Frank Tallis: Fatal Lies

Their ascent was becoming extremely uncomfortable. The narrow track that they had chosen was riddled with potholes, causing the carriage to pitch and roll. Rheinhardt pulled the curtain aside and pressed his face against the glass. He could see nothing. Releasing the catch, he opened the window and leaned out. The air was cold and dank. Ahead, the carriage lamps shone against descending blankets of thick fog.

Rheinhardt looked anxiously at his pocket watch and called out to the driver.

“Stop, will you? We should have arrived by now!”

The carriage came to a shuddering halt.

“God in heaven, Haussmann,” said the inspector. “At this rate we'll never get there!”

He opened the carriage door and jumped out. His feet sank into the muddy ground, and he felt his best patent leather shoes filling up with freezing ditch water. Cursing loudly, he squelched up the road, grimacing as the sludge sucked at his heels. One of the horses snorted and shook its bridle. Rheinhardt peered into the opaque distance.

“Where on earth are we?”

“Left by the turnstile and left again at the old well,” said the driver gruffly. “That's what you said, sir-and that's what I did. Turned left.” Then he mumbled under his breath: “I knew it should have been right.”

“Then why didn't you say so?”

The driver had not intended his final remark to be heard. He concealed his embarrassment by soothing the horses.

They were in the middle of a dense forest. An owl hooted, and something rustled in the undergrowth. Rheinhardt knew that they were only a short distance from Vienna, but the capital-with its theaters, coffeehouses, and glittering ballrooms-felt strangely remote.

The trees looked tormented: thick, twisted boles and bare branches that terminated in desperate, arthritic claws. There was something about a deep, dark wood that held unspeakable terrors for the Teutonic imagination. Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel. Within every German-speaking adult was a child who, from infancy, had cultivated-under the tutelage of the Brothers Grimm-a healthy respect for the natural habitat of wolves and witches.

Rheinhardt shuddered.

“Sir?”

Haussmann's head had emerged from the carriage window.

“Yes?”

“What's that?”

“What's what?”

“There… Oh, it's gone. No, there it is again. Can't you see it, sir?”

An indistinct luminescence was floating among the trees-a pale glow that seemed to vanish and then reappear.

“Yes, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, consciously modulating his voice to achieve an even delivery. “Yes, I can.”

The light was becoming brighter.

Rheinhardt heard the carriage door opening, a splash, and his assistant struggling through the adhesive mud.

“What is it?” Haussmann repeated his question.

“I don't know,” said Rheinhardt. “But it is my impression that we will find out very soon.”

“Do you have your revolver, sir?”

“No, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt replied. “This may come as a surprise to you, but when dancing, I very rarely carry a firearm. The unequal distribution of weight about my person would make the performance of a perfect turn almost impossible.”

“Of course, sir,” said Haussmann, noting the appearance of a sly smile on his superior's face.

The advancing light was surrounded by an indistinct shadowy aura, the dimensions of which suggested the approach of something very large. The vague outline was lumbering, ursine. Rheinhardt wondered if the mist might be creating an optical illusion. Nobody could be that big! Yet twigs were snapping beneath a ponderous tread. The horses began to whicker.

“Gentlemen,” said the driver nervously, “perhaps you'd like to get back inside. Shouldn't we be on our way?”

Rheinhardt did not reply.

The footsteps became louder and the light grew more distinct.

“Well, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, “I suspect that in a few moments all will be revealed.”

The thick curtains of fog parted and a huge figure stepped out of the darkness, the glow of the flickering candle in his lamp preceding him like a spirit emissary. Rheinhardt heard his young companion gasp.

“Steady, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt whispered.

The man was well over six feet tall but appeared even more massive on account of his clothing. He was wearing a Russian hat, with the flaps released over his ears, and a long fur coat pulled in at the waist with a thick leather belt. Hanging from it was a cleaver. In one hand he held a tin lamp suspended at the end of a whittled staff, and in the other the hind legs of a brace of bloody animal carcasses that were slung over his shoulder. Almost all of his face was concealed behind a wild, wiry black beard.

“Good evening,” said Rheinhardt. “We are looking for the Aufkirchen oberrealschule.” The mysterious woodman remained silent. Rheinhardt tried again: “The military academy? Saint Florian's?”

At last, something in the big man's eyes showed recognition. He grunted an affirmative and began to speak.

“Back down the hill.” The sound he produced was low and sonorous. “Take the right fork.”

“Right fork?” Rheinhardt echoed.

The giant grunted again. Then, turning abruptly, he trudged back into the woods.

“Thank you,” Rheinhardt called out. “Much obliged.”

Rheinhardt and Haussmann stood very still, watching, as the mist closed around the giant's shoulders and the shimmering flame faded into obscurity.

“You see, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, straightening his bow tie and adjusting the studs on his cuffs. “Country folk: full of stolid virtues, I'm sure. But their conversation always errs on the side of brevity, don't you think?” Rheinhardt turned to address the driver.

“Well, did you hear what our friend from the forest said?”

“Down the hill-right fork.”

“Exactly.”

“And you want us to follow his directions?”

“What else would you suggest?”

“ Himmel, he was a strange one.”

“True, but I dare say we looked a little strange to him too.”

The dormitory was pitch-black but alive with sounds: snoring, rustling, mumbling, and the occasional terrified cry as one of the boys surfaced from a nightmare.

Kiefer Wolf listened to the breathing darkness. It had an orchestral quality-a heaving, restless depth.

“Drexler?” He reached out across the narrow space separating his bed from the next, and poked his fingers into the warm eiderdown.

“Drexler, wake up!”

His neighbor moaned.

“Drexler, wake up, will you!”

“Wolf?”

“Wake up, Drexler. I can't sleep.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Wolf,” said Martin Drexler.

“I'm going for a smoke. Are you coming?”

The boy sleeping in the bed on the other side of Wolf began to stir. “What…” His voice was thick with sleep. “What's happening?”

Wolf's fist swung out with ruthless ferocity, slamming into the boy's stomach. The youngster let out an agonized cry.

“Shut up, Knackfuss!” Wolf hissed. “Just shut up!”

The boy began to whimper.

“Oh, for God's sake, Wolf!” It was Drexler again. “What's the matter with you!”

“I'm going upstairs. I'm going to the lost room.”

Wolf got out of bed, felt for his clothes, and slipped on his jacket and trousers. He did not bother with his shoes.

“Well, Drexler? Are you coming or not?”

Wolf heard Drexler turn over, grumbling into his pillow.

“Sleep, then!” said Wolf angrily. “You… you baby!”

Wolf groped his way into the central aisle and-orienting himself by touching the bedsteads-took short steps toward the door. Turning the handle very slowly, he pushed it open and peered through the narrow gap. The corridor was empty. Slipping out of the dormitory and closing the door quietly behind him, Wolf took one of the paraffin lamps from the wall and tiptoed off into the shadows. He had not gone very far when he heard something: footsteps, rushing up the stairs, and voices.