Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

“Take your clothes off.”

“W-what?”

“You heard.”

Wolf leaped up and jabbed the burning end of his cigarette at Perger's face. The younger boy jerked back to avoid contact and immediately began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. When he had finished, he stood naked, his body trembling and his gaze lowered to the floor.

Returning to the wicker chair, Wolf sat down and stubbed out his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. Without pause, he lit another and resumed his relaxed but attentive attitude. The point at which his foot had made contact with Perger's chest was now marked on the boy's skin by a red circle, which promised to mature into a livid bruise. Wolf found the injury curiously satisfying-not merely because it represented the exercise of power, the making of his own morality, but also because of an elusive aesthetic quality. The expected transformation of hue (through scarlet, yellow, purple, and black) was comparable, in Wolf's estimation, to the seasonal transformation of leaves between summer and autumn-only more exciting. Why did poets make so much of one but not the other? A thought came into his mind, an abridgement of the aphorism from Beyond Good and Evil that had made such a deep impression on him: Perhaps there are no phenomena, only interpretations of phenomena.

Wolf sucked on his cigarette and blew out a steady stream of smoke.

“What did you tell him?” he asked.

Perger looked up, his features blending confusion with fear.

“Who?”

“The fat policeman-the detective.”

Perger shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Oh, but you did,” said Wolf. “I know you did.”

“I didn't,” cried Perger. “I didn't tell him anything… not the first time. I didn't say a thing. And the s-s-second time, he came with a doctor… He played chess with me-and showed me p-p-patterns… inkblots… and asked me what I could see in them… and he asked me about the bakery… and t-t-ticks… and… and…”

“Enough,” shouted Wolf, stamping his foot. “Talk sense! You're gibbering like a lunatic!”

Perger emitted an odd whimpering sound, and pulled frantically at his short hair.

“I didn't s-s-say anything, Wolf. I swear… I swear on my mother's life.”

“Ha!” said Wolf. “Swearing on the life of a Galician whore is hardly a warrant of honor. That won't save you.”

“I s-s-swear… I didn't say anything.”

“Then why did the fat policeman want to speak to me-after he had spoken to you?”

“He didn't speak to me. It was the doctor. He spoke to me, but about chess, and his seeing game… He showed me p-p-patterns, inkblots, and asked me if I could see anything in them… and he asked me about Zelenka… I said Thomas was my friend, and that Thomas liked Frau Becker… but nothing else.”

“That's it. I've had quite enough of your slippery answers, Perger!”

Wolf flicked his cigarette across the floor. It rolled away, trailing orange sparks. Then he stood up and marched over to his victim. He was carrying a revolver. The younger boy cringed as Wolf pressed the gun's barrel against his temple.

“What… did… you… say?”

Wolf pronounced each word emphatically, and underscored each syllable by pushing the gun hard against Perger s head.

“I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation,” said Wolf. Then, letting his tongue moisten his upper lip, he added: “Kneel.” He angled the revolver so that it exerted a downward pressure, and pushed Perger to his knees.

“Please… I beg you,” sobbed Perger. “I'll do anything… anything you want… Please don't kill me.”

The thrill of prepotency coursed through Wolf's veins, swelling his heart and galvanizing his loins.

I'll do anything… anything you want.

Wolf stared down the length of Perger's back, at the pale, unblemished planes of skin sloping away and curving out of sight. His gaze followed the descending vertebrae, and lingered on Perger's tense calf muscles. The soles of the boy's small feet were slightly wrinkled. To his great embarrassment, Wolf found that it was not only his victim who was shaking-he himself had begun to shake too.

“I know what you used to do for Zelenka,” he said softly. “He told me. And now… now you'll do it for me.”

With his free hand, Wolf began to loosen his belt.

The carriage turned off the Schottenring at the university and rattled down a long road that took them through the ninth and seventeenth districts.

“Herr G's article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung,” said Rheinhardt, “came to the attention of one of the aides in the education department. He wanted to make sure that if His Majesty got to hear about it, Minister Rellstab could inform him that something was being done, that the matter was being properly dealt with. Brugel-with typical bad grace-performed a volte-face, and I was told, somewhat obliquely, to resume the investigation.”

Liebermann polished his fingernails on his coat sleeve and examined them closely.

“How did Eichmann react when you questioned him?”

“He said that it was all nonsense: that Pikler suffered from constitutional melancholy and had obviously killed himself, that he had never heard of the ‘night watch’… and he said these things with absolute conviction. He didn't look like a worried man-someone trying to keep secrets.”

“Are you trying to discover who ‘Herr G.’ is?”

“I've assigned Haussmann to the task.” Rheinhardt squeezed one of the horns of his mustache and checked the revived point for sharpness with his forefinger. “I also asked Eichmann about Frau Becker.”

Liebermann looked up, his eyebrows elevated in interest.

“He described her,” Rheinhardt continued, “as gullible, naive, and indulgent-inclined to believe the claims of any boy seeking attention and sympathy. In addition, she seems to have made little or no effort to be accepted by the headmaster's wife and her circle. Indeed, I suspect that Frau Becker might have been quite outspoken- openly criticizing the school and Frau Eichmann's opinions.”

The carriage halted in order to let some traffic pass at a crossroads. Looking out of the window, Liebermann observed a Coptic priest standing on a corner. He had a long black beard and was wearing a mitre. A purple waist band was wrapped around his long dark green cassock. The driver cracked his whip, and the priest slowly slipped from view.

“Later the same day,” Rheinhardt continued, “I interviewed some of the schoolboys. You know, the ones who had names suggestive of hunting and predation.”

“And…?”

“Well, I must be candid with you, Max. At first, I had my doubts. That test of yours, the inkblots you showed Perger… The entire enterprise seemed very fanciful.” Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and produced a small box of slim cigars. He offered one to his friend, which Liebermann took. “And to make things worse,” he continued, “the first few boys were amiable, good-natured, harmless fellows.” Rheinhardt struck a vesta and lit Liebermann's cigar, and then his own. “However…” Rheinhardt leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I then questioned a boy called Kiefer Wolf and… well, there was definitely something about him.”

“What do you mean, ‘something’?”

“He was insolent, rude, supercilious… but that wasn't it. No… it was when he smiled. I thought…”

“What?”

The inspector shook his head. “Oh, what's the use! I can't explain-and you are sure to say something disparaging about policeman's intuition.”

“Not necessarily. I must confess that I am developing a grudging respect for your clairvoyance!”

“See? I knew it!”

“Oh, Oskar, you are being oversensitive. Please continue.”