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

people from the village, the people from the school.

It was unwise—an unnecessary risk.

Even so, he thought. Zhenechka will still be pleased with the black cloak.

He set off into the undergrowth, clutching his booty, and feeling somewhat regretful.

It was a shame to leave all that horse meat.

59

FRAU BECKER WAS SEATED on her chaise longue, a handkerchief clutched in her left hand. She was wearing a black blouse decorated with printed roses—each blossoming from a green stem with two leaves. The collar was fastened with a large oval brooch, on which raised ivory figures promenaded against a terra-cotta background. Her dress was made of satin and ended a little short of her soft doeskin boots, revealing a sliver of her maroon stockings.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were seated opposite, while Haussmann stood by the door.

“As he poured the vinegar,” said Liebermann, “Zelenka thought that he would be observing the effect of a weak acid on a range of innocuous compounds—sugars and salts. He did not know that your husband had replaced one of the test substances with cyanide, probably potassium cyanide. When vinegar and cyanide react, they produce hydrocyanic gas—one of the most poisonous gases known to man. Zelenka would have been killed instantly—and afterward the gas would have dissipated in the atmosphere.”

Frau Becker held the handkerchief to her nose and sniffed.

“Zelenka's body was discovered by Professor Gärtner, who immediately rushed to inform the headmaster. Professor Eichmann was at that moment engaged in a meeting with your husband. Some attempts to revive Zelenka were made—but these proved unsuccessful. Professor Gärtner was very distressed, and the headmaster subsequently went to summon the school doctor. Your husband would have had ample opportunity to remove the cyanide—which he then disposed of on his way to Nurse Funke s lodge. Hydrocyanic gas was an inspired choice of poison. It is virtually undetectable at autopsy— apart from a little congestion in the lungs, perhaps, but nothing more. Dr. Becker had assumed that in the absence of any alternative explanation, the pathologist would conclude that Zelenka had died from an unspecified natural cause. And this—of course—is exactly what happened. However, your husband is clearly a very fastidious gentleman. Even though his plan was exceedingly clever, it was not perfect. He detected one minor flaw. Hydrocyanic gas leaves a smell in the air—a faint bitter almondlike odor—that might serve as a clue.”

Liebermann paused, and allowed the fingers of both hands to touch, each digit finding its twin in a serial sequence.

“Unfortunately, perfectionism—when taken to its extreme—is always self-defeating. You may recall that just before Zelenka s death, your husband asked you to buy him an almond tart.”

Frau Becker looked puzzled.

“Which you purchased,” Liebermann continued undeterred, “from Demel's.”

The young woman's eyes suddenly opened wide.

“How did you…,” she whispered.

“The smell of almonds in the laboratory,” Liebermann went on, “might have aroused suspicion; however, your husband reasoned that if there was an obvious source of such a smell, it would seem less conspicuous. He kept the almond tart concealed in his desk, and, while he was removing the cyanide, he deposited the pastry next to Zelenka's body.”

“But, Max,” said Rheinhardt, “Professor Eichmann didn't smell anything.”

“Not everyone can, Oskar,” said Liebermann, turning to his friend and adopting a more confidential tone. “An inherited factor determines whether an individual can detect the residual odor of hydrocyanic gas. If that constitutional factor is absent, the individual cannot smell it.”

The young doctor crossed his legs and returned his attention to Frau Becker.

“Your husband was aware that Zelenka intended to leave Saint Florian's in the summer. Dr. Becker did not want to lose you.”

The woman's expression suddenly changed. Her features hardened and the blood drained from her face. She was no longer crying. Indeed, she seemed to have been overcome by a strange, almost sinister calm. When she finally spoke, her words shattered the silence like stones falling through panes of glass.

“I killed Zelenka.”

“What?” Rheinhardt cried.

Liebermann gestured to his friend to remain silent. The young doctor put on his spectacles, leaned forward, and observed Frau Becker very closely.

“I killed Zelenka,” she said again.

Psychoanalysis had taught Liebermann to respect silences. They were never merely the absence of speech. They could be many things: a tool, a consequence, a protest. Liebermann allowed the silence to consolidate. Undisturbed, Frau Becker's thoughts would clarify. When she was ready to speak, she would.

Outside, in the hallway, a grandfather clock was ticking loudly.

Frau Becker twisted a coil of blond hair around her finger. Her stare remained fixed on the floor.

“I have done a terrible thing… or should I say we—yes, we have done a terrible thing… but you must understand, we never meant this to happen. If I… if we had known…”

She stopped, released her hair, and lowered her hand. Its descent was slow, and mannered, like an object sinking in water. Her breast heaved—but no more tears came.

“We?” said Liebermann softly.

Frau Becker looked up, and her gaze met Liebermann's.

“Myself and Herr Lang.”

“The art master,” interjected Rheinhardt, discreetly reminding his friend of Herr Lang's identity.

“Since September last year, Herr Lang and I, we have…” Frau Becker's resolve faltered. “We have been…”

“Lovers?”

She nodded.

Liebermann was unable to maintain his clinical reserve. He craned forward, his eyebrows ascending above the rim of his spectacles.

“My husband was not the man that I believed him to be… and this is an awful place, Herr Doctor. A place where someone like me can never fit in. The masters’ wives are narrow-minded, and thought bad things about me from the start. I knew what they were thinking, of course. They regarded me as a stupid girl from the country, a gold digger… and a lot worse. I tried to get to know them, but it was useless. They didn't want to know me—they didn't accept me. And when I talked to them about the plight of some of the boys—the bullying, the persecution—they weren't interested. It made things worse. They thought I was being ridiculous. One of them called me… hys-hystorical?”

“Hysterical,” said Liebermann, quite unable to resist making