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tell him I intend to get Hauke to make a confession.”
    “Well, he’s not going to believe that.”
    “Oskar, your powers of persuasion are second to none. I have every confidence in you.”
    Before Rheinhardt could answer, the line went dead.

13
    Liebermann entered the cell and sat down next to Hauke, who was lying on a thin, grubby mattress that rested on a simple iron frame. A chamber pot was visible in the corner. Hauke turned his head slowly and raised his hand, delivering a lymphatic greeting. Liebermann waited, saying nothing, as he sometimes did with his patients. Eventually, Hauke cleared his throat and said, “I have been informed, Herr Doctor, that you are here today in order to extract from me a confession of guilt, by means of subtle psychological devices. Spare yourself the effort. A more efficient alternative would be to supply me with some good schnapps. That’ll loosen my tongue, I promise you.”
    “I’m afraid that alcohol isn’t permitted. But I can offer you a cigar.”
    Hauke extended his arm. “Thank you.”
    Liebermann leaned forward and lit the end of the Trabuco. “I haven’t come here to extract a confession.”
    “Then what are you here for?” Hauke inhaled deeply and coughed. “To ascertain whether or not I am of sound mind? Presumably it will be more difficult to put a noose around my neck if I am declared insane. Would you believe me if I told you that my maternal grandfather thought he was a pumpkin. They say it’s hereditary, don’t they—madness.”
    “Well, they are probably mistaken.”
    “Shame. I really do have two aunts in a mental institution.”
    Hauke tapped some ash onto the floor.
    “Why did you try to leave Vienna, Herr Hauke?”
    “I wanted to avoid a character named Gernot Strub.”
    “For what reason?”
    “I owe him some money. Unfortunately, he is not the kind of man with whom one can settle differences easily. He is not very rational.”
    Liebermann changed position and was momentarily distracted by the appearance of a cockroach from behind the chamber pot. “Did you poison your wife, Herr Hauke?”
    “Which one, Herr Doctor?”
    “Is that supposed to be amusing?”
    “Mildly amusing, perhaps.” Hauke’s expression hardened. “No, Herr Doctor. I did not poison my wife.”
    “Then who do you think did?”
    “I haven’t a clue.”
    “Why would anyone want to kill her? Can you think of a motive?”
    “No one would want to kill her; she was entirely harmless.”
    “What happened the night she died?”
    “I have already had this conversation with Inspector Rheinhardt.”
    “And when he questioned you, your responses were rather vague.”
    “That’s because I couldn’t remember very much. I had drunk three bottles of Tokay.”
    “Then let me recapitulate. You had dinner with your wife and she retired early. Later you followed, but you were so drunk that, on entering your bedroom, you collapsed. You did not regain consciousness until the next day, when the hotel manager, Herr Farkas, woke you up.”
    “That is correct.”
    “Why did your wife retire early?”
    “I don’t know. She was probably tired. She was always tired.”
    “There was a man who came to your table. I understand that the pianist overheard you quarreling.”
    “Herr Doctor, Rheinhardt knows all about this.” Hauke sounded a little irritated. “The man’s name is Tausig. Pauli Tausig.”
    “And you owed him money too?”
    “Yes.”
    “How much?”
    “A significant sum.”
    Hauke finished the cigar and, without looking, tossed the smoking stub aside. It landed next to Liebermann’s shoe.
    “Herr Hauke, could Tausig have poisoned your wife?”
    “Why would he do that?”
    “To ensure your future cooperation.”
    “That’s more Strub’s style than Tausig’s.”
    “What did Herr Tausig say to you?”
    Hauke’s brow furrowed. “Something about his business being close to ruin, I think. I honestly can’t remember.”
    Liebermann consulted his wristwatch.