Fatal Lies Frank Tallis (best fiction books to read txt) 📖

I would also like to interview one of the boys.”

Becker tilted his head. The lenses of his gold-rimmed spectacles became white circles of reflected light.

“Isidor Perger,” said Rheinhardt.

“Perger, Perger,” repeated the deputy headmaster, straining to put a face to the name. He crossed his legs and drummed the desk with spidery fingers, making his hand crawl forward. Suddenly the drumming stopped and he called out.

“Ah yes, Perger!”

“I have reason to believe that he and Zelenka were close friends.”

“Very well. I'm sure that can be arranged. Will you be needing a room in which to conduct these interviews?”

“The provision of a room would be much appreciated.”

“There are some disused classrooms upstairs. Not very comfortable, but sufficiently removed from the general hubbub to ensure peace and quiet.”

Becker subsequently called for Albert, relieved him of his existing duties, and instructed him to act as Rheinhardt's adjutant for the day. However, when Rheinhardt left the deputy headmaster's office— with the shuffling old soldier at his side—he felt as if he were being indulged rather than assisted.

Rheinhardt followed Albert up a tightly curving spiral staircase, which eventually joined a long corridor with a vaulted ceiling. The space reverberated with the sound of treble voices conjugating a Latin verb by rote. Four boys were walking toward them, all dressed in the uniform with which Rheinhardt was becoming increasingly familiar: low shako, gray tunic, and trousers. Each was equipped with a full-size sabre (one of the boys had his weapon slung too low, and the tip of its scabbard scraped noisily along the floor behind him). Although Rheinhardt knew they must be fifteen or older, their small stature and wide, suspicious eyes suggested a more tender age.

“Good morning,” said Rheinhardt.

The boys halted, bowed, clicked their heels—and proceeded in the same tight and disconcertingly silent formation.

Albert ascended yet another staircase—this time wider—and escorted Rheinhardt to a musty, remote corner of the building where a row of half-open doors created wedges of ghostly light among the shadows. The “treasury smell” was particularly strong, having matured, like a piece of ripe cheese, in the undisturbed air.

“You can use any of these, sir,” said the old man, struggling to catch his breath.

The classrooms were strangely melancholy: abandoned desks, a waste bin on its side, scattered paper, and a blackboard on which algebraic symbols constituted only half of an incomplete equation. Rheinhardt selected the least cluttered interior and asked Albert to fetch the first master on his list.

Lieutenant Osterhagen was a tall broad-shouldered man with ruggedly handsome features. His blond hair was cropped short, and a deep cleft was visible in the middle of his clean-shaven chin. Remarkably (for a gymnastics master) he walked with a limp. When he sat down, with evident discomfort, he made a passing reference to the “old Transylvanian complaint.”

“Transylvanian complaint?” asked Rheinhardt.

“Nationalists,” said Osterhagen. “I took one of their bullets when my regiment was sent to deal with a situation—if you know what I mean?”

Rheinhardt wasn't sure that he did know what the lieutenant meant. Nevertheless, he thought it wise to nod politely and proceed with the interview.

“I'm not surprised he dropped dead,” said Osterhagen. “It was obvious there was something wrong with him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He was never well… always suffering from colds, always wrapped up in a scarf and wearing gloves, always clutching an exemption certificate from the infirmary.”

“He wasn't, then, in your opinion, a very strong boy?”

The lieutenant laughed with savage contempt.

“Good God, no. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“I was told that he used to help his father—lifting heavy crates in a warehouse.”

“He might have swept the floor, perhaps,” said Osterhagen, twisting his mouth to one side in a sarcastic grin. When the inspector did not smile back, Osterhagen added with indifference, “The boy was destined for a career in the civil service. Not the army.”

Osterhagen typified a certain type of military man. Blustering, bombastic, and appallingly insensitive. When the interview ended, Rheinhardt was relieved to bid the lieutenant good day.

The next two masters had very little to say about Zelenka. Neither of them had known him very well. Indeed, one of them, Dr. Kloester, confused Zelenka with another Czech boy called Cervenka. Consequently, Rheinhardt had to cross out all Kloester's answers and start the interview again.

Herr Lang—the drawing and calligraphy master—was a more promising informant.

“I was in my rooms when I heard. The headmaster came to the lodges on Saturday morning to tell us all personally. I couldn't believe it… such a terrible tragedy. Do you know what happened, Inspector? Do you know how Zelenka died?”

Rheinhardt shook his head.

Lang was in his late twenties. His hair was parted at the side and drawn in thick wavy strands across his head. A wildly undulating forelock occasionally fell forward and had to be pushed back again. His nose was long and straight, and his large, implacable eyes were arresting. The ensemble, however, was mitigated by the lower half of his face, which comprised a thin mustache, an incongruously tight mouth, and a soft, rounded chin. It was these weaker elements, however, that imbued his expressions with an unusual degree of humanity. He was dressed in a navy jacket, the lapels and cuffs of which were decorated with parallel lines of yellow stitching, and pale blue trousers with a prominent pinstripe. His cravat was green and matched a silk handkerchief that burst, rather too abundantly, from his breast pocket.

“He wasn't a talented artist,” Lang continued, “but he was an intelligent, attentive boy. I remember showing him some illustrations in Ver Sacrum, the periodical of the Secession. He asked me some very astute questions about the artist's purpose—questions concerning symbolism and meaning. I was impressed. One wouldn't have got that kind of response—a mature response—from his comrades. They would simply have smirked and made lewd remarks.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Nudity. Even a line drawing of the female form…” Lang's sentence trailed off in exasperation.

“I see,” said Rheinhardt, inwardly reflecting that the minds of schoolboys had not changed very much since his own youth.

“Zelenka was different,” said