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

pushed it open. “If I am mistaken, I do apologize. I usually have a very good head for figures.”

Sommer ushered his visitors through a narrow hallway and into his study. The overall impression was one of neglect and untidiness. A table had been pushed up against one of the walls. Its top was covered in exercise books and various calculating instruments: a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree protractor, triangles, compasses, and a very large slide rule. Sommer's library was scattered around the floor, with some volumes being lined up against the baseboard. Beneath the window a row of large tomes supported a precariously balanced second tier.

Sommer limped over to a scuffed leather reading chair and attempted to sit down. He refused Rheinhardt's assistance and managed, in due course, to position himself so that he could fall back safely. He landed heavily on the cushion.

“Please, gentlemen,” said Sommer. “There are two stools beneath the table.”

Rheinhardt pulled one out for himself, but Liebermann declined the offer. It was his preference to stand.

“Well,” said Sommer, staring at Rheinhardt with large, moist eyes. “How can I assist?”

The mathematics master was in his early thirties. His hair was parted in the center and his mustache was neatly trimmed. He was a handsome man; however, the nobility of his face was mercilessly subverted by a pair of protruding ears.

Rheinhardt glanced at Sommer s bandaged foot.

“I fell down some stairs and sprained my ankle,” Sommer continued, feeling obliged to explain his condition. “It was extremely painful. The joint became horribly swollen. Like this.” He demonstrated with his hands. “I thought I'd done myself a very serious injury; but, fortunately, it turned out to be nothing more than a torn ligament. I've been convalescing near Linz: a small sanatorium run by Professor Baltish.” He looked across the room at Liebermann. “Do you know it, Herr Doctor?” Liebermann shook his head. “A very fine establishment,” Sommer added, his gaze oscillating nervously from one guest to the other.

“Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt, detecting the man's discomfort and trying to disarm him with an avuncular smile. “Your accident— when did it happen?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“When, exactly?”

“I could hardly forget. It was the day we heard the dreadful news about Zelenka.”

“We?”

“Herr Lang and myself… The headmaster came to tell us that morning.” Sommer shook his head. “We were stunned.”

Rheinhardt asked the mathematics master about the dead boy.

It transpired that he had known Zelenka very well, choosing to describe him as a favorite. However, when he talked about his relationship with the boy, he said nothing that Rheinhardt didn't already know. Indeed, repeated exposure to certain words and phrases— mature, sensitive, an able student, interested in science, could be shy—had rendered them almost meaningless.

As Sommer spoke, Liebermann sidled toward the window and surreptitiously examined some of the book titles. The larger volumes were mathematical texts and standard works of reference—a dictionary, an atlas, an encyclopedia—and on top of these were some histories of ancient Greece and a volume titled The Nude—Photographic Studies.

“Tell me, Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt, shifting his plump haunches on the hard wooden stool, “what do you know of Zelenka and the deputy headmaster's wife, Frau Becker?”

Sommer's expression altered, his eyes quickened by curiosity.

“Zelenka was very fond of her. I know that because he told me so. And I believe that fondness was reciprocated…” His sentence ended on an imperfect cadence as if he had intended to say more but had changed his mind.

“ ‘Fondness,’ Herr Sommer?”

The mathematics master sighed. “Ordinarily I would be more circumspect, but as this is a police matter… I must confess, I have heard things said. It is possible that Frau Becker and Zelenka…” He raised his eyebrows and nodded knowingly.

“Frau Becker and Zelenka were, what? Having a sexual relationship?”

“Well, I don't know about that,” said Sommer, taken aback by Rheinhardt's directness. “I don't know what went on!”

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“That their friendship was not… entirely innocent. The boys make jibes at one another. You overhear conversations in class, in the corridors.… And Herr Lang—”

“Herr Lang?”

“Look, Inspector, Lang's a decent enough fellow. I don't want to get him into trouble.”

“We will treat everything you say confidentially.”

“Thank you, thank you.… Herr Lang is the art master—he lives upstairs. Sometimes he comes down for a brandy and cigars. Naturally, we talk…. I am certain he knew that something was going on.”

“What did he say?”

“That the boy had a crush on Frau Becker, that he had made some drawings of her, that they had spoken, and that the boy had said things… I don't know what. But, evidently, enough to make Lang suspicious.”

“We spoke to Frau Becker about a week ago,” said Rheinhardt, producing his notebook and flicking through the pages. “She said that Zelenka and boys like him—that is to say, boys from poor backgrounds—are often bullied and persecuted at Saint Florian's.” Rheinhardt leaned forward. “Is that true?”

The muscles around Sommer's jaw relaxed and he smiled faintly. He seemed strangely relieved.

“Yes, that is true. The boys do terrible things to each other—quite terrible.”

“What, exactly?”

“In the past, some boys have confided in me—spoken of their torment. Weapons have been used… knives, sabres.”

“And who is responsible for performing these abominable acts?”

“There are ringleaders, of that I'm sure. But none of the boys I've spoken to would ever disclose their identities. They are simply too fearful.”

“Do you know a boy called Wolf? Kiefer Wolf?”

“Yes—I do…”

“Is it possible that he is a ringleader?”

“Wolf, Wolf,” Sommer repeated the name, and stroked his chin. “It wouldn't surprise me—he is a deeply unpleasant boy.”

“And who else do you think might be involved?”

“Steininger, perhaps… and Freitag… and another boy called Drexler. I've often seen them together, smoking—just outside.” Sommer gestured toward the window. “There's a plane tree they stand under.”

“Herr Sommer, have you spoken to the headmaster about this?”

“Yes, I have. And Lang has too… but… This is confidential?”

“Indeed.”

“Professor Eichmann has never been very concerned about such behavior. This may be because he thinks that bullying is inevitable and that there is little point in trying to stamp it out.