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

“And you carried him—the dead boy—all this way on your own?”

“No. I stole a horse and trap and got as far as the road.”

“That's odd. None of the locals reported a theft.”

“It belonged to the school. I returned the trap before anyone noticed it was missing.”

The constable shrugged, took off his spiked helmet, and handed it to Drexler. Then he wiped his brow and continued to dig. Gravid clouds had begun to gather overhead, and Drexler felt the first faint chill of rain on his cheeks. The hole deepened—but there was no sign of Perger's jute shroud.

“How far down did you bury him?”

“Not that far,” said Drexler, perplexed. “You must have just missed him.… Try here.” He pointed to another spot.

The constable sighed, moved a little closer to the tree, and began to dig again. He interrupted his task to look up at the malignant sky.

“We're going to get soaked,” he said, swearing softly under his breath.

The shovel's blade met some resistance, and the constable caught Drexler's eye. However, the next downward thrust produced a loud clang that identified the obstruction as nothing more than a rock. Soon the constable had dug another hole, equal in depth to the first.

“I'm sorry,” said Drexler. “It was dark. It's difficult to judge distances when it's dark. But I can assure you, I buried him somewhere around here. I remember this tree. You see, it has a face in it… an old man.”

“An old man, eh?”

“Please, try here.” Drexler took two paces away from the tree and stamped his feet.

“I tell you what,” said the constable, handing Drexler the shovel. “Why don't you dig for a while?”

The young man recovered his helmet and stomped off to seek shelter under the thickest bough he could find.

Drexler began to dig frantically.

Nothing.

Clay, earthworms, stones, roots…

He started to dig another hole. Nothing. And another…

The drizzle had been succeeded by a persistent saturating downpour.

“All right,” the constable called out. “You've had your fun.… I suppose you and your friends think this sort of thing is very funny. Well, you won't be laughing after I've given you the good hiding you deserve.”

“What?” said Drexler.

“Come here,” said the constable, beckoning with a crooked finger.

“This isn't a joke.… This isn't a joke, you… you…”

Drexler threw the shovel to the ground and fell to his knees. He thrust his hands into the hole he had dug and clawed at the mud. His tears were invisible on his rain-soaked face.

“Perger!” he cried. “Perger?”

The constable's expression altered. He no longer looked angry, more startled and confused. A little shocked, even. Drexler tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but only succeeded in smearing his face with mud.

“Perger?” he shouted. When Drexler raised his hands, the constable could see that his fingers were bleeding. His eyes were shining with a terrible urgency.

“Take it easy,” said the constable, taking a cautious step forward. What was it the boy had said? An old man in the tree…

Maybe this wasn't a joke—maybe the boy wasn't right in the head. He certainly didn't look very well.

“I think we'd better get back to the station,” said the constable. “We'll have some tea, eh? Warm you up a bit? And then I think we'd better call a doctor.”

75

LIEBERMANN PAID THE CAB DRIVER and braced himself against the teeming rain. The carriage rattled away and he walked slowly toward the end of the cul-de-sac. Water was flowing in fast rivulets down the cobbled street and the wind was gathering strength. Low clouds, descending from the west, had created an eldritch twilight.

The battered door—toward which Liebermann was making steady progress—was swinging on its hinges, occasionally crashing loudly against the wall. The fact that nobody had bothered to secure it reinforced the general atmosphere of neglect and desolation.

Liebermann stepped over the threshold and into the tiled arcade. He paused for a moment and pushed a hank of sopping hair out of his eyes. A stream of icy water trickled down the back of his neck. From his shadowy vantage he could see across the courtyard. A man was standing at the foot of the iron stairs. He was facing away from Liebermann and wore a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. Beyond the stranger, and positioned above him on the covered landing, stood Trezska. She was dressed in readiness to travel, and carried—in addition to her shoulder bag—a small valise. Her violin was in its case at her feet. Yet there had been no sign of a cab waiting for her outside, and the man at the foot of the stairs was clearly making no effort to assist her. Indeed, there was something altogether strange about his situation. He had not chosen to climb the few steps that would have afforded him shelter. Instead, he was standing rather awkwardly, fully exposed to the elements.

Trezska was talking, but Liebermann could not hear her. He was too distant, and the deluge was becoming symphonic. Close by, the rain was drumming on a tin roof and an overflowing gutter was splashing loudly.

A blast of wind threatened to remove the stranger's hat, and the man had to grab quickly at the top of his head to hold it down. Again, Liebermann noted a conspicuous awkwardness—the maneuver had been executed clumsily with the left hand.

Liebermann crept down the passageway, keeping his back close to the wall. When he reached the opposite end, he discovered why it was that the stranger's posture had appeared somewhat unnatural. The man was holding a pistol, the barrel of which was pointed upward, toward Trezska.

The young doctor's response was automatic and unreasoning. He wanted to protect her, even though she had deceived him and even though he suspected that her capacity for deceit was boundless. Such was his disposition that a romantic obligation to a woman would always supersede a political obligation. Besides, he now had so many questions he wanted to ask her—questions that might never be answered if she were shot dead—that no other course of action