“So Brügel 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 Lázár 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.”
“What do you think was in those stolen documents? Did the commissioner give you any idea—any clue?”
“Military secrets, I imagine. But if Brügel knew more, he wasn't very forthcoming.” Rheinhardt paused, twisted the horns of his mustache thoughtfully, and continued: “Of course, it is possible that the Austrian secret service intended the Liderc to acquire von Stoger's documents so that she would, in the fullness of time, lead Kiss to her masters. Thus, von Stoger's death might have been the result of misadventure—an accident. Whatever, one thing is certain: their plans went horribly wrong—and most probably because of von Bu -low's meddling.”
Liebermann allowed himself a half smile. “You must be quite satisfied with the way things have turned out.”
Rheinhardt appeared flustered for a moment. He coughed and produced an embarrassed mumble.
“Von Bulow wasn't entirely at fault. I'm sure that some of the confusion must have arisen because of bureaucracy. I suppose the various departments concerned were simply too occupied filling in forms and registering reports to talk to each other. Von Bulow should have been better informed about Kiss. Even so, if—after his recovery— von Bulow is not invited to resume his duties at the security office, you are quite correct: I will not spend very much time lamenting his professional demise.”
The inspector lit another cigar—and he looked, that instant, more like a man at a wedding or some other grand celebratory occasion. Seeing his friend so happy went at least some way toward mitigating Liebermann's feelings of guilt. Von Bulow had been the bane of Rheinhardt's life at the security office. And now, at last, he was gone.
“It is truly remarkable,” Rheinhardt continued, “how close we came to the perilous world of espionage and counterespionage; still, I am glad that we were not drawn in any further. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that I am grateful for von Bulow's vanity, grateful that he excluded us from the von Stoger investigation. Otherwise we might have strayed onto some very treacherous and dangerous ground. I must say, I am uncomfortable with that world—the world of spies—with its deceptions, double deceptions, feints, and ruses—its fatal lies. It is a world where nothing is as it seems, and nobody can be trusted.”
Liebermann stared into the flames and felt a stab of shame.
His friend was so much wiser than his modest exterior ever betrayed.
“Oskar,” Liebermann whispered, “I have a confession to make. Something has been weighing heavily on my conscience the whole evening.”
“Oh?” Rheinhardt's face filled with concern.
“I promised to get some tickets for the Zemlinsky concert next Saturday… but, what with one thing and another, it completely slipped my mind—and it's sold out.”
Rheinhardt laughed: a generous, booming laugh.
“God in heaven,” he cried. “Is that all? You had me worried! I thought you were going to say something of consequence!”
81
THE CLOCK MAKERS’ BALL was a grand affair and was attended by a diverse group of patrons. There were boulevardiers whose glazed eyes, ruddy cheeks, and uncertain feet declared that they were attending their second or even third ball of the evening. There were debutantes in radiant white, and various representatives of the imperial army: infantrymen in blue, artillerymen in chocolate-brown tunics and red collar flashes, and hussars—their short fur-trimmed and golden-braided coats slung casually over one shoulder. A distinguished gentleman with a mane of silvery curls who was surrounded by laughing ladies was identified very quickly as the Dutch ambassador, and it was rumoured that a striking woman wearing a glimmering peau de soie gown was a member of the Italian aristocracy.
As soon as Liebermann took Amelia into his arms, he was aware of a difference. She was more confident and followed his lead with less effort.
“Have you been to see Herr Janowsky for a lesson?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “Although I still intend to, once my brother leaves.”
“Well, I have to say,” Liebermann remarked, “your dancing is much improved.”
“I think,” said Amelia, “that I understand—although ‘understand’ is not really the correct word—I think I now appreciate the value of your initial advice: to listen to the music with greater care. To…” She hesitated, and the ghost of a smile crossed her face. “Feel it?”
She was dressed in the same clothes that she had worn for the detectives’ balclass="underline" a skirted décolleté gown of green velvet. Yet she appeared to Liebermann more elegant than he remembered. As they passed beneath a massive crystal chandelier, the light fell on her pewter eyes and he experienced momentarily a sensation like falling. It was not the same feeling as a physical descent but something more profound.