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

The pale skin around Frau Becker's eyes had reddened. The flesh looked sore, grazed—flecked with tiny raised welts. Liebermann noticed the unusual length and brightness of her lashes, which glinted in the lamplight.

“I did love Bernhard,” she said, her voice rising in pitch as if she were responding to an accusation of falsehood. “I did. I had never met anyone like him before—an educated man—a distinguished man—a generous man. But he changed. He started to complain about how much money I was spending. He was always in a foul temper. He became angry with me if I didn't understand what he was talking about. I felt neglected, lonely—and Herr Lang… Herr Lang was kind to me. He's an artist. He appreciated me, accepted me… and he cared about all the bad things happening up at the school.”

The young woman suddenly stopped, and tugged at her blouse, her expression suggesting utter contempt.

“I have a large wardrobe full of beautiful clothes, but I have never been interested in fashion. I used to tell Bernhard that I needed a new dress every time I wanted to get away. I used shopping as an excuse, so that I could go to Vienna. Sometimes it was possible for me to meet Herr Lang there. He knew places where…” Her cheeks flushed like a beacon. Modesty prevented her from disclosing the intimate details of their assignation, but Liebermann and Rheinhardt knew exactly where Lang would have taken Frau Becker. The city was full of private dining rooms—in Leopoldstadt, Neubau, and Mariahilf—where couples could conduct their illicit liaisons without fear of discovery.

“We made our arrangements,” Frau Becker continued, “through Zelenka. He delivered our notes to each other—he was our go-between, our messenger. I was very fond of him… very fond. But our relationship was innocent. I knew that my husband suspected that something was going on; however, God forgive me, I did nothing to make him think otherwise. In fact, I encouraged his mistrust. On the days that Zelenka came, I always wore something special. And all the time, I knew that whatever inquiries Bernhard made would ultimately come to nothing. The more my husband worried about Zelenka, the better—it put him off, helped to conceal the truth, misdirected his attention. Herr Lang thought I was being very clever— and said that he would do something too. He knew that Herr Sommer was a dreadful gossip, and told him things… made suggestions about Zelenka and me, knowing full well that Sommer would be indiscreet. It worked. Soon the whole school was talking—but about the wrong affair! An affair that wasn't happening! You look shocked, Herr Doctor. And I know what you are thinking: ‘What sort of woman would do such a thing? What sort of woman would knowingly destroy her own reputation?’ But you see, I had no reputation to protect. People said horrible things about me whatever I did, and at least this way the slander was serving some purpose. Besides, I would only have to endure it for a short time. Herr Lang is leaving Saint Florian's soon. He intends to join a commune of artists living in the Tenth District. I was going to join him, and may still do so. I've been told that such people do not make a habit of judging others.”

Frau Becker paused and looked from Liebermann to Rheinhardt, then to Haussmann and back again. Her chin was raised and there was something defiant in the set of her jaw; but the challenge was short-lived. She brought her hands together, nestling the closed fist of her right hand in the palm of her left—and bowed her head.

“If I had known…,” Frau Becker continued. “If we had known that Bernhard was capable of such insane jealousy, we would never have done this… but we did. And because of that, we must now share his guilt.”

Liebermann leaned back in his chair.

“I don't think so. You could never have foreseen your husband's actions.”

“I'm his wife. I should have—”

“Not in this instance, Frau Becker,” Liebermann interrupted. “The man you fell in love with no longer exists. You said earlier that your husband changed. I believe that this alteration in his personality had a very specific cause.”

“I don't understand.”

“Are you aware that your husband took medicine—a white powder which he dissolved in alcohol?”

“Yes. He took it for his headaches.”

“Frau Becker, your husband never suffered from headaches. He was deceiving you. The medication he took was an extract of the South American coca plant—cocaine. It is a substance once thought to improve mood and increase… stamina.”

A carriage drew up outside, and Liebermann was momentarily distracted.

“Forgive me for being forthright, Frau Becker,” Liebermann continued. “But it is my belief that your husband—being considerably older than you—doubted his ability to satisfy a healthy young wife. He started taking cocaine, having probably heard of its use as a tonic by the German army. However, cocaine is a highly addictive substance that, taken in large quantities, can disturb the mind's delicate balance. It can cause various forms of paranoia, a particularly disturbing example of which is pathological or morbid jealousy.” A loud knock resounded through the house. “Men are particularly prone to jealous feelings—but these can be grotesquely exaggerated under the influence of such a potent chemical agent. If Dr. Becker had not been addicted to cocaine, I very much doubt whether he would have behaved so irrationally—and with such tragic consequences.”

There was the sound of movement in the hallway, and a gentle tap on the door.

“Come in,” said Frau Becker.

The maid entered.

“What is it, Ivana?”

“Frau Becker, a police constable has arrived. He would like to speak with you.”

“You had better show him in.”

Liebermann looked at Rheinhardt quizzically, but the inspector was only able to respond with a shrug.

Haussmann stepped out of the way to let in the constable—a large youth with ruddy cheeks and a forelock of orange hair that peeped out from beneath his spiked helmet. He looked around the room, observing the gathering, but seemed