Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

“From the university?”

“No… no, I don't think so. His German wasn't very good.” Again, Frau Rubenstein hesitated before continuing. “And his English… There was something about it… It sounded strange.”

But she never receives visitors, thought Liebermann. She never entertains.

“Was he a young gentleman?”

“Yes… about your age, I imagine.” The old woman's eyes narrowed. “Do you know him?”

Liebermann tried to conceal his unease with a smile.

“No.” He felt awkward-his arms seemed to stiffen in unnatural positions. “Did she say where they were going?”

“Yes,” Frau Rubenstein replied. “Cafe Segel.”

“I see. My apologies for disturbing you, Frau Rubenstein. When Miss Lyd gate returns, please tell her that I called. It was not a matter of”-his chest tightened-”importance.”

As he prepared to retreat, Liebermann noticed something odd about Frau Rubenstein's expression-a puckering of her lineaments indicative of concern. She seemed about to offer an afterthought, but instead shrank back into herself.

“Frau Rubenstein?” Liebermann enquired. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said the old woman. “It's just…” Liebermann encouraged her to continue with a hand gesture. “Perhaps I am mistaken-but Amelia seemed… not herself.”

“Not herself?” Liebermann's soft repetition created a flat echo.

“A little upset, perhaps.”

Liebermann nodded. “Thank you. I will…” His sentence trailed off. What would he do? What could he do? “I am sure there is no cause for concern.”

He bid Frau Rubenstein good evening and set off down the road-his previously purposeful stride reduced now to a despondent shamble.

Miss Lyd gate's visitor was probably a foreign associate of her academic mentor, Landsteiner. In all likelihood, there was nothing to worry about. She had offered to show the gentleman a local coffeehouse, and he had agreed to the plan. Yet, as Liebermann made his way toward his apartment, he could not let the matter rest. He continued to ask himself questions, and in due course became increasingly uneasy. Why had Miss Lyd gate appeared upset? Frau Rubenstein was not confident in her judgment, but what if she was correct? What if Miss Lyd gate had left the house while distressed and in the company of a stranger?

Liebermann changed direction and headed off toward Cafe Segel.

His route took him across a busy thoroughfare where he dodged between carriages-and earned himself an imprecation from an angry driver. A tram rolled by, delaying him once again, before he reached the other side. Entering a warren of connected backstreets, he finally emerged opposite Cafe Segel-which occupied a whole corner.

Beneath a striped awning, tables and chairs had been placed outside. At one of these sat Miss Lyd gate, with a young man whose dress was somewhat irregular. The cut of his clothes was distinctly foreign-and the broad brim of his hat curled upward at the sides.

Miss Lyd gate was smiling at him. They were talking, intimately, with their heads bent forward. The man stood. He offered Miss Lyd gate his hand, which she took without hesitation. They were facing each other, and both remained curiously still-as if magically transfixed-staring with wonderment into each other's eyes. The man's arms rose and he embraced Miss Lyd gate, pulling her toward him-gathering her in, tenderly. He held her close, and planted kisses in the abundance of her hair. She offered no resistance: her surrender was voluntary-and total.

Liebermann raised the collar of his coat, turned away, and vanished into the shadows, reeling like a drunkard, inebriated by the potency of his own emotions-a heady concoction of disappointment, jealousy, and rage.

Bernhard Becker held his glass up to the light and stared into the vortex of dissolving crystals. Through the cloudy elixir, he could see the book-lined walls of his study. The entire room seemed to expand and contract in synchrony with his thumping heart. He threw his head back and poured the liquid down his throat, wincing at the astringency of the alcohol. Numbness spread around his mouth and lips.

He found himself thinking of something his wife had said about the young doctor, the one who had accompanied Rheinhardt a few days earlier.

Tall, handsome-with kind eyes. Yes, that was how she had described him…

Becker experienced a flash of anger.

They had knowingly visited his wife behind his back. It was completely unacceptable.

Dishonest, improper, disrespectful!

And why had they asked Leopoldine about her dreams? Why did they want to know about her dreams!

Becker pressed his thumbs against his temples and made small circular movements with them.

His wife had been wearing her lace blouse, the one with the flesh-colored silk lining. He had told her more than once that he did not like this item of clothing-that it did not suit her. In fact, he thought it vulgar, cheap, and immodest. But he could hardly say so (she was oversensitive about such things, quick to take offense). It was typical, absolutely typical, that Leopoldine should have been wearing that blouse on the very day when Inspector Rheinhardt chose to call, with his tall, handsome colleague.

Becker was seized by the “urge” again-its arrival attended by a vague sense of guilt. A part of his mind, a very small part (no more than a token gossamer conscience) resisted-raising a faintly articulated objection. However, this inner voice of reason was soon silenced by a tidal flood of emotions: hurt, fury, and, most of all, burning, insatiable curiosity. He left his study and tiptoed across the landing, positioning himself next to the banisters. He leaned over the polished wooden handrail, listening intently. The distinctive whisper of a turning page informed him of the whereabouts of his wife. She was sitting in the parlor, reading one of her inane romantic novels. He nodded to himself, emitted a soft grunt of approval, and crossed the landing, before quietly turning the handle of their bedroom door. Once inside, he lit three paraffin lamps.

Becker paused and looked at Leopoldine s dressing table. The surface was littered with circular baskets overflowing with ribbons and hairpins, an assortment of brushes, and numerous unguents and perfumes. A gauzy nightgown was draped over the oval mirror-and an item of underwear had been discarded on the floor.

The word “slattern,” declaimed with biblical authority, sounded in Becker's head. He picked up the drawers-and tested the sensuous viscosity of the material with the tips of his fingers. His body trembled with desire and resentment. Throwing the garment aside, he edged toward the bed. He glanced once at the door-anxious not to be discovered. It reminded him of his adolescence, the perpetual stealing away, the fearful intensity of his need-and his immoderate indulgence in the solitary vice…

Was it true? he wondered. What the doctors said about self-pollution? Did it really unhinge the mind?

Breathing heavily he reached for the eiderdown and ripped it back. Then, grabbing a paraffin lamp, he held it over the bedsheet and examined the stretched, taut linen with forensic scrupulosity. He pressed his nose into the fabric and sniffed, with fevered canine excitement.

Nothing different. Nothing strange. Only a familiar muskiness, the barely perceptible olfactory signature of their connubial mattress.

Becker walked around the bed, still swinging the lamp close to the white sheet, his eyes performing watchful oscillations. No traces. Thank God. No traces.

He felt relieved, and his shoulders relaxed. But his reprieve was short-lived. At once, he realized his error. Reaching down, he ran his hand across the crisp sheet. It had only recently been changed. Of course there would be no traces on this sheet!