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

Liebermann heaved, and Rheinhardt scrambled out.

When the inspector became fully conscious of their precarious situation, he clutched at a projecting mullion and, looking down at the ground, was moved once again to invoke the deity: “God in heaven!”

Liebermann eased the window down and shut it with the heel of his shoe.

“You can breathe now,” he said.

“Max! Why… what…” There were simply too many questions to articulate. Liebermann rested a calming hand on his friend's shoulder.

“The two bottles Becker threw to the floor contained cyanide and an acid of some description. When the two combine, hydrocyanic gas is produced: freshly created, one sniff can be fatal.”

“That's how he killed Zelenka?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann. “Potassium cyanide looks like sugar. Vinegar is an acid. The chemistry assignment that he set the boy was fatal. Zelenka would have followed Becker's instructions and—”

“Monstrous,” Rheinhardt interrupted, shaking his head.

Beyond the hem of his trousers and the welting of his shoes, the inspector could see their carriage and the statue of Saint Florian. This unusual perspective made him feel quite unsteady, and he pulled back.

“Perhaps you had better not look down,” said Liebermann.

“Haussmann?” Rheinhardt bellowed. “Haussmann?”

The door of the carriage did not open.

“Haussmann?” he cried again—inquiry turning into irritation.

In the distance, swaths of fir were turning olive-black in the failing afternoon light.

“The driver seems to have vanished too,” said Liebermann.

“That foolish boy!” said Rheinhardt desperately. “Where on earth has he gone!”

“Let's try calling together,” said Liebermann. “After three: one, two, three.”

“Haussmann.”

Liebermann shifted slightly, and a small wedge of masonry broke from the ledge. It plummeted through the air and landed on the gravel, far below, with a barely perceptible whisper. On closer inspection, Liebermann noticed that the stonework around his feet was webbed with numerous tiny cracks. He did not draw the parlous state of the ledge to Rheinhardt s attention. Instead, he counted to three, and they both called out again:

“Haussmann…”

“Haussmann…”

“Haussmann!”

56

HAUSSMANN AND THE DRIVER were standing in the courtyard listening to Albert, whose rambling speech concerned his involvement with what the young men assumed must be a famous military campaign.

They had been waiting by the carriage, smoking and discussing the driver's intention to marry a flower girl called Fännchen in the spring, when the old soldier had appeared under the archway. He'd beckoned them into the courtyard and suggested that they might continue their conversation in the cloisters, where they could escape the wind and derive more pleasure from their tobacco. The two young men had been touched by the old man's thoughtfulness and, not wishing to offend him, had accepted his hospitable suggestion. Albert had lowered himself onto his favorite bench, hawked a soapy pellet of chartreuse phlegm onto a flagstone, and touched his medals with shaky liver-spotted fingers. The sensation of silk and metal between his thumb and forefinger had evoked memories of his youth and he had subsequently embarked on an epic (and seemingly interminable) tale of martial folly and eventual salvation.

The old soldier's reminiscences were incoherent and digressive, but the two young men listened politely. He spoke of the Austrian occupation of Buda and Pest, a dreaded Hungarian general called Görgey a bloody siege, a meeting with the czar, and the arrival of two hundred thousand Russian troops.

“We would have been in trouble without them,” said Albert, gazing across the courtyard at the chapel but obviously seeing something quite different—a host of ghostly Cossacks, perhaps, heaving into view over a flat steppe. “We were overconfident,” he continued. “We underestimated Görgey! A terrible misjudgment, that's what it was—a terrible misjudgment. Thank God for the old czar! God bless him! Although—it has to be said—he was only helping out because of the Poles. See, they'd sided with the revolutionaries, and that had him worried—”

A door suddenly opened with considerable violence, banging against the wall. The deputy headmaster appeared, looking harried and overwrought. He tripped, recovered his balance, and came to an undignified, stumbling halt. Looking anxiously from side to side, he caught sight of Haussmann's group and froze. The attitude that he struck was unnatural, as if balancing on the tips of his toes in readiness to jump. Becker's elbows were crooked at an acute angle and held away from his torso, extending his gown transversely like the wings of a bat: these peculiarities of posture and dress created an illusion of supernatural visitation—something hellish preparing for flight.

The deputy headmaster, however, did not make a vertical ascent. Instead, he composed himself and marched purposefully toward the small gathering.

As he approached, the old soldier stood to attention.

“Permission to report… invited these security office gentlemen inside, sir, because of the wind. And then I—”

“Very good, Albert, very good,” said Becker brusquely, holding his hand up to show that he did not require further enlightenment. Then, turning toward Haussmann, he said, “If I am not mistaken, you are the inspector's assistant?”

“Haussmann, sir.”

“Yes, that's right, Haussmann.… I remember you, of course. Inspector Rheinhardt wishes to see you immediately. Albert, take these young men to the infirmary, please.”

Haussmann's companion looked somewhat embarrassed.

“Not me, sir. I'm just the driver.”

“No,” said Becker. “You are to go too.”

“Me?” said the driver, touching his chest in disbelief.

“Yes. That is what Inspector Rheinhardt said: ‘Tell my men to come up here at once.’

“Has someone been injured, sir?” Haussmann asked.

“No.”

“Then what is he doing in the infirmary?”

“At this precise moment, I believe he is conversing with Nurse Funke. Now, I trust you will excuse me, gentlemen. Albert, the infirmary, please.”

Becker bowed, turned sharply on his heels, and walked off toward the courtyard entrance. Albert muttered something under his breath. It sounded like an obscenity, but was rendered unintelligible by the abrasive grinding of a persistent cough.

“Permission to report,” he uttered between rasps. “This way, sir.”

Haussmann did not follow the old soldier but stood quite still, watching the receding figure of the deputy headmaster. He felt uneasy, troubled. Why did the inspector want the driver? Did he need to lift something heavy? And there was something about that message… “Tell my men to