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

his assistant to wait outside with the driver. He then ushered Liebermann through the stone arch and into the courtyard of the school. The old soldier, Albert, was seated on a bench, his chin buried in his chest. His stertorous breathing—amplified by the cloisters—sounded curiously mechanical: a repetitive grating and grinding. Rheinhardt approached and touched his shoulder, but did not shake him. The veteran's expression spoke too eloquently of blissful release from the heavy yoke of corporeality. Moved to pity Rheinhardt slowly withdrew his hand.

“I know how to get to Professor Eichmann s office,” he whispered. “We'll let this old fellow enjoy his beauty sleep, eh? You can question him later.”

Liebermann smiled, recognizing in Rheinhardt s small act of charity a justification for hope. Being a psychoanalyst, he saw the salvation of humanity not in great ideologies, religion, or political reforms but in everyday, barely perceptible deeds of kindness. He found this thought consoling, a counterbalance to his certain knowledge that they were about to find out how easily man becomes a thing of darkness—how easily civilized values blacken and curl in the heat of primitive passions.

Professor Eichmann greeted them with frigid condescension.

“You will forgive me, gentlemen, but I am extremely busy and cannot spare you much time.”

Liebermann promised the headmaster that he would be brief.

“Tell me, headmaster,” he said softly, “when you entered the laboratory on the evening that Thomas Zelenka's body was discovered, did you smell anything?”

The headmaster wrinkled his nose—as if the mere mention of smell had triggered some form of malodorous olfactory hallucination.

“The laboratory always smells a little unpleasant.”

“Nothing struck you as unusual?”

“No.”

“Could you describe how it smelled?”

“Herr Doctor, I cannot see how this line of questioning can possibly prove helpful. As I have already explained—”

Liebermann raised his hands, arresting the headmaster's flow with an expression that begged indulgence.

“Headmaster, I have said that I will be brief, and I promise you I will keep my word. With respect, could you please answer the question: what did the laboratory smell of?”

Eichmann shook his head, tutted, and said: “A little like bad eggs.”

Liebermann stared at the headmaster—an inquisitorial, ingressive stare that owed much to his acquaintance with Professor Freud. Then, quite suddenly, he said, “Thank you,” and stood to leave.

The headmaster looked first at Rheinhardt and then back at Liebermann.

“Is that all you wanted to know?” Eichmann asked.

“Yes,” said Liebermann. “I have no further questions. I trust you will concede that we have respected your convenience.”

The headmaster did not appear satisfied—only suspicious.

“Where is Professor Gärtner?” asked Rheinhardt.

“In the staff common room,” said the headmaster.

He observed their departure with eyes that radiated contempt.

Liebermann and Rheinhardt found Professor Gärtner sitting alone, ensconced in a fustian armchair and sipping brandy from a metal hip flask. The book on his lap was Thucydides's great History of the Peloponnesian War. After some introductory civilities—to which the professor responded with considerably more courtesy than the headmaster—Liebermann repeated his question: “Tell me, Professor Gärtner, when you discovered Thomas Zelenka's body, did you smell anything unusual?”

“Unusual?” repeated Gärtner.

“Yes.”

“I don't think so. To be honest, I don't have a very acute sense of smell. It's never been the same since the storming of Brescia back in ‘49. I was serving under Haynau—with the first battalion, no less— and fell very badly ill. The regimental doctor didn't know what it was. He was mystified. I was sick and very weak for more than a month. When I recovered, I felt well enough. All my body parts were working—just as they did before—with the exception of my nose! The sensation of smell was dulled, blunted. In order to detect the fragrance of a flower, I would have to hold it directly under my nostrils, inhaling deeply, and only then would I catch a hint of its bouquet. My sense of taste was affected, too. Subsequently, I've only ever enjoyed foods with very strong flavors. A good spicy goulash, for example.”

Liebermann attempted to interrupt the garrulous professor, but he failed.

“I once met a neurologist from Paris,” Gärtner continued, “who said that he'd heard of such things happening, and he spoke at some length about the bulbs that project from beneath the brain. A clever fellow if ever there was one. He had studied with Charcot and knew his Virgil as well as his anatomies. Apparently, there are some infectious organisms that attack nerve tissue, causing permanent damage; however, I should say—if my memory serves me correctly—he associated such cases with tropical rather than Mediterranean diseases.” Professor Gärtner took a swig from his hip flask, hummed pensively, and added: “I'm sorry, Herr Doctor. I seem to have forgotten your question. What was it you wanted to know?”

Liebermann and Rheinhardt made their excuses and left.

“Well,” said Rheinhardt, as they made their way down the stairs. “This isn't going very well, is it?”

Liebermann shook his head. “No, it isn't; however, at the same time, the science of hereditary constitution gives me good reason to remain optimistic.”

“Max, what are you talking about?”

“I will explain in due course. Now, let us return to the courtyard.”

Albert was still sitting in the same place, although the movement of his head suggested that he was now not sleeping but observing the spiraling of dead leaves in a vortex.

When Rheinhardt and Liebermann arrived, he rose to greet them—saluting and clicking his heels together to produce a hollow knock.

“Ah, my dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt. “There you are. Allow me to introduce a colleague of mine, Herr Dr. Liebermann. He would like to ask you some questions.”

Albert smacked his lips.

“A doctor…”

“Yes.”

“Permission to report—I'm as fit as a fiddle, sir. Haven't had a day's illness in years.”

“Well,” said Rheinhardt, “I'm very glad to hear it; however, the good doctor has not come to inquire about your health. He wants to ask you about the recent tragedy.”

Rheinhardt glanced at his friend.

“Do you remember the boy Thomas Zelenka?” asked Liebermann.

“Permission to report: yes, sir. The boy who died.”

“Do you remember the evening when his body was discovered?”

“I do, sir. He was found in the