Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

Rheinhardt felt a stab of resentment. He did not want to report to von Bulow. They were of the same rank-and it was not right that he should be treated as if he were nothing more than von Bulow's assistant.

“Sir?” Rheinhardt interposed.

“What is it, Rheinhardt?”

“I have not completed my investigation… at Saint Florian's.”

Brugels head swung forward. “What are you talking about, Rheinhardt? We know who killed Zelenka-and why. There is nothing more to investigate.”

“The cuts on the boy's body, sir. The bullying…”

“Don't be ridiculous, Rheinhardt! The case is closed!” Brugels hand came down on his desk, creating a hollow thud-the quality of which suggested the snapping shut of a great tome. “Now,” Brugel resumed, “Kalman breakfasts at a disreputable coffeehouse in the third district-a place called Zielinski's…”

Liebermann ran his finger down Trezska's back, tracing the flowing contour of her spine. As he did, he admired the smoothness of her olive skin-its depth and lustre. He stroked her buttocks and allowed his hand to fall between her thighs.

On the bedside cabinet was an absinthe bottle and the trappings of Trezska's habit-a sugar bowl, a miniature trowel, and a carafe of water. Two tall glasses stood in front of the bottle, one of them three-quarters full. Through its pallid contents the candle shone like a burning emerald.

The bouquet of their lovemaking still permeated the atmosphere. Liebermann inhaled and registered a hint of perfume amid a blend of darker fragrances-musk-orchid, attar, and oysters.

His perceptual universe was strangely altered. Everything seemed removed, distant, and dreamlike. Yet, paradoxically, minute phenomena acquired unnatural prominence. A mote-floating upward on the air-commanded his attention as if it were an entire world. Its inconsequential ascent was majestic and beguiling.

Liebermann became aware of Trezska's voice. It was muffled, and her speech was slurred. She was talking into the pillow, her face concealed beneath a shock of black hair. She was extolling the virtues of the Hungarian nobility.

“They have real charm… style, panache. The Telekis and Karolyis. The late empress appreciated their company-as did her son… poor Rudolf. But that's another matter. There was once a peasants’ revolt in the sixteenth century. They caught the leader-and do you know what they did with him? They made him sit on a red-hot throne. They pressed a red-hot crown on his head… and made him hold a red-hot scepter. His retinue were made to eat his flesh- while it was still sizzling.”

“Where did you hear such a story?” Liebermann asked.

“It's not a story-it's true.”

“Like the vampire countess. What was she called?”

“Bathory-Erzsebet Bathory.”

Liebermann leaned forward and let his lips touch the nape of Trezska's neck. She shivered with pleasure and rolled back onto her side.

“That man,” said Liebermann. “The one who stopped you outside Demel's.”

“What?”

“The man who called you Amelie-Franz…”

“Oh yes. Strange, wasn't it?”

Trezska brushed her hair away, but it sprang forward againhanging across her face like a curtain.

“You knew him, really, didn't you?”

Trezska's eyes flashed and her full lips widened into a smile. She began to laugh. “Are you jealous?”

“He seemed so certain… so sure.”

“You are jealous!”

Trezska threw her arms around Liebermann s shoulders and raised herself up, pressing her breasts against his chest. She kissed him, forcing her tongue between his teeth and taking possession of his senses. She tasted of anise, mint, and licorice. When Trezska finally released him, she grinned, and kissed him once more, gently on the nose-a comic peck.

“Don't be jealous,” she whispered. “Don't be jealous.”

The candle flickered and the glasses filled with green lightning.

O! beware, my lord, of jealousy;

It is the green-ey'd monster…

“Othello,” he said.

Trezska drew back. “What?”

“A play by Shakespeare. If the green fairy doesn't get me, then the green-eyed monster will.”

“You are very drunk,” said Trezska gently. “Lie down, my love.”

Trezska tugged at his arm, and Liebermann was surprised by his own lack of resistance. He fell, and when his head hit the mattress, he closed his eyes-it was like being knocked out. He was dimly conscious of Trezska's limbs, wrapping around his hips and shoulders. She pulled him close, smothering him with her flesh.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “Sleep…”

Liebermann could hear her heart beating.

Too fast, he thought. Too fast.

He wanted to say something else. But words failed him, and seconds later he was asleep.

Liebermann had arrived at the Schottenring police station late in the afternoon, having spent a tiring day listening to-among others-the old jurist (who was still expounding upon his unique metaphysical system), a milliner with an irrational fear of horses, and an accountant who suffered from impotence-but only in rooms hung with yellow flock wallpaper. He had agreed to help Rheinhardt with the Saint Florian report, which was, at that exact moment, distributed in several incomplete parts over the top of the inspector's desk. They had reached a problematic juncture, and Rheinhardt was gazing gloomily at a page, the lower half of which was conspicuously devoid of his hieroglyphic scrawl.

“What am I supposed to say here?” said Rheinhardt, tapping the empty space. “That my esteemed colleague-Herr Dr. Liebermann- was inspired to link the presence of the pastry in the lab oratory with cyanide poisoning due to the effect of absinthe on the… What did you just say?”

“The paracerebellar nuclei.”

“My dear fellow,” said Rheinhardt, “no matter how many anatomical terms you employ, the fact remains that you were-not to put too fine a point on it-drunk.”

“I'm afraid I can't agree with you. The action of absinthe on the cerebrum merits special consideration. It engenders a unique mental state. To say that I was merely drunk hardly does justice to its mindaltering properties. It is-after all-the favored spirit of artists and visionaries.”

The crescents of loose flesh beneath Rheinhardt's eyes seemed to sag a little farther.

“Although such an appeal might be received sympathetically by the chief of the Surete,” said the inspector, “I can assure you that Commissioner Brugel will be singularly unimpressed.”

“Then write that my suspicions were aroused when I interviewed Perger and discovered that almond tarts were not sold at the Aufkirchen bakery.”

“But that would imply that you had already identified the pastry in the photograph as an almond tart. In fact, you didn't go to Demel's until…” Rheinhardt thumbed through his papers and recovered a particular sheet. “Until Saturday the seventh of February.”

“Couldn't you just omit the date?”

“Absolutely not.” Rheinhardt scowled. However, before he had exploited the full dramatic effect of his exaggerated expression, he added in a lighter, conversational tone: “He's disappeared, you know.”

“Who?”

“Perger. He seems to have absconded. You will recall, perhaps, that he had wanted to run away with Zelenka.”

“Where do you think he's gone?”

“If his letters are anything to go by, he's probably hiding in the hold of an Italian cargo vessel, heading for South America!” Rheinhardt sighed, shook his head, and laid down his pen. “This is supposed to be a final report,” he continued, waving his hand over the chaotic spread of papers. “Yet there are still unanswered questions. The number pairs in Zelenka's exercise book, the cuts on his body. I received a note from Miss Lyd gate yesterday morning. She said that she had tried all kinds of substitutions and transformations-but without success. She concluded that if the number pairs are a code, it is one that can be broken only with the aid of a unique formula or ‘key.’ Alternatively the number pairs may have been simply chosen at random and have no special meaning.”