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

quite unable to explain his presence. Indeed, his expression suggested confusion—complicated by anxiety.

Rheinhardt stood up and introduced himself, which did not seem to help matters. Indeed, the constable now seemed even more nervous and shifted the weight of his body from one foot to the other.

“Well, man,” said Rheinhardt, becoming impatient. “What is it?”

“Sir,” said the constable. Then, looking toward Frau Becker, he said, “Madam… there's been an accident. A carriage left the road and the driver was thrown off! The landlord of the inn at Aufkirchen was passing—and he has identified the body. I am sorry, madam. Your husband… he's dead.”

Through the window Liebermann could see the city lights: rings of increasing intensity contracting around a central luminescent hub. This pool of stardust was home to nearly two million people. Germans, Italians, Slovaks, Poles, Ruthenians, Slovenians, Romanians, Gypsies, Catholics, Jews, Muslims, princes, archdukes, shop girls, and paupers. Liebermann fancied that each glimmering lamp was a human soul—a unique life, illuminated by hopes, fears, and aspirations. Such a vast collection of humanity was humbling. Yet he felt an odd, vainglorious compulsion to raise his arm and eclipse the great metropolis with his hand.

Would it be there forever? he wondered. After all, archaeologists had found the ruins of entire civilizations buried beneath the sand.

Liebermann opened his fingers and allowed the lights to reappear. Their constancy was mildly reassuring.

The mood in the carriage was subdued. None of the three men had spoken much since leaving Aufkirchen. They had passed the time, somewhat self-absorbed, smoking Haussmann's French cigarettes. The black Syrian tobacco produced an intransigent fug that smelled unmistakably of burning tar; however, the pungency and excoriating consequence of each draw had not deterred them, and the box—illustrated with a camel and a palm tree—was now completely empty.

Rheinhardt caught sight of his reflection in the window and squeezed the horns of his mustache.

“He could so easily have got away with it.”

The sentence was not addressed to Liebermann or Haussmann but to himself.

“Yes,” said Liebermann, “and I am struck by a certain irony. If it wasn't for the school bullies, Becker might have succeeded. I doubt very much that you would have been so tenacious had there not been signs of torture on Zelenka's body. In this instance at least, cruelty has served some greater purpose.”

“Indeed, but it is a twist of fate from which I will derive little consolation.” Rheinhardt turned and peered through the smoke at his friend. “Max, there is something I don't understand.” Liebermann invited the inspector to proceed. “What alerted you to the significance of the almond tart in the first place? You never said.”

“Have you ever tasted absinthe, Oskar?”

“No.”

“Nor had I until last week. I was given some to drink by a friend—and I found that it had an extraordinary effect on the workings of my brain. My thinking seemed to loosen up—suddenly, I was capable of making bold associations. Some of them were complete nonsense… but others… My companion had been eating sugared almonds, and it occurred to me, apropos of nothing, that almonds contain traces of cyanide.… Then I remembered that hydrocyanic gas is deadly—but difficult to isolate postmortem. The photographs of the murder scene came into my mind, and I was troubled by the presence of the pastry. Why was it there? And why wasn't it eaten? After all, adolescent boys are not renowned for their ability to delay gratification. Hydrocyanic gas taints the air with the smell of almonds. The rest—as I have already explained—followed.”

“And in order to achieve this… this… emancipation of the mind, how much absinthe did you drink, exactly?”

Liebermann took off his spectacles and dropped them into the pocket of his coat.

“Not a great deal,” he said innocently.

Rheinhardt turned to his assistant and, raising his eyebrows, asked, “Well, Haussmann?”

The young man shook his head.

“See, Max?” Rheinhardt continued. “Even Haussmann doesn't believe you.”

60

“I SUPPOSE I SHOULD congratulate you, Rheinhardt,” said Commissioner Brügel, “but I cannot do so without first raising the issue of your absence. You received my memorandum, didn't you?”

“I did, sir.”

“And yet you chose to ignore it.”

“With respect, sir, you requested that officers should make every effort to remain close to the Schottenring station.”

“The meaning of which was quite clear—or at least it was to everybody else.”

“I'm sorry, sir. I misunderstood.” Brügel's eyes narrowed. “Was the operation successful, sir?”

“No,” said Brügel. “It wasn't.”

“I heard that some arrests were made.”

“Two gentlemen were detained for questioning—but they were released early this morning. Mistaken identity.”

“I'm sorry, sir.”

Brügel emitted a low growl that rose from the pit of his stomach. “Well, Rheinhardt, I trust there will be no misunderstandings of this kind in future.”

His knowing emphasis made Rheinhardt feel ashamed.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Good.” The commissioner shuffled some papers. “I would like you to submit a complete account of the Saint Florian affair by tomorrow evening, after which you will report to Inspector von Bulow for further instruction. There is a pianist, József Kálman, who—”

Rheinhardt felt a stab of resentment. He did not want to report to von Bulow. They were of the same rank—and it was not right that he should be treated as if he were nothing more than von Bulow's assistant.

“Sir?” Rheinhardt interposed.

“What is it, Rheinhardt?”

“I have not completed my investigation… at Saint Florian's.”

Brügels head swung forward. “What are you talking about, Rheinhardt? We know who killed Zelenka—and why. There is nothing more to investigate.”

“The cuts on the boy's body, sir. The bullying…”

“Don't be ridiculous, Rheinhardt! The case is closed!” Brügels hand came down on his desk, creating a hollow thud—the quality of which suggested the snapping shut of a great tome. “Now,” Brügel resumed, “Kálman breakfasts at a disreputable coffeehouse in the third district—a place called Zielinski's.…”

61

LIEBERMANN RAN HIS FINGER down Trezska's back, tracing the flowing contour of her spine. As he did, he admired the smoothness of her olive skin—its depth and lustre. He stroked her buttocks and allowed his hand to fall between her thighs.

On the bedside cabinet was an absinthe bottle and