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

showed no obvious signs of distress. He dismissed the thought: a brontophobic would have been anxious to get inside hours ago.

“What's the matter?” Liebermann asked.

Trezska attempted a smile, but failed miserably.

“I…” She hesitated and lowered her eyes. “I don't like it here.”

“Well,” said Liebermann, puzzled. “The rain will stop—and then we can leave.”

“No. I think… I think we should go now.”

“But we'll get soaked.”

“It's only rain. Come, let's go.” Trezska looked at the sky and pouted.

“Are you afraid?”

She paused for a moment, and then said: “Yes.”

“But it's just—” There was another flash and a boom so loud that the ground shook. “A storm.”

“Come,” she said. “I'm sorry. We can't stay here.”

“But why not?”

“We just can't!” A note of desperation had entered Trezska's voice. While Liebermann was still trying to think of something to say, she added, “I'm going.” And with that she marched out into the violent weather.

Stunned, Liebermann watched her, as she held her hat in place while striding determinedly back toward the amusements. Then, realizing that he was not being very gentlemanly, he ran after her.

“Trezska?”

When he caught up with her, he removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She did not slow down to make his task any easier.

“We must get away. Now hurry.”

They maintained their pace, walking briskly into sheets of cold rain. Liebermann s clothes were soon drenched, his hair was plastered to his scalp, and a continuous flow of water streamed down the back of his neck.

Whatever is the matter with her? thought Liebermann.

There was another flash, but much brighter than its predecessors. The grass seemed to leap up, each blade sharp and distinct in the dazzling coruscation. The rain looked momentarily frozen, becoming rods of crystal suspended in the air, and a fraction of a second later there was an explosion—a great ripping, accompanied by a shower of bark and smoldering splinters. Liebermann swung around and saw flames licking the trunk of the scorched plane tree. They had been standing exactly where the bolt had struck. If they had not moved, they would have been killed.

40

COMMISSIONER MANFRED BRÜGEL looked troubled. In his hands he held a letter.

“Well, Rheinhardt, this is all very difficult—very difficult indeed. But let me assure you, I would have wanted to talk to you had I received a complaint from any of the Saint Florian pupils. The fact that I am related to Kiefer Wolf is really of little consequence. You understand that, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner was visibly disturbed by the transparency of his own deceit. He coughed into his hand, mumbled something about professionalism, and then concluded his introductory remarks by repeating the word “good” three times.

Rheinhardt was accustomed to feeling a sense of foreboding whenever he entered the commissioner's office. But on this occasion the presentiment of impending doom was fearfully oppressive.

“Now, according to my nephew,” said Brügel, “you went to Saint Florian's on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January in order to conduct some interviews. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You interviewed my nephew—and several other boys.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whom I presume you had previously identified as suspects?”

Rheinhardt crossed his legs and shifted uncomfortably. He could see where this line of questioning might lead and sought to divert the conversation elsewhere.

“Prior to interviewing the boys, I had spoken to Professor Eich-mann, the headmaster, about the Arbeiter-Zeitung article and—”

Brügel waved his hand in the air. “Yes, yes—we can discuss Eich-mann later.” He glanced down at the letter and continued, “The boys you interviewed—they were suspects?”

“Well, only in a manner of speaking.… They were boys who I thought might be able to tell us more about the bullying at Saint Florian's. If the Arbeiter-Zeitung article—”

Again, Brügel cut in: “And how did you identify these… these suspects?”

“With the help of Herr Dr. Liebermann.”

The commissioner snorted. “And how did Dr. Liebermann identify them?”

“He used a psychological technique to probe the mind of Isidor Perger, the boy who wrote those letters to Thomas Zelenka.”

“And what was this psychological technique?”

Rheinhardt grimaced. “He showed Perger”—Rheinhardt's expression became more pained—”inkblots… and asked the boy what he saw in them.”

“Inkblots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by inkblots, you mean… ?”

“Blots of ink… on paper, sir. I am sure Dr. Liebermann would be willing to explain how the procedure works.”

“That won't be necessary, Rheinhardt.”

The commissioner took a deep breath and was evidently struggling to contain himself. A raised vessel appeared on his temple, in which Rheinhardt detected the pulse of Brügel s fast-beating and furious heart.

“And is it true,” said the commissioner, in an uncharacteristically controlled voice, “that you accused my nephew of torturing Thomas Zelenka?”

For a brief moment, Rheinhardt found himself wondering whether it was not such a bad idea, at this juncture, to simulate a fainting fit. He could very easily relax his muscles and allow his ample frame to slide off the chair, after which he would be lifted onto a stretcher and conveyed to the infirmary, where he might rest, sleep perhaps, even dream of walking holidays in the Tyrol. On further reflection, he decided that he had better get the ordeal over with.

“Sir,” he said resolutely, “you will appreciate, I am sure, how a direct accusation will sometimes unnerve a suspect. That forceful assertions can even produce a confess—”

“It's true, then,” Brügel interrupted.

“Yes,” Rheinhardt sighed. “Yes, it is true.”

“And on what evidence did you base this accusation?” asked Brügel.

Policeman's intuition, thought Rheinhardt. Your nephew's crooked smile.

Rheinhardt shook his head and murmured something that barely qualified as language.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Brügel.

“Nothing… nothing very firm, sir.”

The commissioner folded the letter and placed it in a drawer. He then leaned across his desk and began to lecture Rheinhardt on one of his favorite topics: the importance of maintaining standards. Gradu ally, Brügel's voice took on a hectoring tone, and in a very short space of time he was thumping the desk with his fists and reprimanding Rheinhardt for running a shoddy, incompetent investigation. His anger, which he had succeeded in suppressing for so long, now boiled over. The commissioner roared and spat out his