Next to the cauldron an old woman sat on a low bench. She had a schoolmaster's black cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and she wore a necklace made from the bones of animals. Her hair was long and gray, and when she smiled, her lips receded to reveal a row of blackened teeth. The upper central incisors were missing.
“Is it him?” she croaked.
The woodman nodded and dropped the jute sack next to the cauldron. Zhenechka got up and hobbled over. Reaching into a worn leather pouch, she produced a silver coin, which she pressed into the woodman's hand.
“Good,” she said. “Very good.”
She was delighted with the woodman's find-and could put it to many irregular uses.
79
“Put your hands above your head.”
The man was wearing a shabby coat, a floppy hat tilted at an acute angle, and a long embroidered scarf. Black curly hair fell from behind his exposed ear, and his mustache was so well waxed that the wind and rain hadn't displaced a single hair. It projected out from his face, defiantly horizontal.
Liebermann obeyed.
“Don't look at me-turn back round,” the man continued.
“This is quite unnecessary, Lazar,” said Trezska. “Herr Dr. Liebermann is a friend. Had he not come to my assistance”-she gestured toward the supine body of von Bulow-”everything would now be over.”
Liebermann felt the barrel of the gun dig into the back of his neck.
“No,” said the man. “He's not our friend: he's a friend of the fat detective-the one who was following me. I told you not to mess around-not with so much at stake. Now look what's happened.”
Trezska looked down at Liebermann. “Ah, now I see why you are so well informed.”
“Well informed?” asked the man. “What does he know?”
“He knows about Studie U. “
“Then we must kill him.”
“I have no idea what Studie U is!” Liebermann protested. “I am very well acquainted with Inspector Rheinhardt-the person whom I think you just referred to as the fat detective — and I sometimes help him with his inquiries. His assistant overheard a conversation between this gentleman-Inspector von Bulow-and the commissioner. Studie U and the Liderc were discussed.” The gunman took a sharp intake of breath. “Neither Inspector Rheinhardt nor I,” Liebermann continued, “have the slightest idea what Studie U is, beyond the obvious-that it is a document that must contain some highly sensitive information. As for your code name…” Liebermann appealed to Trezska. “You will allow, I hope, that you gave me certain reasons for suspicion on the Kohlmarkt, and I am not an absolute fool.”
Before Trezska could respond, the man interjected, “He's lying.”
The gunman's intention to fire his weapon was reflected in Trezska's horrified expression.
“No,” she shouted. “Wait!”
“What for?”
“If he's lying, why did he knock out von Bulow?”
“Maybe he didn't-maybe it's all a ruse and von Bulow is just pretending to be unconscious, waiting for his moment!”
“Lazar, that's absurd.”
“Look, I don't know what's happening here-and neither do you. But we do know that this man”-Liebermann felt the gun's muzzle being lodged under the bony arch at the base of his skull-”knows far more than he should, and if you let him live, it will threaten the success of the operation-everything we've worked for! If you don't want to watch, go and wait for me at the Sudbahnhof. I'll deal with them both.”
The ensuing hiatus was filled with the noise of the roaring deluge: the slop and spatter, the splash and spill-unrelenting, indifferent, merciless.
Trezska threw her arms up in the air, as if she were beseeching a higher authority for assistance. When she let them drop, her bag slipped from her shoulder. It landed on the ironwork with a resonant clang. She crouched down to pick it up.
There was a loud report.
The pressure of the gun barrel at the back of Liebermann's neck was suddenly relieved. Then there was a dull thud, followed by the clatter of Lazar Kiss's revolver hitting the ground.
Trezska was clutching a small smoking pistol.
Liebermann remembered that first night, when he had lifted her bag in the alley and found it unusually heavy. Now he knew why.
He wheeled around. Lazar was sprawled out on the cobbles, blood leaking from a neat circular hole in his forehead.
“You've killed him,” whispered Liebermann.
“Yes,” said Trezska. “You were telling the truth.” She smiled at him, and her distinctive features took on a diabolic cast. “I had a… feeling. And, as you know, I trust my feelings.”
“Who is he?” said Liebermann, extending a trembling hand to the stair rail for support.
“Lazar Kiss-a fellow nationalist. But I have long suspected him of being a collaborator-a double agent. Now, you will forgive me, I have a train to catch. I trust you won't experience a sudden surge of patriotism and try to stop me.” Trezska pointed her gun at Liebermann. “I hope you will agree that I have now redeemed my debt- and I have no further obligation to you.”
“Would you really shoot me?” Liebermann glanced at the pistol. It was a beautiful weapon, chased with filigree. The handgrip was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“What do you think?”
“I think you would.”
“Then you would think right.”
“Is it in your valise- Studie U?”
“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 Bosendorfer and began to sing-a sweet melody that possessed the transparent simplicity of a lullaby. It was Schubert's setting of Wilhelm Muller s Des Mulle n 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 Mulles 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.