Deadly Communion (30 page)

‘Oskar, how can you doubt it!’ Liebermann cried. ‘When Sprenger writes of his visit to the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris he mentions the portal reliefs. His attention was captured by Mary depicted not as Mother of God but as the bride of Christ. Do you not see? That was the turning point. Soon after, he resolved to summon the Angel of Death by commiting a murder. The portal inspired him to summon
his
bride. Mother and bride become one in his unconscious.’ Liebermann reached over and impudently snatched the notebook from Rheinhardt’s lap. ‘And what about this?’ He flicked through the pages with quick, impatient movements.
‘Oh, to be sheltered
—
once again
—
in the sanctuary of those great
wings,
which close around the soul with
the
tenderness of a mother suckling her newborn child?
That is how Sprenger describes communing with the Angel of Death! Does that not strike you as odd? That he chooses to compare one of the most terrifying personifications in mythology to a mother suckling her newborn child!’

Rheinhardt offered a concessionary tilt of the head.

‘Yes, I must admit: that is a most peculiar sentiment to express — given the nature of the being he is describing.’

A lengthy silence ensued, during which Liebermann continued
turning pages, intermittently pausing to reread certain passages. Rheinhardt observed his friend, the intensity of his expression and the stubborn set of his jaw.

‘This is interesting,’ said Liebermann, his voice sounding distant and absorbed. ‘Sprenger says that he was fond of Fräulein Babel. There was something about her that moved him to pity. Do you remember when we were at Fräulein Babel’s apartment? And I suggested that the perpetrator might have left the door open because he wanted to be caught. I think this passage confirms my hypothesis. Some residue of conscience was rebelling against his psychopathology and the effects of the toxin in his brain.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Rheinhardt, his full baritone suddenly sounding abnormally loud. ‘I wanted to ask you about that. You have hitherto given me the impression that the lead oxide was very significant. Yet now you seem to be placing much greater stress on Sprenger’s Oedipal inclinations and his early sexual development.’

‘Both are important,’ Liebermann replied. ‘Sprenger’s longing for his mother, his auto-erotic behaviour, his exploratory games with the village girls, his exposure to the caskets, and his necrophilia in adulthood
all
contributed to his illness. But his wish to commune with the Angel of Death might have remained a wish, and only a wish, had it not been for the lead oxide. It is possible that the poison, over many years, accumulated in those parts of the brain that mediate inhibition. Without inhibitory functioning there was nothing to stop him — and fantasy became reality.’

The two men fell silent and a significant interval of time passed. Somewhere in the building a cello was playing. The notes teased at the limits of audition, suggesting — but never quite becoming — a recognisable melody. Eventually, Liebermann turned towards his friend and said: ‘I think we should consider one other factor that has contributed to Sprenger’s unique presentation.’

‘Oh?’ said Rheinhardt, blinking as he emerged from the closed world of his private cogitations.

‘Us,’ said Liebermann.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Us: me — you — all of us — we Viennese. We are utterly preoccupied with sex and death. The signs of this preoccupation are everywhere: in our theatres, art galleries, opera houses, and concert halls. Consider Klimt’s seductresses, or the funeral marches that director Mahler puts in his symphonies. The good people of Vienna are flocking to the opera house in order to see the new production of
Tristan and Isolde:
a story in which — tellingly — the potions of love and death are confused. Young rakes are always having affairs which end with a demand for satisfaction. What begins in the bedroom progresses inexorably to the grave: prostitutes on the Graben and suicides reported daily in the newspapers — Professor Freud, who has shown us that even a dream of flying is libidinous — Krafft-Ebing — Schnitzler’s promiscuous shop girls — the overblown pomp and macabre ceremony of our funerals — and syphilis, our national disease — always there to remind us of our dual obsession: sex and death. Sick bodies produce symptoms — and the sick body of our society has produced Sprenger!’

Rheinhardt grunted into his brandy glass.

‘You seem to be making an appeal for clemency on Sprenger’s behalf. Let us not forget those poor women: Fräuleins Zeiler, Babel, Wirth and Roster.’ Rheinhardt put down his brandy glass and pulled at his lower lip. ‘Just a moment …’ His eyes widened. ‘Sprenger doesn’t mention Fräulein Wirth.’

‘I was wondering how long it would take you to realise that.’

Two furrows appeared on Rheinhardt’s forehead.

‘Why doesn’t he mention Selma Wirth?’

‘He doesn’t mention Selma Wirth — because he has no idea who she is.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t kill her.’

‘How can you say that?’

Liebermann lifted the notebook and held it up in the air like a fervent preacher wielding his Bible: ‘What Sprenger has written in here is entirely coherent. One couldn’t fabricate such a history. A fabricated history would be full of anomalies and wouldn’t make sense psychologically. He has not baulked at admitting the murders of Fräuleins Zeiler, Babel and Roster, so why should he baulk at admitting to the murder of Fräulein Wirth?’

‘Could the omission of Fräulein Wirth be a failure of memory? You said he is being given morphium.’

‘No, Oskar. Sprenger never knew her. She was killed with a dagger, not a hatpin. We should have given this inconsistency more thought, afforded it greater significance.’ Liebermann allowed his words to register and waited for the alarm to show in Rheinhardt’s eyes, before adding: ‘Fräulein Wirth’s murderer is still at large.’

‘Dear God,’ said Rheinhardt, picking up his glass again. Liebermann poured him another brandy. The inspector swung his head back and dispensed with the contents like a shot of schnapps. He coughed and repeated: ‘Dear God.’ Rheinhardt turned the empty glass in his hand: ‘What now? Where do we begin?’

‘Frau Vogl?’ Liebermann ventured.

‘Yes, and Fräulein Wirth’s neighbour, Frau Lachkovics. Perhaps they will be able to remember some new detail. The neighbour’s daughter — Jana — was a simple child. I doubt that she will be able to help us more than she already has.’

‘When we questioned Frau Vogl she mentioned seeing a man wearing a bowler hat waiting in the courtyard outside Fräulein Wirth’s apartment.’

‘She did indeed.’

‘And Frau Vogl believed that Frau Wirth was seeing someone — a lover.’

‘It was only a suspicion and if the gentleman wearing the bowler hat was Frau Wirth’s lover why would he have been loitering in the courtyard?’

‘A good question: to which the answer might be that he was waiting in the courtyard in order to observe the arrival of Frau Vogl.’

‘To what end?’

Liebermann shrugged.

‘I don’t know.’

It was obvious to Rheinhardt that his friend had had an idea but was not eager to share it. The inspector, slightly irritated by Liebermann’s evasiveness, voiced his own train of thought.

‘There was also the landlord’s agent,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Shevchenko. I’ll talk to him again. Fräulein Wirth had fallen behind with her rent. Frau Lachkovics said that her neighbour was in debt because she was always spending money on doctors.’

‘Doctors …’ Liebermann repeated. Then, playing a five-finger exercise on Sprenger’s notebook, he added: ‘Fräulein Wirth had a
consultation
with Doctor Vogl.’ The word ‘consultation’ sagged under a weight of innuendo.

Rheinhardt spoke sofly: ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘When we left the Vogls’ house I couldn’t help feeling that there was something—’

‘Wrong,’ Rheinhardt cut in. ‘I know, Max. But you didn’t succeed in winning me over to that view.’

‘What if there had been some impropriety?’

‘Between Vogl and Wirth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Vogl wouldn’t have killed Wirth to ensure her silence — if that’s what you’re thinking — even if exposure would have meant
the end of his marriage. A man in Vogl’s position wouldn’t take such a risk. Besides, Frau Vogl is a striking, handsome woman — is she not? It seems unlikely that Vogl would have chosen to pursue his wife’s lame friend. What are we to suppose — that while Vogl was examining her wasted leg he was overcome with passion?’

‘She could have seduced him. She could have offered him particular
favours
— to which men are partial and for which women commonly express distaste.’

‘And why would she have done that?’

‘To spite Frau Vogl.’

‘Frau Vogl was Frau Wirth’s friend.’

‘A beautiful, healthy, talented, successful friend — feted by society and loved by her husband. One could grow to resent such a friend if one was a lame laundry worker.’

Rheinhardt considered Liebermann’s proposal and shook his head.

‘No … you are wrong.’

Liebermann smiled.

‘I might be wrong — but not
very
wrong.’

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

‘Actually, I’m having the day off.’

‘Then I hope,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you haven’t arranged to do anything important.’

L
IEBERMANN AND
R
HEINHARDT MET
mid-morning for coffee and proceeded directly to Frau Vogl’s salon. On entering, they found the vestibule empty. They waited a few moments to be received but no one came to greet them.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Rheinhardt. Liebermann pointed to an electric bell push mounted on the wall and pressed it.

A faint ringing emanated from somewhere within the building.

In due course, the door at the rear of the vestibule opened and a young woman with blonde hair entered. They both recognised her from their visit to Frau Vogl’s house.

‘Inspector,’ said the young woman.

‘Fräulein,’ Rheinhardt responded, bowing.

‘Was Madame expecting you? She didn’t say—’

‘No,’ Rheinhardt cut in. ‘Frau Vogl wasn’t expecting me; however, I would be most grateful if she would spare us a few minutes of her valuable time.’

‘What shall I tell her?’

‘That I wish to speak with her.’

‘In connection with …?’

‘A matter of utmost importance.’

‘Madame is upstairs with the machinists. I’ll let her know that you’re here.’ Then she curtsied and excused herself. The sound of her
footsteps — remarkably heavy for a young woman — could be heard as she made her ascent.

Several minutes later the figure of Kristina Vogl appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a blue dress which complemented her eyes and her dark hair had been skilfully arranged in a bouffant wave. A few loose strands hung down past her ears: a hint of dishabille which softened her features and carried with it a suggestion of the bedroom. Above her heart was a large brooch. It was square-shaped, partitioned into quadrants by a silver cross, and each of these quadrants was filled with colourful semi-precious stones.

‘Inspector,’ Kristina said warmly. ‘What a surprise.’ She advanced and offered Rheinhardt her hand, which he took and kissed. When he lifted his head, he took a step backwards, as if he could not tolerate standing so close to such a radiant being.

‘Frau Vogl,’ he said, unable to conceal his admiration.

‘May I get you some refreshment, inspector? Some tea, perhaps?’

‘No, thank you.’

Kristina addressed her assistant: ‘Wanda, is the reception room ready?’

‘Yes, madame,’ replied the young woman.

‘We’ll continue when I’ve finished with Inspector Rheinhardt and Doctor Liebermann. Run along now.’ Liebermann was surprised that Frau Vogl could remember his name — particularly as she had not taken the trouble to acknowledge his presence. ‘This way, please, gentlemen.’

She led them to a large room which so overwhelmed the young doctor that he found himself surveying his surroundings in a state of blissful enchantment. Being a devotee of all things modern he was almost incapacitated by the white lacquered walls and the long mirrors, the glass lamps and the elegant simplicity of the furniture. The cuboid table looked very much like the one he had purchased for his smoking room.

‘Beautiful,’ said Liebermann. ‘Is the decor by Moser?’

‘Moser and Hoffmann: if you are interested, there are some examples of their jewellery-work displayed in the vitrine.’ Liebermann looked through the tilted window at the treasures displayed within. His attention was immediately captured by a bracelet, made from coral salamanders. ‘Please,’ the hostess continued. ‘Do sit down, inspector.’

Rheinhardt waited for Kristina to settle before lowering himself onto one of the hoop-backed chairs.

‘Herr doctor …’ said Rheinhardt, looking up at his friend. ‘Would you care to join us?’

‘Of course,’ said Liebermann, a little embarrassed. ‘My apologies.’

With some difficulty, he pulled himself away from the vitrine. Taking one of the vacant places, he addressed Frau Vogl: ‘Delightful. I am very fond of Moser. I have a table just like this one.’

‘By Moser?’

‘Yes.’

Kristina’s expression showed that she was impressed; however, she did not enccourage Liebermann to elaborate. Instead, she turned to face Rheinhardt.

‘Inspector, I must congratulate you. When I saw the headline on the front page of the Wiener Zeitung … well, you cannot imagine my relief. My dear husband was so worried for my safety he would not let me leave the house without an escort! It is wonderful to be free of fear once again.’

‘Frau Vogl, you are most kind, but I did not catch Sprenger alone. Much of the credit for his capture must go to my colleague here — Doctor Liebermann — who, for professional reasons, prefers his police activities to remain unreported in the newspapers.’

Kristina glanced at Liebermann, somewhat uneasily.

‘You wanted to speak to me concerning a matter of utmost importance. I presume it has something to do with poor Selma.’

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That is correct. There are some aspects of
Fräulein Wirth’s circumstances which require clarification. You may be able to help us.’