Frank Tallis: Fatal Lies

Rheinhardt, the headmaster, and Professor Klodwig Gartner were standing together in the laboratory. It was an ugly, dilapidated room. Exposed water pipes followed the wall just below the ceiling, and from these oversize conduits brownish stains of varying intensity dribbled to the floor. A constant hissing sound filled the air.

“I thought he'd fallen asleep,” said Gartner. “ ‘Wake up, Zelenka,’ I said. ‘Wake up, boy!’ But he didn't stir, so I said it again ‘Come on, boy, wake up!’ And I clapped my hands, loudly. Still-nothing. So I walked over and shook him.”

Gartner was an old master-almost completely bald, except for two tufts of silver hair that sprouted above his ears. His eyebrows had the consistency of wire wool and curled up at the ends, giving his face a curious, demonic cast. This effect was assisted by a sharp pointed beard and a thin mustache. His nose was long and bent slightly to one side, suggesting that he might have been a pugilist in his youth.

“Was he breathing?” asked Rheinhardt.

“I don't know-I don't think so.”

Rheinhardt could smell alcohol on Gartner's breath. He had clearly drunk more than was strictly necessary to steady his nerves.

“To be honest, Inspector,” Gartner continued, “I didn't think to check. I simply ran to get the headmaster.”

Rheinhardt peered into one of several large glass-fronted display cabinets. It contained geological exhibits. Most of the collection was uninspiring. He studied the labels: slate with pyrites, basalt, flint, red sandstone. The only thing that captured his interest was a shiny black trilobite with large protruding eyes.

“Go on,” said Rheinhardt, “I'm listening.”

“We laid him out on the floor,” Gartner continued, “but it was obvious something very bad had happened.”

Rheinhardt turned. “Where did you lay him out, exactly?”

“There, Inspector,” interrupted the headmaster, pointing between the two front benches where the high wooden stools had been pushed aside to accommodate a supine body.

The surface of the first bench was scattered with the paraphernalia of experimentation: labeled bottles with glass stoppers, small dishes filled with powders, a pipette, a rack of test tubes, a small burner, and a flask of brown liquid. Rheinhardt lifted the flask and swirled it under his nose. It was vinegar.

Zelenka's notebook was still open. Various chemical formulae were scrawled across the page, some supplemented with modest observations: bubbling, unpleasant smell, evaporation.

Gartner addressed the headmaster: “You examined the boy with Becker, and then you told Becker to fetch Nurse Funke.”

“Thank you, Professor Gartner,” said Eichmann. The sharpness of his tone indicated that such assistance was unwelcome. He could remember perfectly well what had happened-and did not need Gartner to remind him.

Next to the notebook was a small pastry on a plate. It was untouched. Rheinhardt felt a sudden pang of pity-a tightening in his chest. He imagined Zelenka purchasing the cake from the canteen, saving it as a special treat to be consumed at the end of the day. It seemed unjust that the boy should have been deprived of this one last innocent indulgence.

On the floor were some fragments of glass and scattered white granules.

“Do you see that broken dish, Professor Gartner?”

“Yes.”

“Was it there when you arrived?”

Gartner looked at the headmaster. “I suppose it must have been. We didn't knock it off the bench when we were moving Zelenka, did we?”

“No,” said the headmaster.

At that moment, the deputy headmaster returned with Haussmann.

“Ahh… there you are, Haussmann,” called Rheinhardt. “Everything in hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, I would like a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a clean brush, please.”

Rheinhardt squatted on the floor and gently swept some white granules onto the paper. He then folded the sheet into a flat packet and slipped it into the envelope, which he sealed. Haussmann handed him a pencil, and the inspector wrote on the upper right-hand corner: Sample 1. Saint Florian's-Contents of broken dish. Laboratory floor. Fri, 16th Jan, 1903.

“Inspector,” said the headmaster. “Would I be correct in assuming that you are treating Zelenka's death as suspicious?”

Rheinhardt looked at Haussmann, whose usually impassive face showed the ghost of a smile.

“Yes, Headmaster,” said Rheinhardt. “That would be a very reasonable assumption.”

Professor Mathias was seated on a wooden stool, staring at the corpse of a young woman. An incision had been made from her larynx to her abdomen, and the skin and superficial layers of tissue had been peeled back. The expression of concentration on the professor's face, and the peculiarity of the woman's condition, suggested to the onlooker the more familiar sight of an avid reader poring over the pages of an open book. Above the body was an electric light, the beam of which shone down into the raw, empty cavity of the woman's torso. A collection of glistening organs-heart, liver, lungs-were strewn across a nearby table. The stench was overwhelming.

Haussmann covered his mouth and looked beseechingly at his superior.

“All right,” said Rheinhardt, “go outside and have a cigarette. I'll join you shortly.” His assistant nodded and made an undignified exit.

“Professor?”

Mathias's gaze seemed to be fixed on the woman's pudendum.

“Professor?” Rheinhardt called more loudly.

Mathias cleared his throat. “A man who had lost his axe suspected his neighbor's son of stealing it. Observing the boy, the man discovered that everything about him-his gait, narrow features, speech, et cetera-declared the boy a thief; however, the following day the man discovered his axe beneath a sack in his own cellar. When he encountered his neighbor's son again, he no longer saw anything unusual about the boy's appearance.” The professor paused for a few moments. Then he added: “Well, Rheinhardt?”

“I really have no idea,” said the inspector.

“No, I didn't think you would. It is by an ancient Chinese author. I have been making a study of their literature-and very interesting it is too.”

Mathias stood up and rolled a mortuary sheet up to the dead woman's neck. Before covering her face, he gently touched her hair.

“So very beautiful,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Rheinhardt agreed. “How did she die?”

“Natural causes-a congenital defect of the pulmonary semilunar valve.” Mathias wiped his hands down the front of his brown apron. “We are advised,” he continued, “to be cautious in our judgments. Yet… yet…”

He suddenly fell silent.

“Yet what?” asked Rheinhardt.

“I strongly suspect that the last time this woman received her husband, she had already been dead for some time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The gentleman exercised his conjugal privilege post-mortem.”

“Dear God,” gasped Rheinhardt.

Mathias shrugged. “I cannot share your disgust, Inspector. It is my understanding that what passes for sexual relations in most Viennese marriages is essentially necrophilic.” The old man began to chuckle. “Only joking, Rheinhardt. Now, who have we here?”

Professor Mathias shuffled past a metal bucket in which a length of colon was coiled like a sleeping serpent.

“Thomas Zelenka,” said Rheinhardt.

The boy was laid out-like the eviscerated and misused hausfrau- on a brightly illuminated table. The brilliance of the electric light beam showed his freckles more clearly. They were more numerous than Rheinhardt remembered, and their ginger dappling had the effect of making Zelenka look much younger than his fifteen years.