Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

“All right, then, I'll say it plainly: he gave me a bad feeling. In fact, he gave me such a bad feeling that I somewhat rashly accused him of torturing Zelenka. I wanted to see how he would react.”

Rheinhardt looked troubled, and drew on his cigar. “He was very calm… just sat looking at me with dull gray eyes. He pointed out that I had made a very serious and unsubstantiated allegation. Then he advised me that he was going to tell his uncle.”

Liebermann smiled. “Commissioner Brugel?”

Rheinhardt puffed out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. “How did you know that?”

“A slip of the tongue that you made earlier.” Liebermann made a dismissive gesture. “But it is no matter… I wonder why Brugel never mentioned that he had a nephew boarding at Saint Florian's.”

“I don't know.”

“And has the boy written or spoken to his uncle?”

“It's difficult to say. I haven't seen Brugel since Wednesday.”

Liebermann tapped his cigar above the ashtray set in the carriage door.

“But you didn't do anything very wrong, Oskar.”

“No, that's true. But it complicates matters, doesn't it? Brugel is always irascible. He's hard enough to deal with at the best of times. When he discovers that I have accused his nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka…” Rheinhardt's sentence trailed off, his head shaking from side to side.

“Perhaps Brugel has some inkling of his nephew's character,” continued Liebermann. “Which would explain why he attempted to stop your investigation… Is it possible that he was protecting his family's interests? Their reputation?”

Rheinhardt considered the young doctor's insight-but did not see how it helped him very much.

“I am in a rather difficult position now. Even if Wolf did torture Zelenka, it doesn't get us very much further with respect to explaining the boy's death.”

“Well, this is what we find when we follow hunches instead of reasoning things out.”

“See?” said Rheinhardt. “You can't stop yourself from mocking me! I have something to show you.” Rheinhardt handed Liebermann a mathematics exercise book. “This was Zelenka's-it was returned to his parents with his other effects. Although…”

“What?”

“There was one item missing. A dictionary.”

“Is that important?”

“I don't think so-but Zelenka's parents do. They said it was very expensive. They had to save up for it. Anyway…” Rheinhardt pointed at the exercise book. “You will see that there are columns of paired numbers on the pages designated for rough work. Similar pairs can be found in the marginalia-written in the master's hand.”

“Herr Sommer?”

“Herr Sommer. I am no mathematician, but these numbers seem to have nothing to do with the surrounding calculations.”

“You think they are… what? Coded messages?”

Rheinhardt nodded.

“Oskar,” said Liebermann, sitting forward, “may I have your notebook and a pencil?”

His expression was eager.

“Of course.”

Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and folded the exercise book so that it would remain open. He then transcribed some of the number pairs into the notebook, and next to these wrote some letters of the alphabet. He repeated the process several times, before flicking over a page and starting again. This time, he constructed an alphanumeric table. He soon became completely engrossed in his task, and Rheinhardt-deprived of conversation-stared out the window.

The rumbling of the carriage wheels on cobblestones was shortly accompanied by noises indicative of frustration. Liebermann shifted his position, tutted, grumbled under his breath, and tapped the pencil against his teeth. His crossings-out became more violent, the flicking of pages more frequent, and eventually he declared: “Impossible… nothing works. I thought it was going to be a simple substitution cipher!”

Rheinhardt turned to face his friend.

“I asked Werkner to take a look-he's one of our laboratory technicians at Schottenring. He's usually quite good at this sort of thing. But he didn't get very far either. Indeed, he was of the opinion that I might be mistaken.”

Liebermann bit his lower lip, and his brows knitted together.

“I wonder,” said Rheinhardt. “Do you think we should consult Miss Lyd gate? She is a woman of such remarkable intelligence-and she has helped us before.”

The young doctor's posture stiffened.

“She is indeed very gifted… but I do not know whether her talents extend to cryptography.”

Liebermann handed the notebook and pencil back to Rheinhardt.

“Yes,” said the inspector. “But it is permissible-is it not-to request her assistance again?”

Rheinhardt looked at his friend quizzically.

“You may do as you wish,” said Liebermann, picking a hair from the fabric of his trousers.

Bernhard Becker sat behind his desk, gazing uneasily at his two guests. His pupils were enlarged and his fingers were drumming on his blotting paper.

“Inspector,” said Becker, “you must understand, my dear wife is a very sensitive woman. She is compassionate and easily moved to sympathy. I believe that Zelenka took advantage of her…” He hesitated for a moment and added, “Kind nature.” Becker peered over his gold-rimmed spectacles. “Of course bullying takes place at Saint Florian's. I don't deny it. But such behavior is commonplace in military schools, and it is no more a problem for us than it is for Karlstadt or Saint Polten. Zelenka led my wife to believe that terrible things happen here… extraordinary things. But this is simply untrue.”

“Did you read Herr G.'s article in the Arbeiter-Zeitung?”

Becker smiled-a haughty, disparaging smile.

“Yes. The headmaster showed it to me.”

“And?”

“It is utterly absurd,” said Becker. His tightly compressed lips suggested that he was disinclined to elaborate. For a moment he toyed with a spoon, which was standing in an empty glass on his desk.

“When we spoke last,” said Rheinhardt, “you did not mention that Frau Becker had a particular fondness for Thomas Zelenka.”

The deputy headmaster's expression became severe.

“Why should I have? It's entirely relevant.” From the tone of his voice it was clear that Becker had meant to say the exact opposite. He maintained his defiant expression for a few moments, but this gradually softened into doubt as he recognized his error. “ Ir relevant!” He blurted out the correction as if emphasis and volume would negate his blunder. “Let me be candid, Inspector,” Becker continued. “I knew that Zelenka's death would cause Poldi much distress-and I saw no purpose in bringing her to your attention.”

“You wished to spare her a police interview?”

“Yes, Inspector, I did. And I believe I was correct to do so. Your surprise visit achieved nothing-as far as I can see-save to remind Poldi of Zelenka's demise, which made her tearful all week!”

“I am sorry,” said Rheinhardt. “Obviously, this was not our intention.”

“Well,” said Becker, harrumphing as he stroked his forked beard.

“I trust,” interjected Rheinhardt, “that you will convey our sincere regrets to Frau Becker.”

Becker grumbled an assent and added: “If you intend to interview my wife again, you would perhaps be courteous enough to request my permission first?”

“Of course,” said Rheinhardt.

At that point there was a knock on the door, and Professor Gartner appeared.

“Ahh,” said the old man, with timorous uncertainty. “Deputy Headmaster, Inspector Rheinhardt.” He did not acknowledge Liebermann. “I am sorry to interrupt, but could I have a quick word- Deputy Headmaster? It's about my report to the board of governors.”