Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

“But there are only a few numbers in most of the columns. Look here, for example: 2 24, 106 11, 34 48… It would be no great feat of memory to remember these.”

“I know-and I couldn't agree more.” Sommer's protruding ears turned red. “It was quite ridiculous.”

“Why did you arrange the numbers in pairs?”

“No reason, really. I happened to do so the first time and Zelenka copied thereafter. It became a convention. They are completely random. Just random numbers, that's all.”

“And what was the purpose of this… this game?”

“Amusement.”

“Amusement?” said Rheinhardt, incredulously.

“It amused Zelenka.” Again Sommer laughed. “Ridiculous, I know.”

Rheinhardt looked at Liebermann.

“Herr Doctor, would you like to ask Herr Sommer any questions?”

“No,” said Liebermann.

“Are you quite sure?” said Rheinhardt.

“Yes,” replied Liebermann. “Quite sure.”

Wolf and Drexler were sitting on the roof of Saint Florian's, close to the upper stories of an old tower. The lower stories, still intact, were not visible. They were below the roof itself. The tower may once have been freestanding, or part of the old religious foundation that predated the school. But the capricious architecture of Saint Florian's-having an organic quality-had somehow absorbed this ancient edifice. It was now a redundant cylinder of stone that sank through three floors. No one had yet discovered a way of getting inside the tower. Walls closed it off. A doorway in the basement might have been the original entry point, but it too had been sealed off with enormous stone slabs.

Why would one do that? thought Drexler. To keep people out? Or to keep something inside?

On a parapet that circled the turret were three winged gargoyles-one of which, Drexler realized, bore a striking resemblance to Professor Gartner.

“So,” said Drexler, “what are you going to do?”

Wolf did not react.

“I'm intrigued,” Drexler added. “I won't tell anyone.” He stood up and pushed his cigarette into the gargoyle's mouth. “If there is a hell, I wonder if such things exist…”

“You should stop reading those stupid Hoffmann stories: you're becoming fanciful.”

“Come on,” said Drexler, ignoring Wolf's jibe. “What's this plan of yours?”

Wolf blew out two streams of smoke from his nostrils.

“I'm going to get a position at the Hofburg-and in due course join the emperor's personal guard.”

“No… seriously, Wolf,” Drexler said, pressing him.

“I am being serious.”

Drexler leaned forward to inspect Wolf's face.

“Yes,” Drexler said, more to himself than to his companion, “I think you are.”

“My uncle is head of the security office,” Wolf continued. “He's quite well connected-and can pull a few strings. It wasn't my idea originally… It was my mother's.”

Drexler laughed. “Your mother's!”

“Yes. She's overprotective.” He permitted himself a crooked grin.

“The Hofburg, eh?” said Drexler. His expression suddenly changed. “But surely you'll need to get better examination results. You've hardly been applying yourself lately.”

“I am quietly confident.”

“The chances of you mastering trigonometry between now and the final examinations are-in my opinion-vanishingly small. If this is your great plan, Wolf, then I'm afraid I am singularly unimpressed.”

“Remember that,” said Wolf. “Remember what you just said. And when you're crouching behind a bush, cold, hungry, your boots covered in cow shit, trying to dodge the bullets of the next would-be king of the Carpathians, think of me. Yes, think of me, in my clean uniform with its razor-sharp creases, warm, well fed, accompanying the emperor to state openings and banquets, drinking champagne at the opera, and watching comedies at the Court Theater.”

“You are deluding yourself, Wolf.”

“Go to hell, Drexler.”

“Well-to be frank, I think that's a lot more likely than you going to the Hofburg.”

Wolf glanced at his watch. He flicked his cigarette into the air and stood. A powerful gust of wind made him stumble, and he steadied himself by touching the stone arc of a demon's wing.

“Drill,” he said.

The two boys set off, climbing over the bizarre terrain: fallen chimneys, a scattering of tiles-and the ruin of a small observatory. Inside the little cabin, Drexler spotted the rusting remains of an antique orrery. He would take a closer look next time.

“Where are you going?” Wolf called as Drexler veered off.

“This way.” Drexler gestured. “It's quicker.”

“You can't get down that way.”

“Yes, you can,” said Drexler, indignant.

They came to an area where the surface on which they were walking was interrupted by a deep channel. Water had collected at the bottom. Wolf looked over the edge and saw the reflection of his head, silhouetted against the bilious sky. It was a long way down, and there was no way around. The channel stretched from one side of the roof to the other.

“See?” said Wolf. “I told you we shouldn't have come this way.”

“What are you talking about?” said Drexler. “You just have to jump across. Some iron steps are attached to the side of the building-and they lead to a window. It's always open.”

“Jump across? Don't be ridiculous. The gap's too wide.”

“No, it isn't.”

“You'll break your neck.”

“I won't.”

Drexler took a few steps backward and then ran toward the precipice. He glided through the air and a second later landed safely on the other side. “See? Easy. It's narrower than you think.”

Wolf looked at Drexler, and then up at the octahedral spires of the Gothic facade.

“You're not scared, are you, Wolf?” Drexler called.

“Of course not.”

Wolf ran-but just before leaping, he pulled up short.

“Come on, Wolf-it's easy.”

“Your legs are longer than mine,” said Wolf. “You have an unfair advantage.”

“ Life ‘s unfair, Wolf! Now jump, will you?”

Another gust of wind destroyed Wolf's confidence completely.

“No… I can't do it.”

“Well, you'll have to go the long way down-and you'll be late.”

Drexler raised his hand and loped off.

“Drexler,” Wolf fumed.

“What?”

Wolf's anger suddenly subsided. “Make up an excuse for me.”

Drexler nodded, found the top of the iron steps, and swung himself over the parapet.

Liebermann maintained a pensive silence as the carriage rattled down the hill toward Aufkirchen. He appeared to be wholly occupied by the patterns produced by runnels of rainwater on the window. Raising his hand, he allowed his forefinger to trace the length of a silvery braid that was being blown sideways across the glass.

“Well?” said Rheinhardt.

Liebermann started. “I'm sorry Oskar. Did you say something?”

“Surely the rain cannot be so very interesting.”

“Forgive me,” said Liebermann, removing his hand from the glass. “I've been thinking.”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He made an interrogatory hand gesture, inviting Liebermann to elaborate.

A gust of wind buffeted the carriage, and the driver cursed loudly. Liebermann, ignoring the string of colorful expletives, made a steeple with his fingers and peered at his friend.

“I believe we can now be certain,” he began slowly, “that Zelenka and Frau Becker were lovers.”

Rheinhardt nodded. “I had not expected Sommer to be so candid.”

“Although, to be frank,” Liebermann continued, “with respect to this matter, I found your interview with Becker more revealing- and more compelling-than your interview with Sommer.”