Deadly Communion (10 page)

Rheinhardt twisted his moustache and considered the unfinished canvas on Rainmayr’s easel. It showed a young woman lying on a divan. She was nude and her knees were spaced just far enough apart to expose a hectic stripe. Her skin was mottled and transparent, to the extent that the portrait was as much a study of the human skeleton as the naked body. Her ribcage was clearly visible and her breasts were shaded a putrescent green. It was a deeply troubling portrait, which managed to situate eroticism close to — if not in — the grave.

The artist observed Rheinhardt’s expression change from curiosity to disgust. He sighed and continued in a more conciliatory tone: ‘Look, inspector, I’m no angel — I’d be the first to admit it. But I do care
about the girls who model for me. And when they’re in trouble, I try to help them. I’m an artist. My way of life might not meet with your approval but I can assure you I have standards —
moral
standards. Different from yours, but standards nevertheless. I don’t think I’ve been responsible for corrupting or harming any of the models I’ve sketched or painted. I’m not a child molester and I’m certainly not a murderer. Adele Zeiler was moody and we sometimes argued. But she never threatened to go to the police. That is completely false.’

‘Did you have relations with Adele Zeiler?’

The artist paused before saying: ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And how old was she?’

‘I don’t know. I thought she was seventeen. She might have been younger. It’s possible that her father lied about her age when we first met.’

Rheinhardt continued to question Rainmayr but he was already satisfied that the purpose of his visit had been accomplished. Fräulein Sykora’s evidence was — as he had suspected — quite worthless. In due course, Rheinhardt crossed the floor and opened the door.

‘Are you going already, inspector?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve told you the truth.’

As Rheinhardt departed there were no formal exchanges — only a heavy silence.

The inspector walked between the squat cottages, negotiating debris that had been strewn across the path. Above the vaulted tunnel that led to Lange Gasse he could see the upper storeys of apartment buildings. When he stepped out onto the main thoroughfare he was surprised to see his assistant waiting on the other side of the road. The young man hurried over.

‘Sir.’

‘What is it, Haussmann?’

‘Another one, sir.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Spittelberg.’

L
IEBERMANN WAS HALFWAY THROUGH
volume one of Bach’s Forty-Eight Preludes and Fugues when a messenger rapped on the door of his apartment. Rheinhardt’s brief dispatch had been scrawled on a page torn from his notebook. The ragged edge of the paper added an extra dimension of urgency to the words — a request for Liebermann to leave immediately for an address in Spittelberg. Taking his astrakhan coat from the hallstand, Liebermann ran down the stairs, past the concierge and out onto the street, just in time to stop a cab.

The gently flowing left-hand figure of the E minor Prelude repeated itself in Liebermann’s head. This musical fragment, consisting of only the first four bars, would not fade. As images of Vienna flashed by, the mellifluous semiquavers continued, a peculiarly incongruent accompaniment to the busy life of the city.

Soon after entering Spittelberg, the carriage began to slow down. Liebermann opened the window and leaned out. The road ahead ran between eighteenth-century buildings that had fallen into a woeful state of disrepair. All of the façades were dilapidated, the stucco covered in patches of mould and the decorative window hoods blackened with grime. A constable was standing outside one of the entrances.

‘All right, you can stop here,’ Liebermann called.

The carriage halted and Liebermann stepped out.

‘What’s going on down there?’ asked the driver.

‘I don’t know,’ Liebermann said and shrugged, handing the driver some coins. Liebermann made his way up the road to the waiting constable and introduced himself.

‘This way, Herr doctor,’ said the young man, opening a large wooden door. On the other side was a vaulted tunnel which led to a spacious courtyard. It was surrounded by two-storey dwellings with plain walls and rectangular windows. Lower apartments were set back behind an arched arcade, beneath which several old carts with tarpaulin covers had been left. A balcony — supported by the arcade — provided those residing on the upper level with a railing on which to dry their laundry. Liebermann noticed that a horses’ drinking trough had been filled with earth and planted with trees; however, this attempt to beautify the courtyard had not been successful. The trees had died and their leafless, twisted branches were afflicted by a leprous dark green moss. A pool of brown water had collected beneath the mouth of a drainpipe and a swarm of tiny flies hovered above its surface.

The balcony was reached by a staircase that occupied one of the corners of the square. It was built against the wall of the building to the left and ascended to the first floor of the building facing Liebermann. At the foot of the staircase were a group of women and Inspector Rheinhardt’s assistant, Haussmann. It seemed to Liebermann that the women were questioning Haussmann, not the other way round. Their chattering was shrill and excited.

Haussmann saw Liebermann and beckoned him over.

‘Who’s he?’ Liebermann heard one of the women ask.

‘That is no concern of yours,’ replied Haussmann. ‘Please stand aside.’

Haussmann herded the women away from the foot of the stairs, allowing Liebermann to pass. Liebermann thanked Haussmann and began to climb. At the top of the stairs was an open door. He entered the apartment and found himself in a dark, cramped kitchen.
Pots and a ladle were suspended from a wooden beam that spanned the width of the low ceiling.

‘Oskar?’

‘I’m in here, Max.’

Liebermann pushed open a second door and saw Rheinhardt seated on a chair. The inspector’s expression was glum. The flesh on his face seemed to sag and only the upturned points of his moustache contradicted the general impression of descent.

A young woman, entirely naked, was lying on a single bed. Her legs were spread apart and one hung casually off the side. The delicate foot at its end was tilted downwards so that the toes were just touching the floorboards. Her sex was exposed, the vertical lips folded back, offering the observer a disconcertingly frank view of her shadowy interior. She was very thin and her hip bones jutted out below an equally distinct ribcage. Her breasts were of such little substance that gravity had deprived her entirely of a bust, giving her torso a masculine appearance. She possessed a pretty face: harmonious, regular features marred only — perhaps — by overly thick eyebrows. Her hair was blonde and framed her face like a saintly aura. Although the fingers of her left hand were spread out, those of her right were contracted and clawlike. Liebermann also noticed something odd about the position of the woman’s head. It seemed to be bent forward and slightly raised.

‘The same method?’ He spoke without looking at Rheinhardt.

‘Not only that,’ said the inspector. ‘But the same hatpin. On Friday I learned from Herr Jaufenthaler, the jeweller on the Hoher Markt, that he had sold not one silver-acorn hatpin to the
gentleman
who visited his shop, but two. I knew immediately that it would only be a matter of days before …’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘But I never thought he would strike again quite so soon.’

‘May I?’

Liebermann indicated that he wished to examine the body.

‘Of course.’

The young doctor crouched by the bed and felt beneath the woman’s neck. His fingers found the cold metal of the hatpin. He stood up and considered his surroundings: drab wallpaper and curtains, some mildewed and sentimental prints of animals, a wash table with a tilting mirror, a heap of discarded clothes.

‘You will notice,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that her dress is at the bottom of the pile, then her corset, then her drawers, and finally her stockings. It appears that she removed her garments in a leisurely fashion — casually dropping each item onto the floor.’

Liebermann opened a small wardrobe in which he found a coat and some more dresses. Above the horizontal rail was a shelf on which the woman kept her hat, underwear and gloves.

‘Who is she?’

‘Bathild Babel, a shop girl, aged eighteen. She came to Vienna six months ago from Styria.’ Liebermann threw a quizzical glance at his friend. ‘I’ve just finished interviewing Fräulein Babel’s neighbour, Frau Prodoprigora.’

‘How was Fräulein Babel discovered?’

‘Frau Prodoprigora noticed that the front door had been left open and came in to investigate.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, the door must have been left open by the perpetrator.’

‘So?’

‘An open door is conspicuous and could only serve to hasten police involvement.’

‘Which means?’

‘A vestige of conscience still survives. Some part of him
wants
to be stopped.’

Rheinhardt sighed: ‘Perhaps he simply departed in a hurry and neglected to pull the door hard enough to ensure its closure.’

‘No action, however trivial it may seem, is truly accidental.’

‘I don’t know, Max,’ said Rheinhardt wearily. ‘If he wanted to be caught surely he would simply present himself at a police station and confess.’

‘The human mind is not a unified whole,’ Liebermann responded, ‘but rather a community of parts, each with different requirements and objectives, and each possessed of varying amounts of knowledge concerning its accessories. Professor Freud has demonstrated that contradictory beliefs and desires are an essential feature of the human condition. In a sense, he has rendered the Greek aphorism
know thyself
utterly meaningless. There is no self — as we imagine it — to know. While one part of the mind attempts to execute an action another part resists. I have no doubt that the perpetrator
intended
to close the door; however, a remnant of his conscience exerted sufficient influence to arrest the action before it was completed.’

Rheinhardt pulled at his chin.

‘Perhaps he feels invulnerable and left the door open out of contempt for the security office. It might be translated as: I
do not need to be careful because
I
am confident you will not catch me.’

Liebermann turned to look at his friend and smiled.

‘Actually, both hypotheses might be true. The perpetrator might have left the door open, partly because of a desire to be stopped and partly out of conceit. Once again I would remind you that Professor Freud considers human behaviour to be the result of many — sometimes contradictory — impulses.’

Rheinhardt did not wish to delve any deeper into psychoanalytic theory and returned the conversation to the terra firma of conventional detection.

‘Fräulein Babel was typical of her class. She had made the
acquaintance of several gentlemen from whom she accepted small gifts and dinner invitations; however, she was not in the habit of bringing them home. Her assignations usually took place in private dining rooms and hotels.’

‘Fräulein Babel discussed such intimate details of her life with her neighbour?’

‘The two women were very close. When we spoke, Frau Prodoprigora was distraught — and not just because of the shocking nature of her discovery. She was clearly very fond of her young friend.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘On her way to the Schottenring station to make a statement.’ Rheinhardt took a slim volume from his pocket. ‘I found this.’ He held it up. ‘In the kitchen.’

‘An address book?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t contain many names — but there are a few entries of interest.’ Rheinhardt turned some pages. ‘Here, for example. Velentin Frece. The address given is an accountancy firm called Fischof and Cerny on Singerstrasse. I doubt Fräulein Babel needed the services of an accountant. Presumably Herr Frece gave Fräulein Babel his work address to avoid personal correspondence falling into the hands of Frau Frece.’

Liebermann closed the wardrobe door and stood at the end of the bed. He dropped to his knees, leaned forward, and inspected the linen.

‘We must suppose that, like Adele Zeiler, Fräulein Babel consented to sexual intercourse. She removed her clothes in a provocative manner before lying down in readiness to
receive
her guest. During their congress, he brought her head forward and inserted the hatpin — a new gift and readily at hand — through the foramen magnum of her skull and into her brain. Observing her death made him culminate.’ Liebermann stood up and in less pensive tones asked: ‘Where is the photographer?’

‘He has already been. I was just waiting for you and the mortuary van.’

‘Is Professor Mathias to undertake the autopsy?’

‘Yes.’

Liebermann took his spectacles from his top pocket and began cleaning them with a handkerchief.

‘Did you receive my note concerning Miss Lydgate?’

‘She wants to see Mathias at work …’

‘And assist in the investigation.’

‘Well, I have no objection. You are welcome to invite her along, although it is a peculiar request for a young woman to make — to attend a police autopsy.’

‘It might be advisable to leave that sentiment unexpressed in her company, Oskar.’

‘Oh?’

‘She is a medical student, accustomed to the dissection of corpses, and I believe that Miss Lydgate has strong views concerning equality between the sexes. I fear she might be offended were you to imply that pathology was not an appropriate interest for a young woman.’

Rheinhardt got up from his chair and sighed.

‘Sometimes I feel lost in the modern world. All of the old certainties seem to have vanished.’ He looked down at the naked form of Fräulein Babel and, clapping a hand on Liebermann’s shoulder, said: ‘Come, Max — let’s wait for the mortuary van outside.’

Liebermann put on his spectacles and followed the melancholy inspector.

Y
OU WANTED TO KNOW
more about my early life — and my first erotic experiences. I suppose that is to be expected under the circumstances. Well, I am happy to oblige. Indeed, I must confess that I am finding this exercise curiously satisfying. It is like the relief one feels after divulging a long-held secret. Even a small concealment becomes burdensome. It weighs heavily on the soul. The desire to share it with others mounts, until disclosure becomes irresistible. Imagine, then, how I must feel now. It is like some great catharsis — the untying of a Gordian knot. You have promised me peace when this history is complete. I must admit I did not believe you. But as I write more I can see there may be something in it.