Deadly Communion (22 page)

‘How very interesting.’

Professor Mathias touched the black hair very gently, bending the shaft. He then did the same with a blonde hair.

‘The black hair is more bristly than the blonde.’ His expression
showed that he considered that black hair’s resistance a promising indication. ‘Miss Lydgate. Your eyesight is superior to mine.’ He tapped the lenses of his spectacles emphatically. ‘Would you set up the microscope and prepare two slides: black and blonde.’

Mathias passed her the black hair and one of the blonde hairs which she took with great, almost exaggerated, care.

Amelia did as she was instructed and switched on an electric lamp. She bent over the eyepiece of the microscope and rotated the turret until she had found an appropriate objective.

‘Let us begin with breadth,’ said Professor Mathias. ‘What do you see?’

‘The black hair is thicker.’

‘And the tip of each hair?’

‘The black hair is sharper — the blonde hair more rounded.’

‘Now the cuticle. Can you see the scales?’

Amelia increased the magnification.

‘Yes.’

‘Are there differences in scale size — or distribution?’

‘No.’

‘Now the bulb. Although the bulb has fewer differentiating features than the shaft, it can also provide us with very valuable information. A plump bulb — and the presence of traces of the ruptured hair sheath — is typical of a healthy hair that has been detached by force, while a shrunken and wrinkled bulb — without any sheath — is typical of dead or diseased hairs.’

‘Herr professor?’

Amelia’s voice contained a note of excitement.

‘Yes.’

‘There is something rather odd … a reflection perhaps.’ She changed the position of the lamp without lifting her head. ‘No. It is not a reflection. How strange.’

‘What is?’

‘The black hair. The shaft is entirely black — but just above the bulb … it is blonde.’

‘May I see?’

Amelia stepped aside and allowed Professor Mathias to look down the barrel of the microscope.

‘It has been dyed.’

‘Oh …’ said Amelia.

‘You sound disappointed, Miss Lydgate.’

Mathias turned to look at her.

‘I was hoping,’ said Amelia, ‘that we had chanced upon a piece of useful evidence, a hair from the head of the perpetrator. But now we must suppose that this hair belongs to another female entertainer.’

‘Must we?’ said the professor.

A
FTER ATTENDING
P
ROFESSOR
M
ATHIAS’S
autopsy Rheinhardt had returned to Löiberger’s. He had visited the coffee house earlier in the day, but it had been closed and a sign in the window had informed him that the establishment would not be open again until six; however, it was nearly half past that hour when a man appeared, striding down the middle of the street, jingling a set of keys in his hand. He was a portly fellow, with a round face and snub nose, which, taken together with his black curly hair and steel-rimmed glasses, made him look very much — so Rheinhardt thought — like Schubert.

‘Herr Löiberger?’

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘I’m Löiberger.’ Then he laughed, for no apparent reason.

‘Inspector Reinhardt — security office. May I come in?’

‘Of course. My regulars won’t be here for hours yet.’ Again, the laugh. It didn’t seem to be a nervous laugh but merely a welling-up of good humour.

Löiberger unlocked the door and pushed it open.

‘Please sit down, inspector. I’ll get you something to drink.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

‘No, I insist. You look as though you’ve been waiting. You must be cold.’

For once, Rheinhardt didn’t object. The day — which had started so early — was beginning to catch up with him. Löiberger disappeared
through a doorway behind a counter piled high with pyramids of Turkish delight and
punschkrapfen.
Rheinhardt sat at a window table and looked around the dark interior. It was a shabby little coffee house. Yet it had a certain bohemian charm. The walls were hung with Venetian carnival masks and photographs of famous actors. A bust of Goethe stood on a pedestal outside the toilets.

Löiberger returned with a tray on which he balanced a bottle of schnapps and two shot glasses. He took the seat opposite Rheinhardt and poured the drinks.

‘Thank you,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You are most kind.’

‘Prost!’
said Löiberger, raising the glass before throwing his head back and emptying the contents down his throat.

‘Prost!’
returned Rheinhardt.

It was good schnapps.

‘So, inspector,’ said Löiberger, refilling the glasses. ‘How can I help?’

‘Do you know who Cäcilie Roster is?’

‘Yes, of course. She’s one of my regulars.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Last night. She stayed late — as usual. And left just after midnight.’

‘Was she with anyone?’

Löiberger laughed: ‘Was she with someone? She’s always with someone. She caused a stir last week by arriving with two giants. I’m not joking, inspector, two giants.’

‘I believe you,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But last night, Herr Löiberger. If you could try to remember who she was with last night?’

‘A gentleman …’

‘What did he look like?’

‘A handsome fellow: high cheekbones and very bright eyes.’

‘Blue?’

‘I think so. Yes. I assumed he was a performer.’

‘Do you remember the colour of his hair?’

‘Black.’

‘Did you serve him?’

‘Yes.’

Rheinhardt paused.

‘Herr Löiberger, I am sure that my next question will strike you as rather peculiar. But I would be most grateful if you would give it your most serious consideration. What did this man smell like?’

Herr Löiberger gave the question a moment’s thought, and then burst out laughing. ‘Really, inspector …’

F
RAU
H
ARRER ARRIVED AT
Rainmayr’s studio with her two daughters, Fränzel and Gusti. She was about to follow them inside when Rainmayr stopped her with a raised finger.

‘I’d rather you didn’t. There’s no need.’ Before Frau Harrer could object, he produced some coins and pressed them into her moist palm. ‘You can expect more, in due course.’

She took the money and called after the girls: ‘Fränzel, Gusti. Do whatever Herr Rainmayr says. Understand?’

Rainmayr had first seen Frau Harrer and her daughters in a queue, waiting to be given a free bowl of soup by workers from a women’s charity, and had offered to buy them a more substantial meal in a nearby coffee house. Frau Harrer had not required much persuading and while she and her daughters were bolting down their food Rainmayr had made his proposal. He was never in any doubt that Frau Harrer would accept.

‘Come back this afternoon,’ said Rainmayr, closing the door.

The two girls stood awkwardly in the middle of the studio. The eldest, Fränzel, was probably about fifteen. She had long straight hair and sharp angular features. Gusti, who Rainmayr judged to be a year younger, was obviously related, although her face was less severe.

‘Now,’ said Rainmayr, clapping his hands together. ‘Go behind that screen and take off your clothes.’

‘All of them?’ asked Fränzel.

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s cold.’

‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll light the stove in a minute. Besides, you won’t be entirely naked. I have some new clothes I want you to wear. Pretty clothes.’

He had learned from experience that a businesslike manner was more likely to produce compliance.

The two girls went behind the screen and Rainmayr rummaged in a bag for some garments and accessories. It was a condition laid down by his patron that the commission he was about to begin work on should feature ‘partially clothed models of youthful appearance’.

Fränzel stepped out first, her arms positioned to cover her breasts and genitals. She glanced at Rainmayr nervously, before hissing at her sister: ‘Come on — you have to.’ Gusti appeared a few moments later. Her head was bowed and she was looking at her feet.

‘Over here, you two. Don’t be shy.’

They crossed the floor, leaving a trail of footprints in the charcoal dust. Rainmayr’s eye was immediately drawn to their jutting hip bones and skeletal prominences. Their skin was perfect for his purposes: white and transparent enough to offer tantalising glimpses of internal structures. For Rainmayr, nudity was not simply about the removal of clothing. His aesthetic sensibility demanded a form of nudity that advanced one step further, satisfying a need for deeper and deeper levels of exposure. Not every model could be naked in the way that Rainmayr wanted. The opaque exterior of a well-fed woman held no interest for him.

Rainmayr opened the bag wide and showed the girls what was inside.

‘See. Pretty things.’ He then shook it for good measure.

He picked out a choker and placed it around Fränzel’s neck. Then he found a stocking.

‘Stand on one leg.’

Rainmayr knelt down, slipped the stocking on Fränzel’s foot and pulled it up to her thigh.

‘Now, the other one.’

The girl reached out to steady herself with the hand that she had been previously using to cover her genitals. Rainmayr glanced up and was pleased with what he saw.

T
HE DYING HUMAN WEAKENS
the partition that separates
this
world from
Her
world. In Eastern religions it is said that the soul enters the body when the newborn infant takes its first breath. I believe this to be correct. The first breath creates an opening through which the eternal essence pours, filling the empty vessel of the flesh. A correspondent event occurs with the very last breath. The final exhalation creates the temporary corridor through which the soul must make its exit from the world, the very same corridor through which She enters to effect our liberation. Death is very much like a state of possession. In the moment of death, we are possessed by death.

You grasp, I hope, the significance of this?

Let me be plain.

It occurred to me that expiry during copulation would make communion with Her possible: as the Virgin in Majesty is transformed from Mother to Empress, so the Queen of Darkness is transformed from reaper to lover. She becomes attainable.

I searched for a fitting host but without success. I tried the obvious places — the brothels, the Prater — but none of the women I encountered seemed right. Let us say that they struck a wrong note. In the end, it turned out that my nocturnal jaunts were entirely unnecessary. You see, I didn’t
find
Adele Zeiler. Adele Zeiler found me.

I was sitting in the Volksgarten, admiring the Theseus Temple, when she emerged from a crowd, caught my eye, and sat next to me.

—
Good afternoon.

—
Good afternoon.

Pause.

An exchange of smiles.

—
It’s very pleasant here, isn’t it?

Thus, with these simple words, she sealed her fate. She was flirtatious, engaging, yet at the same time oddly self-contained. Did you ever see her face? It was interesting. That said, it was perfectly clear what kind of woman Fräulein Zeiler was. We arranged to meet again and when we did I gave her the gift that she had been chasing. A hatpin. One of two hatpins, in fact, that I already possessed, having purchased them at Jaufenthaler’s — a grubby little jewellery shop on the Hoher Markt — in readiness.

Ah yes. I am reminded that this is something that interests you.

You will appreciate that my task was fraught with logistical difficulties: guns are noisy, stab wounds bleed, and the time a poison takes to act impossible to calculate. By contrast, the method I chose was silent, clean, and allowed me to determine precisely the moment of communion. Did I think of it myself? No, I didn’t. I learned about it during a chance conversation with a gentleman by the name of Doctor Buchleitner. He was called upon to embalm the body of a twelve-year-old baron who had been accidentally killed by his older brother — a cretin — while writing a letter to his absent father. The cretin had come up behind him, picked up a freshly sharpened pencil, and had then thrust it into his brother’s neck. Unfortunately, the pencil was not stopped by the floor of the skull but went through the foramen magnum and into the brain. Of course, the boy died instantly.

Fräulein Zeiler.

We met in Honniger s, a little coffee house in Spittelberg. I gave her the hatpin and promised her more baubles in due course. Our conversation was frivolous, but we both knew that a contract had
been made and that she would honour her obligation. Therefore I was not surprised when she suggested that we go for an evening stroll in the Volksgarten. By the time we arrived there it was almost dark.

I will assume that you are not interested in our preliminary embraces and kisses. Such things, I dare say, you can imagine. You will be interested in what followed: communion.

P
ROFESSOR
F
REUD TOOK A
panatella from the cigar box on his desk. He had already told Liebermann two jokes that he had heard while playing tarock on Saturday night with Professor Königstein, and was about to tell a third.

‘The villagers went to the cattle market and there were two cows for sale. One from Moscow for two thousand roubles and one from Minsk for a thousand roubles. They bought the cow from Minsk. It produced lots of milk and the people were delighted with their purchase. So much so that they decided to get a bull to mate with the cow. If the calves born of this union were anything like their mother, the shtetl would never be short of milk again. They scraped together just enough money to buy a strong, handsome bull and they put it in the pasture with their prize cow. But things did not go to plan. Whenever the bull approached the cow she did not respond to his bovine ardour. The villagers were very upset and decided to consult their wise rabbi.’ The Professor lit his cigar before continuing.
‘Rabbi,
they said.
Whenever the bull approaches our cow, she moves away. If he approaches from the back, she moves forward. When he approaches her from the front, she moves backwards. An approach from the side, she edges off in the other direction.
The rabbi thought about this for a minute or so and then and asked:
Is this cow
—
by any chance
—
from Minsk?
The villagers were dumbfounded, as they had never mentioned the provenance of their cow.
You are truly a wise rabbi,
they said.
How did you know the cow
is from Minsk?
The rabbi looked at them all with a sorrowful expression, shrugged his shoulders and answered:
My wife is from Minsk.’