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

“Perger's responses afforded me considerable insight into the boy's mental world—his preoccupations, his sadness, his loneliness, his fear.… He is extremely fragile—worryingly so—and these responses also suggested to me how you might proceed, Oskar, with respect to identifying suspects among the boys. You said that there were simply too many pupils to interview. The more or less random selection of names from a list would be utterly pointless—which is of course true. But we are now in a much better position.”

“We are?”

“Did you notice how many of Perger's responses referred to predatory creatures? To what extent, I wonder, does this reflect his wretched existence here at Saint Florian's? Must he constantly evade those who might make him their prey? If I were you, I would examine the register and look for names that correspond with the notion of predation: names like Löwe or Wolf—or names that correspond with the notion of hunting, perhaps—like Jäger? I cannot guarantee that this will prove to be a productive avenue of inquiry, but in the absence of any other strategy, you have nothing to lose.”

Liebermann turned to the board and wrote “Names suggestive of predation and hunting.” He then underlined the phrase, producing a scratching sound that made the inspector wince.

“And the subsequent games of chess?” asked Rheinhardt. “Why were they necessary? If you were attempting to instill in the boy a sense of mastery, why on earth did you allow him to lose the second game? Isn't that a contradiction?”

“By beating Perger, I did indeed run the risk of reviving his anxieties; however, it was a risk I was prepared to take, but only in order to secure a further advantage. After his defeat, I was able to alert him to a specific and deadly maneuver that he was thereafter obliged to watch for. This possibility occupied his thoughts during the third game, to the extent that he was less able to monitor his speech. It was under these conditions that he mentioned Frau Becker, a person whose name has—for some reason—never appeared in connection with Zelenka before.”

Liebermann scratched the words “Distraction” and “Less Guarded Replies” on the blackboard. He then tossed the chalk in the air, caught it, and tapped the woodwork.

“I hope you've been listening carefully, Rheinhardt. There will be a test later!”

21

THE BECKER RESIDENCE was a large house occupying the summit of a gentle rise that swept up from Aufkirchen. From the garden gate, looking toward the village, the onion dome and spire of the Romanesque church was just visible over the trees. Rheinhardt and Liebermann paused to admire the view before following the gravel path toward their destination.

Their approach disturbed a sleek fat crow. Flapping its wings, the bird took off, a worm wriggling in its closed beak. Two more crows were circling the chimney, cawing loudly. The combination of their plaintive cries, the moribund garden, and a low, oppressive sky created an atmosphere of sinister melancholy.

The door was answered by a Czech housemaid, who escorted Rheinhardt and Liebermann into a spacious parlor, where they were asked to wait. A few minutes later a striking woman appeared in the doorway. She was young, blond, probably in her early twenties, and extremely attractive: earnest eyes complemented a wide sensual mouth and a petite retroussé nose. At first Rheinhardt thought that there might have been some mistake, and that this woman was, in fact, Becker's daughter; however, her identity was confirmed as soon as she spoke.

“Inspector Rheinhardt, my husband didn't tell me you would be coming here today. Forgive me.… You find us unprepared for guests.”

If the first surprise was Frau Becker's appearance, then the second was her accent. It was distinctly provincial.

The inspector introduced his colleague and said: “Frau Becker, it is I who must apologize. Your husband did not know that we intended to visit. And please, do not concern yourself with hospitality—a few minutes of your time is all we ask.”

“The least I can do is offer you some refreshments, Inspector. Shall I ask Ivana to make some tea?”

“That is most kind—but no, thank you.”

“Please—Herr Doctor, Inspector…” She indicated some chairs. “Do sit.” And she perched herself on the edge of a chaise longue.

“I would like to ask you,” said Rheinhardt, “some questions about the boy Zelenka.”

Frau Becker required little prompting. She spoke of how the news of Zelenka's death had shocked her; how her thoughts had gone out to his parents, and how she would miss their conversations. The fluency and urgency of her speech declared the authenticity of her feelings—as did the sudden halting pauses, during which her eyes glistened.

“Imagine,” she said, shaking her head and dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “To lose a son—and only fifteen years old.”

“How was it that you became acquainted?” asked Rheinhardt.

“The masters at Saint Florian's—particularly those with wives— often invite boys to their houses. It is encouraged here. Although the boys look like men, in many ways they are still children. They miss their families, ordinary things… sitting in a garden, a glass of raspberry juice with soda water, home baking. Zelenka always wanted me to make spiced pretzels. I have a special recipe—given to me by my grandmother.”

“How often did you see Zelenka?”

“He used to come at my husband's invitation with other boys, and sometimes he would come on his own. I think he enjoyed my company—felt comfortable. You see, his family is poor, and I…” Frau Becker hesitated for a moment, and blushed. “I also come from a poor family. We had this in common.”

Rheinhardt found himself glancing down at the young woman's blouse. It was made of black lace and lined with flesh-colored silk, a combination that created a tantalizing illusion of immodesty. A gentleman's eye was automatically drawn down to the transparent webbing, which promised the possibility of indecent revelation.

“What was Zelenka like?” said Rheinhardt, forcing himself to look up, and loosening his collar.

“A kind, intelligent boy. But…”

Frau Becker paused, her expression darkening.

“What?” Rheinhardt