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

However, I am also of the opinion that he believes bullying serves some educative function. Through bullying, the boys are prepared for the harsher realities of life.… It is not a view that I would subscribe to, but I know that there are many masters who would not disagree with Professor Eichmann.”

“Who?”

“Osterhagen, Gärtner…”

Rheinhardt scribbled their names in his notebook.

“You won't tell them, will you?” said Sommer anxiously. “You won't tell them it was me who—”

“No,” Rheinhardt cut in. “Rest assured, you have my word.”

“Good,” said Sommer, worrying a loose stud on the arm of his chair.

“Are you aware, Herr Sommer, that an anonymous article— extremely critical of Professor Eichmann—has been published in the Arbeiter-Zeitung?”

“No, no,” said the mathematics master, shaking his head. “I wasn't aware. No.”

Rheinhardt summarized Herr G.'s comments and allegations.

“Have you heard anything about this punishment, this so-called ‘night watch’?”

“No… no, I can't say I have.”

“What about the boy who died—Pikler? Do you know anything about him?”

“No, I'm afraid not. I wasn't teaching here then.”

Rheinhardt looked up at Liebermann to see if he wished to ask a question. But the young doctor signaled that he was content to observe and listen.

“Do you recognize this?”

Rheinardt handed Sommer Zelenka's exercise book.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then could you tell me the significance of these numbers?” Rheinhardt turned some pages. “You see… here, and here… these number pairs in the margin are in your hand.”

“Ah yes,” said Sommer, suddenly laughing. But his laugh was far too loud for someone whose eyes appeared so fearful. “Yes, they are a kind of game I used to play with Zelenka. A memory game. I would write some numbers down and he would try to remember them… and then he would write some numbers down, and I would try to remember them.”

“But there are only a few numbers in most of the columns. Look here, for example: 2 24, 106 11, 34 48… It would be no great feat of memory to remember these.”

“I know—and I couldn't agree more.” Sommer's protruding ears turned red. “It was quite ridiculous.”

“Why did you arrange the numbers in pairs?”

“No reason, really. I happened to do so the first time and Zelenka copied thereafter. It became a convention. They are completely random. Just random numbers, that's all.”

“And what was the purpose of this… this game?”

“Amusement.”

“Amusement?” said Rheinhardt, incredulously.

“It amused Zelenka.” Again Sommer laughed. “Ridiculous, I know.”

Rheinhardt looked at Liebermann.

“Herr Doctor, would you like to ask Herr Sommer any questions?”

“No,” said Liebermann.

“Are you quite sure?” said Rheinhardt.

“Yes,” replied Liebermann. “Quite sure.”

36

WOLF AND DREXLER WERE SITTING on the roof of Saint Florian's, close to the upper stories of an old tower. The lower stories, still intact, were not visible. They were below the roof itself. The tower may once have been freestanding, or part of the old religious foundation that predated the school. But the capricious architecture of Saint Florian's—having an organic quality—had somehow absorbed this ancient edifice. It was now a redundant cylinder of stone that sank through three floors. No one had yet discovered a way of getting inside the tower. Walls closed it off. A doorway in the basement might have been the original entry point, but it too had been sealed off with enormous stone slabs.

Why would one do that? thought Drexler. To keep people out? Or to keep something inside?

On a parapet that circled the turret were three winged gargoyles—one of which, Drexler realized, bore a striking resemblance to Professor Gärtner.

“So,” said Drexler, “what are you going to do?”

Wolf did not react.

“I'm intrigued,” Drexler added. “I won't tell anyone.” He stood up and pushed his cigarette into the gargoyle's mouth. “If there is a hell, I wonder if such things exist.…”

“You should stop reading those stupid Hoffmann stories: you're becoming fanciful.”

“Come on,” said Drexler, ignoring Wolf's jibe. “What's this plan of yours?”

Wolf blew out two streams of smoke from his nostrils.

“I'm going to get a position at the Hofburg—and in due course join the emperor's personal guard.”

“No… seriously, Wolf,” Drexler said, pressing him.

“I am being serious.”

Drexler leaned forward to inspect Wolf's face.

“Yes,” Drexler said, more to himself than to his companion, “I think you are.”

“My uncle is head of the security office,” Wolf continued. “He's quite well connected—and can pull a few strings. It wasn't my idea originally.… It was my mother's.”

Drexler laughed. “Your mother's!”

“Yes. She's overprotective.” He permitted himself a crooked grin.

“The Hofburg, eh?” said Drexler. His expression suddenly changed. “But surely you'll need to get better examination results. You've hardly been applying yourself lately.”

“I am quietly confident.”

“The chances of you mastering trigonometry between now and the final examinations are—in my opinion—vanishingly small. If this is your great plan, Wolf, then I'm afraid I am singularly unimpressed.”

“Remember that,” said Wolf. “Remember what you just said. And when you're crouching behind a bush, cold, hungry, your boots covered in cow shit, trying to dodge the bullets of the next would-be king of the Carpathians, think of me. Yes, think of me, in my clean uniform with its razor-sharp creases, warm, well fed, accompanying the emperor to state openings and banquets, drinking champagne at the opera, and watching comedies at the Court Theater.”

“You are deluding yourself, Wolf.”

“Go to hell, Drexler.”

“Well—to be frank, I think that's a lot more likely than you going to the Hofburg.”

Wolf glanced at his watch. He flicked his cigarette into the air and stood. A powerful gust of wind made him stumble, and he steadied himself by touching the stone arc of a demon's wing.

“Drill,” he said.

The two boys set off, climbing over the bizarre terrain: fallen chimneys, a scattering of tiles—and the ruin of a small observatory. Inside the little cabin, Drexler spotted the rusting remains of an antique orrery. He would take a closer look next time.

“Where are you going?” Wolf called as Drexler veered off.

“This way.” Drexler gestured. “It's quicker.”

“You can't get down that way.”

“Yes, you can,” said Drexler, indignant.

They came to an area where the surface on which they were walking was interrupted by a deep channel. Water had