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 Rheinhardt noticed that Liebermann's old ashtray had been replaced by a new one-a metal box with a hinged lid.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 Fac fe el. 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 Lazar Kiss-a man connected with the nationalists and whom Brugel 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 Brugel in a very difficult position: he authorized von Bulow's assignment, and this may have resulted, ultimately, in the failure of Kiss's mission.”
“So Brugel fears an investigation?”
“Without a doubt-which is why he is being so civil. I am sure that when the time comes he will expect me to answer questions in such a way as to deflect blame from himself. The old rogue actually had the audacity to say that he had always considered von Bulow a headstrong fellow and wasn't I inclined to agree?”
Liebermann turned his glass. “What actually happened in Landstrasse? Who shot Lazar Kiss?”
“How ever did you know he was shot?” asked Rheinhardt. “Was it something I said? Another of your Freudian slips?”
“Never mind,” said Liebermann nervously. “Please continue.”
“It might have been her — the Liderc-or it might have been someone else who arrived at the scene after her departure. And as for who struck von Bulow, who can say? It might have been Kiss-or, again, it could have been someone else entirely… We simply don't know.”
Liebermann swallowed. His mouth had gone quite dry.
“Tell me… was any attempt made to collect any forensic evidence? Dust particles, hairs, footprints?”
“Yes, of course,” Rheinhardt replied. “But nothing of any significance was found. On Friday, you will recall, there was a storm. Everything got washed away.”
The young doctor sipped his brandy and settled more comfortably into his chair. “Do you know anything more about this… Liderc woman? She sounds fascinating.”
“Fascinating but extremely dangerous,” said Rheinhardt, throwing his head back and expelling a column of roiling smoke. “The commissioner mentioned that she is a very competent violinist and had begun a modest concert career. She traveled widely under the auspices of a respectable cultural initiative, which-can you believe-received state sponsorship with the emperor's approval! Such brazenness!”
“Where do you think she is now?”
“I suspect that she has gone south. Italy, perhaps. But she will return-when she thinks she can journey home in safety.”
Liebermann set his glass aside. “But how does all this relate to von Stoger?”
“Good heavens, Max, isn't it obvious? It was the Liderc who stole the documents from the general's safe-and it must have been her too who murdered him in cold blood.”
“She might have had an accomplice?”
“Well, that's possible… but what does it matter now? She got away… There will be no trial. She will not be called to account.”