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

about him.” Rheinhardt paused, his eyes becoming less focused. “There was something about the way he referred to his sister… an uncharacteristic tenderness.”

“In most families,” said Liebermann knowingly, “the eldest son is often the youngest daughter's special protector—and a mother cannot help but idealize her only child. One does not need to be a very great psychologist to understand Brügel's motive. He loves his sister, and he is trying to stop you from breaking her heart. That is why his anger was so immoderate.”

Liebermann sat back in his chair, satisfied with his perspicacity. He noticed with irritation that a wayward spot of broth had landed on the cuff of his jacket. He tutted, reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief. As he did so, some pink sugared almonds fell and scattered onto the floor. The young doctor reached down, picked them up, and placed them on the tablecloth.

Rheinhardt stopped chewing.

“Sugared almonds,” said Liebermann, with a sheepish half smile.

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt.

“I wasn't expecting them to be there.”

“Evidently not,” said the inspector, resuming his chewing, and revising his estimate of how much alcohol his friend had imbibed the previous evening.

Liebermann wiped his cuff clean. Trezska must have put the almonds in his pocket while they were both inebriated—or perhaps he had put them there himself; these innocent bonbons aroused in him a peculiar sense of incompletion and imminence. He stared at the almonds and began to play with them on his napkin—as if he might stumble upon an arrangement that would release their mysterious secret.

He remembered something that Trezska had said: she had praised the mind-altering properties of absinthe: the inspiration of poets… the favored spirit of visionaries. Why was that important? As hard as he tried, he couldn't think why.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Rheinhardt asked.

Liebermann dismissed his solicitous remark with a peremptory hand gesture.

They had returned to his apartment and made love. He could remember that well enough. Then, afterward, he had been lying in bed, still feeling very odd—and… That was it! He had experienced a flash of insight: something to do with almonds, and something very, very important.

“Ha!” Liebermann exclaimed.

“Whatever is the matter, Max?” said Rheinhardt, somewhat irritated by his friend's eccentric behavior.

The young doctor suddenly seemed galvanized. His movements acquired a nervous urgency.

“I would like to take another look at those photographs.”

“What photographs?”

“The photographs of Zelenka… and I would also like to speak to his parents.”

“Why?”

Liebermann shook his head. “When you first told me about Zelenka's death, you said—did you not?—that he had been conducting some experiments involving… vinegar?”

“Yes, that's right. I did say that.”

Liebermann picked up the almonds and rattled them in his closed fist.

“How very interesting. Almonds and vinegar!”

The young doctor's eyes were alight—and he had acquired a slightly fevered look.

“I don't know what you were drinking last night,” said Rheinhardt. “And I'm not sure that I want to know; however, whatever it was, I would strongly advise, that—at all costs—you eschew it in future.” Before Liebermann could respond, Rheinhardt's expression had changed from dudgeon to despondency. “Oh no, what now?” His assistant, Haussmann, had just walked through the door.

The young man's arrival at their table coincided with the final bars of the Brahms Hungarian Dance, and when he spoke, he had to compete with a loud round of applause.

“Instructions from Commissioner Brügel, sir. You must proceed to Herrengasse—immediately. There has been…” He looked around to make sure that no one was listening and lowered his voice. “An incident.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Rheinhardt, cupping his ear.

“A body, sir,” said the assistant, with a hint of impatience. “In Herrengasse—a high-ranking officer in His Majesty's army.”

“Who?”

“General von Stoger.”

“I see,” said Rheinhardt.

“Commisioner Brügel… he said that you are to initiate the investigation, but you must expect to be relieved by Inspector von Bulow as soon as he is located.”

“Why?”

“Er… don't know, sir. Perhaps it's all to do with…” He glanced at Liebermann, unsure about whether to continue.

“Yes, yes,” said Rheinhardt. “Von Bulow's confounded assignment—whatever it is!”

The inspector pressed on his knees to raise his bulky frame, and looked affectionately at his unfinished meal. “What a dreadful waste,” he said. “And I was so looking forward to the chef's topfenstrudel.” Then, addressing Liebermann, he added: “What are you supposed to be doing this afternoon?”

“Case notes.”

“Can it wait?”

“Yes—I could write them up this evening.”

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to accompany us?”

“If you wish.”

Rheinhardt turned toward the door, but his dynamism was suddenly extinguished. He seemed to be overcome by a curious lassitude. Retrieving his abandoned fork, he impaled an untouched dumpling and stuffed it into his mouth, whole. He then said something quite unintelligible to Haussmann.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the bemused assistant. “I didn't quite catch that.”

“Photographer,” he repeated. “Get the photographer… and find Professor Mathias.”

As they left, a man at an adjacent table turned to watch them go. He had dark curly hair, an impressive mustache, and the fiery eyes of a zealot.

48

PROFESSOR EICHMANN WAS SEATED behind his desk, staring at the photograph of himself as a youthful artillery officer. As a child, he had dreamed of wearing such a uniform, distinguishing himself in battle, and becoming a celebrated general. But in real life his precocious fantasies had come to nothing. His career in the army had not been very remarkable—although this was through no fault of his own. He had been honorably discharged in his early twenties due to ill health. The doctor had attributed his breathlessness to a congenital heart defect. At the time, Eichmann had been devastated; however, he was an intelligent, resourceful young man, and soon turned this misfortune to his advantage. He excelled at university, wrote a modestly succesful history of the Austrian land forces, and won the respect of his academic peer group.

Yet, in spite of his achievements, the disappointment of his early discharge from the artillery lingered.

He had wanted to be a man of action, and academia was—for him—far too distant from the battlefield. In due course, he trained as