Fatal Lies lp-3

by Frank Tallis

  “What… did… you… say?”

  Wolf pronounced each word emphatically, and underscored each syllable by pushing the gun hard against Perger s head.

  “I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation,” said Wolf. Then, letting his tongue moisten his upper lip, he added: “Kneel.” He angled the revolver so that it exerted a downward pressure, and pushed Perger to his knees.

  “Please… I beg you,” sobbed Perger. “I'll do anything… anything you want… Please don't kill me.”

  The thrill of prepotency coursed through Wolf's veins, swelling his heart and galvanizing his loins.

  I'll do anything… anything you want.

  Wolf stared down the length of Perger's back, at the pale, unblemished planes of skin sloping away and curving out of sight. His gaze followed the descending vertebrae, and lingered on Perger's tense calf muscles. The soles of the boy's small feet were slightly wrinkled. To his great embarrassment, Wolf found that it was not only his victim who was shaking-he himself had begun to shake too.

  “I know what you used to do for Zelenka,” he said softly. “He told me. And now… now you'll do it for me.”

  With his free hand, Wolf began to loosen his belt.

  33

  The carriage turned off the Schottenring at the university and rattled down a long road that took them through the ninth and seventeenth districts.

  “Herr G's article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung,” said Rheinhardt, “came to the attention of one of the aides in the education department. He wanted to make sure that if His Majesty got to hear about it, Minister Rellstab could inform him that something was being done, that the matter was being properly dealt with. Brugel-with typical bad grace-performed a volte-face, and I was told, somewhat obliquely, to resume the investigation.”

  Liebermann polished his fingernails on his coat sleeve and examined them closely.

  “How did Eichmann react when you questioned him?”

  “He said that it was all nonsense: that Pikler suffered from constitutional melancholy and had obviously killed himself, that he had never heard of the ‘night watch’… and he said these things with absolute conviction. He didn't look like a worried man-someone trying to keep secrets.”

  “Are you trying to discover who ‘Herr G.’ is?”

  “I've assigned Haussmann to the task.” Rheinhardt squeezed one of the horns of his mustache and checked the revived point for sharpness with his forefinger. “I also asked Eichmann about Frau Becker.”

  Liebermann looked up, his eyebrows elevated in interest.

  “He described her,” Rheinhardt continued, “as gullible, naive, and indulgent-inclined to believe the claims of any boy seeking attention and sympathy. In addition, she seems to have made little or no effort to be accepted by the headmaster's wife and her circle. Indeed, I suspect that Frau Becker might have been quite outspoken- openly criticizing the school and Frau Eichmann's opinions.”

  The carriage halted in order to let some traffic pass at a crossroads. Looking out of the window, Liebermann observed a Coptic priest standing on a corner. He had a long black beard and was wearing a mitre. A purple waist band was wrapped around his long dark green cassock. The driver cracked his whip, and the priest slowly slipped from view.

  “Later the same day,” Rheinhardt continued, “I interviewed some of the schoolboys. You know, the ones who had names suggestive of hunting and predation.”

  “And…?”

  “Well, I must be candid with you, Max. At first, I had my doubts. That test of yours, the inkblots you showed Perger… The entire enterprise seemed very fanciful.” Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and produced a small box of slim cigars. He offered one to his friend, which Liebermann took. “And to make things worse,” he continued, “the first few boys were amiable, good-natured, harmless fellows.” Rheinhardt struck a vesta and lit Liebermann's cigar, and then his own. “However…” Rheinhardt leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I then questioned a boy called Kiefer Wolf and… well, there was definitely something about him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘something’?”

  “He was insolent, rude, supercilious… but that wasn't it. No… it was when he smiled. I thought…”

  “What?”

  The inspector shook his head. “Oh, what's the use! I can't explain-and you are sure to say something disparaging about policeman's intuition.”

  “Not necessarily. I must confess that I am developing a grudging respect for your clairvoyance!”

  “See? I knew it!”

  “Oh, Oskar, you are being oversensitive. Please continue.”

  “All right, then, I'll say it plainly: he gave me a bad feeling. In fact, he gave me such a bad feeling that I somewhat rashly accused him of torturing Zelenka. I wanted to see how he would react.”

  Rheinhardt looked troubled, and drew on his cigar. “He was very calm… just sat looking at me with dull gray eyes. He pointed out that I had made a very serious and unsubstantiated allegation. Then he advised me that he was going to tell his uncle.”

  Liebermann smiled. “Commissioner Brugel?”

  Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. “How did you know that?”

  “A slip of the tongue that you made earlier.” Liebermann made a dismissive gesture. “But it is no matter… I wonder why Brugel never mentioned that he had a nephew boarding at Saint Florian's.”

  “I don't know.”

  “And has the boy written or spoken to his uncle?”

  “It's difficult to say. I haven't seen Brugel since Wednesday.”

  Liebermann tapped his cigar above the ashtray set in the carriage door.

  “But you didn't do anything very wrong, Oskar.”

  “No, that's true. But it complicates matters, doesn't it? Brugel is always irascible. He's hard enough to deal with at the best of times. When he discovers that I have accused his nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off, his head shaking from side to side.

  “Perhaps Brugel has some inkling of his nephew's character,” continued Liebermann. “Which would explain why he attempted to stop your investigation… Is it possible that he was protecting his family's interests? Their reputation?”

  Rheinhardt considered the young doctor's insight-but did not see how it helped him very much.

  “I am in a rather difficult position now. Even if Wolf did torture Zelenka, it doesn't get us very much further with respect to explaining the boy's death.”

  “Well, this is what we find when we follow hunches instead of reasoning things out.”

  “See?” said Rheinhardt. “You can't stop yourself from mocking me! I have something to show you.” Rheinhardt handed Liebermann a mathematics exercise book. “This was Zelenka's-it was returned to his parents with his other effects. Although…”

  “What?”

  “There was one item missing. A dictionary.”

  “Is that important?”

  “I don't think so-but Zelenka's parents do. They said it was very expensive. They had to save up for it. Anyway…” Rheinhardt pointed at the exercise book. “You will see that there are columns of paired numbers on the pages designated for rough work. Similar pairs can be found in the marginalia-written in the master's hand.”

  “Herr Sommer?”

  “Herr Sommer. I am no mathematician, but these numbers seem to have nothing to do with the surrounding calculations.”

  “You think they are… what? Coded messages?”

  Rheinhardt nodded.

  “Oskar,” said Liebermann, sitting forward, “may I have your notebook and a pencil?”

  His expression was eager.

  “Of course.”

  Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and folded the exercise book so that it would remain open. He then transcribed some of the number pairs into the notebook, and next to these wrote some letters of the alphabet. He repeated the process several times, before flicking over a page and starting again. This time, he c
onstructed an alphanumeric table. He soon became completely engrossed in his task, and Rheinhardt-deprived of conversation-stared out the window.

  The rumbling of the carriage wheels on cobblestones was shortly accompanied by noises indicative of frustration. Liebermann shifted his position, tutted, grumbled under his breath, and tapped the pencil against his teeth. His crossings-out became more violent, the flicking of pages more frequent, and eventually he declared: “Impossible… nothing works. I thought it was going to be a simple substitution cipher!”

  Rheinhardt turned to face his friend.

  “I asked Werkner to take a look-he's one of our laboratory technicians at Schottenring. He's usually quite good at this sort of thing. But he didn't get very far either. Indeed, he was of the opinion that I might be mistaken.”

  Liebermann bit his lower lip, and his brows knitted together.

  “I wonder,” said Rheinhardt. “Do you think we should consult Miss Lyd gate? She is a woman of such remarkable intelligence-and she has helped us before.”

  The young doctor's posture stiffened.

  “She is indeed very gifted… but I do not know whether her talents extend to cryptography.”

  Liebermann handed the notebook and pencil back to Rheinhardt.

  “Yes,” said the inspector. “But it is permissible-is it not-to request her assistance again?”

  Rheinhardt looked at his friend quizzically.

  “You may do as you wish,” said Liebermann, picking a hair from the fabric of his trousers.

  34

  Bernhard Becker sat behind his desk, gazing uneasily at his two guests. His pupils were enlarged and his fingers were drumming on his blotting paper.

  “Inspector,” said Becker, “you must understand, my dear wife is a very sensitive woman. She is compassionate and easily moved to sympathy. I believe that Zelenka took advantage of her…” He hesitated for a moment and added, “Kind nature.” Becker peered over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Of course bullying takes place at Saint Florian's. I don't deny it. But such behavior is commonplace in military schools, and it is no more a problem for us than it is for Karlstadt or Saint Polten. Zelenka led my wife to believe that terrible things happen here… extraordinary things. But this is simply untrue.”

  “Did you read Herr G.'s article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung?”

  Becker smiled-a haughty, disparaging smile.

  “Yes. The headmaster showed it to me.”

  “And?”

  “It is utterly absurd,” said Becker. His tightly compressed lips suggested that he was disinclined to elaborate. For a moment he toyed with a spoon, which was standing in an empty glass on his desk.

  “When we spoke last,” said Rheinhardt, “you did not mention that Frau Becker had a particular fondness for Thomas Zelenka.”

  The deputy headmaster's expression became severe.

  “Why should I have? It's entirely relevant.” From the tone of his voice it was clear that Becker had meant to say the exact opposite. He maintained his defiant expression for a few moments, but this gradually softened into doubt as he recognized his error. “ Ir relevant!” He blurted out the correction as if emphasis and volume would negate his blunder. “Let me be candid, Inspector,” Becker continued. “I knew that Zelenka's death would cause Poldi much distress-and I saw no purpose in bringing her to your attention.”

  “You wished to spare her a police interview?”

  “Yes, Inspector, I did. And I believe I was correct to do so. Your surprise visit achieved nothing-as far as I can see-save to remind Poldi of Zelenka's demise, which made her tearful all week!”

  “I am sorry,” said Rheinhardt. “Obviously, this was not our intention.”

  “Well,” said Becker, harrumphing as he stroked his forked beard.

  “I trust,” interjected Rheinhardt, “that you will convey our sincere regrets to Frau Becker.”

  Becker grumbled an assent and added: “If you intend to interview my wife again, you would perhaps be courteous enough to request my permission first?”

  “Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

  At that point there was a knock on the door, and Professor Gartner appeared.

  “Ahh,” said the old man, with timorous uncertainty. “Deputy Headmaster, Inspector Rheinhardt.” He did not acknowledge Liebermann. “I am sorry to interrupt, but could I have a quick word- Deputy Headmaster? It's about my report to the board of governors.”

  “Excuse me,” said Becker, rising from his chair and leaving the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Liebermann reached forward and snatched the empty glass from Becker's desk.

  “What are you doing?” asked Rheinhardt.

  The young doctor did not reply. Instead, he sniffed the contents, and held the glass up to the window. The weak sunlight revealed a viscous puddle of liquid at the bottom. He then ran a finger around the inside of the glass, collecting a patina of white residue, which he licked off.

  “Bitter-followed by the slow emergence of aromatic flavors…”

  “That's his medicine,” said Rheinhardt. “He took some when I was here before. He gets headaches.”

  Liebermann wiped the inside of the glass with his finger again, and rubbed the residue into his lips and gums.

  “I know what this is.” He replaced the glass and adjusted the spoon so that it was standing in exactly the same position as when Becker had left. “And I certainly wouldn't prescribe it for headaches. It's-”

  Liebermann fell silent as the door opened and Becker reentered the room.

  “My apologies, gentlemen,” said Becker curtly.

  Liebermann straightened his necktie and smiled winsomely at Becker as he sank back into his chair.

  For reasons not clear to Rheinhardt and Liebermann, the deputy headmaster launched into a tedious homily on fraternity, explaining how it should be considered the most cardinal of virtues. Occasionally he lapsed into ponderous rhetorical German, and Rheinhardt suspected they were listening to a set speech that he had bored many a schoolboy with during countless morning assemblies. In due course, the inspector took out his fob watch and declared that time had positively flown by-and that they were now in great danger of being late for their appointment with Herr Sommer.

  “Would you like me to call Albert to escort you?” asked Becker.

  “No. I think we can find our own way.”

  “Good. Herr Sommer lives in the fourth lodge-on the ground floor. You will find his name on the door.”

  “Thank you,” said Rheinhardt.

  The two guests got up to leave. However, the inspector hesitated a moment and said, somewhat tentatively, “Might I ask, Deputy Headmaster, where you and your wife met?”

  Becker frowned and replied “Styria.”

  “Indeed?” Rheinhardt prompted.

  “I met her while I was on a summer walking holiday. She was…” He swallowed before proceeding. “She was a waitress-at one of the guesthouses.” A slightly pained expression twisted his mouth.

  “Forgive me for asking a delicate question,” Rheinhardt continued, “but has Frau Becker asked you for more money recently-in addition to her usual housekeeping?”

  The deputy headmaster's cheeks reddened with embarrassment and anger.

  “Our domestic arrangements are a private matter.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Rheinhardt. “I did not mean to offend.”

  Aware that they had now very much overstayed their welcome, Rheinhardt and Liebermann removed themselves from the deputy headmaster's office with unceremonious haste.

  35

  Rheinhardt and Liebermann paused by the statue of Saint Florian. Close by, some cadets were presenting arms, and beyond them more boys could be seen quick marching around a square of tar-grouted macadam. An order from a rifle lieutenant brought the fast-moving column to an abrupt halt. The two friends looked at each other, and their gazes communicated a mutual disquiet-a tacit suspicion of martial virtues.

  They walked around the school building, past an
other parade ground, and found the path that led to the lodges. Two rows of small terraced houses came into view. The final house at the end of the second row had HERR G. SOMMER painted in small white letters on the door. It was sandwiched between the names of two other masters: Herr Paul Lang and Dr. Artur Duriegl. The second of these was barely visible, being much faded and partially scratched out.

  Rheinhardt rapped on the door with the plain iron knocker, but there was no response. He tried again, and whistled a snippet of melody from Schubert's Unfinished Symphony.

  “He's not in,” said Liebermann.

  Rheinhardt consulted his pocket watch.

  “Sommer sent me a telegram yesterday, confirming that he would be here at two o'clock. How very odd. What should we do?”

  “I am confident that he will come-but we may have to wait awhile.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Liebermann shrugged his shoulders and pretended that his remark was nothing more than a superficial off-the-cuff observation.

  “Come, Oskar,” said Liebermann cheerily. “Let us find somewhere to sit.”

  Behind the living quarters the two men discovered a bench. It was positioned to afford a picturesque view of the hills. Ominous banks of nimbostratus were gathering in the east; however, the prospect had a certain romantic charm-particularly when the wind became stronger, bending the trees and sweeping flossy tatters of cloud overhead. Rheinhardt and Liebermann made some desultory conversation but soon fell silent, choosing instead to smoke cigars and contemplate the brooding majesty of the landscape.

  Once again, Liebermann found himself thinking about Miss Lyd — gate. The image of her falling into the stranger's embrace flickered into life-accompanied by a flash of anger. He had to remind himself that such feelings were unjustified. She had not misled him. He had not been deceived. However, he soon discovered that his anger could not be extinguished, only diverted. If he wasn't being angry with her, he was being angry with himself. It was most frustrating. He did not want his peace of mind to be hostage to a memory. Besides, there was something to look forward to now… He was taking Trezska Novak to the Prater on Saturday. He should be thinking about her — not about Amelia Lyd gate!