Deadly Communion (31 page)

‘Oh?’

‘You will recall that during our prior interview, you suggested that Fräulein Wirth might have found an admirer.’

‘I …’ Kristina hesitated and shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. I pitied Selma. Her life was never easy and she seemed to be the recipient of more than her fair share of bad luck. I was always hoping that she would meet someone. I think in my eagerness to see her happily married I rashly overestimated the significance of the small changes I observed in her dress and manner.’

‘Frau Vogl,’ Liebermann ventured. ‘What were these small changes?’

‘Oh,’ Kristina replied. ‘I can’t remember, precisely. She smiled more: I suppose one would say she was … I don’t know, more
girlish.’

‘And her dress?’ Liebermann pressed.

‘What about it?’

‘How was it different?’

‘She had bought a new … no.’ Kristina looked flustered. ‘No. She looked more groomed — that’s all …’

Rheinhardt leaned forward in his chair.

‘Frau Vogl, you said that you saw a man waiting outside Fräulein Wirth’s apartment.’

Kristina looked confused — but then, quite suddenly, her face brightened with recognition.

‘Yes, that’s right: a man with a bowler hat.’

‘Please, Frau Vogl. Think very carefully. Can you remember anything else about him?’

‘No. He was just … a man.’

‘Is it possible that this gentleman could have been Fräulein Wirth’s admirer?’

‘Inspector, on reflection, I do not think that Selma had an admirer.’

‘But, let us assume — for argument’s sake — that your early suspicions were correct. Is it at all
conceivable
that the gentleman who you saw might have been Fräulein Wirth’s lover?’

‘I couldn’t possibly say.’ A note of irritation had crept into her voice. ‘With respect, inspector, I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions. What difference does it make if this man
was
or
wasn’t
Selma’s lover? Indeed, what difference does it make if she
did
or
didn’t
have a lover at all?’

Rheinhardt leaned forward.

‘I regret to say that the answer to these questions may be of considerable importance, Frau Vogl, because we now have good reason to believe that Markus Sprenger did not kill Selma Wirth.’

Frau Vogl’s expression hardened.

‘What?’

‘I am sorry. I appreciate that you will find this news most distressing.’

Kristina breathed deeply and her bosom rose and fell.

‘I don’t understand. What are you saying, inspector?’ The pitch of her voice rose hysterically. ‘Sprenger … it was in
all
the newspapers. Markus Sprenger.’

‘I am afraid that some new evidence has come to light.’

‘New evidence?’

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. He did not reveal more, even though Kristina’s expression communicated an urgent appeal for more information. Some moments passed before she straightened her back and recovered her composure. ‘Do you think then,’ she said in a lower, more controlled register, ‘that I am still in danger?’

‘Possibly,’ said Rheinhardt.

Kristina raised a trembling hand to her temple.

‘Oh, this is dreadful. Quite dreadful. Are you sure, inspector? Are you sure it was not Sprenger?’

Rheinhardt nodded solemnly.

‘Frau Vogl, we are very much in need of your help. Think very carefully. Did Fräulein Wirth give you any reason to worry about her safety? Did she say anything that might be pertinent?’

Kristina looked from Rheinhardt to Liebermann — and back again.

‘Yes.’ The word was tentative, experimental. ‘Yes, she may have …’

Rheinhardt took out his notebook and pencil.

‘Please …’

‘Selma despised the landlord’s agent.’

‘Shevchenko?’

‘Was that his name? I only knew him as the
landlord’s agent.’

‘Why did she despise him?’

‘She said he was ill-mannered — uncouth — an animal — and…’ Kristina touched her colourful brooch as if the stones were magical and might endow her with the strength to continue. ‘I think he once presented her with an obscene proposition.’

‘I am afraid you must be specific, Frau Vogl.’

‘He offered to cancel her debt, if she …’

‘Submitted to him,’ Rheinhardt offered helpfully.

‘Yes. If she submitted to him.’

‘I see.’

Rheinhardt made a few notes.

‘Frau Vogl,’ said Liebermann. ‘You say that you
think
Shevchenko made an obscene proposition. Why
think?
Surely, if Fräulein Wirth told you this, it is not speculative.’

‘I’m sorry … The agent
did
make such a proposition. Yes.’

‘Selma told you this?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Yes. She did.’

The inspector bit the end of his pencil: ‘Frau Vogl. Why did you not mention this before?’

‘It had slipped my mind. You must understand — this conversation — we had it almost a year ago. And Selma never referred to it again.
I naturally assumed that after Selma had refused him the landlord’s agent had refrained from making further advances. Nor did I imagine that Shev — … Shev —…’

‘Shevchenko,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘That Shevchenko would perhaps — one day — force himself upon her. If I had thought such a thing I would have demanded she leave the apartment — whatever she said, however she objected — and made appropriate provision.’

Rheinhardt looked up from his notebook. Liebermann sighed as he saw the flame of admiration reignite behind his friend’s melancholy eyes.

They found a coffee house close to the cathedral.

‘I’m going to telephone Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I’ll get him to locate Shevchenko and call me back here if he has any success.’

Rheinhardt went to find the telephone booth and on his return Liebermann saw his friend talking to the head waiter. A few coins changed hands and the waiter bowed obsequiously.

‘Ah,’ said Rheinhardt, delighted to see that their order had arrived. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’ He sipped his Türkische and cut through the plum flan with the edge of his fork. It was a generous portion: a slab of moist pastry, covered in crescents of purple fruit and sprinkled with icing sugar. He chewed slowly to prolong his first moments of pleasure. ‘Excellent. What did you order?’ He looked at Liebermann’s nondescript white wedge.

‘Cheesecake,’ said Liebermann.

Rheinhardt shrugged, took another sip of his coffee and resumed eating. When he had consumed roughly half of his flan he remembered his companion and said: ‘Well. What did you think?’

Liebermann stirred his Schwarzer and stared into his cup as if the answer he should give was written on the spiral of light brown froth.

‘Something isn’t right.’

Rheinhardt stopped chewing.

‘You thought she was, what? Lying?’

Liebermann put down his spoon.

‘From the moment she saw you, she seemed anxious to disarm you. She offered her hand, flattered you, and smiled like a coquette.’

‘Perhaps she saw in my person an admirable figure of manhood — and was unable to contain herself.’

Rheinhardt smiled into Liebermann’s surly visage.

The young doctor considered his friend’s remark and proceeded as if it had never been made.

‘She said that Selma Wirth had looked different and was about to say that Wirth had bought a new dress; then, on remembering that Wirth was in no position to make such a purchase she changed her mind and opted for an innocuous comment concerning the woman’s grooming habits.’

‘You are not a psychic, Max. That is pure supposition.’

‘She seemed bemused when you first mentiond the man with the bowler hat, and I strongly suspect that this was because she had only the faintest recollection of having claimed to have seen him. When you announced that Wirth’s killer was still at large, her reaction was most interesting: she was more concerned about how you had come to that conclusion than her own safety: and when you pressed her for more information concerning Fräulein Wirth’s circumstances, she seemed to pluck the Shevchenko incident out of the air. The way she was speaking sounded to me like … like an improvisation. Particularly when she pretended that she couldn’t remember his name. In fact, she has a very good memory for names.’ Liebermann picked up his fork but the utensil halted before reaching its destination. ‘Frau Vogl said that Wirth had told her about Shevchenko’s proposition almost a year ago — without the slightest hesitation. Most people, when
recalling an event in the past, pause or slow down so that they can calculate the time that has elapsed. The absence of a pause suggests that no calculation was necessary.’

‘Which means?’

‘Contrary to appearances, she had already given the matter of Shevchenko’s indecent proposal much consideration, or …’

‘What?’

‘She was making it all up.’

Rheinhardt pushed the remains of his plum flan around the edge of his plate.

‘You know, Max, I am in danger of being persuaded.’

The inspector finished his cake and took some cigars from his pocket. He gave one to Liebermann, lit it, and then lit his own. Liebermann turned his head and
gazed
out of the window. Rheinhardt wanted to ask his friend what he was thinking but knew there would be little point. The young doctor had retreated into himself.

If Rheinhardt
had
asked the question and Liebermann had responded candidly, the answer would have taken Rheinhardt by surprise. Indeed, it would have shocked him. For at that precise moment Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lydgate inserting her fingers into Bathild Babel’s sex. This image — which had previously disturbed Liebermann — was suddenly no longer prurient, but expressive of certain possibilities …

They smoked their cigars in silence and passed the next hour in desultory conversation. The only topic which moved them to fluency was the music of Karl Goldmark — in particular, the early songs, and his opera Die
Königin von Saba.
In due course the head waiter came to their table. He bowed low and said: ‘Inspector, your assistant is on the telephone.’

S
HEVCHENKO’S OFFICE WAS IN
a room above a piano shop which seemed to attract a very accomplished clientele. Bursts of Beethoven — played with great power and ferocity — rose up through the floorboards. The music created a curious tension in Liebermann’s fingers. They began to twitch sympathetically. It was as if the spirit of Beethoven’s violent genius had stormed his brain and taken possession of his nervous system. Liebermann locked his hands together, fearing that he might be compelled to shadow the
presto agitato
of the C sharp minor Sonata on an imaginary keyboard.

The remains of Shevchenko’s midday meal had not been cleared. An apple core had turned brown and the inedible skin of a sausage — crumpled and semi-transparent — resembled the sloughed-off hide of a snake. A smear of bright yellow mustard contributed an incongruous splash of colour to this otherwise moribund still life. Liebermann was overcome by a sense of bathos. The mundane trappings of Shevchenko’s routine — scraps on a plate — underscored the gulf that separated high art from the necessities of material existence. It seemed to the young doctor that the music which filled the air was arriving from another universe, a place entirely free from corruption, decay and corporeal imperfections.

They had been in Shevchenko’s office for approximately ten minutes.

After introducing Liebermann, Rheinhardt had explained the
purpose of their visit. Shevchenko had listened impassively. Indeed, his expression had verged on indifference.

Liebermann found that he could not look at the Ruthenian without feeling slightly nauseous. The man’s hair was greasy, his beard untrimmed, and dirt had accumulated beneath his fingernails. He wore a frock coat, the material of which had become shiny in places through excessive wear. He also seemed to give off an unpleasant odour, similar to the sour smell that Liebermann associated with geriatric wards — an unpleasant blend of stale perspiration with ammonia.

‘Well, inspector,’ said Shevchenko. ‘I’m sorry to hear that the man who killed Fräulein Wirth is still free — naturally. But I’m afraid you’re wasting your time talking to me. I’ve already told you all that I know about Fräulein Wirth.’

Rheinhardt leaned forward.

‘When we last spoke, Herr Shevchenko, you said that Fräulein Wirth hadn’t paid her rent for months.’

‘Yes. She was always a bad payer. And she would give me such excuses.’ Shevchenko shook his head. ‘Such weak excuses.’

A few bars of the slow movement from the Waldstein
Sonata
wafted up from below.

‘It must be difficult for you to work up here,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘The music! Don’t you find it distracting?’

Shevchenko shrugged.

‘It doesn’t bother me.’

Rheinhardt leaned back and his chair creaked loudly.

‘Tell me, Herr Shevchenko. How would you describe your relations with Fräulein Wirth?’

‘Relations? What do you mean by
relations?’

‘Did you get on?’

‘It’s not my job to get on with tenants, Herr inspector. I collect rents. A rent collector is never very popular.’

‘But, within reason, would you describe your relations with Fräulein Wirth as good?’

Shevchenko paused to consider the question before answering: ‘As good as they could be, given my responsibilities.’

‘She was not an unattractive woman — Fräulein Wirth.’ Shevchenko shrugged again. ‘Did you find her attractive?’

The Ruthenian’s eyes narrowed. He grunted and said: ‘What are you getting at, inspector? I am a plain-speaking man and would prefer it if you came directly to the point.’

‘Did you offer Fräulein Wirth exemption from the payment of rental arrears in exchange for sexual favours?’

The Ruthenian’s right eyebrow rose by a fraction.

‘Who told you that?’

‘A friend of the deceased.’

‘The neighbour? What’s her name? Lenkiewicz? No — Lachkovics! That’s it — was it Frau Lachkovics?’

‘It was not Frau Lachkovics.’

‘Then who? I have a right to know.’ Shevchenko held Rheinhardt’s gaze for a few moments, then sighed and looked away. ‘You have been misinformed, inspector.’