‘Indeed.’ Liebermann sat back in his chair and watched the beads of perspiration forming on Erstweiler’s forehead. ‘In your dream, the ogre owned the goose. Now, consider this, Herr Erstweiler: over whom did Bozidar Kolinsky have an exclusive right of possession, by legal contract and in the sight of God?’
‘Frau Milena.’
‘Ergo …’
‘Frau Milena is the goose?’
‘And not just any goose — but a goose capable of laying golden eggs. I recall you saying that Herr Kolinsky was a miser …’
‘Herr doctor.’ Erstweiler swallowed. ‘I don’t feel well. My heart.’ He rested his palm on his chest. ‘I can feel it racing. Please, Herr doctor.’
‘We are almost finished.’ Liebermann touched his patient’s shoulder. ‘I hope that I have succeeded in persuading you that your dream was not as innocent as it first seems and that the characters therein correspond with real persons. But what of the story? Does the narrative itself correspond with actual events?’
‘My heart!’
‘Again, in my opinion, this is almost certainly the case, and I would propose the following: you fell in love with Frau Milena — and grew to hate her husband, Bozidar Kolinsky. It was unfair, wasn’t it? That an uncouth, brutish man should be married to someone so young and beautiful. Frau Milena seduced you — and together you hatched a plan. You would kill Bozidar Kolinsky, Frau Milena would inherit his property, take his miser’s horde, and you would both be able to-’
‘No, no, no …’ Erstweiler sat bolt upright and looked at the door. ‘Stop this! He’s coming — I can feel it.’
‘The boy in the English fairy story killed the ogre with an axe. He chopped the beanstalk down — an image which also conveniently suggests castration — just as you, presumably, chopped down Bozidar Kolinsky. It would not have been difficult if he was drunk. And I must suppose you did so with great vigour, drawing on a store of anger and resentment formerly reserved for your father. Each blow was an assertion of your new-found potency.’
Erstweiler called out: ‘No, no … please, Herr doctor. Do something.’
‘When it was dark, you dragged Bozidar Kolinsky down to the basement and hacked his body into little pieces. There are many places in Simmering where one can easily dispose of small packages: factory incinerators, the Neustadter canal …’
Erstweiler screamed: a loud, tormented wail.
Rheinhardt appeared in the doorway.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Oh, dear God!’ cried Erstweiler. ‘I told you he was real … Can’t you see him? I am finished … finished!’
Erstweiler clutched his chest, his eyes rolled, and he fell back onto the rest bed. His arm stuck out at an awkward angle.
‘Good God, Max,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’
Liebermann rose from his chair and lifted Erstweiler’s wrist.
‘No one has ever died of hallucinations, Oskar. There is no need to worry. His heart is racing, but he is in no great danger.’
‘What happened?’
‘Exactly what I thought would happen. I confronted him with the truth, and his psyche divided. His mind was not robust enough to survive the trauma of killing a man in cold blood: memories of that dreadful murderous night could not be integrated with earlier memories and were subsequently projected onto a hallucinatory alter ego — his doppelganger.’
‘He cannot remember what he did?’
‘The memories of that night exist in his unconscious; however, whenever Erstweiler is reminded of his crime the anxiety and guilt become intolerable, and the memories are disowned — externalised.’
‘Will he remember now — when he wakes?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see; however, he has just had a pitiless and uncompromising encounter with the truth and there is a good chance that his defences have been shattered.’
Erstweiler groaned. He turned his head to the side and a thin plumb line of clear saliva dropped from the corner of his mouth.
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘is why his accomplice ran off, leaving her house behind and presumably whatever monies Herr Kolinsky had saved. I mean to say, it rather defeats the object of the exercise. Presumably the plan was to report Herr Kolinsky missing to the police and in due course they intended to embark on a new life together. They just might have got away with it!’
‘The answer is quite straightforward,’ Liebermann responded. ‘Frau Milena, like Herr Erstweiler, was not a natural wrongdoer. She would never have been able to kill her husband unassisted: she needed someone to do it for her. Even so, complicity was not enough to dilute her guilt. It must have risen up, unexpected, and crashed around her like a great wave of horror and misery. She could not cope, and in a state of extreme distress she sought relief by interposing as much distance as she could between herself and the scene of her crime.’
‘Where do you think she is?’
‘Who knows?’
‘I wonder when she left.’
‘That question I think I can answer. Her departure would have coincided with the onset of Erstweiler’s illness. The two are linked. One can imagine the poor fellow, waking up, reaching out across the empty bed, no longer able to benefit from the sweet, soothing balm of confederacy. He would have risen that morning and stood in the fierce heat of his own conscience. And — more importantly — he would have been aware that he stood there alone. When he looked at himself in the shaving mirror he would have seen not Norbert Erstweiler, warehouse clerical officer, but the repugnant face of a murderer. Thus, the idea of the doppelganger insinuated itself into his mind and sank into the seedbed of imagination that is the unconscious.’
Rheinhardt tapped Erstweiler on the cheeks with the palm of his hand.
‘Herr Erstweiler …’ The man groaned. His eyelids flickered — showing only the whites — and then closed again. ‘He looks delirious.’
‘He’s in shock, that’s all.’
Rheinhardt sat down in Liebermann’s chair.
‘If he remembers — when he wakes — will we be able to get a confession out of him?’
‘I expect so.’
‘This is all very extraordinary.’
Liebermann smiled.
‘Yes, it is.’ Then, remembering their previous brittle exchange, when Rheinhardt had questioned the propriety of probing the darkest regions of the mind, Liebermann added: ‘Psychiatry has its uses.’ He could not resist a final sharp reiteration of his belief in the sanctity of all knowledge, however unpalatable. ‘It is always better to know than not to know. One would be foolish to enter hell with a sputtering candle when a fiery torch was close to hand.’
‘Touche, my friend,’ laughed Rheinhardt. ‘Touche!’
52
Liebermann walked down the hospital corridor in a way that betrayed his eagerness. His stride was long and his expression earnest. In due course he came to a room that was guarded by a constable. The officer bowed and clicked his heels.
‘Anything to report?’ asked Liebermann.
The constable shook his head.
Liebermann knocked on the door. There was no reply.
He knocked again.
‘Perhaps he’s asleep,’ said the constable.
‘When was the last time you took a look at him?’
‘About half an hour ago.’
‘Was he asleep then?’
‘No. He was just staring into space.’ The constable shivered. ‘Those eyes … they go right through you.’
‘Thank you, constable.’
Liebermann turned the handle and entered the room. Sprenger was sitting up in bed. One of his legs was encased in plaster and his left arm was supported by a sling. Some blood had seeped through the bandage wrapped around his head. His gaze was locked on a fixed point on an imaginary horizon.
‘Good afternoon, Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann. The young doctor pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. ‘I hope you are feeling better today.’