“Prior to interviewing the boys, I had spoken to Professor Eich-mann, the headmaster, about the Arbeiter-Zeitung article and—”
Brügel waved his hand in the air. “Yes, yes—we can discuss Eich-mann later.” He glanced down at the letter and continued, “The boys you interviewed—they were suspects?”
“Well, only in a manner of speaking.… They were boys who I thought might be able to tell us more about the bullying at Saint Florian's. If the Arbeiter-Zeitung article—”
Again, Brügel cut in: “And how did you identify these… these suspects?”
“With the help of Herr Dr. Liebermann.”
The commissioner snorted. “And how did Dr. Liebermann identify them?”
“He used a psychological technique to probe the mind of Isidor Perger, the boy who wrote those letters to Thomas Zelenka.”
“And what was this psychological technique?”
Rheinhardt grimaced. “He showed Perger”—Rheinhardt's expression became more pained—”inkblots… and asked the boy what he saw in them.”
“Inkblots.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And by inkblots, you mean… ?”
“Blots of ink… on paper, sir. I am sure Dr. Liebermann would be willing to explain how the procedure works.”
“That won't be necessary, Rheinhardt.”
The commissioner took a deep breath and was evidently struggling to contain himself. A raised vessel appeared on his temple, in which Rheinhardt detected the pulse of Brügel s fast-beating and furious heart.
“And is it true,” said the commissioner, in an uncharacteristically controlled voice, “that you accused my nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka?”
For a brief moment, Rheinhardt found himself wondering whether it was not such a bad idea, at this juncture, to simulate a fainting fit. He could very easily relax his muscles and allow his ample frame to slide off the chair, after which he would be lifted onto a stretcher and conveyed to the infirmary, where he might rest, sleep perhaps, even dream of walking holidays in the Tyrol. On further reflection, he decided that he had better get the ordeal over with.
“Sir,” he said resolutely, “you will appreciate, I am sure, how a direct accusation will sometimes unnerve a suspect. That forceful assertions can even produce a confess—”
“It's true, then,” Brügel interrupted.
“Yes,” Rheinhardt sighed. “Yes, it is true.”
“And on what evidence did you base this accusation?” asked Brügel.
Policeman's intuition, thought Rheinhardt. Your nephew's crooked smile.
Rheinhardt shook his head and murmured something that barely qualified as language.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Brügel.
“Nothing… nothing very firm, sir.”
The commissioner folded the letter and placed it in a drawer. He then leaned across his desk and began to lecture Rheinhardt on one of his favorite topics: the importance of maintaining standards. Gradu ally, Brügel's voice took on a hectoring tone, and in a very short space of time he was thumping the desk with his fists and reprimanding Rheinhardt for running a shoddy, incompetent investigation. His anger, which he had succeeded in suppressing for so long, now boiled over. The commissioner roared and spat out his invective with apoplectic rage.
As Rheinhardt listened to this tirade, he experienced it not intellectually, or even emotionally, but physically. It was like being bludgeoned with a heavy club. The irony of his situation did not escape him. He was being bullied. Bizarrely he too had become one of Wolf's victims.
When the commissioner was spent, he leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily. His face had turned red, and some foamy spittle had collected in his muttonchop whiskers.
“Please accept my apology, sir,” said Rheinhardt.
The commissioner grunted and granted the disgraced inspector permission to leave.
When he reached the door, Brügel called out:
“Rheinhardt.”
“Sir?”
The commissoner was suddenly changed. He looked smaller: older, wearier, and perplexed. It was an extraordinary transformation.
“He's my youngest sister's boy,” said Brügel. “Her only child. He's no angel, but he would not… No, you are quite wrong. And consider yourself lucky. This will go no further. I'll see to that.”
Had Liebermann been present, he would have had much to say about the commissioner's sudden transformation, and his curious, incoherent adieu. But Rheinhardt was in no fit state to consider such things. Eager to leave, he bowed, clicked his heels, and left the commissioner's office like a man escaping a fire.
41
ISIDOR PERGER WAS SITTING on a stool, flanked by Steininger and Freitag. In front of him stood Wolf. The blond boy drew his sabre and held it up close to Perger s face.
“Well,” he said. “What do you see?”
Perger shrugged. “Nothing.… Your sabre, Wolf.”
“Are you blind, Perger?” asked Steininger.
“No,”
“Then why can't you see it?”
“See w-what? I can't see anything.”
“I'll hold it closer,” said Wolf, thrusting the blade forward. Perger flinched. “Does that help?” Wolf added.
“I… I can only see the b-blade… the b-blade of your sabre.”
“Now,” said Wolf, “for the last time: I want you to take a long, hard look—and tell me what you see.”
Wolf tilted his sabre so that it caught the yellow flame of the paraffin lamp. A scintilla of light traveled around its sharp, curved edge.
Perger squinted. “Yes, there's… s-s-something on the blade. A speck of something.”
“Good,” said Wolf. “And what do you think that might be?”
“R-rust?”
Wolf sheathed his sabre and began to clap. He brought his hands together with slow, exaggerated movements.
“Very good, Perger,” interjected Freitag, unable to conceal his mirth.
“Yes, very good indeed,” Steininger repeated.
“What a pity, then,” continued Wolf, “that this should have eluded your attention.”
Steininger and Freitag shook their heads and tutted.
“You should have put more into it,” said Steininger.
“More elbow grease,” said Freitag, frowning and miming the oscillating action of polishing a sword. Then, unable to resist a cheap joke, he allowed his arm to drop, re-creating the movement in front of his crotch.
Steininger began to guffaw, but Wolf silenced him with his glazed, humorless stare.
“I'm afraid, Perger,” said Wolf, “that you must be punished. However, I am not sure yet what form this punishment should take. Now, even as I speak, I notice that my boots could do with a good clean. Would you be willing to clean my boots, Perger?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Would you be happy to lick them clean?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“Including the soles? Although I feel obliged to tell you that I went to the stables today and stupidly trod in some manure.”
“Y-yes, Wolf.”
“My boots could do with a clean, too,” said Freitag.
“And mine,” said Steininger.
“Well,” continued Wolf. “How about that, Perger? Would you be willing to lick Freitag's and Steininger s boots too?”
“Yes, Wolf.”
“And you see,” said Wolf, assuming a fatigued expression, “in agreeing so readily, you demonstrate the inadequacy of the punishment. It simply isn't enough. A fellow like you needs more! Something that will leave a lasting impression, something that will remind you to perform your duties more diligently in the future… something that has a reasonable chance of countering your extraordinary laziness!”