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

the source of considerable pleasure and amusement to both of us. Indeed, my father could barely stop himself from joining in when I reached the final ten digits: six, nine, three, nine, nine, three, seven, five, one, zero. There! I can still recall the sequence quite clearly. For those who enjoy mathematics, numbers can be a very satisfying entertainment; however, it is undoubtedly the case that for the nonnumerical such pleasures are as recondite as music is to the tone-deaf.”

Rheinhardt did not know how to respond. He glanced at Haussmann, tacitly requesting assistance, only to discover that the young scoundrel was biting his lower lip and that his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “Indeed…” He twisted the waxed horns of his mustache and said: “Am I to take it, then, that you do not share our view?”

“I am not taking issue with your conclusion, Inspector—merely the reasoning that you employed to reach that conclusion.”

“Ah,” said Rheinhardt, more encouraged. “Then you accept that the numbers might be a code?”

“Yes,” she said, a little hesitantly. “But if they are, the code is not conventional. That much I can determine already.”

“I see.”

“May I take this with me?” She raised the paper in her gloved hand.

“Yes, of course.”

“I will give it careful consideration.”

“Once again,” said the inspector, “I am much indebted.”

Amelia rose, and Rheinhardt kissed her hand.

“How is Dr. Liebermann?” she asked.

“Well.”

Unusually for her, the Englishwoman looked a little flustered.

“I have not had the pleasure of his company of late, although the fault is entirely mine. I have been somewhat preoccupied with… matters… various matters.” Amelia fumbled with her reticule and then added: “Would you be so kind as to convey my best wishes to the good doctor?”

“Consider it done, Miss Lyd gate.”

“Thank you, Inspector—you are most kind.”

“Haussmann,” Rheinhardt addressed his assistant. “Please escort Miss Lyd gate out of the building and hail her a cab.”

“That really won't be necessary,” said Amelia. “I am perfectly capable of finding my way out of the security office. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

She looked blankly at the two men, and left the room.

Rheinhardt raised his finger and silently shook it at Haussmann.

The young man blushed, and in an effort to excuse himself whispered: “I'm sorry, sir, but her manner is so peculiar.”

The inspector was unable to disagree.

43

TREZSKA STOOD BESIDE LIEBERMANN’S PIANO. Their gazes met—and, simultaneously, they began to play. The opening violin melody was fluid and generous—an outpouring of enchanting sweetness. Although the subtitle “Spring” was added to Beethoven's F-major sonata after his death, it was extraordinarily appropriate, capturing completely the mood of the work. The music was bright and blooming—fresh, bursting with vital energy—but there were depths implied by the poignant changes of harmony that elevated this sonata above the usual conventions of pastoral writing. Beethoven, the most human of composers, never merely observed nature—he engaged with it. Thus, the gamboling of lambs and the blossoming trees—which the music so readily suggested—served to introduce a more profound philosophical program. This was not a sterile description of a season—tuneful meteorology—but an inquiry into that most awe-inspiring of all vernal phenomena: romantic love.

When they reached the adagio molto espressivo, Liebermann took advantage of the slower tempo to steal glances at Trezska. Her eyes were closed and her body arched backward as she drew her bow across the strings of her instrument. She had unpinned her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. Liebermann marveled at how strands of such midnight-blue blackness could also shine so brightly. His stare dropped—briefly—to her compressed cleavage, and then down to the slim girdle of her waist. In the pianissimo passages he could detect the creaking of her corset. He inhaled her fragrance, not just the clementine and mimosa of her perfume, but her entire olfactory signature. Liebermann knew that the French had a word for this sensuous bouquet—the totality of a woman's smell—but it had slipped from his memory.

After they had finished playing the spring sonata, Trezska wanted to repeat certain passages again. She was unhappy with the scherzo, and wondered whether the rondo had not been played a little too fast. She flicked the pages of the open score back with the tip of her bow.

“Allegro ma non troppo,” she said curtly.

They discussed some technical details and she asked Liebermann about the quality of her performance.

“Well,” he said, evidently apprehensive, “it was very beautiful… a very lyrical reading…”

“However?”

“You inserted a few glissandi in the adagio, which is not really how the Viennese like their Beethoven.” Not wishing to be harsh, he added, “I am simply pointing this out because Rosé will almost certainly object.”

“And… ?” Trezska prompted, demonstrating her percipient sensitivity: she had detected another unexpressed caveat in the cast of Liebermann s features.

“The vibrato,” said Liebermann. “Again, perhaps a little too much for Viennese tastes.”

“I see,” she said. Then, tapping the open page with her bow, she indicated that she was ready to repeat the rondo.

As they played, Liebermann thought back to what had happened two days earlier on the Prater: the tree, Trezska's prescient anxiety, and the lightning strike. In the carriage, driving back to Landstrasse, Trezska had at first been preoccupied, but by the time they had crossed the Danube canal, her spirits had rallied. She had grasped Liebermann's hand, squeezed it affectionately, and thanked him for a wonderful day. It was as though the lightning strike had never happened—and, strangely, they had not spoken about it since. Before they parted, he had invited her to his apartment to practice the spring sonata, so that she might be better prepared for her lessons with Rosé. “Yes,” she had said. “If you don't mind—that would be very helpful.”

When they had finished the rondo, Trezska tuned her violin, and put more rosin on her bow. She played a few scales and, between these, the fragment of a melody. It was so exotic, so distinct, that it immediately aroused Liebermann's interest.

“What was that?”

“A folk song: did you like it?”

“Yes. It sounded rather… unusual.”

Trezska played another angular