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

pressure mounted—a tacit demand for explanation. It seemed to weigh down on Becker until resistance was no longer possible. The deputy headmaster raised his hands, and then let them fall—a gesture that suggested both defeat and anger.

“Poldi was never happy here,” he blurted out. “Right from the beginning. I could do nothing to raise her spirits. She spent half my monthly salary in the shops on Kärntner Strasse—and she was still inconsolable. She expected too much—from me, and from Saint Florian's. We became more and more estranged, and as we did so, she became more and more obsessed with the boys—the bullying, the persecution. She made a complete fool of herself in front of the other masters’ wives—attempting to foment some kind of women's revolt! It was utterly absurd. She came perilously close to losing me my position! Had I not remonstrated with her in the strongest possible terms…” Becker hesitated, and the shadow that passed across his face intimated violence. “My prospects at Saint Florian's would have been irrevocably damaged! Zelenka exploited her sympathy—and he did so at a time when our marital relations were at their worst. His presence at the house became an embarrassment. Even the staff made jokes about it. Can you imagine what that is like, Herr Doctor? To have the gardener, the cook, the maid sniggering behind your back—enjoying the spectacle of your humiliation.”

“Then why didn't you put a stop to it?” asked Liebermann gently. “Why didn't you prohibit Zelenka's visits?”

“To what end? By the time I had discovered their secret, it was too late. What good would it have done, Herr Doctor, had I acted in such a way as to draw even more attention to my predicament? What good? I am a rational man—a civilized man. I decided to conduct myself in a dignified fashion. Zelenka intended to join the civil service in the summer. I knew that Poldi would follow him.…It was simply a question of biding my time until then.” Becker glanced back at Liebermann. “Well, there it is, Herr Doctor. You've had it out of me.” His gaze took in Rheinhardt, and he added, “I trust you will both say nothing of this to anyone.”

“And what of your marriage now?” asked Liebermann.

“I don't know. Poldi and I do not talk… not as a husband and wife should; however…”

“You still nurse a hope that—notwithstanding what has transpired—your marriage might yet survive?”

“I am not so naïve, Dr. Liebermann, as to think that just because Zelenka is dead all will be well again. Zelenka was a consequence, not a cause. Our estrangement had begun long before Poldi and Zelenka discovered their… chemical affinity; however, since Zelenka's death, I believe Poldi has changed—a little. We have—of late—been more civil with each other. Perhaps Zelenka's death has made her realize that life is precious and that we are sometimes obliged to make the most of what little we are given. And if I can find it within myself to forgive her… then, yes, it might not be so foolish to hope for some form of reconciliation.”

Liebermann sighed, joined his hands together, and allowed his fingers to bounce on his lips.

“And there we might leave it,” he said, his sentence—like an imperfect cadence—failing to find a satisfactory resolution. “Were it not,” he then continued, “for the almond tart.”

Becker started. “I beg your pardon?”

“The almond tart that you instructed your wife to purchase on one of her many trips into town. You may not know this, but she bought it at the Royal and Imperial Bakers. If you had eaten it, I dare say you would have recognized its very superior qualities— the lightness of the pastry, the moistness of the sponge, the subtle lemon and anise flavorings, and the burnished, sweet caramelized almonds. But, of course, you didn't eat it. Instead, you placed it next to Zelenka's dead body—right here”—Liebermann rapped the bench top—”before rushing upstairs to meet with the headmaster. Is that not so?”

Becker stumbled forward, as if his legs had suddenly lost all their strength. He clutched the handles of a glass-fronted cupboard for support and raised his head as if appealing to heaven for mercy. The effect was vaguely religious, iconic. With his forked beard, long hair, and black gown, Becker seemed to be re-creating the passion of an obscure old saint, as might be depicted among the illuminations on a thirteenth-century altar panel. Inside the cupboard the contents rattled, producing a delicate tintinnabulation.

“Perhaps,” Liebermann pressed, “you would care to explain why you did this?”

The deputy headmaster held his fixed attitude and said nothing. It was as if his private torment excused him from any further obligation to speak.

“Dr. Becker?” Rheinhardt took a few steps toward the deputy headmaster. “Are you… well?”

Becker's head slumped forward. “Stay away from me, Inspector,” he cried. “I don't want your pity! Do you hear? Stay away from me. I will not be humiliated. I have been humiliated enough. Enough, I say, enough!”

The cupboard was suddenly open, and two bottles fell from the deputy headmaster's hands. They smashed on the floor, throwing up shards of colored glass. Liebermann and Rheinhardt watched in dumb amazement as Becker dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A key, turning in the lock, filled the laboratory with the sound of percussive engagement, its grim reverberations evoking the closure of a vault.

Liebermann leaped into the aisle, intercepting Rheinhardt as the inspector instinctively began his pursuit. They collided and both of them almost fell.

“What in God's name!” Rheinhardt gasped. “He'll get away—”

“Hold your breath,” Liebermann commanded, grabbing Rheinhardt's arm and dragging him to the back of the laboratory. “Or you'll die!”

Liebermann tried to open one of the windows, banging the frame furiously—but it held fast. He then tried another, which, after repeated blows, gradually yielded. Throwing the window open, he clambered onto the sill and pulled himself up. Grasping the frame for support, he offered Rheinhardt his hand. The inspector was difficult to lift; however, drawing on some inner reserve,