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

know what goes on in military schools. I went to Saint Polten, you know.”

“But it's not just a case of bullying, sir. A boy died!”

“Yes, of natural causes.”

“Indeed, but I have—” Rheinhardt stopped himself.

“You have what?” asked the commissioner.

There it was again: I have a feeling… a feeling, a feeling.

“I have…,” Rheinhardt blustered “yet to interview the mathematics master—Herr Sommer. He may have some important information that, I believe, will shine new light on Zelenka's fate.” Rheinhardt was playing a perilous game—and he hoped that the commissioner would not press him.

“What makes you think that?”

“It is not my opinion, as such.”

“Then whose?”

“Dr. Liebermann's.”

Von Bulow shifted in his chair and made a disparaging noise.

“With respect, von Bulow,” said Rheinhardt, “may I remind you that Dr. Liebermann's methods have proved very effective in the past—as you well know.”

“He's been lucky, that's all,” retorted von Bulow.

“No one could possibly be that lucky.”

“Well,” said von Bulow, “there's no other explanation, is there?”

“Psychoanalysis?”

“Jewish psychology! I think not!”

“Gentlemen!” Brügel growled.

The two men fell silent under the commissioner's fierce glare.

Rheinhardt seized the opportunity to continue his appeal. “Sir, I have already arranged for Dr. Liebermann to interview the boy Perger on Saturday. The mathematics master, Herr Sommer, is expected to return to Saint Florian's very soon—”

“Enough, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner, raising his hand. “Enough.” Brügel examined the photograph of Zelenka again and mumbled something under his breath. He tapped the photograph and grimaced, as if suffering from acute dyspepsia. “Very well, Rheinhardt,” he continued. “You may continue with your investigation.”

“Thank you, sir,” cried Rheinhardt, glancing triumphantly at von Bulow, whose expression had become fixed in the attitude of a sneer since he'd uttered the words “Jewish psychology.”

“But not for long, you understand?” the commissioner interjected. “Another week or so, that's all—and then only if you can get out to Saint Florian's without compromising the success of your new assignment.”

“Yes, sir,” said Rheinhardt. “I understand.”

“Good,” said the commissioner. “Now, let us proceed.… What I am about to reveal, Rheinhardt, is classified information. You must not breathe a word of it to anyone—not even to your assistant.” He paused to emphasize the point, and then continued: “Inspector von Bulow is currently overseeing a special operation—a joint venture with our colleagues from Budapest—the outcome of which is of paramount importance. The very stability of the dual monarchy is at stake. Needless to say, we are directly answerable to the very highest authority.”

Brügel leaned back in his chair and tacitly invited Rheinhardt to inspect the portrait hanging on the wall behind his desk: the emperor, Franz Josef, in full military dress.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Rheinhardt.

“We want you to follow someone,” said von Bulow.

“Who?”

Von Bulow reached down and picked up a briefcase. He released the hasps and produced a photograph, which he handed to Rheinhardt—a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young man with black curly hair, a long horizontal mustache, and a pronounced five o'clock shadow.

“His name?”

“Lázár Kiss.”

It was a brooding, unhappy face, and the young man's eyes had the fiery glow of a zealot's.

“A nationalist?” Rheinhardt ventured.

Von Bulow did not reply. His jaw tightened.

“Rheinhardt,” said Brügel, stroking his magnificent muttonchop whiskers. “Given the sensitive nature of this operation, we are not at liberty to disclose any more information than we have to. I must ask you to desist from asking further questions. You will receive your instructions—and you will carry them out. You need not concern yourself with anything more. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know the restaurant called Csarda?” said von Bulow.

“On the Prater?”

“It is where Herr Kiss dines. He is a creature of habit, and arrives there shortly after one o'clock, every day. Follow him until late afternoon—then deliver a written report of his movements to my office by six o'clock. You will repeat the exercise on Sunday and Monday, and I will then issue you further instructions on Tuesday morning.”

So this was the sorry pass he had come to, thought Rheinhardt— reassigned to do von Bulow's footwork!

“May I ask…,” said Rheinhardt, painfully conscious of the prohibition that had just been placed on all forms of nonessential inquiry. “May I ask why it is that I—a detective inspector—have been chosen to undertake this task? Surely von Bulow's assistant could do just as good a job.”

“There must be no mistakes’ said Brügel. “You are an experienced officer, Rheinhardt. I know you won't let us down.”

The appearance of the commissioner's teeth in a crescent, which Rheinhardt supposed to be a smile, did nothing to ease his discomfort.

“And would I be correct,” said Rheinhardt, risking another question, “in assuming that there are some very significant dangers associated with this assignment?”

What other reason could there be for such secretiveness? If they didn't tell him anything, he would have nothing to disclose—even if he were captured and threatened with violence.

“Our work is always associated with significant dangers, Rheinhardt,” said the commissioner bluntly.

Rheinhardt passed the photograph of Lázár Kiss back to von Bulow

“No—you can keep it,” said von Bulow. “But do not take it out of the building.”

Rheinhardt put the photograph in his pocket and looked up at the wall clock. It was eleven o'clock.

“Csarda,” he said.

“Csarda,” repeated von Bulow. “I look forward to receiving your report.”

Rheinhardt got up, bowed, and made for the door.

“Rheinhardt?” It was von Bulow again. Rheinhardt turned, to see von Bulow inscribing the air with an invisible pen. “Handwriting?”

Rheinhardt forced a smile, the insincerity of which he hoped was unmistakable.

18

PROFESSOR FREUD—enveloped in a haze of billowing cigar smoke— began his third consecutive joke: “An elderly Jew was traveling on the slow train from Moscow to Minsk, and at one of the stops on the way he bought a large salt herring. At the same stop a Russian boy got on the train and started to tease him: ‘You Jews,’ he said, ‘you have a reputation for being clever. How come, eh? How come you are all so clever?’ The old man looked up from his herring and said, ‘Well, since you are such