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

his asymmetric stride creating a hissing sound on the gravel as he dragged the weaker of his two legs behind him. Only the driver remained, his gaze oscillating between the shattered block of stone and the crumbling ledge.

“Well, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “I am indebted. You might have gone over with me. You saved my life.”

“But it remains to be seen how much of your life I have actually saved,” said Liebermann. “Unless we get down soon, your gratitude may prove excessive.”

“Then perhaps we should get back inside?”

“The gas will dissipate over time—but hydrocyanic gas is deadly. I think we had better take our chances out here.”

Rheinhardt shook his head. “Max,” he said with great solemnity, “why did you ever let me eat so many cakes? If I were a more lissome fellow, then perhaps this ledge might hold a little longer.” Liebermann smiled at his comrade, who was penitently contemplating the curvature of his stomach. “If we survive this, I swear to you, I'm going on a diet.”

Another piece of stone—about the size of an apple—fell to the ground. The sound of its impact startled the driver. His worried face showed that he had already calculated the effect of such a drop on the human body.

Rheinhardt reached into his coat pocket and took out his notebook and pencil. Leaning back against the window, he began scribbling furiously.

“Oskar?” asked Liebermann. “What are you doing?”

Rheinhardt held out the notebook so that Liebermann could read what he had written:

My dearest Else,

I love you. Kiss Therese and Mitzi for me—and tell them how much I love them too. My heart, my all, my everything! You have given me so much more than I ever deserved.

Eternally yours,

Oskar

“Do you think it's enough?” asked Rheinhardt.

“If you had time enough to write a whole book,” Liebermann replied, “you could not say more.”

“Perhaps you would like to…”

Rheinhardt offered Liebermann the notebook—but the young doctor did not take it. What could he write, and to whom? There was no obvious recipient. Trezska was his lover—but were they really in love? His relationship with his father had never been very good. His mother adored him, but he always experienced her presence as vaguely suffocating. He was very fond of his youngest sister… but he could hardly write to her alone.

The imminence of death exposed an uncomfortable truth: there was no one special in his life. In his firmament, there were no stars that constellated true happiness, no bright lights to compare with Rheinhardt's wife and daughters. For a brief moment, he found himself thinking of Miss Lyd gate, of the times they had spent in her rooms discussing medicine and philosophy, of the companionate closeness they had shared.

Another piece of masonry fell.

“Hurry, Max,” Rheinhardt urged.

Attempting to conceal his embarrassment, Liebermann said, somewhat presumptuously: “Put the notebook away, Oskar—we're not going to die!”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, just a feeling!”

“Max, you are an exceptionally contrary fellow.” Rheinhardt put the notebook and pencil back into his pocket, adding softly: “But I hope you are right.”

“Look!” said Liebermann, pointing down.

Osterhagen had reappeared, followed by a column of boys who were bearing the weight of a long flagpole on their shoulders. They came to a halt by the statue and, guided by the lieutenant's stentorian directions, raised the pole up. Then, releasing it from the vertical, they allowed it to lean toward the ledge.

“Don't let it fall,” Osterhagen barked. “Gently… gently…”

Rheinhardt and Liebermann reached out and, grabbing the shaft, lodged the tip firmly against the central mullion.

“We're saved,” said the inspector, smiling.

Liebermann watched as Rheinhardt slid down. His landing was accompanied by cheers and boyish laughter. The young doctor followed, making an equally swift descent. Within seconds of his feet touching the ground, Liebermann was startled by a loud crash. The ledge had finally worked itself loose, and lay in pieces on the ground.

58

THE WOODMAN RELEASED THE CATCH and pulled the carcass from the metal trap. He was about to add the animal to his carrying strap when he heard the sound of an approaching carriage. Its low rumbling rapidly increased in volume, until the air reverberated with the skipping beat of galloping horses. Through the trees, he could see the vehicle hurtling down the road at breakneck speed. The driver was half-standing, lashing his geldings, a black cloak flying out horizontally from his shoulders. The incline was steep, and the carriage veered from side to side. It was a reckless, uncontrolled descent. The din diminished as the carriage passed behind the hillside; however, within seconds there was a sickening crash— augmented by an unholy chorus of terrified equine voices. This dreadful cacophony was suddenly extinguished, leaving in its wake an eerie, hollow silence.

Attaching the carcass to his strap, the woodman reset his trap and set off down the hill. He walked to the muddy road and followed the deep ruts that widened where the carriage had skidded. The ground was pitted with hoof marks and littered with ripped-up clods of black earth. The woodman trudged around the bend and saw that the parallel furrows terminated abruptly at the edge of the road.

At the bottom of a ravine was the carriage, its rear wheel still turning slowly. The horses were lying on top of each other, their heads projecting from their bodies at unnatural angles. Some distance away was the crumpled body of the driver.

The woodman continued along the road until he found a point where he could make a scrambling descent. Once he was on the floor of the ravine, he walked back and inspected the driver's body. The man wasn't breathing, and blood was oozing out of a gash at the back of his head. Working quickly, the woodman removed the gown and slung it over his shoulder. He then paused, contemplating the corpse. He tested the man's weight with one enormous hand.

Yes, he could manage it, of course he could. But it was not quite dark, and they would soon be out looking for this man—the