Frank Tallis - Fatal Lies

Rheinhardt's mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments before he spluttered, “I… I… I don't believe it! Why on earth didn't you tell me!”

“Authenticity! We needed to play our parts with utter conviction.”

“But all those things you said about belladonna-did you make it all up?”

“No, it's all true-and we might well have used twilight sleep to loosen Wolf's tongue; however, that would have been such an inelegant solution to our problem. The use of psychological devices is considerably more satisfying, don't you think? More subtle. And my ruse has been successful enough. I have not tampered with Wolf's brain chemistry, yet he has told us a great deal.”

Rheinhardt shook his head from side to side. “Sometimes, Max, you test my patience to the very limit.”

“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “But never without reason.”

The young doctor turned the key of the walnut box, and dropped it into the dark, gaping maw of his leather bag.

“What a sorry and sordid state of affairs,” said Rheinhardt. “Frau Becker allowed others to believe that she was having an improper relationship with Zelenka so that she might better conceal her assignations with Lang, and at the very same time Herr Sommer's indiscretions were serving an identical purpose, concealing his assignations with the boy himself! It is a pity that none of them stopped to consider the possible consequences of their mutually advantageous lies-particularly on the all too fragile mind of Dr. Becker.”

“But who could have really foreseen that these machinations would result in the murder of Thomas Zalenka?”

“That,” said Rheinhardt gruffly, “is not the point!”

The two men eschewed further conversation, settling instead for private thoughts and silence. Outside, the rain continued to fall, its persistent pitter-pattering unrelieved and softly insistent. Eventually, Rheinhardt stirred and said, “He will come back-won't he?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann.

A few minutes later, the rapid crescendo of Wolf's footsteps heralded his appearance in the doorway. He looked disheveled, and his breathing was labored, suggesting that he had expended a considerable amount of energy recovering the large green volume that he now held against his chest.

“Ah, there you are, Wolf,” said Rheinhardt. “I was beginning to wonder where you'd got to.”

The boy marched across the room and handed the book to Rheinhardt.

“Zelenka's dictionary,” he said.

Rheinhardt stroked the green binding. “How did you get this?”

“I found it.”

“What do you mean, ‘found it?’ “

“It was under Zelenka's bed.”

“You took it, then?”

Wolf shrugged.

“You said that Herr Sommer wanted Zelenka's dictionary,” Rheinhardt continued. “That he was keen to get hold of it. How do you know that?”

“I discovered him looking for it in Zelenka's locker.”

“When?”

“As soon as he got back… after his fall.”

“Thank you. That will be all, Wolf. Perhaps you would be kind enough to wait next door.”

Wolf bowed, clicked his heels, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Rheinhardt opened the dictionary and examined the antique etching of the bearded scholar. His eyes dropped to the foot of the page.

“Hartel and Jacobsen, Leipzig, 1900. Well, this is certainly the missing dictionary.” He then flicked through the pages, toyed with the edges of the marbled endpapers, and poked his finger down the spine. “Wolf seems to be correct. Nothing remarkable or incriminating here.”

Rheinhardt handed the dictionary to Liebermann, who ran his fingers across the gold-embossed leather.

“What did Miss Lyd gate say…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Something about a key?”

“You mean with respect to the number pairs?”

“Yes.”

“She said that the numbers were nonsensical-but they might be made intelligible with a key.”

“What if the number pairs…,” said Liebermann, playing a five-finger exercise on the binding. “What if the number pairs are coordinates?”

“But this is a dictionary, not a map. Besides, what possible-”

“The position of every single word in the German language,” Liebermann interrupted, “can be expressed by using two numbers. The first representing a particular page, and the second representing a specific location on that page. First, second, third… and so on. If two people possess the same dictionary, they can communicate any message at all using number pairs. Oskar-did you record some of Zelenka's number pairs in your notebook?”

“Yes, I did,” said Rheinhardt.

The inspector dug deep into his coat pocket.

“Read them to me.”

“Five hundred and seventy-four-and fourteen.”

Liebermann found the correct page and counted down to the fourteenth word.

“Drink.”

“One thousand two hundred and fifty-paired with thirty-nine.”

Repeating the procedure, Liebermann answered: “My.”

“One hundred and ninety-seven-and two.”

Liebermann licked his finger and turned the flimsy pages with the speed of a bank teller counting cash.

“Extraordinary,” he whispered.

“For heaven's sake, Max-what does it say?”

“ ‘Blood!’ Drink my blood! Now everything makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Oh yes.” Liebermann snapped the dictionary closed. “Perfect sense!”

“I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Sommer,” said Rheinhardt. “But a matter has arisen that requires clarification-and I believe you will be able to assist us.”

The mathematics master peeped out from behind the door. His bloodshot eyes shifted from one visitor to the other. Liebermann inclined his head.

“I trust,” Rheinhardt continued, “that we have not arrived at an inconvenient time.”

“Did you send me a telegram, Inspector?” said Sommer. “If so, it was never delivered.”

His breath smelled of alcohol.

“Unfortunately,” said Rheinhardt, “circumstances did not permit me-on this occasion-to extend such a courtesy.”

“Well,” said Sommer. “Since you ask, Inspector, I am rather busy at present. I wonder whether we could postpone our-”

“No,” interrupted Rheinhardt, extending his hand to stop the insidious progress of the door toward closure. “That will not be possible.”

The firmness with which Rheinhardt spoke made Sommer flinch.

“I see,” said Sommer, taking a step back. “In which case, you had better come in.”

Sommer limped down the hall and guided them into his study. He pulled two stools from under the table and offered his guests some schnapps; however, his hospitality was politely declined. Liebermann noticed that the schnapps bottle was almost empty and a little shot glass was already out on the table. There was nothing in the room to suggest-as Sommer had asserted-that he was in the middle of a task requiring sustained attention.

The mathematics master sat down in his leather reading chair and immediately started talking.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Inspector. None of us would have imagined Dr. Becker capable of such a heinous crime. What an extraordinary turn of events. And yet-you know-I have to say-if I am honest-I never really liked the man. I accept that one should never speak ill of the dead, but the fact of the matter is that Becker was a cold, unapproachable fellow, and quick to express disapproval. He once reprimanded me for gossiping, when I was merely sharing a humorous anecdote with Lang about an old master called Spivakov” Sommer watched nervously as Liebermann approached the window. “I am not sure,” Sommer continued, “that I can tell you very much more about him-but I will endeavor to do my best. Now, you said something needs to be cleared up-or was it clarified?”