“Do the police have”-Schmidt did not want to betray his excitement and made an effort to keep his voice steady-“any idea who is responsible for these atrocities?”
“No.”
“Was he robbed?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why was he murdered?”
“God knows!”
“Decapitation…,” said Schmidt pensively. “It must have been the same person.”
“Or persons… This morning I spoke to the security office commissioner on the telephone. The state censor intervened with respect to the reports of Brother Stanislav’s murder. The monk’s head was in fact torn from his body. The same thing…” The old man balked at the thought. “The same thing happened to poor Faust. It would take more than one man to perform such a heinous deed.”
“What a terrible way to die.”
“Indeed. Let us pray that he was oblivious when the time came.”
Schmidt crossed his legs and let his fingers interlock.
“It seems almost ritualistic, don’t you think?”
Holzknecht was too distressed to detect Schmidt’s meaning, and the councillor thought it prudent not to press the point. He would have many other opportunities in due course. The two men spoke for a while until the conversation became nothing more than disconnected statements of horror and disbelief. Eventually Schmidt said, “You must excuse me. There is some work I must complete for the mayor’s transport committee by this evening.”
Holzknecht rose from his desk and accompanied Schmidt to the door. Before opening it, he said, “Of course, this means that you now have a very good chance of being appointed to the mayor’s special advisory panel.”
“With respect, Hofrat Holzknecht,” said Schmidt, “I cannot think of such things at present.”
“Forgive me…,” said the old man. “You were close colleagues, and no doubt close friends. However, I just wanted you to know that I’ve always regarded you as a man of talent, Schmidt. Perhaps your time has come.”
The councillor assumed a rueful expression and walked through the two antechambers with his head lowered. When he reached the corridor, he was smiling.
28
The Chancellor’s expression was serious, and his eyes glinted coldly behind his spectacles.
“Herr Doctor, I regret to say that the matter of young Baron von Kortig’s death and your obstruction of Father Benedikt has come to the attention of a journalist.”
Liebermann raised his eyebrows. “May I ask, sir, how it was that a journalist came to be so well informed?”
“I have no idea; however, it should not surprise us to learn that journalists are always trying to find things out. That is, after all, what they do.”
“With respect, Professor Gandler, I have never known such a relatively minor matter to attract the interest of the press before.”
“I can assure you, Herr Doctor, that matters of faith are never minor.” The chancellor’s expression became even more grave. After what seemed like an exceptionally long pause he continued, “I am obliged to ask you a sensitive question, Herr Doctor. When we last spoke, did you omit any important detail from your account of what happened that night?”
Liebermann wondered what the chancellor might be alluding to.
“I don’t think so. The baron was dying. Father Benedikt wanted to give him the last rites, and I explained that I did not think this was in the patient’s interests. The priest objected… he asked my name, and he left. That, essentially, is all there is to tell.”
“Unfortunately, Herr Doctor, the journalist has written a rather different story. An allegation is made, concerning the employment of force.”
Liebermann was speechless. He touched his chest, as if to say, By me? The chancellor confirmed this with a solemn nod.
“Oh, that is utterly absurd!” Liebermann cried. “I have never heard anything so ridiculous… Besides, there were witnesses present.”
“Indeed.” The word was not encouraging, quite the opposite. “Think back, Herr Doctor,” continued Professor Gandler. “When the priest tried to enter the ward, what did you do?”
“I told him he couldn’t go through.”
“Yes, but what did you actually do?”
“I may have…” Liebermann lowered his voice. “I may have put my arm across the doorway.”
“In other words, you forcibly barred his admittance.”
Liebermann raised his hands in frustration. “Well, you could say that. But it would be a gross misrepresentation of the facts.”
“Would it really?”
“Yes. To say that I forcibly barred his admittance makes it sound like some kind of assault took place. I merely rested my hand against the doorjamb.”
Professor Gandler scowled and repositioned some papers on his desk. “Had you apologized to the committee when I advised you to, Herr Doctor, this problem might have been swiftly and quietly resolved. Instead, you chose to disregard my advice. This article will attract unwanted publicity, the kind that could potentially damage our fine reputation.” The chancellor tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk. “A written apology might still stop things from going any further…”
Liebermann shook his head. “I’m sorry, Professor Gandler…”
“Once again, I would urge you to reconsider. This situation could easily escalate, and if it does, you will be sorry.”
Liebermann ignored the chancellor’s thinly disguised threat.
“Where did this article appear, Professor Gandler?”
The chancellor opened his drawer and pulled out a folded newspaper. He tossed it across the desk, and it landed so that the masthead was exposed. It read: Das Vaterland. At once Liebermann understood what was really going on. He looked up at the chancellor, and for a moment was consoled by a glimmer of sympathy.
29
The two men had finished their music-making and taken their customary places in Liebermann’s smoking room. Somewhat unusually, though, it was Rheinhardt who spoke first. “You seem a little preoccupied, Max.”
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “I do have a lot on my mind. Something happened at the hospital a few weeks ago that has had unforeseen consequences, and I now find myself in an invidious position.”
He told his friend about the death of the young Baron von Kortig, his-Liebermann’s-alleged forceful obstruction of Father Benedikt, and of his unhappy interviews with the chancellor. Throughout, Rheinhardt’s solicitous expression was constant. Occasionally he muttered “outrageous,” “appalling,” or “intolerable.” When Liebermann had finished, the detective inspector blew out a great cloud of cigar smoke and asked, “What do you think will happen?”
“I have no idea. But I simply refuse to make an apology. This would be tantamount to an admission of improper behavior.”
“Indeed. As far as I can see, you acted irreproachably-thinking first and foremost of your patient. The old baron should have been grateful that his son’s dying moments were spent in the care of such a scrupulous physician.” Rheinhardt sipped his brandy and added, “Who do you think contacted the journalist?”
“I don’t know. It could have been anyone: Father Benedikt, the old Baron von Kortig, one of the committee members… even the nurse or the aspirant.”
“Someone is clearly trying to turn an inconsequential incident into a scandal-and, sadly, their motivation is all too transparent.”
“Yes. I tried to resist the obvious conclusion, but the article in Das Vaterland soon brought an end to my doubts. The author repeatedly stressed that fewer and fewer doctors in Vienna understand the importance of the Christian sacraments.”
They spoke for a little while longer about Liebermann’s situation, until the young doctor seemed suddenly to grow impatient and tire of the subject. He made a gesture with his hand as if to brush the matter away. After a short pause, Liebermann said in a more animated voice, “I stopped for coffee at the Cafe Museum this afternoon and saw the late editions.”