The battered door-toward which Liebermann was making steady progress-was swinging on its hinges, occasionally crashing loudly against the wall. The fact that nobody had bothered to secure it reinforced the general atmosphere of neglect and desolation.
Liebermann stepped over the threshold and into the tiled arcade. He paused for a moment and pushed a hank of sopping hair out of his eyes. A stream of icy water trickled down the back of his neck. From his shadowy vantage he could see across the courtyard. A man was standing at the foot of the iron stairs. He was facing away from Liebermann and wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. Beyond the stranger, and positioned above him on the covered landing, stood Trezska. She was dressed in readiness to travel, and carried-in addition to her shoulder bag-a small valise. Her violin was in its case at her feet. Yet there had been no sign of a cab waiting for her outside, and the man at the foot of the stairs was clearly making no effort to assist her. Indeed, there was something altogether strange about his situation. He had not chosen to climb the few steps that would have afforded him shelter. Instead, he was standing rather awkwardly, fully exposed to the elements.
Trezska was talking, but Liebermann could not hear her. He was too distant, and the deluge was becoming symphonic. Close by, the rain was drumming on a tin roof and an overflowing gutter was splashing loudly.
A blast of wind threatened to remove the stranger's hat, and the man had to grab quickly at the top of his head to hold it down. Again, Liebermann noted a conspicuous awkwardness-the maneuver had been executed clumsily with the left hand.
Liebermann crept down the passageway, keeping his back close to the wall. When he reached the opposite end, he discovered why it was that the stranger's posture had appeared somewhat unnatural. The man was holding a pistol, the barrel of which was pointed upward, toward Trezska.
The young doctor's response was automatic and unreasoning. He wanted to protect her, even though she had deceived him and even though he suspected that her capacity for deceit was boundless. Such was his disposition that a romantic obligation to a woman would always supersede a political obligation. Besides, he now had so many questions he wanted to ask her-questions that might never be answered if she were shot dead-that no other course of action seemed possible.
Liebermann ventured out into the driving rain and moved toward the stranger. He approached with great care, ensuring that the soles of his shoes landed gently on the cobbles. He held his breath as he had in early childhood when he used to sneak out of his room after his mother had put him to bed. Strange, he thought, how easily the mind supplies correspondent memories from infancy. Professor Freud was right: much of adult behavior had its origins in the nursery.
The rain was streaming down his face, blurring his vision; however, he was satisfied that Trezska had not reacted to his appearance. If she had, the man would have almost certainly turned to see what she was looking at. As Liebermann drew closer, he could hear Trezska's voice.
“I am sure we can come to some arrangement. After all, we are not entirely without common interests. I have in my possession information which might prove very useful.”
Closer-one step at a time…
“But,” she continued, “you cannot expect me to embark upon such an arrangement without some promise of security.”
It was remarkable how calm she sounded, given her predicament, and her German was more fluent and mannered. “You will accept, I hope, that this is not an unreasonable request.”
Liebermann observed a crescent of silver stubble beneath the man's hat. A middle-aged man, perhaps? Not too robust, he hoped.
Closer…
“Of course, you are at liberty to dismiss everything I have said,” Trezska added. “Why should you believe me? But I can assure you that I am speaking the absolute truth.”
Liebermann drew back his arm, clenched his fist, and thumped the man as hard as he could in the region of the occipital bone. The man fell forward on the stairs, unconscious, his pistol skittering away. His hat had become dislodged, revealing a bald pate and a pair of slightly tapering ears. Liebermann knelt down, checked the man's pulse, and turned him over. It was Inspector Victor von Bulow
76
Drexler was lying in the infirmary, thinking over the day's events. It had been a miracle, surely. God had interceded in order to give him a second chance. He must use the rest of his life wisely, as the deity rarely acted without purpose.
Dr. Kessler had left more than an hour ago. He was a kindly old fellow and meant well but, in Drexler s estimation, had spoken a lot of nonsense: You were perhaps very… close to Perger? He was your friend? It is indeed upsetting when we lose the company of one for whom we have developed a bond of deep and sincere affection…
Drexler had listened patiently. As far as he could gather, it seemed that the good doctor was proposing that Pergers precipitate departure had had the effect of placing his mind in a state of disequilibrium. Drexler was willing to concede that this was true, in one sense, but also recognized that it was entirely inaccurate in another. He had subsequently agreed to take some pills that were supposed to calm his agitation, but as time passed he was forced to conclude that they were largely ineffective.
Now he was bored.
He wanted to read something, and the book of military anecdotes provided for him by Nurse Funke was decidedly dull. He remembered that he had left his volume of E.T. A. Hoffmann short stories in the lost room, and considered that there would be no great risk associated with retrieving it.
“Nurse Funke?” he called.
The nurse appeared at the door and rested her hand against the jamb.
“Nurse Funke, may I collect a book from the dormitory? Some Hoffmann?”
“Dr. Kessler said you should sleep.”
“But it's too early for me to sleep. And I find it easier to sleep if I read first.”
“What about the book I brought you?”
“I do not wish to seem ungrateful; however, to be perfectly honest, Nurse Funke, I've already read it.”
“Very well,” said the nurse. “You can go. But you must come back immediately.”
“Of course.”
Drexler put on his uniform and set off on a circuitous tour of the school that took him-unseen-to the trapdoor.
When he dropped down into the lost room, he discovered that it was already occupied. Steininger was sitting in the wicker chair, smoking a cigarette, with his feet up on a stool. The Serbian boy, Stojakovic, was kneeling before him, vigorously cleaning his shoes. Freitag and another stocky boy called Gruber were standing close by.
When Drexler landed, Stojakovic stopped brushing. Steininger immediately lashed out and delivered a blow to the side of his head.
“Who told you to stop?” Steininger barked.
Stojakovic reapplied the polish and resumed his Sisyphean labor.
“Where's Wolf?” asked Drexler.
“Gone,” said Steininger, stroking his downy mustache. “His parents came and collected him today. I don't think he'll be coming back.”
“Poor Wolf,” said Freitag. “An excellent fellow-but prone to getting big ideas. Too big, eh? He was bound to overstretch himself one day.”
“What did he do?” said Drexler.
“I managed to speak to him just before he left, while he was packing his bags,” Steininger replied. “Apparently he was blackmailing Sommer and the police found out!”
“Is that why Sommer killed himself?”
“Who knows?” Steininger nonchalantly flicked some ash onto Stojakovic's hair. “So… where the hell have you been?”
“In the infirmary.”
“What! We'd heard that someone had gone mad and the headmaster had called Kessler. My God, it wasn't you, was it?”