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

on like this, well, I am obliged to say—you won't be welcome here for very much longer.”

Wolf threw a glance—a silent appeal—in the direction of Steininger and Freitag.

“Yes, Drexler,” said Steininger. “This is our place… and if you're not going to join in…”

“You should stay away,” said Freitag.

Drexler ignored the two lieutenants and took a step closer to Wolf.

“Let him go, Wolf. Look at him.” He gestured toward the hunched, crumpled figure on the stool. “This is pathetic.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, this is pathetic!” It was now Drexler's turn to include Steininger and Freitag. “Can't you see, you two? It's all getting out of hand. These stupid games—”

“You've lost your nerve, Drexler,” Wolf cut in. “Go on— admit it.”

“It doesn't take very much nerve to pick on Perger!”

“More nerve than you have—evidently.”

“It's cowardly, Wolf!”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“How dare you call me a coward! How dare you!”

Wolf snatched the revolver from Perger's loose grip and pointed it toward Drexler.

“Go on, then—shoot,” said Drexler.

“You think it's a blank cartridge. Don't you?”

Once again, the intensity of Wolf's gaze surprised Drexler, and he was unsettled by a tremor of doubt.

“I'm a coward, am I?” Wolf continued.

Unexpectedly, he released the cylinder, spun it, and cocked the hammer. Then he pressed the barrel against his own temple and grinned: a maniacal rictus.

Behold, I teach you the Übermensch.

The Übermensch balks at nothing.… The Übermensch has no fear.…

“Wolf?” said Freitag. He could not conceal his anxiety.

Wolf pulled the trigger. A dead click.

“Who's the coward now? Eh, Drexler?” He said, handing over the revolver.

Drexler examined the weapon. His mouth went dry and he became aware of an ethereal whistling in his head. Steininger and Freitag were looking at him—their expressions showed intense concentration rather than their usual brutish insouciance. Drexler gripped the end of the barrel between his teeth and squeezed the trigger.

Another dead click. The whistling stopped.

Without hesitation, Wolf took the weapon back, prepared it for firing, and pointed the muzzle between his own eyes. He was still grinning his deranged grin, but this time his hand was shaking. A film of sweat had appeared on his brow. When his finger finally closed on the trigger and the silence was broken only by the hammer's fall on another empty chamber, he burst out laughing and threw the gun at Drexler. The other boy snatched it out of the air.

“Only three left, Drexler,” Wolf said. “Your turn.”

Drexler looked at the gun, and then at Wolf. He cocked the hammer. The distance that he usually interposed between himself and the world had suddenly vanished. Reality stormed the ramparts of his senses, and he became acutely aware of the minutiae of existence: the systolic and diastolic components of his pulse, the expansion and contraction of his lungs, the passage of air in his nostrils, the taste of metal in his mouth, and the lost room, with its familiar contents— the suitcase, the wicker chair (and the permanent fragrance of tobacco, fear, and erotic discharge)—this haven of shabby delights— every part of it acquired a vivid immediacy. He was alive and he did not want to die.

“This is absurd,” said Drexler. He lifted the revolver and looked into the end of its barrel. Its circularity suggested eternity, and its blackness oblivion. There were other things he could be doing at this moment in time: making love to Snjezana, reading Hoffmann, or simply smoking on the grounds and watching the moon rise. He shook his head.

“Oh, you're all insane,” he said contemptuously, tossing the revolver aside. It landed a few feet away. There was a loud report, a bright flash, and a hazy cloud of gunpowder smoke rose up like a spectral apparition.

“My God,” said Steininger.

“It… it was live!” gasped Freitag.

In their state of shock, the two lieutenants had loosened their grip on Perger's tunic. The prisoner fell forward and sprawled facedown on the floor.

“Get up, Perger,” said Wolf.

The boy did not reply.

Wolf nudged him with his foot. The body was inert.

“Get up, Perger,” Wolf repeated.

Drexler fell to his knees and rolled the body over.

“Oh no… God, no.” A dark stain had appeared on Perger's tunic.

Silence.

“What shall we do, Wolf?” said Freitag softly.

Steininger took a step back. The color had drained from his face. He was fearful, dismayed.

“Perger?” said Drexler, pushing at the body. “Perger? Can you hear me?”

There was no response. The dark stain was expanding—an almost perfect circle, close to Perger's heart.

“Christ,” said Steininger. “He's dead.”

“No,” said Freitag. “He can't be…”

Drexler grasped the fallen boy's hand. “Come on, Perger, wake up!”

“It's no good, Drexler,” whispered Wolf. “You've killed him.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you! It was you who had the gun last.”

“But it wasn't my…,” cried Drexler, incoherent with desperation. “I didn't… I…”

“Wolf's right, Drexler,” said Steininger. “It was you who had the gun last.”

“Yes,” Freitag agreed. “If you hadn't thrown the gun, Perger would still be alive.”

42

INSPECTOR RHEINHARDT HAD COPIED the number pairs from Zelenka's exercise books onto a single sheet of paper, which he now handed to Amelia Lyd gate. The Englishwoman fell silent, and simply stared at the figures. Time passed. She was obviously attempting to decipher them, and Rheinhardt was reluctant to disturb her. He glanced across the room at Haussmann and raised a finger to his lips.

Eventually Amelia looked up.

“Are you absolutely sure that these numbers represent coded messages, Inspector?”

“Well, not absolutely.… However, it was Dr. Liebermann's opinion that Herr Sommer did not tell us the truth when he said that these numbers were a memory test, and I am inclined to agree. The commitment of random number pairs to memory is surely an activity from which both pupil and master would derive very limited plea sure. And such an activity would be unlikely to keep them amused over a period of several months. Therefore, if the numbers are not a memory test, then they must be some kind of code.”

A vertical crease appeared on Amelia's brow.

“My father—also a schoolmaster—insisted that I learn the value of the mathematical constant pi to fifty decimal places. Successful recitations were