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

the photograph and magnifying glass into the side pocket of his coat and found a table near the window, where he sat, still smiling.

Trezska was twenty minutes late; however, her tardy arrival did nothing to dampen his spirits. Liebermann dismissed her excuses and urged her to make a close study of the impressive menu. After some deliberation—and two consultations with the head waiter—they both ordered the Salzburger Mozart torte: a sponge cake with layers of marzipan, brushed with chocolate cream and apricot jam, and deco rated with large orange-flavored pralines.

They talked mostly about music. Trezska described how she intended to play the spring sonata for Rosé at her next lesson—and the conversation naturally progressed to Beethoven. Liebermann regaled his companion with a musical anecdote concerning Beethoven's mortal remains and the composer Anton Bruckner. Apparently, when Beethoven's bones were being exhumed for skeletal measurement, Bruckner had barged into the chapel of the Währing cemetery, pushed the experts aside, and grasped in both hands Beethoven's skull—which he then began to address. Unmoved by Bruckner's devotion, those present quickly took back the skull and manhandled Bruckner out of the building.

Liebermann then asked Trezska if she would like to go to a concert at the Tonkünstlerverein—a recital including some Hugo Wolf songs and a performance of the Fauré sonata for violin and piano. She agreed instantly, and became quite excited when he told her that Jakob Grün was the soloist.

As they spoke, Liebermann was distracted by Trezska's beauty: the darkness and depth of her eyes, the color of her skin, and the shape of her face. Something of their lovemaking seemed to persist in the lower chambers of his mind: impressions of movement and memories of touch. He desired her—and that desire was predominantly physical; however, his attachment was becoming more complex. He had developed a fondness for her idiosyncrasies: the subtle cadences of her accent, the timbre of her voice, the way she moved her fingers when speaking, and the swift efficiency with which she could make small adjustments to her hair. It was in these little things—and the in ordinate pleasure he derived from noticing them—that Lieber-mann recognized love's progress. Cupid was a cunning archer, and penetrated defenses by choosing to land his arrows in the least obvious places.

The clock struck two, reminding Liebermann of his other engagements.

He paid their bill at the counter and purchased a circular box of sugared almonds, which he presented to Trezska as they emerged from the café.

She grinned: “What are these for?”

“For… introducing me to the transcendental properties of absinthe.”

“I thought the green fairy made you feel ill.”

“She did. However, that did not stop me from appreciating her magic.”

Trezska detected some deeper meaning in this remark—but she did not demand an explanation.

“Thank you,” she said.

The atmosphere on the Kohlmarkt had become smoky, and a few gaslights had already been lit. In the distance, the Michaelertor had become shrouded in a violet haze.

Liebermann took Trezska's hand, pressed it to his lips, and inhaled the fresh, crisp bouquet of clementine and mimosa. The familiar fragrance aroused in him a curious sentiment—a kind of proprietorial satisfaction.

She turned to move away, but at that very moment a gentleman stepped ahead of the advancing crowd and cried out, “Amélie.”

He was smiling at Trezska—and his expression was somewhat excited.

Trezska glanced back at Liebermann, and then at the gentleman.

“I'm sorry… but you have mistaken me for someone else.”

The man had a handsome, harmonious face, which momentarily appeared shocked before resuming an expression of composed amiability.

“No—surely not. It is you!” He laughed—as if he had just penetrated the meaning of an exclusive joke. “Franz… Remember?”

He appeared eager, expectant.

Trezska's brow furrowed. “With the greatest respect, I have no idea who you are.”

“But…”

The gentleman now looked confused.

Trezska turned to look back at Liebermann—a silent request for assistance. He stepped forward and said simply: “Sir… ?”

The gentleman had not noticed the young doctor and now started for the second time. He withdrew slightly.

“Of course,” he said, smiling contritely at Trezska. “I must… I must be mistaken. Please, dear lady, accept my sincere apologies… and to you, sir,” he added, making brief eye contact with Liebermann. “Good afternoon.” Straightening his hat, he strode off toward the Graben.

“How very peculiar,” said Trezska.

“Yes,” Liebermann replied.

“He gave me a fright.”

They hesitated for a moment, both of them somewhat discomfited by the encounter.

Trezska shook her head. “Never mind. Now you must get going or you will be late.”

After leaving Demel's, Liebermann walked to the Volksgarten, where he caught a tram to Ottakring and his next appointment.

Dr. Kessler was a middle-aged man, balding, with rounded cheeks and oval spectacles that perched on his snub nose. “Ah,” he said, studying Liebermann s security office documents. “I suppose you want to know more about Thomas Zelenka?”

“No,” Liebermann replied. “The boy I need to know more about is Domokos Pikler.”

“Ah yes,” said Kessler. A line appeared across his otherwise smooth brow. “Pikler.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Indeed. I had only just been appointed at the school when…” Kessler allowed the sentence to trail off. “I presume,” he started again, the tone of his voice more guarded, “your question bears some relation to that reprehensible article in the Arheiter-Zeitung.”

“The article by Herr G., yes.”

“I don't know about all the other allegations, but I do know one thing: the correspondent—whoever he is—was completely wrong about Pikler. The boy did not die because of persecution and bad luck. He was not forced to stand on a window ledge, and he did not jump off.”

“It was suicide…”

“Yes.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Kessler looked uneasy. His pate had begun to glisten with a film of perspiration.

“I would like to be frank with you, Herr Doctor. Could we speak, not as investigator and school physician, but rather as two medical men?”

Liebermann understood the nature of this appeal. It was a request for professional confidence—an assurance that discretion would be exercised.

“Of course,” said Liebermann.

Kessler pushed the young doctor's security office papers back across the table.

“He was a glum fellow, Pikler. Very glum. He never smiled,