He turned away and stared into the darkness.
Steininger's digging was creating a hypnotic rhythm: the crunch of the blade penetrating the soil-a heave of effort-and then the dull rain of soil on leaves. Its regularity was comforting and lulled Drexler into a kind of trance. Once or twice, he noticed discontinuities of consciousness: he was so tired that he must have nodded off…
Freitag gasped: a sudden intake of breath, cut short and invested with the rising pitch of surprise.
Steininger stopped digging.
An owl hooted.
“What is it?”
“I thought… I thought I saw something move. Over there.”
“What?”
Freitag's voice shook. “It was big, like a bear.”
“Don't be so ridiculous,” said Wolf. “If it was a bear, we'd soon know about it!”
“I didn't say it was a bear-I said it was like a bear. Really, I did see something. Something big.”
“Pull yourself together, Freitag,” Wolf commanded.
Freitag shook his head. “I'm going. I don't like it here.”
Wolf grabbed his arm. “Look, it's just your imagination! There's nothing out there!”
He gestured between the trees and raised his lamp. Nothing was visible, except the restless mist.
Freitag swallowed-subdued by the steel in Wolf's eyes.
“Yes…” Freitag smiled-somewhat desperately. “Yes… of course. My imagination.”
“Don't be a fool, Freitag,” said Wolf, releasing his grip.
Drexler said nothing, but his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. He had seen something too-exactly as Freitag had said: something large and lumbering-big-like a bear. He marched over to Steininger.
“Give me the shovel. You're too slow, Steininger. Let's finish this business and get away from this awful place.”
47
The waiter swooped by, skilfully replacing Rheinhardt's empty soup bowl with a dish containing dumplings, fried pork chops, a slice of boiled ham, frankfurter sausages, and a steaming mound of cooked sauerkraut. Rheinhardt inhaled the meaty fragrances and dressed his meal with large dollops of bright yellow mustard. Looking over at his companion, he noticed that Liebermann was toying with his food, rather than eating it, fishing noodles out of his broth and watching them slither off his spoon like tiny serpents.
“What's the matter-lost your appetite?”
“Yes. I'm feeling a little fragile, to be honest. Last night I…” He massaged his temple and winced. “I drank too much.”
“Well, there's no better cure for a hangover than a big, hearty meal. Finish your soup and try the onion steak… or the Tyrolean liver. Something substantial!”
Liebermann stirred the contents of his bowl and observed the stringy ballet with glum indifference.
“I saw Miss Lyd gate on Tuesday,” Rheinhardt added breezily.
Liebermann looked up from his soup. “Did you?”
“Yes. I showed her the number pairs from Zelenka's book.”
Liebermann's expression was unusually flat: a peculiarity that Rheinhardt attributed to his friend's intemperance of the night before.
“Was she able to assist?”
“Well, she said that the numbers might represent some form of code-but, if so, one of a very unconventional type. She promised to study them and give an opinion in due course.”
Liebermann nodded.
Rheinhardt sliced his dumpling and speared a strip of boiled ham.
“This is quite, quite delicious,” he said, chewing with more volume than was really permissible according to the standard prescriptions of etiquette. “Oh, and Miss Lyd gate said something about not having had the pleasure of your company lately… and being otherwise engaged-and that I should convey her best wishes when I next saw you.”
Liebermann set his jaw and mumbled something inaudible, which Rheinhardt was perfectly content to accept as a token of gratitude.
The arrival of a pianist was received with restrained applause. The musician adjusted the height of his stool, flicked the tails of his coat, and sat down slowly. When his hands fell on the keyboard, the coffeehouse filled with a mournful dirge. The marchlike accompaniment suggested the trudging feet of a regiment of soldiers, every one of whom yearned to return home. It was an inconsolable song of reminiscence and lamentation.
“Brahms?” asked Rheinhardt tentatively.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Hungarian Dance Number Eleven in D minor. It's usually heard in a four-hand arrangement… and he's playing it very slowly.”
“Still…”
“It is very affecting, yes.”
“I rather like it.”
They listened for a few moments, until a subtle modulation in the music suddenly released them from its thrall.
“So tell me,” said Liebermann. “What happened with old Brugel? Did the nephew carry out his threat?”
Rheinhardt rolled his eyes to the ceiling.
“Yes. He did write to the commissioner, informing him of my accusation. Subsequently, I was summoned by Brugel and given a complete dressing down. He was furious-I've never seen him so angry.”
“His overreaction confirms my earlier speculation. He knows what sort of a boy Wolf is. He is simply trying to safeguard the interests of his family.”
Rheinhardt waved a piece of sausage on the end of his fork. “When I was leaving, Brugel became more subdued. He said that Wolf was the only child of his youngest sister. The boy was no angel, he admitted, but he said I was quite wrong about him.” Rheinhardt paused, his eyes becoming less focused. “There was something about the way he referred to his sister… an uncharacteristic tenderness.”
“In most families,” said Liebermann knowingly, “the eldest son is often the youngest daughter's special protector-and a mother cannot help but idealize her only child. One does not need to be a very great psychologist to understand Brugel's motive. He loves his sister, and he is trying to stop you from breaking her heart. That is why his anger was so immoderate.”
Liebermann sat back in his chair, satisfied with his perspicacity. He noticed with irritation that a wayward spot of broth had landed on the cuff of his jacket. He tutted, reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief. As he did so, some pink sugared almonds fell and scattered onto the floor. The young doctor reached down, picked them up, and placed them on the tablecloth.
Rheinhardt stopped chewing.
“Sugared almonds,” said Liebermann, with a sheepish half smile.
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.
“I wasn't expecting them to be there.”
“Evidently not,” said the inspector, resuming his chewing, and revising his estimate of how much alcohol his friend had imbibed the previous evening.
Liebermann wiped his cuff clean. Trezska must have put the almonds in his pocket while they were both inebriated-or perhaps he had put them there himself; these innocent bonbons aroused in him a peculiar sense of incompletion and imminence. He stared at the almonds and began to play with them on his napkin-as if he might stumble upon an arrangement that would release their mysterious secret.
He remembered something that Trezska had said: she had praised the mind-altering properties of absinthe: the inspiration of poets… the favored spirit of visionaries. Why was that important? As hard as he tried, he couldn't think why.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Rheinhardt asked.
Liebermann dismissed his solicitous remark with a peremptory hand gesture.
They had returned to his apartment and made love. He could remember that well enough. Then, afterward, he had been lying in bed, still feeling very odd-and… That was it! He had experienced a flash of insight: something to do with almonds, and something very, very important.
“Ha!” Liebermann exclaimed.
“Whatever is the matter, Max?” said Rheinhardt, somewhat irritated by his friend's eccentric behavior.
The young doctor suddenly seemed galvanized. His movements acquired a nervous urgency.