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

in his right hand he held a bulky Borchardt pistol, and a gaping hole had been blasted through his skull—just above the ear.

A pile of books had toppled as the general had fallen forward. Most of the titles were by German theoreticians of warfare—but one volume, on closer inspection, turned out to be a lighthearted collection of military anecdotes. The pale calf bindings of the more academic works were spattered with blood and gelatinous globs of brain tissue. On the corner of the desk was a deep, wide ashtray that contained three cigar stubs.

Liebermann heard the sound of brisk footsteps advancing up the hallway, and then new voices and a brittle exchange. The double doors opened and a tall man entered, followed by a younger man who was evidently his assistant. Although Liebermann had heard a great deal about Rheinhardt's nemesis, Victor von Bulow, they had never been formally introduced. Liebermann remembered von Bulow from the detectives’ ball and had seen him once before, the previous year, arguing with Rheinhardt outside Commissioner Brü gel's office.

Von Bulow swept into the room and came to an abrupt halt on the other side of the general's desk. He and Liebermann looked at each other—though the manner in which the two men observed each other was curiously intense and searching. It did not suggest passive reception but, rather, an active seeking-out. They were inspecting. And as is always the case when two well-dressed men meet, the object of their attention was, first and foremost, clothing: value, quality, and provenance.

They recoiled slightly when they both observed—simultaneously— that they were wearing identical astrakhan coats, supplied almost certainly by the very same shop. This resulted in their expressions shifting—in tandem—from mild indignation to what might have been a form of grudging respect. However, their tacit truce was quickly dissolved. In a transparent attempt to assert his sartorial advantage, von Bulow tugged at his shirt cuffs to reveal the glitter of his diamond cuff links. Rheinhardt, who had followed von Bulow in, witnessed this silent but perfectly comprehensible exchange with some amusement.

“Herr Dr. Liebermann?” said von Bulow icily.

“Inspector von Bulow,” said Liebermann, inclining his head.

Von Bulow walked around the desk, his stare fixed on the general.

“I trust you have not touched the body.”

“That is correct. I have not touched the body.”

“Good.” Von Bulow crouched down to get a better view of the head wound. “Pathology is not your specialty, Herr Doctor…”

Von Bulow had subtly stressed his statement so that it sounded a little like a question.

“Indeed,” Liebermann confirmed. “I am not a pathologist. I am a psychiatrist.”

“You will appreciate, then, I hope,” said von Bulow, “that your presence here can serve no purpose.”

It was a blunt and discourteous dismissal.

Liebermann retained his composure and acquiesced with a curt nod. As he walked toward the door, von Bulow called out: “Oh, and Dr. Liebermann…” The young doctor stopped and turned around. “Inspector Rheinhardt was acting without proper authority when he invited you to accompany him. You must not tell anyone what you have seen here today. Do you understand?”

“With respect,” said Rheinhardt, coughing uncomfortably, “that really isn't right. I was instructed by the commissioner to initiate standard investigative procedures until your arrival. And that's exactly what I've done. There is nothing irregular about Dr. Liebermann's attendance. He has been of considerable assistance to the security office on many occasions—as you are well aware. If this investigation is—how shall we say? Sensitive?—then perhaps you should ask Commissioner Brügel why he did not make this absolutely clear vis-à-vis my instructions.”

Von Bulow paused and stroked the neat rectangle of silver bristle on his chin. He seemed to be reconsidering his position, weighing up costs and benefits on an internal mental balance. His pale gray eyes— almost entirely devoid of color—stared coldly at Rheinhardt. A sudden reconfiguration of his angular features suggested that his obscure calculations had been successfully completed.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said softly. “I am most grateful for your help.” His intonation had become unctuous—oily with sarcasm. “Be that as it may, now that I am here—you may both leave.”

Rheinhardt, exasperated, strode over to von Bulow and handed him his notebook.

“You may as well have this. I've just interviewed the head servant. The house staff were all dismissed last night at seven and told not to return until this afternoon.”

Von Bulow flicked through the notes.

“Rheinhardt, how can you possibly expect me to understand this scribble? I'll interview him again myself.”

Rheinhardt shrugged. “As you wish, von Bulow. You should also know that Professor Mathias has been asked—”

“Professor Mathias!” von Bulow cut in. “Dear God, Rheinhardt, you're not still using that lunatic? I'll be appointing my own pathologist, thank you. Now, gentlemen, the suicide of one of His Majesty's generals is nothing less than a national tragedy. I really must be getting on.”

He extended his arm toward the doors.

In readiness to leave, Rheinhardt looked over at his friend; however, Liebermann was hesitant.

“I'm sorry,” said Liebermann to von Bulow “But did you just say… suicide?”

Von Bulow turned on Liebermann with evident impatience.

“Yes.”

“You are of the opinion that General von Stoger took his own life?”

“Well, of course he did!”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because General von Stoger is lying here—quite dead—with a gun in his hand and a very large hole in his head. Now, for the last time, Herr Doctor, would you kindly leave? I have work to do.”

Von Bulow's assistant smirked.

“Forgive me,” said Liebermann, making his way back to the body. He beckoned to von Bulow, urging him to examine the general's wound more closely. “Observe,” Liebermann continued. “There are no powder burns on the general's temple. No grains embedded in the skin. Most people, when they choose to end it all by shooting themselves, place the muzzle of the gun against the epidermis—pressing it in, hard.” Liebermann made a gun shape with his hand and pressed the tips of his fingers into his temple. “Presumably,” he continued, “to reduce the possibility of making an error. Only rarely—very rarely—will a suicide hold the pistol