Fatal Lies by Frank Tallis (novels in english txt) 📗

Strasse, Kohlmarkt, and the Graben, where she once imagined herself purchasing beautiful, expensive things for her home and wardrobe. Her erotic instinct is frustrated, and she envies her friend, Marianne, who will almost certainly find satisfaction—if she hasn't already— in the arms of her handsome young cavalryman. Such a woman might well find solace in the company of boys like Zelenka: intelligent, sensitive boys, approaching manhood. And such is her appetite that even the gardener is conscious of her misconduct. I cannot believe that the extraordinary properties of Frau Becker's blouse escaped your attention.”

Rheinhardt coughed into his hand and his cheeks became flushed. “I did not know where to look!”

“Do you know something, Oskar?” said Liebermann, rubbing his hands together. “I'm beginning to think that there is something quite odd going on at Saint Florian's.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Rheinhardt.

“Zelenka appears to have died naturally… but the more your investigations proceed, the more you seem to uncover conditions and circumstances that one would ordinarily associate with murder. Sadistic persecution… and now the possibility of an illicit sexual liaison. What if Zelenka had threatened to expose Frau Becker? What if he had asked her for money? The boy was very poor and hated Saint Florian's. It might have been his only way out.”

“Well,” said Rheinhardt, “our opinions seem to be converging at last. You have a strong sense of something being wrong, but you can't quite put your finger on it. In other words, you have a feeling. Isn't that so?” Liebermann raised his chin and looked down his nose at his friend with haughty displeasure. “I only hope,” Rheinhardt continued, his voice becoming more reflective, “that I am given an adequate opportunity to get to the bottom of it.”

Liebermann caught the change of register. “Why shouldn't you be?”

“Oh,” grumbled Rheinhardt, “some business of von Bulow's.”

“Ordinarily I would ask you the nature of that business, but I know there is little point. You have been ordered to keep it a secret.”

Rheinhardt emitted a cry of surprise and demanded: “How on earth did you know that?”

Liebermann closed his eyes and an enigmatic smile played about his lips. “Perhaps I had a feeling,” he said softly.

Rheinhardt burst out laughing. “Sometimes,” he said, shaking his head, “you can be quite insufferable!”

22

“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, headmaster?”

“Yes indeed, Wolf. Please sit.”

Professor Eichmann was signing and dating documents. On Eichmann's desk was a photograph of himself looking considerably younger and dressed in the uniform of an artillery officer. The headmaster glanced up from his paperwork.

“How is your father?”

“Very well, headmaster.”

“You will be kind enough to include my salutations when you next write home.”

“Of course, headmaster.”

Professor Eichmann signed and dated one more document, and said: “You will be wondering why I wanted to see you today.” He did not pause for a reply, but instead made some polite inquiries after Wolf's health. He then congratulated Wolf, first for winning a bronze medal in the school shooting competition, and second for having been invited by Professor Gärtner to join his special tutorial group.

“He is very particular about who he accepts,” said the headmaster. “Such an invitation is extended to only the most promising pupils—boys with the right attitude.”

When their gazes met, they did so with mutual understanding. They had had similar discussions in the past.

The headmaster toyed with his pen, and spoke for some time about the values of the school and about how, for generations now, Saint Florian's had been producing soldiers of the highest quality. “Men who appreciated the importance of loyalty, fidelity, and obedience— men of honor.”

He put his pen down and made some minor adjustments to its position.

“Of course,” continued the headmaster, “lately Saint Florian's has been forced to accept a number of boys who do not share our values. Boys who object to our methods, find fault with our principles— and whose families are not acquainted with our traditions. This saddens me, because if an outside party were to question these boys, I fear they would misrepresent us. They do not seem to appreciate that we are—as it were—a family. Loose talk damages the school's reputation—and what damages the school's reputation damages all of us.”

Eichmann's voice was persuasive, reasonable—but it was also troubled by a trace of anger. The headmaster sighed, smiled, and said: “I understand that Professor Gärtner has recently introduced you to the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.”

“Yes,” said Wolf. “We have been reading Beyond Good and Evil.“

“A very stimulating work,” said Eichmann. “Although when Professor Gärtner introduces you to Thus Spake Zarathustra, you will discover even greater riches.” The headmaster stood up and walked over to the lancet windows. He reached out his right hand and, resting it against the stone casement, leaned forward, allowing his arm to support his pitched body. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and rivers of darkness had begun to appear between the hills. “The police were here again today.” His voice was even.

“I know, headmaster.”

“Something must be done.”

“Yes, headmaster.”

“Something decisive.”

“Of course, headmaster.”

23

LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING at the table of an inauspicious coffeehouse in Landstrasse with Signor Barbasetti, his fencing master, and two other pupils with whom he was moderately acquainted: Brod and Lind. They had just taken part in a competition. However, none of the three aspirants had performed very well.

Signor Barbasetti concealed his disappointment with a lengthy and somewhat philosophical disquisition on the art of fencing, the conclusion of which was that much could be learned from the close examination of small errors.

Yes, like psychoanalysis, thought Liebermann.

Unfortunately, Barbasetti chose to demonstrate the truth of this maxim by recounting and itemizing the failings of his students in such detail that any bonhomie slowly ebbed away, leaving in its place an intransigent atmosphere of gloom and despondency. Earlier than antici pated, the men rose from their seats, enacted the requisite courtesies, and parted company.

Liebermann was not familiar with the city's third district—and because his mind was still occupied by his mentor's excoriating critique, it took him some time to