Deadly Communion (17 page)

‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said Rheinhardt, wiping the suds from his eyes and attending to the limp horns of his moustache, ‘is there somewhere we can talk, somewhere private, perhaps?’

‘Only the alley that runs round the back.’

‘Very well,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That will have to do.’

Frau Lachkovics left her bay and a young woman, no more than sixteen years of age and also wearing a waterproof bonnet, vacated the next position and fell into step behind them.

‘My daughter,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘Jana.’

The girl had a peculiar shuffling gait. She walked with her right hand clasping her left wrist, which made her shoulder twist forward.

In the milky distance, a group of women armed with wicker implements shaped like tennis racquets were beating sheets that had been thrown over brass lines.

A door in a windowless wall led out into a narrow alley that separated the laundry from a warehouse.

‘That’s better,’ said Rheinhardt, relieved to put the noise behind him. ‘At least we can hear ourselves speak now.’ He smiled at Frau Lachkovics and then at her daughter. The mother returned his smile but Jana’s expression remained blank. ‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt began, ‘may I ask why it was that you did not return to your apartment last night?’

‘I was at my mother’s,’ she said with surprise.

‘And where does your mother live?’

‘Ottakring. She’s old. Almost eighty now. I go to see her every
Friday to wash her hair and cut her toenails. She wasn’t very well last night. I was worried and stayed later than usual. I didn’t want to walk home: not in the dark.’

‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Very wise. Did Jana visit her grandmother with you?’

‘Yes.’

He smiled approvingly at the girl, but again her expression communicated nothing but vacancy.

‘Tell me, Frau Lachkovics, how long have you lived in Neubau?’

‘A year or so. I used to live out in Ottakring with my mother but her apartment got too small for us.’ Frau Lachkovics glanced at her daughter. ‘Jana needed a room of her own. It’s only right.’

‘Forgive me — but is there a … a Herr Lachkovics?’

Frau Lachkovics blushed: ‘My husband deserted us soon after Jana was born.’

She cowered slightly, as if the shame of her unsuccessful marriage was like a yoke bearing down on her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That must have been very difficult for you.’ The woman blinked at her interlocutor, more confused than relieved by his sympathy. ‘Were you acquainted with your neighbour, Fräulein Wirth, before you moved to Neubau?’

‘No.’

‘You are good friends?’

‘Yes. It was Fräulein Wirth who got me my job here at the laundry.’ She paused and added. ‘She isn’t in today. Is she all right?’

Rheinhardt looked upwards. Steam from the waste pipe drifted across the thin strip of sky.

‘Could I ask: when was the last time you saw Fräulein Wirth?’

‘Thursday night.’

‘The night before last …’

‘Yes.’

‘And how was she?’ Frau Lachkovics appeared mystified by his question. ‘Was Fräulein Wirth the same as she usually is? Or did you notice anything different about her?’

‘She didn’t look unwell, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Did she have any visitors on Thursday?’

Frau Lachkovics thought for a moment then said: ‘Yes — she did. A friend.’

‘Who?’

‘A lady. Frau Vogl.’

‘Frau Vogl,’ Rheinhardt repeated.

The name sounded vaguely familiar. He had an odd feeling that he had heard it only recently during a conversation with his wife.

‘Yes,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘An old friend. They go back a long way. She’s quite a well-to-do woman. I met her once, a very fine lady … and such clothes.’

She shook her head and looked down at her shabby dress.

‘Do you remember what time it was when Frau Vogl visited Fräulein Wirth?’

‘It must have been early evening. I looked out the window and saw her leaving. Her carriage came into the yard.’

‘Tell me … did anything unusual happen on Thursday night?’

‘No,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘Nothing unusual happened.’

Jana, who had been very still — almost absent — pulled at her mother’s skirt. It was a peculiar thing for a girl of her age to do. Rheinhardt looked at Jana’s face and realised that her void expression was probably the result of some defect of the brain. He thought of his own bright daughters and felt a stab of pity for Frau Lachkovics.

‘What is it, Jana?’ said Frau Lachkovics.

‘I heard someone,’ the girl answered. ‘You’d gone to bed — but I was still up looking at one of Selma’s books. I heard someone walking.
I went out onto the landing and called: “Is anyone there?”’ She cupped her hands around her mouth to demonstrate.

Frau Lachkovics’s surprise rapidly turned to anxiety.

‘Why ever did you do that?’

‘No one answered.’

‘Jana? Why didn’t you tell me?’

The girl’s face was blank again: an impassive mask.

‘My dear,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘try to remember what you heard. It might be important and I would very much appreciate your help.’

‘Footsteps,’ said the girl.

‘Loud, soft, slow, fast? What kind of footsteps?’

She paused and replied ‘Footsteps’ — as if, on reflection, no further qualification was necessary.

‘Did you see anyone?’

‘No.’

Frau Lachkovics put her arm around her daughter and drew her closer.

‘Inspector, what has happened?’

Rheinhardt took out his notebook and began to write.

‘Has Fräulein Wirth had any other visitors? A gentleman friend, perhaps?’

Frau Lachkovics shook her head, this time with considerable force. Rheinhardt suspected that she might be trying to protect her friend’s honour.

‘Come now,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It is perfectly reasonable for a woman to enjoy the company of a gentleman. She must have had … admirers?’

‘No. Not Selma. She isn’t interested. She doesn’t want anything to do with men.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘She is lame, did you know that? She can walk, but she gets tired and needs a stick. The muscles are weak. I think she is ashamed.’

‘And what about you, Frau Lachkovics? Do
you
have any gentlemen friends?’

‘No,’ the woman said firmly. ‘Not after Lachkovics.’ Her hand rose up and she touched her face, as if the sting of a hard slap — administered many years ago — still tingled on her cheek. She shrugged. ‘We don’t need anyone else now. We can cope on our own — me and Jana. We have our little home — and our work — and our friends. We are quite happy — aren’t we, Jana?’ She shook the girl’s shoulders and the movement placed a feeble smile on the young woman’s face. ‘But inspector — what are you asking me all these questions for? She is all right — isn’t she? Selma?’

‘Her rent has not been paid for three months.’

‘Oh. I see. You’ve spoken to Herr Shevchenko.’

‘I have. Why did she get so far behind?’

‘She’s always spending money on doctors. Trying to find a cure. She can’t accept that nothing can be done. You’re not going to arrest her, are you? It isn’t a great sum of money and she’ll pay it back.’

Rheinhardt looked into the woman’s pleading eyes. He found that he had to force himself to speak: ‘I have some terrible news.’ Dismissing thoughts of impropriety he reached out and held her hand. ‘I am afraid Fräulein Wirth is dead.’

Frau Lachkovics appeared stunned. Her mouth worked wordlessly until she finally managed to cry: ‘Oh, Jana.’

Apart from a slight tensing of her brow, the daughter seemed indifferent to her mother’s grief.

Above their heads the waste pipe continued to discharge steam into the atmosphere. Its beat had begun to coincide with a pulse of pain in Rheinhardt’s head.

E
RSTWEILER APPEARED COMFORTABLE, BUT
a muscle beneath his left eye was quivering.

‘To be honest, Herr doctor, I didn’t like my father. He was a domineering man who always thought he was right. I don’t know how my mother put up with him. She was the opposite: a diminutive, genial creature, always prepared to listen to both sides of an argument. My grandfather — my mother’s father — was somewhat impecunious, and I suspect that her family forced her into the marriage. Father was not wealthy, by any means, but he had a secure job in the railway office.’ Erstweiler produced a crooked, sardonic smile: ‘Although he never ascended as far up the bureaucratic hierarchy as my brother — and was never obliged to don the garb of a general!’

Liebermann waited. He could see in his patient’s eyes that memories were surfacing.

‘I remember,’ Erstweiler continued. ‘I once accompanied my father on a trip to Vienna. I forget why. Indeed, I’ve forgotten virtually everything that happened, except one thing. We were walking past the Stephansdom and my father said we should climb to the top in order to see the view. We began our climb, and almost immediately I felt apprehensive. I looked out of the narrow windows and it made me feel dizzy. I remember seeing the Habsburg eagle on the cathedral roof … the city below. I didn’t want to go any higher: I thought the whole spire might tumble down. My father asked me what was the matter
and I said:
I don’t feel well.’
The memory was so vivid that Erstweiler’s voice suddenly acquired the timbre of a frightened child’s:
‘Nonsense!
said my father.
There’s nothing wrong with you!’
Again, Erstweiler’s voice changed, becoming officious and unsympathetic. ‘He dragged me up — higher and higher — and I began to cry. He lost his temper and called me
cowardly,
told me to be a
man …
told me to stop acting like a
milksop.
When we reached the viewing room at the summit I sat down on a bench and refused to look out. Even a glimpse of those rooftops, so far below, made my head spin. He pointed out a girl in a pink dress and said,
Look! Even she has more courage than you!
My father was disgusted with me. He left me there, on my own, full of shame and anger, while he walked around — enjoying the view. I longed for my mother. If she had been present, she would never have let this happen … After a while, I asked my father if we could go down.
No,
he said.
I want to hear the Pummerin.
He told me that the great bell had been made from the melted cannons that the gutless Turks had left behind when they fled the city. What did I care … about that?’

Erstweiler sighed and twisted his hospital gown in his hand until it bit into his skin like a tourniquet.

‘He was always talking about honour — doing what was right. He always saw faults in others, never in himself.’

‘Did you ever disobey your father?’ Liebermann asked.

‘No. Well, not in his lifetime, anyway.’

Liebermann leaned forward: ‘I’m sorry?’

‘He judged thieves harshly. He said that they should have their hands cut off.’

‘You stole something?’

Erstweiler nodded.

‘What?’ asked Liebermann.

‘A trivial thing.’

‘Yes, but what was it?’ Liebermann pressed.

‘Actually …’ Erstweiler hesitated before saying, ‘It was a kimono for Frau Milena.’

How strange,
thought Liebermann,
that this disclosure should be connected with reminiscences of his father.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘I felt sorry for her. Kolinsky never buys her anything. He is a miser. Her wardrobe was pitiful … rags. I received a delivery of silk kimonos at Winkler’s warehouse — a large delivery of thirty garments. It’s my job to register the stock. I marked one missing and took it home.’ Erstweiler shrugged. ‘Was that so wrong?’

‘Your father would have said so.’

Erstweiler released his hospital gown, allowing the blood to flow back into his fingers.

‘I’ve had enough today.’

‘Did Frau Milena like your gift?’

‘Yes. She looked … She loved it.’

Liebermann noted the slip.

‘Herr doctor … I’m feeling tired. Can we stop now?’

‘Have you had any more dreams?’

‘None that I can remember.’

Liebermann made some quick notes.

‘The English fairy-story dream.’

‘What about it?’

‘Have you had any similar dreams since we last spoke?’

‘No. Herr doctor? Can we finish? I really am very tired.’

L
IEBERMANN AND
R
HEINHARDT WERE
seated in Café Eiles. They had already finished their
bauernschnatterer
— a pork-and-bean stew, seasoned with pepper and chives — and were now studying the pastry menu.

‘The
palatschinken,’
said Rheinhardt to the waiter. ‘What are they filled with?’

‘Curd cheese,’ the waiter replied.

‘I’ll have two, then.’

The waiter turned to Liebermann.

‘Powidltascherln.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the waiter. He darted off, narrowly missing his colleague who was travelling in the opposite direction. Some civil servants at an adjacent table had drunk too much wine and one of their party — a bibulous gentleman with a large red nose — started to sing a jolly song from
La Belle Hélène.
He suddenly fell silent halfway through the second verse.

Rheinhardt was not distracted by the laughter and jibes that followed. He undid one of the buttons of his waistcoat and leaned forward: ‘It was late and Frau Lachkovics had already gone to bed. The girl heard something: footsteps. But, given her mental deficiency, I am not convinced that the poor child’s account reflects what actually happened, although it contains, I believe, a kernel of truth. It would seem that she was disturbed by the perpetrator’s arrival
or
departure and that there is no way of telling which; however, I think the facts of the case are more consistent with the former than the latter. Jana Lachkovics heard Griesser — let us use his
nom de guerre
for convenience’s sake — ascend the stairs to Wirth’s apartment,
but she did not respond immediately.
Enough time elapsed for Wirth and Griesser to become intimate, during which interlude Jana Lachkovics finally reached her decision to investigate. She stood on the landing and shouted
“Is anyone there?”
and Griesser, on hearing her call and fearing discovery, stabbed Wirth through the heart. He may have already determined (on account of Fräulein Babel’s final act of resistance) that he was going to use a dagger instead of the hatpin he had purchased at Frau Schuschnig’s … or if there was any uncertainty in his mind, I have no doubt that the sound of Jana Lachkovics’s voice resolved the matter. He subsequently chose the less complicated means of dispatch.’