of a lullaby. It was Schubert's setting of Wilhelm Müller s Des Müllen Blumen—The Miller's Flowers.
Rheinhardt rocked gently from side to side, conjuring with his lyric baritone a dewy morning of sunlight and rolling hills.
“Der Bach ier ist des Mülles Freuni,
“Uni hellhlau Liehchens Auge scheint.”
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.
“Drum sini es meine Blumen…”
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.”
Rheinhardt peered at the ashtray and pushed out his lower lip.
“How much did you pay for this?”
“Clearly too much in your opinion; however, the exterior is silver-plated, and it came with a mirrored candle-stand and a cigarette case. One day, Oskar, Hoffmann's designs”—Liebermann flicked the metal so that it made a ringing sound—”will be exhibited in museums of art.”
Rheinhardt smiled indulgently, but it was perfectly clear that he thought this unlikely.
The brandy was promptly decanted, the cigars were lit, and soon the room was filled with a pungent haze. Their conversation became fluid and agreeable—touching upon some amusing articles they had both read in Die Facfeel. Eventually, however, their mood changed, becoming more subdued, and an extended silence signaled their readiness to discuss matters of greater importance.
The inspector tapped his cigar over the new Hoffmann ashtray and addressed his friend:
“Did you hear about Sommer?”
“Yes,” said Libermann. “It was reported in the Neue Freie Presse.”
“A sorry business.”
“Indeed.”
“And something else—something rather odd—happened up at Saint Florian's last week.”
“Oh?”
“One of the boys—a lad called Martin Drexler—presented himself at a local police station, claiming to have killed Isidor Perger in a shooting accident. The boy said that he had buried Pergers body in the woods. He led a constable to the spot—but there was nothing there. Subsequently, Drexler became very distressed and the constable began to have doubts about his sanity. The boy was returned to the school and attended by Dr. Kessler, who prescribed some sedative medication.”
“Do you want me to examine him?”
“No—that won't be necessary. I spoke to Dr. Kessler this morning, and apparently the boy is doing well. I mention it only because it struck me as a peculiar… codetta to the events with which we have been so closely involved.” Rheinhardt directed his gaze into the fire. “Even more curious events have transpired concerning von Bulow and his special assignment.”
Liebermann's heart skipped a beat. “Really?” he said, feigning nonchalance.
“Once again, Max,” said Rheinhardt, turning toward his friend, “I am obliged to remind you that what I am about to say must be treated in the strictest confidence.”
Liebermann nodded and began an unusually thorough examination of the pattern on his brandy glass.
“I was called to the commissioner's office and knew as soon as I arrived that something significant had happened. His attitude was completely different. I wouldn't say that he was being polite… but he was certainly being a lot less rude. I could see that he was finding this act quite difficult to sustain, agreeableness not being one of his natural endowments. After some preliminary and somewhat strained courtesies, he announced that von Bulow's assignment had ended rather badly—and that von Bulow was currently indisposed and receiving medical care at a sanitarium. It seems that my esteemed colleague was engaged in the pursuit of a Hungarian spy—a woman, known in nationalist circles as the Liderc.”
“If my memory serves me correctly,” Liebermann interjected, “that is the name that Haussmann overheard, is it not?”
“Precisely. Well, von Bulow managed to find her hideaway—at an address in Landstrasse—and actually had the woman at gunpoint when someone came up behind him and struck him on the head. He lost consciousness instantly, and when he woke up, his bird had flown… However, next to him he discovered the body of a gentleman known as Lázár Kiss—a man connected with the nationalists and whom Brügel and von Bulow had asked me to follow, when I had wanted to continue the investigation at Saint Florian's. Well, since von Bulow's debacle in Landstrasse, the commissioner has received some extremely discomfiting intelligence. Kiss was indeed a very high-ranking agent. Not one of theirs, however, but one of ours! He was in the Austrian secret service and had infiltrated a nationalist cell. He was on the brink of finding out the identities of several spymasters. As you can imagine, all this places Brügel in a very difficult position: he authorized von Bulow's assignment, and this may have resulted, ultimately, in the failure of Kiss's mission.”