Read Online Georg Letham by Ernst Weiß - Free Book Online Page A

contracted with a sharp crack.
    I returned to the bed once again. The towel felt warmish and soft as silk. I touched the sides of the neck underneath. Warmth and silky softness here too. But there was no trace of a pulse at the carotid artery. The blood vessels were all clearly palpable, like thick knitting needles. Evidently there were masses of coagulated blood here as in the other blood vessels. Thus the old miracle test would fail. Come who might to the bed of the deceased, the coagulated blood would never liquefy.
    Toxin Y, whose composition was known to no one but me, could not have been identified by a forensic chemist. Besides, it would have broken down into entirely innocuous constituents within the body in less than four hours, as I knew from animal experiments. Solid proof of organic toxins is in any case one of the most problematic chapters of forensic chemistry, though science has made great strides in this area in the past thirty years. It has been possible to determine toxicity limits by experimenting on living organisms, human or animal. But only when known toxins are involved. Mine was unknown. Once four hours had elapsed, there could be no result incriminating me, no matter what methods were used to examine the blood. And who would come here in the next four hours?
    I locked the door and put the key on the small corner table in the hall. From the hall I went back into the bathroom, reluctantly and with great unease; the adorable pale pink and almond green walls, the white tile, the effete mirrors, the gleaming nickel-plated taps nauseated me. Hurrying to be finished there, I hastily dumped the vial of Toxin Y into the toilet bowl and switched off the light.
    I seemed to have a hunger. I had, much more even than that afternoon, a need to see someone and to talk. I left the building. I went out onto the street. In front of the building, I met a young couple wholived on our (my) floor. I said hello first. They gave me a friendly glance in the strong glow of the street lamps and both returned my greeting politely. Evidently they were on their way home from a party. I walked to a post office that was open at night in order to wire my stepdaughter, who I assumed was still at the spa with her husband. I handed in the message marked urgent but then noticed that I had no cash on me. In view of the content of the message, the clerk was kind enough to send the telegram for me on credit. I wanted to leave my watch with him as a deposit, but he refused this with a smile. Perhaps, too, my father’s name was not unknown to him.
    It occurred to me that I might tell my father what had happened before doing anything else, or rather it did not “occur” to me, I was simply unable to resist the mad urge. I had to do it. I called a cab and went to his house. His servant of many years opened the door. He reluctantly agreed to wake the old man. I followed him into my father’s bedroom.
    Once again I heard him, as I had in my childhood, grinding his teeth fiercely in his sleep. The room, crowded with elegant furniture and antiquities, was dark and gloomy. He had become a collector in his latter days.
    I had difficulty waking him. He fell asleep with difficulty, he awoke with difficulty. He threw himself furiously about, croaked and beat with both fists on the blue silk quilt. At last he opened his eyes. Why did he resist awakening so much? He stared at the light of the lamp I had turned on, like a hen at the butcher knife. From below came the honking of the cabdriver, whom I had asked to wait without paying him. I stared too, gazing at my father, at this white-haired, blue-eyed old man. He was the one I hated, not my wife. I asked my father for money. A lot of money. He should have asked why, but he did not give me that. Hedid not ask, Why do you come in the middle of the night, wake me up, and demand money? He bit his lip, turned his face to the wall, and did not reply. The servant, who had retreated as far as the