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

As far as Wolf could determine, there was nothing remarkable about the dictionary at all—except, perhaps, its quality. He traced the tooled indentations with his finger.

Why on earth did Herr Sommer want it so badly? He had been desperate, that night in the locker room.

Wolf inspected the inside covers in order to determine if anything incriminating had been slipped beneath the endpapers, but it was obvious that no one had tampered with them. The space between the spine and the binding was also empty.

It was a mystery.

Suddenly irritated by his failure to discover anything there that he could use to his advantage, he threw the dictionary aside and picked up a thinner volume that he had previously laid at his feet. He reverently removed the bookmark and turned the blotchy print toward the paraffin lamp.

Just as the clouds tell us the direction of the wind high above our heads, so the lightest and freest spirits are in their tendencies foretellers of the weather that is coming. The wind in the valley and the opinions of the market place of today indicate nothing of that which is coming but only of that which has been.

The great philosopher's words were like a prophecy—but not just any prophecy. This was a prophecy meant especially for him. Wolf smiled, and a thrill of almost erotic intensity passed through his entire body. He was the future. Tomorrow belonged to him.

51

THE KOHLMARKT WAS BUSTLING with activity. A woman carrying a brightly wrapped parcel smiled at Liebermann as she passed, so delighted with her purchase that she could not suppress her joy. Two splendidly accoutred hussars, standing on the porch of a milliner's, were speaking loudly in Hungarian. On the other side of the street marched three Hasidim wearing long black caftans and wide-brimmed beaver hats. The Michaelertor—the massive green dome that towered above the entrance of the Hofburg Palace— dominated the view ahead. It looked particularly beautiful against the pastel wash of the taupe sky.

Liebermann had sent a note to Trezska earlier in the week, arranging to meet her at Café Demel (the imperial and royal confectioners). He had stated, with some regret, that their rendezvous could be only brief as he had some pressing business (a useful if somewhat overworked euphemism) to which he must attend later in the day. The young doctor had chosen Café Demel not only because of its reputation but for reasons of expediency, as he hoped to get the first of the day's business out of the way before Trezska's arrival.

Opening the door of the café, Liebermann stepped inside, and was immediately overcome by the aroma of coffee, cigar smoke, and the mingling of a thousand sweet fragrances. It was a warm, welcoming interior, suffused with a soft amber light. The gilt chandeliers were encrusted with opaque faintly glowing globes, as densely clustered as grapes on the vine. To the right, patrons were seated at round tables in a mirrored dining area, and to the left stood a long counter, dark wooden wall shelves, and numerous display cases. Every available space on this side of the café was occupied by cakes and sweetmeats: candied peel, marzipan animals, fondants and jellies, whole discs of torte—covered with thick dark chocolate—jars of brandy snaps, Turkish delight, vanillekipferl, meringues, pots of raspberry cream and apricot sauce, pear compote, artificial coins wrapped in gold and silver paper, guglhupf, apfelstruiel, dumplings bursting with glistening conserves, pastry pillows and Carinthian cinnamon buns. In the center of this cornucopia was a rectangular cake that had been made—with the aid of much yellow icing—to look exactly like the Schön brunn Palace.

A woman who was standing behind the counter came forward.

“Good afternoon,” said Liebermann. “Herr Tishlar is expecting me.” He glanced at his watch—he was exactly on time.

The woman indicated that he should follow her to the back of the café, where he was instructed to wait by some doors. She returned in the company of a very stout gentleman whose tiny mustache was distinguished by curlicue extremities. He was still dressed in his kitchen clothes.

“Herr Doctor,” he exclaimed. “Herr Tishlar, at your service.”

The master baker bowed low and performed an unnecessarily baroque flourish with his right hand. Liebermann recognized immediately that he was in the presence of a man who regarded his art as equal to that of Titian or Velázquez. The woman silently withdrew.

“You are most kind,” said Liebermann, reaching into his coat pocket and withdrawing a photograph and a magnifying glass. “I promise I will be brief. I wonder… would it be possible for you to identify this pastry?”

The image he handed to Tishlar showed Zelenka's notebook and a blurry, untouched wedge of cake.

Peering through the lens, Herr Tishlar answered without hesitation: “Almond tart.” He then handed the photograph and magnifying glass back to the young doctor.

“Are you sure?” said Liebermann—taken aback by Herr Tishlar s certainty.

“Quite sure,” said the baker. “And—if you will forgive my immodesty—no ordinary almond tart! That, Herr Doctor,” said the master baker, tapping the photograph and pushing out his chest, “is one of ours. It is a Demel almond tart!”

Herr Tishlar guided Liebermann over to a display case and pointed to a roundel (sprinkled with castor sugar and strewn with striped ribbons) in a wooden box.

“Notice the pleating around the edge,” he said with pride. “Unique! It is the work of Herr Hansing—each of our pastries is made by a dedicated specialist who makes nothing else.”

Liebermann examined the photograph, and then returned his attention to the pastry. His untutored eye was unable to discern anything particularly distinctive; however, the master baker's confidence was persuasive and Liebermann was happy to accept his expert opinion.

“Thank you,” said the young doctor. “You have been most helpful.”

“Do you require any further assistance?”

“No… that was all I needed to know.”

“Then I will bid you good day.”

Herr Tishlar bowed and sashayed back to his kitchen.

Liebermann, smiling broadly—perhaps too broadly for a solitary man with no obvious cause of delight—dropped