Fatal Lies by Frank Tallis (english love story books txt) 📕

his chair. “Be that as it may”—his delivery had become comically pompous—”it is our duty to honor the memory of a great man.” He raised his glass. “To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… rest in heavenly peace.”

“No, no, no,” said Liebermann, banging his fist on the table. “May he go to hell. Surely.”

“What?”

“The author of Psychopathia Sexualis would be bored to tears among the heavenly hosts—angels, seraphim, and cherubim, et cet era, et cetera.” Liebermann yawned, patting his open mouth. “Clearly, Krafft-Ebing would prefer hell, where he would find the company much more stimulating—lust murderers, necrophiliacs, and sadists— why, he could start work on the next edition of the Psychopathia immediately on arrival!”

Kanner raised his glass again.

“To Professor Richard Freiherr von Krafft-Ebing… may you go to hell—and thoroughly enjoy eternal damnation!”

Liebermann reached across the table and touched Kanner's glass with his own, producing a chime that sang with a bell-like clarity. Outside, a woman passed their dining room, laughing loudly. It was a young voice—that of a shop girl, no doubt, who was being entertained by a “respectable” bourgeois husband. The grumble of the man's bass produced a lascivious counterpoint to the girl's contrived gaiety.

“Stefan,” said Liebermann, “do you think it would be permissible to have relations with a patient?”

This thought, which had arisen in his mind apropos of nothing, had been translated into speech without conscious effort. Liebermann found himself listening to his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not a patient in treatment, of course,” said Liebermann, now obliged to continue. “But a former patient—assuming that she was fully recovered and that a significant period of time had elapsed since her discharge.”

“No. I can't see anything wrong with that.… In fact…”

“Yes?”

“In fact, I did have a little tryst once, with a former patient.” Kanner toyed with his necktie. “We arranged to meet a few times in the Volksgarten, but the erotic frisson that had enlivened our conversations in the hospital was curiously absent. I suspect that it was only because we were forbidden to embrace there that the prospect seemed so alluring. Once the prohibition was lifted, there was nothing left to excite our imaginations. Or perhaps…” Kanner swirled the wine and examined the translucent liquid more closely. “Perhaps once removed from the hospital, and deprived of the emblems of power—my black bag, my stethoscope, my potions and elixirs—my imperfections were more readily observed. I was no longer the great healer and became just another philanderer—indistinguishable from all the others, going about their tawdry business behind the bushes.”

Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lyd gate. Her supine body on a hospital bed: a plain white gown—the rise and fall of her breasts. Her copper hair, pulled back tightly, aflame in a ray of sunlight.

“Why?” said Kanner. “Is there someone at the hospital who has taken your fancy?”

Liebermann shook his head—and as he did so, the room began to rotate. Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum—like the carousel on the Prater.

“Stefan… I have drunk far too much.”

Kanner picked up the bottle and filled Liebermann s empty glass: “Maxim, we haven't even started!”

17

VON BULOW was immaculately dressed in a dark frock coat, gray striped trousers, and patent leather shoes. A beautifully folded blue cravat was held in place by a diamond tie pin, and his starched cuffs (which protruded from beneath the sleeves of his coat) were fastened with matching studs. Merely looking at von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel slovenly and unkempt.

His old rival was seated opposite the commissioner. Two empty teacups on Manfred Brügel's desk and a shallow bowl containing a solitary Manner Schnitten wafer biscuit suggested that the two men had been in conversation for some time.

Although Rheinhardt and von Bulow were both detective inspectors, von Bulow had always been treated as Rheinhardt's superior— largely on account of his privileged background. The practices of preferment and favor were commonplace in Viennese organizations, and the commissioner, being a highly ambitious man, was mindful that von Bulow hailed from an elevated family. The man had relatives in the upper house and in the Hofburg. Informed by the notion that goodwill was often reciprocated, the commissioner frequently afforded von Bulow special treatment—usually at Rheinhardt's expense. However, given that this odious situation was entirely unremarkable, and that there was no obvious person to whom a complaint could be directed (other than to the commissioner himself), Rheinhardt had no choice but to tolerate this indignity.

“Come along, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner, beckoning him in with an impatient hand gesture. “Don't just stand there.”

Von Bulow stood up—as if in readiness to leave—and then, to Rheinhardt's surprise, sat down again. The commissioner registered Rheinhardt's perplexity and grumbled: “Von Bulow will be staying— there is a matter concerning his current investigation that we need to discuss with you. All will be explained in due course. Now… where did I put them?” Brügel sifted through the papers scattered on his desk and found a wad of forms under a jug of milk. “I've read your reports, and everything seems to be in order. Although in the future, Rheinhardt, I'd appreciate it if you could do something about the quality of your handwriting.”

Rheinhardt squirmed with embarrassment. It was obvious that Commissioner Brügel had only recently compared Rheinhardt's hurried script with von Bulow's elegant copperplate.

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner tossed the reports aside and picked up a photograph of Thomas Zelenka's body in the mortuary. Then he selected another, which showed the lacerations under the boy's arm.

“Peculiar,” said the commissioner. “Very strange… but I see no reason for maintaining security office involvement. Do you?” Brügel lifted his head, and his eyebrows drew closer together: “Well?”

“Sir, we've hardly—”

“These reports are perfectly adequate,” said Brügel, allowing his palm to come down heavily on the papers and thereby underscoring the finality of his decision.

“Sir,” Rheinhardt protested. “The wounds on Zelenka's body, Perger's letter…”

“What about them? I'm perfectly satisfied with your explanation… the persecution of scholarship boys. It's a sorry situation, but there we are. We all