Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

“Excuse me,” said Becker, rising from his chair and leaving the room.

As soon as the door closed, Liebermann reached forward and snatched the empty glass from Becker's desk.

“What are you doing?” asked Rheinhardt.

The young doctor did not reply. Instead, he sniffed the contents, and held the glass up to the window. The weak sunlight revealed a viscous puddle of liquid at the bottom. He then ran a finger around the inside of the glass, collecting a patina of white residue, which he licked off.

“Bitter-followed by the slow emergence of aromatic flavors…”

“That's his medicine,” said Rheinhardt. “He took some when I was here before. He gets headaches.”

Liebermann wiped the inside of the glass with his finger again, and rubbed the residue into his lips and gums.

“I know what this is.” He replaced the glass and adjusted the spoon so that it was standing in exactly the same position as when Becker had left. “And I certainly wouldn't prescribe it for headaches. It's-”

Liebermann fell silent as the door opened and Becker reentered the room.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” said Becker curtly.

Liebermann straightened his necktie and smiled winsomely at Becker as he sank back into his chair.

For reasons not clear to Rheinhardt and Liebermann, the deputy headmaster launched into a tedious homily on fraternity, explaining how it should be considered the most cardinal of virtues. Occasionally he lapsed into ponderous rhetorical German, and Rheinhardt suspected they were listening to a set speech that he had bored many a schoolboy with during countless morning assemblies. In due course, the inspector took out his fob watch and declared that time had positively flown by-and that they were now in great danger of being late for their appointment with Herr Sommer.

“Would you like me to call Albert to escort you?” asked Becker.

“No. I think we can find our own way.”

“Good. Herr Sommer lives in the fourth lodge-on the ground floor. You will find his name on the door.”

“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt.

The two guests got up to leave. However, the inspector hesitated a moment and said, somewhat tentatively, “Might I ask, Deputy Headmaster, where you and your wife met?”

Becker frowned and replied “Styria.”

“Indeed?” Rheinhardt prompted.

“I met her while I was on a summer walking holiday. She was…” He swallowed before proceeding. “She was a waitress-at one of the guesthouses.” A slightly pained expression twisted his mouth.

“Forgive me for asking a delicate question,” Rheinhardt continued, “but has Frau Becker asked you for more money recently-in addition to her usual housekeeping?”

The deputy headmaster's cheeks reddened with embarrassment and anger.

“Our domestic arrangements are a private matter.”

“I'm sorry,” said Rheinhardt. “I did not mean to offend.”

Aware that they had now very much overstayed their welcome, Rheinhardt and Liebermann removed themselves from the deputy headmaster's office with unceremonious haste.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann paused by the statue of Saint Florian. Close by, some cadets were presenting arms, and beyond them more boys could be seen quick marching around a square of tar-grouted macadam. An order from a rifle lieutenant brought the fast-moving column to an abrupt halt. The two friends looked at each other, and their gazes communicated a mutual disquiet-a tacit suspicion of martial virtues.

They walked around the school building, past another parade ground, and found the path that led to the lodges. Two rows of small terraced houses came into view. The final house at the end of the second row had HERR G. SOMMER painted in small white letters on the door. It was sandwiched between the names of two other masters: Herr Paul Lang and Dr. Artur Duriegl. The second of these was barely visible, being much faded and partially scratched out.

Rheinhardt rapped on the door with the plain iron knocker, but there was no response. He tried again, and whistled a snippet of melody from Schubert's Unfinished Symphony.

“He's not in,” said Liebermann.

Rheinhardt consulted his pocket watch.

“Sommer sent me a telegram yesterday, confirming that he would be here at two o'clock. How very odd. What should we do?”

“I am confident that he will come-but we may have to wait awhile.”

“What makes you say that?”

Liebermann shrugged his shoulders and pretended that his remark was nothing more than a superficial off-the-cuff observation.

“Come, Oskar,” said Liebermann cheerily. “Let us find somewhere to sit.”

Behind the living quarters the two men discovered a bench. It was positioned to afford a picturesque view of the hills. Ominous banks of nimbostratus were gathering in the east; however, the prospect had a certain romantic charm-particularly when the wind became stronger, bending the trees and sweeping flossy tatters of cloud overhead. Rheinhardt and Liebermann made some desultory conversation but soon fell silent, choosing instead to smoke cigars and contemplate the brooding majesty of the landscape.

Once again, Liebermann found himself thinking about Miss Lyd — gate. The image of her falling into the stranger's embrace flickered into life-accompanied by a flash of anger. He had to remind himself that such feelings were unjustified. She had not misled him. He had not been deceived. However, he soon discovered that his anger could not be extinguished, only diverted. If he wasn't being angry with her, he was being angry with himself. It was most frustrating. He did not want his peace of mind to be hostage to a memory. Besides, there was something to look forward to now… He was taking Trezska Novak to the Prater on Saturday. He should be thinking about her — not about Amelia Lyd gate!

Almost an hour had passed before Liebermann nudged Rheinhardt, alerting him to the approach of a pitiful figure hopping along with the aid of a crutch, his right leg bent at the knee to keep his bandaged foot from touching the ground.

The two men rose from the bench and introduced themselves.

“Inspector Rheinhardt, Herr Dr. Liebermann,” said the man, propping himself up. “Gerold Sommer.” In spite of his disability, he accomplished a perfectly respectable bow. “Please… this way.” He glanced up at the sky. “I think it's about to rain.” Stabbing the ground with his crutch, he propelled himself up the path with renewed energy.

The mathematics master led Rheinhardt and Liebermann back to the lodges. As he searched his pockets for the key, he asked: “Have you been waiting long, gentlemen?”

“Since two o'clock,” Rheinhardt replied.

“Why so early, Inspector?”

“That was the time you specified, Herr Sommer.”

“Good heavens. I could have sworn I'd said three.” He unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “If I am mistaken, I do apologize. I usually have a very good head for figures.”

Sommer ushered his visitors through a narrow hallway and into his study. The overall impression was one of neglect and untidiness. A table had been pushed up against one of the walls. Its top was covered in exercise books and various calculating instruments: a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree protractor, triangles, compasses, and a very large slide rule. Sommer's library was scattered around the floor, with some volumes being lined up against the baseboard. Beneath the window a row of large tomes supported a precariously balanced second tier.

Sommer limped over to a scuffed leather reading chair and attempted to sit down. He refused Rheinhardt's assistance and managed, in due course, to position himself so that he could fall back safely. He landed heavily on the cushion.