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

human face—an old, deeply lined face, with bushy eyebrows and a long wavy beard. The sad eyes were full of anguish. It was as if some unfortunate soul had been magically incarcerated in the timber. The image reminded Drexler of the fantastic stories of E.T.A. Hoffmann. The boy drew back—and felt a freakish chill that made him shiver.

“How deep should the trench be?” asked Steininger.

“How should I know?” Wolf answered irritably.

“But what if animals…”

“Dig him up?”

“Well, yes.”

“What animals?”

“I don't know, but it's possible, isn't it?”

“All right,” said Wolf, glaring. “Make it deeper!”

Drexler looked over at the abandoned sack and considered its contents. He felt a wave of pity and regret. The swell of emotion that made his eyes burn was only just containable, but his self-control gave him no satisfaction. He knew that this was just the beginning. There would be worse to come: guilt, nightmares, and various forms of mental torture. The terrible millstone of his secret would weigh heavily on his conscience for the rest of his life, and would eventually drag him down to the depths of hell. He had never believed in such a place before, but now it all seemed quite plausible.

He turned away and stared into the darkness.

Steininger's digging was creating a hypnotic rhythm: the crunch of the blade penetrating the soil—a heave of effort—and then the dull rain of soil on leaves. Its regularity was comforting and lulled Drexler into a kind of trance. Once or twice, he noticed discontinuities of consciousness: he was so tired that he must have nodded off.…

Freitag gasped: a sudden intake of breath, cut short and invested with the rising pitch of surprise.

Steininger stopped digging.

An owl hooted.

“What is it?”

“I thought… I thought I saw something move. Over there.”

“What?”

Freitag's voice shook. “It was big, like a bear.”

“Don't be so ridiculous,” said Wolf. “If it was a bear, we'd soon know about it!”

“I didn't say it was a bear—I said it was like a bear. Really, I did see something. Something big.”

“Pull yourself together, Freitag,” Wolf commanded.

Freitag shook his head. “I'm going. I don't like it here.”

Wolf grabbed his arm. “Look, it's just your imagination! There's nothing out there!”

He gestured between the trees and raised his lamp. Nothing was visible, except the restless mist.

Freitag swallowed—subdued by the steel in Wolf's eyes.

“Yes…” Freitag smiled—somewhat desperately. “Yes… of course. My imagination.”

“Don't be a fool, Freitag,” said Wolf, releasing his grip.

Drexler said nothing, but his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. He had seen something too—exactly as Freitag had said: something large and lumbering—big—like a bear. He marched over to Steininger.

“Give me the shovel. You're too slow, Steininger. Let's finish this business and get away from this awful place.”

47

THE WAITER SWOOPED BY, skilfully replacing Rheinhardt's empty soup bowl with a dish containing dumplings, fried pork chops, a slice of boiled ham, frankfurter sausages, and a steaming mound of cooked sauerkraut. Rheinhardt inhaled the meaty fragrances and dressed his meal with large dollops of bright yellow mustard. Looking over at his companion, he noticed that Liebermann was toying with his food, rather than eating it, fishing noodles out of his broth and watching them slither off his spoon like tiny serpents.

“What's the matter—lost your appetite?”

“Yes. I'm feeling a little fragile, to be honest. Last night I…” He massaged his temple and winced. “I drank too much.”

“Well, there's no better cure for a hangover than a big, hearty meal. Finish your soup and try the onion steak… or the Tyrolean liver. Something substantial!”

Liebermann stirred the contents of his bowl and observed the stringy ballet with glum indifference.

“I saw Miss Lyd gate on Tuesday,” Rheinhardt added breezily.

Liebermann looked up from his soup. “Did you?”

“Yes. I showed her the number pairs from Zelenka's book.”

Liebermann's expression was unusually flat: a peculiarity that Rheinhardt attributed to his friend's intemperance of the night before.

“Was she able to assist?”

“Well, she said that the numbers might represent some form of code—but, if so, one of a very unconventional type. She promised to study them and give an opinion in due course.”

Liebermann nodded.

Rheinhardt sliced his dumpling and speared a strip of boiled ham.

“This is quite, quite delicious,” he said, chewing with more volume than was really permissible according to the standard prescriptions of etiquette. “Oh, and Miss Lyd gate said something about not having had the pleasure of your company lately… and being otherwise engaged—and that I should convey her best wishes when I next saw you.”

Liebermann set his jaw and mumbled something inaudible, which Rheinhardt was perfectly content to accept as a token of gratitude.

The arrival of a pianist was received with restrained applause. The musician adjusted the height of his stool, flicked the tails of his coat, and sat down slowly. When his hands fell on the keyboard, the coffeehouse filled with a mournful dirge. The marchlike accompaniment suggested the trudging feet of a regiment of soldiers, every one of whom yearned to return home. It was an inconsolable song of reminiscence and lamentation.

“Brahms?” asked Rheinhardt tentatively.

“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “Hungarian Dance Number Eleven in D minor. It's usually heard in a four-hand arrangement… and he's playing it very slowly.”

“Still…”

“It is very affecting, yes.”

“I rather like it.”

They listened for a few moments, until a subtle modulation in the music suddenly released them from its thrall.

“So tell me,” said Liebermann. “What happened with old Brügel? Did the nephew carry out his threat?”

Rheinhardt rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“Yes. He did write to the commissioner, informing him of my accusation. Subsequently, I was summoned by Brügel and given a complete dressing down. He was furious—I've never seen him so angry.”

“His overreaction confirms my earlier speculation. He knows what sort of a boy Wolf is. He is simply trying to safeguard the interests of his family.”

Rheinhardt waved a piece of sausage on the end of his fork. “When I was leaving, Brügel became more subdued. He said that Wolf was the only child of his youngest sister. The boy was no angel, he admitted, but he said I was quite wrong