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

at a distance. You are correct that I am not a pathologist; however, I am a psychiatrist, and it is a sad fact that members of my profession are frequently the first to discover individuals who have committed suicide. I have seen many suicides… and one notices certain resemblances between them.”

Von Bulow snorted. “It may be very rare—as you suggest—for a suicide to hold the weapon at a distance, but it is not so exceptional as to recommend that we should abandon common sense! Now, Herr Doctor, if you would kindly let me conduct my investigation in the manner to which I am accustomed!”

Dispensing with any pretence of courtesy, von Bulow flicked his thumb toward the exit.

“And the absence of a suicide note?” said Liebermann, ignoring von Bulow's rude gesture. “Does that not strike you as being a little odd? Gentlemen of von Stoger's class and rank always leave a suicide note.”

“Herr Dr. Liebermann,” said von Bulow coldly, “you are testing my patience!”

“I do apologize,” Liebermann replied. “I have neglected to mention the most important of my observations. No powder burns, no suicide note… these are simply auxiliary to the principal fact, which, if I may be so bold as to declare, is—in my humble judgment—quite compelling.”

Von Bulow's arm dropped to his side. He was reluctant to ask the young doctor what this compelling principal fact was and so cede his authority. He glared at Liebermann, who had chosen this moment to conduct a minute study of his fingernails. He picked off a cuticle. Rheinhardt, the long-suffering victim of Liebermann s irritating penchant for obscurity and mystification, was, for once, delighted.

The ensuing silence became frigid and intractable.

Von Bulow—finally overcome by curiosity—ungraciously spat out his question: “What are you talking about!”

“Simply this,” said Liebermann, smiling. “The general's eyes are closed. This is not remarkable in itself, being commonplace when people die naturally. But when people die suddenly—their eyes remain open. In the anguished state that precedes suicide, we can be quite sure that the eyes are wide open—staring, in fact. And this is how we—us psychiatrists—usually find them.” Liebermann paused for just enough time for von Bulow to register von Stoger's heavy, hooded lids. “Inspector, someone closed the general's eyes postmortem. And I strongly suspect that the person who did that was also the person who shot him!”

The blood drained from von Bulow's face. He ran an agitated hand over the silver stubble at the back of his head.

“Good day,” said Liebermann, marching briskly to the closed double doors. Before opening them, he looked back into the room and added, “And don't be fooled by that tight grip. A gun can be placed in the hand immediately after death, and then when rigor mortis sets in, it creates the illusion of a holding-fast.”

Rheinhardt bowed, and followed his friend out into the hall. The servant whom Rheinhardt had been interviewing was still waiting.

“Sir?” said the servant to Rheinhardt. “May I retire to my quarters now?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Rheinhardt. “My colleague Inspector von Bulow wishes to ask you some more questions.”

The man acquiesced glumly.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann began walking down the hallway, their footsteps sounding loudly on the shiny, polished ebony.

Unable to restrain himself, Rheinhardt slapped his friend on the back.

“That was truly excellent, Max, excellent. You made von Bulow look like a complete idiot.”

In response, the young doctor took a sugared almond from his pocket, tossed it into the air, and caught it in his mouth. He bit through the icing and produced a loud, satisfying crunch. “Let's go back to Schottenring,” he said. “I must see those photographs again.”

50

WOLF WAS SITTING IN the lost room, alone, smoking his way through a packet of gold-tipped cigarettes. He had acquired them from Bose, a plump and effete baron from Deutsch-Westungarn, whose arm he had twisted until the boy had squealed like a stuck pig. Resting on Wolf's lap was a large book, the cover of which was made of soft green leather and embossed with gold lettering. The endpapers were marbled. Wolf licked his finger and began to turn the pages. The movement of his hand across the spine became faster and faster—each transition was accompanied by a double syllable of friction and release. The sound was not unlike a person gasping for breath. Although he was not reading the text, Wolf's expression was attentive.

The monotony of the task created a void in his mind, which soon filled with recent memories.

Earlier that day Wolf had been summoned to the headmaster's office. The old man had rambled on in his usual way about values, honor, and reputation, but in due course his well-practiced oratory had stalled. He had become somewhat incoherent. Eventually, the headmaster had made an oblique reference to the matter discussed on the occasion of their last meeting.

“It appears that Perger has absconded.”

“Yes,” Wolf had replied.

“This sort of behavior cannot be countenanced. When he is found, I will have no other option but to expel him. Whatever plea is made on his behalf—and I'm sure that at least one well-meaning but misguided advocate will come forward—nothing, and I mean nothing, can possibly excuse such appalling misconduct.”

“No, sir,” Wolf had agreed. “It is quite disgraceful.”

The headmaster had risen and, as was his habit, had gone to the window.

Wolf recalled the nervous catch in his voice: “I take it we have understood the situation correctly. Eh, Wolf? I mean… Perger has absconded, hasn't he?”

“Why, yes,” Wolf had replied. “There can be no other explanation for his disappearance, surely?”

“Good,” the headmaster had muttered, evidently reassured by the boy's steady confidence.

Wolf now turned the final page. None of them had been annotated. He had observed a few inky marks here and there but nothing of any obvious significance. Wolf closed the book and opened it again at the frontispiece, an antique etching of a bearded scholar in a library. At the foot of the title page, in small lettering, he read “Hartel and Jacobsen,” beneath which was the publisher's address in Leipzig,