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

“Now, I want you to think back to that evening. I want you to try to remember something for me.” Liebermann extended his hand, and touched the old soldier's arm gently. “When you entered the laboratory… what did it smell like?”

Albert's rheumy-eyed gaze met Liebermann's clearer one. His tongue slipped out of his mouth and proceeded to swing from side to side, coating his lower lip and bristly chin with saliva.

Rheinhardt was about to repeat the question, but Liebermann silenced him with a hand gesture.

They waited. The sound of gunfire could be heard in the distance.

“Permission to report,” said Albert. “A peculiar smell, sir… like almonds.”

55

RHEINHARDT KNOCKED ON the laboratory door. The muffled sound of Becker's voice came from within: “Enter.”

Inside, the deputy headmaster was seated at a table covered with exercise books. His expression was bored and slightly irritated. Becker stood to greet them, but his face was impassive and the absence of chairs (other than his own) seemed sufficient reason to justify the discourtesy of not inviting the policeman and the young doctor to sit.

Liebermann surveyed the room and, in spite of its ugliness, its exposed pipes, and stained walls, he smiled.

“This takes me back,” said Liebermann, nostalgically. “It reminds me of the lab in my old school. I was very fond of chemistry.”

Becker showed no sign of sympathetic interest. Instead, he waved his hand over the table and said: “Gentlemen, I have much to do today.”

This plea for brevity resonated with the headmaster's: Liebermann supposed that the two men had convened earlier, resolving to obstruct the investigators with a show of churlishness and bad manners.

Liebermann sidled up to the deputy headmaster and examined the book he was in the middle of marking. The boy's work was barely visible beneath a descending curtain of red ink.

“Ahh,” said Liebermann recognizing a distinctive illustration from his youth. “The Liebig condenser. You know, I was once told that it wasn't Baron von Liebig who invented the condenser at all but someone else entirely. Is that true, Dr. Becker?”

The deputy headmaster straightened his back and adjusted his gown. Having been presented with an opportunity to demonstrate the depth of his knowledge, he was unable to feign indifference.

“The earliest condenser—to my knowledge—was described by Christian Ehrenfried Weigel in 1771.”

“Is that so?” Liebermann responded. “Extraordinary.”

Rheinhardt had walked over to the geological exhibits, where he renewed his acquaintance with the shiny black trilobite.

“Inspector,” Becker called out, “I would be most grateful if we could proceed expeditiously I am certain that you and your colleague”—he threw a contemptuous look at Liebermann—”must have many matters awaiting your urgent attention in Vienna.”

Rheinhardt rolled back on his heels. “Indeed.”

“Then shall we begin?” said Becker, talking across Liebermann.

Rheinhardt inclined his head in Liebermann's direction. “Please continue, Herr Doctor.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Liebermann.

Becker tossed the pen he was holding onto the table. It rolled away, declaring his hostility with each clattering revolution. In the ensuing stillness, the hissing of leaking pipes filled the air with an unnerving, serpentine sibilance.

“I trust your wife is well?” said Liebermann.

“Well enough,” Becker replied.

“She is fully recovered?”

“Recovered, Herr Doctor? She was never ill.”

“You said that she had been tearful… after our visit?”

“She was tearful… but that is no longer the case.”

“Good, I'm glad to hear it. Inspector Rheinhardt and I clearly misjudged the degree to which she had been affected by Zelenka's death.” Then, stepping back and looking out over the benches, Liebermann added: “So, this is where the unfortunate boy was discovered. Could you tell me where exactly?”

“There,” Becker pointed to the front bench.

Liebermann gazed at the empty floor space between two high stools.

“It is interesting, is it not,” said Liebermann, imitating the manner in which he had seen Professor Freud begin his lecture the previous evening, “that we often appropriate the word ‘chemistry’ when language fails to furnish us with terms adequate to the task of describing the mysteries of love. We are often unable to say why it is that one relationship works and another doesn't. We say that the chemistry is right, or the chemistry is wrong, or perhaps that the chemistry is absent! This instinctive appropriation acknowledges that love is a very physical experience: it quickens the pulse and the breath… tears fall. Ironic ally, love—the most transcendent of all emotions—reminds us that we are mortal. I am of the opinion that our deepest passions are animated by a fierce chemistry, the reactions of which—by virtue of their association with corporeal processes—bring us inexorably closer to death.”

Becker tilted his head, and his spectacles became circles of opaque brilliance. “I am sorry, Dr. Liebermann,” said Becker. “But I really haven't a clue what you're talking about.”

“Do you believe that there is a chemistry of love, Herr Doctor Becker? There is certainly a chemistry of death.” Liebermann positioned himself between the first two benches and leaned forward, supporting his weight on outstretched arms. “We are—as yet— ignorant of the substances that create bonds of affection, but we are not so ignorant of those that extinguish life.”

Becker glared at Liebermann, but said nothing.

“How, I wonder,” Liebermann continued, “would you describe the bond of affection that existed between Frau Becker and Thomas Zelenka? Is it enough to say that they were fond of each other? That they were friends? Or do you think we would do better to borrow once again the most potent of scientific metaphors. I am disposed to believe that they shared a chemical affinity.”

The deputy headmaster suddenly turned around and faced the wall.

“Frau Becker and Thomas Zelenka,” Liebermann continued. “They were lovers, weren't they?”

“Yes, they were lovers!” Becker exploded. “Are you satisfied now, Dr. Liebermann? Are you satisfied, now that I have admitted it? Now that I am shamed?”

Liebermann's reply was delivered with clinical neutrality. “It was never my purpose to derive any pleasure from your misfortune. I merely desired to establish some important facts.”

“Well, there you are! You've succeeded! And what of it?”

Liebermann did not respond. He simply waited. With every passing second a subtle