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

asked me if I could see anything in them… and he asked me about Zelenka.… I said Thomas was my friend, and that Thomas liked Frau Becker… but nothing else.”

“That's it. I've had quite enough of your slippery answers, Perger!”

Wolf flicked his cigarette across the floor. It rolled away, trailing orange sparks. Then he stood up and marched over to his victim. He was carrying a revolver. The younger boy cringed as Wolf pressed the gun's barrel against his temple.

“What… did… you… say?”

Wolf pronounced each word emphatically, and underscored each syllable by pushing the gun hard against Perger s head.

“I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation,” said Wolf. Then, letting his tongue moisten his upper lip, he added: “Kneel.” He angled the revolver so that it exerted a downward pressure, and pushed Perger to his knees.

“Please… I beg you,” sobbed Perger. “I'll do anything… anything you want.… Please don't kill me.”

The thrill of prepotency coursed through Wolf's veins, swelling his heart and galvanizing his loins.

I'll do anything… anything you want.

Wolf stared down the length of Perger's back, at the pale, unblemished planes of skin sloping away and curving out of sight. His gaze followed the descending vertebrae, and lingered on Perger's tense calf muscles. The soles of the boy's small feet were slightly wrinkled. To his great embarrassment, Wolf found that it was not only his victim who was shaking—he himself had begun to shake too.

“I know what you used to do for Zelenka,” he said softly. “He told me. And now… now you'll do it for me.”

With his free hand, Wolf began to loosen his belt.

33

THE CARRIAGE TURNED OFF the Schottenring at the university and rattled down a long road that took them through the ninth and seventeenth districts.

“Herr G's article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung,” said Rheinhardt, “came to the attention of one of the aides in the education department. He wanted to make sure that if His Majesty got to hear about it, Minister Rellstab could inform him that something was being done, that the matter was being properly dealt with. Brügel—with typical bad grace—performed a volte-face, and I was told, somewhat obliquely, to resume the investigation.”

Liebermann polished his fingernails on his coat sleeve and examined them closely.

“How did Eichmann react when you questioned him?”

“He said that it was all nonsense: that Pikler suffered from constitutional melancholy and had obviously killed himself, that he had never heard of the ‘night watch’… and he said these things with absolute conviction. He didn't look like a worried man—someone trying to keep secrets.”

“Are you trying to discover who ‘Herr G.’ is?”

“I've assigned Haussmann to the task.” Rheinhardt squeezed one of the horns of his mustache and checked the revived point for sharpness with his forefinger. “I also asked Eichmann about Frau Becker.”

Liebermann looked up, his eyebrows elevated in interest.

“He described her,” Rheinhardt continued, “as gullible, naïve, and indulgent—inclined to believe the claims of any boy seeking attention and sympathy. In addition, she seems to have made little or no effort to be accepted by the headmaster's wife and her circle. Indeed, I suspect that Frau Becker might have been quite outspoken— openly criticizing the school and Frau Eichmann's opinions.”

The carriage halted in order to let some traffic pass at a crossroads. Looking out of the window, Liebermann observed a Coptic priest standing on a corner. He had a long black beard and was wearing a mitre. A purple waist band was wrapped around his long dark green cassock. The driver cracked his whip, and the priest slowly slipped from view.

“Later the same day,” Rheinhardt continued, “I interviewed some of the schoolboys. You know, the ones who had names suggestive of hunting and predation.”

“And… ?”

“Well, I must be candid with you, Max. At first, I had my doubts. That test of yours, the inkblots you showed Perger… The entire enterprise seemed very fanciful.” Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and produced a small box of slim cigars. He offered one to his friend, which Liebermann took. “And to make things worse,” he continued, “the first few boys were amiable, good-natured, harmless fellows.” Rheinhardt struck a vesta and lit Liebermann's cigar, and then his own. “However…” Rheinhardt leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I then questioned a boy called Kiefer Wolf and… well, there was definitely something about him.”

“What do you mean, ‘something’?”

“He was insolent, rude, supercilious… but that wasn't it. No… it was when he smiled. I thought…”

“What?”

The inspector shook his head. “Oh, what's the use! I can't explain—and you are sure to say something disparaging about policeman's intuition.”

“Not necessarily. I must confess that I am developing a grudging respect for your clairvoyance!”

“See? I knew it!”

“Oh, Oskar, you are being oversensitive. Please continue.”

“All right, then, I'll say it plainly: he gave me a bad feeling. In fact, he gave me such a bad feeling that I somewhat rashly accused him of torturing Zelenka. I wanted to see how he would react.”

Rheinhardt looked troubled, and drew on his cigar. “He was very calm… just sat looking at me with dull gray eyes. He pointed out that I had made a very serious and unsubstantiated allegation. Then he advised me that he was going to tell his uncle.”

Liebermann smiled. “Commissioner Brügel?”

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. “How did you know that?”

“A slip of the tongue that you made earlier.” Liebermann made a dismissive gesture. “But it is no matter.… I wonder why Brügel never mentioned that he had a nephew boarding at Saint Florian's.”

“I don't know.”

“And has the boy written or spoken to his uncle?”

“It's difficult to say. I haven't seen Brügel since Wednesday.”

Liebermann tapped his cigar above the ashtray set in the carriage door.

“But you didn't do anything very wrong, Oskar.”

“No, that's true. But it complicates matters, doesn't it? Brügel is always irascible. He's hard enough to deal with at the best of times. When he discovers that I have accused his nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off,