Fatal Lies Read online

  Praise for

  Fatal Lies

  “Elegant.… Tallis has come up with a particularly ingenious method of murder.… His novels show the modern world coming into existence in one of Europe's great cities, and are all the more poignant for the knowledge that the first world war will soon cast its shadow over his deeply human characters.”

  —The Sunday Times (London)

  “[Tallis's] handling of the psychoanalysis and criminal pathology are fan tastic… a romping tale.”

  —Scotland on Sunday

  Praise for

  Vienna Blood

  “A murder mystery of great intelligence… a fascinating portrait of one of the most vibrant yet sinister cities of fin-de-siècle Europe.”

  —The Times (London)

  “Tallis uses his knowledge of medicine, music, psychology and history to create an endlessly fascinating portrait of 1902 Vienna.”

  —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

  “Brilliant.… Tallis can ratchet up the suspense.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Gripping…. The clever plotting and quality writing elevate this above most other historicals.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Excellent.… Tallis handles his themes adroitly.”

  —The Sunday Times (London)

  “Exhilarating…expertly crafted.… The layers of Viennese society are peeled away as delicately as the layers of each mouth-watering Viennese pastry that the portly Rheinhardt makes it his business to devour.”

  —The Daily Telegraph (London)

  Praise for

  A Death in Vienna

  “[An] elegant historical mystery… stylishly presented and intelligently resolved.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “[A Death in “Vienna is] a winner for its smart and fin-de-siècle portrait of the seat of the Austro-Hungarian empire, and for introducing Max Liebermann, a young physician who is feverish with the possibilities of the new science of psychoanalysis.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Frank Tallis knows what he's writing about in this excellent mystery.… His writing and feel for the period are top class.”

  —The Times (London)

  “An engrossing portrait of a legendary period as well as a brain teaser of startling perplexity… In Tallis’ sure hands, the story evolves with grace and excitement.… A perfect combination of the hysterical past and the cooler—but probably more dangerous—present.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Holmes meets Freud in this enjoyable… whodunit.”

  —The Guardian (London)

  Also by Frank Tallis

  A Death in Vienna

  Vienna Blood

  1

  THE BAROQUE BALLROOM was filled with flowers. Beneath three radiant chandeliers more than a hundred couples were rotating in near-perfect synchrony. The men were dressed in black tails, piqué shirts, and white gloves, the women in gowns of tulle and crêpe de chine. On a raised platform a small orchestra was playing Strauss's Rosen aus iem Süien, and when the waltz king's famous heartwarming melody was reprised, a number of onlookers began a sympathetic humming chorus—smiling with recognition and benign sentimentality.

  Liebermann felt Amelia Lyd gate s right hand tighten with anxiety in his left. A vertical line appeared on her forehead as she struggled to follow his lead.

  “I do apologize, Dr. Liebermann. I am such a poor dancer.”

  She was wearing a skirted décolleté gown of green velvet, and her flaming red hair was tied up in silver ribbons. The pale unblemished planes of her shoulders reminded the young doctor of polished Italian marble.

  “Not at all,” said Liebermann. “You are doing very well for a novice. Might I suggest, however, that you listen more carefully to the music. The beat.”

  The Englishwoman returned a puzzled expression. “The beat,” she repeated.

  “Yes, can you not”—Liebermann paused, and made an effort to conceal his disbelief—“feel it?”

  Liebermann s right hand pressed gently against Amelia's back, emphasizing the first accented beat in each bar. However, his guidance had no noticeable effect on her performance.

  “Very well, then,” said Liebermann. “Perhaps you will find the following useful: the natural turn consists of three steps in which you move forward and rotate clockwise by one hundred and eighty degrees, followed by three steps in which you move backward and rotate again by one hundred and eighty degrees. For the forward turn you move forward on your right foot, rotating it to the right by ninety degrees, followed by your left foot, rotated another ninety degrees so that it is now facing backward.…”

  Amelia stopped, tilted her head to one side, and considered these instructions. Then, looking directly into Liebermann s eyes, she said plainly: “Thank you, Dr. Liebermann, that is an altogether superior explanation. Let us proceed.”

  Remarkably, when they began to dance again, Amelia’s movements were considerably more fluid.

  “Excellent,” said Liebermann. “Now, if you lean back a little, we will be able to go faster.” Amelia did as she was instructed, and they began to revolve more rapidly. “I believe,” continued Liebermann, “that the optimal speed of the Viennese waltz is said to be approximately thirty revolutions per minute.” He saw Amelia glance at his exposed wristwatch. “However, I do not think it will be necessary for us to gauge our performance against this nominal ideal.”

  As they swung by the orchestra, they were overtaken by a portly couple who—in spite of their ample physiques—danced with a nimbleness and grace that seemed to defy gravity.

  “Good heavens,” said Amelia, unable to conceal her amazement. “Is that Inspector Rheinhardt?”

  “It is,” said Liebermann, raising an eyebrow.

  “He and his wife are very… accomplished.”

  “They are indeed,” said Liebermann. “However, it is my understanding that Inspector Rheinhardt and his wife are more practiced than most. During Fasching not only do they attend this—the detectives’ ball—but they are also regular patrons of the waiters’ ball, the hatmakers’ ball, the philharmonic ball, and, as one would expect”—Liebermann smiled mischievously—”the good inspector has a particular fondness for the pastry makers’ ball.”

  As they wheeled past a pair of carved gilt double doors, Liebermann saw a police constable enter the ballroom. His plain blue uniform and spiked helmet made him conspicuous among the elegant tailcoats and gowns. His cheeks were flushed and he looked as though he had been running. The young man marched directly over to Commissioner Brügel, who was standing next to the impeccably dressed Inspector Victor von Bulow and a party of guests from the Hungarian security office.

  Earlier in the evening, Liebermann had tried to engage the Hungarians in some polite conversation but had found them rather laconic. He had ascribed their reserve to Magyar melancholy, a medical peculiarity with which he, and most of his colleagues in Vienna, were well acquainted.

  Liebermann lost sight of the group as Amelia and he continued their circumnavigation of the ballroom. When they had completed another circuit, he was surprised to see Else Rheinhardt standing on her own and looking toward her husband—who was now talking to Commissioner Brügel and the breathless young constable. Liebermann's observation coincided with the brassy fanfares that brought the waltz to its clamorous conclusion. The revelers cheered and applauded the orchestra. Liebermann bowed, pressed Amelia's fingers to his lips, and, taking her hand, led her toward Else Rheinhardt.

  “I think something's happened,” said Else.

  Manfred Brügel was a stocky man with a large, blockish head and oversize muttonchop whiskers. He was addressing Rheinhardt, while occasionally questioning the young constable. Rheinhardt
was listening intently. In due course, Rheinhardt clicked his heels and turned to find his wife and friends.

  “My dear,” said Rheinhardt, affectionately squeezing Else's arm, “I am so very sorry… but there has been an incident.“ He glanced briefly at Liebermann, tacitly communicating that the matter was serious. “I am afraid I must leave at once.”

  “Isn't there anyone on duty at Schottenring?” asked Else.

  “Koltschinsky has developed a bronchial illness, and Storfer—on being informed of the said incident—rushed from the station, slipped on some ice, and cracked his head on the pavement.”

  “What extraordinary bad luck,” said Liebermann.

  “Why is it always you?” said Else. “Can't somebody else go? What about von Bulow?”

  “I believe he has some important business to discuss with our Hungarian friends.” The air suddenly filled with the shimmering of tremolando violins, against which two French horns climbed a simple major triad. Nothing in the whole of music was so artless, yet so distinctive. “Ah,” said Rheinhardt, “what a shame… The Blue Danube.” He looked at his wife and his eyes filled with regret.

  “Oskar,” said Liebermann. “Can I be of any assistance? Would you like me to come with you?”

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  “I would much rather you kept my dear wife and Miss Lyd gate entertained. Now, where's Haussmann?” The Inspector looked around the ballroom and discovered his assistant standing with a group of cavalrymen, gazing wistfully at a pretty young debutante in white. Heavy blond coils bounced against her cheeks. Haussmann, having clearly been engaged in a protracted surveillance operation, was about to reveal himself. He was clutching a single red rose. “Oh, no,” said Rheinhardt under his breath.

  The inspector kissed his wife, apologized to Amelia, and clasped Liebermann's hand. Then, moving quickly, he managed to intercept the rose just before Haussmann had reached his quarry.

  2

  THE INNKEEPER AT AUFKIRCHEN had been pleasant enough. Knocking a dottle of tobacco from the bowl of his clay pipe, he had warned Rheinhardt of a fallen tree: It's blocking the road—you'll have to go the long way around. The directions the man had given were full of local detail and were difficult to follow. When the little Romanesque church with its distinctive onion dome and spire vanished in the darkness, Rheinhardt doubted whether the exercise had been very successful.

  The interior of the carriage was illuminated by a single electric bulb, the glowing arc of which was reflected in Haussmann's eyes. Rheinhardt fancied that this flickering scintilla of light was connected with the young man's thoughts—the fading memory, perhaps, of the pretty blond debutante.

  Their ascent was becoming extremely uncomfortable. The narrow track that they had chosen was riddled with potholes, causing the carriage to pitch and roll. Rheinhardt pulled the curtain aside and pressed his face against the glass. He could see nothing. Releasing the catch, he opened the window and leaned out. The air was cold and dank. Ahead, the carriage lamps shone against descending blankets of thick fog.

  Rheinhardt looked anxiously at his pocket watch and called out to the driver.

  “Stop, will you? We should have arrived by now!”

  The carriage came to a shuddering halt.

  “God in heaven, Haussmann,” said the inspector. “At this rate we'll never get there!”

  He opened the carriage door and jumped out. His feet sank into the muddy ground, and he felt his best patent leather shoes filling up with freezing ditch water. Cursing loudly, he squelched up the road, grimacing as the sludge sucked at his heels. One of the horses snorted and shook its bridle. Rheinhardt peered into the opaque distance.

  “Where on earth are we?”

  “Left by the turnstile and left again at the old well,” said the driver gruffly. “That's what you said, sir—and that's what I did. Turned left.” Then he mumbled under his breath: “I knew it should have been right.”

  “Then why didn't you say so?”

  The driver had not intended his final remark to be heard. He concealed his embarrassment by soothing the horses.

  They were in the middle of a dense forest. An owl hooted, and something rustled in the undergrowth. Rheinhardt knew that they were only a short distance from Vienna, but the capital—with its theaters, coffeehouses, and glittering ballrooms—felt strangely remote.

  The trees looked tormented: thick, twisted boles and bare branches that terminated in desperate, arthritic claws. There was something about a deep, dark wood that held unspeakable terrors for the Teutonic imagination. Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel. Within every German-speaking adult was a child who, from infancy, had cultivated—under the tutelage of the Brothers Grimm—a healthy respect for the natural habitat of wolves and witches.

  Rheinhardt shuddered.

  “Sir?”

  Haussmann's head had emerged from the carriage window.

  “Yes?”

  “What's that?”

  “What's what?”

  “There… Oh, it's gone. No, there it is again. Can't you see it, sir?”

  An indistinct luminescence was floating among the trees—a pale glow that seemed to vanish and then reappear.

  “Yes, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, consciously modulating his voice to achieve an even delivery. “Yes, I can.”

  The light was becoming brighter.

  Rheinhardt heard the carriage door opening, a splash, and his assistant struggling through the adhesive mud.

  “What is it?” Haussmann repeated his question.

  “I don't know,” said Rheinhardt. “But it is my impression that we will find out very soon.”

  “Do you have your revolver, sir?”

  “No, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt replied. “This may come as a surprise to you, but when dancing, I very rarely carry a firearm. The unequal distribution of weight about my person would make the performance of a perfect turn almost impossible.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Haussmann, noting the appearance of a sly smile on his superior's face.

  The advancing light was surrounded by an indistinct shadowy aura, the dimensions of which suggested the approach of something very large. The vague outline was lumbering, ursine. Rheinhardt wondered if the mist might be creating an optical illusion. Nobody could be that big! Yet twigs were snapping beneath a ponderous tread. The horses began to whicker.

  “Gentlemen,” said the driver nervously, “perhaps you'd like to get back inside. Shouldn't we be on our way?”

  Rheinhardt did not reply.

  The footsteps became louder and the light grew more distinct.

  “Well, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, “I suspect that in a few moments all will be revealed.”

  The thick curtains of fog parted and a huge figure stepped out of the darkness, the glow of the flickering candle in his lamp preceding him like a spirit emissary. Rheinhardt heard his young companion gasp.

  “Steady, Haussmann,” Rheinhardt whispered.

  The man was well over six feet tall but appeared even more massive on account of his clothing. He was wearing a Russian hat, with the flaps released over his ears, and a long fur coat pulled in at the waist with a thick leather belt. Hanging from it was a cleaver. In one hand he held a tin lamp suspended at the end of a whittled staff, and in the other the hind legs of a brace of bloody animal carcasses that were slung over his shoulder. Almost all of his face was concealed behind a wild, wiry black beard.

  “Good evening,” said Rheinhardt. “We are looking for the Aufkirchen oberrealschule.” The mysterious woodman remained silent. Rheinhardt tried again: “The military academy? Saint Florian's?”

  At last, something in the big man's eyes showed recognition. He grunted an affirmative and began to speak.

  “Back down the hill.” The sound he produced was low and sonorous. “Take the right fork.”

  “Right fork?” Rheinhardt echoed.

  The giant grunted again. Then, turning abruptly, he trudged back into the wood
s.

  “Thank you,” Rheinhardt called out. “Much obliged.”

  Rheinhardt and Haussmann stood very still, watching, as the mist closed around the giant's shoulders and the shimmering flame faded into obscurity.

  “You see, Haussmann,” said Rheinhardt, straightening his bow tie and adjusting the studs on his cuffs. “Country folk: full of stolid virtues, I'm sure. But their conversation always errs on the side of brevity, don't you think?” Rheinhardt turned to address the driver.

  “Well, did you hear what our friend from the forest said?”

  “Down the hill—right fork.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you want us to follow his directions?”

  “What else would you suggest?”

  “Himmel, he was a strange one.”

  “True, but I dare say we looked a little strange to him too.”

  3

  THE DORMITORY WAS PITCH-BLACK but alive with sounds: snoring, rustling, mumbling, and the occasional terrified cry as one of the boys surfaced from a nightmare.

  Kiefer Wolf listened to the breathing darkness. It had an orchestral quality—a heaving, restless depth.

  “Drexler?” He reached out across the narrow space separating his bed from the next, and poked his fingers into the warm eiderdown.