Deadly Communion (33 page)

Although it was almost eleven o’ clock the station was still very busy. The late train from Trieste had just arrived and a crowd of people were hurrying across the concourse. A dark-skinned gentleman wearing a djellaba, fez and soft yellow slippers passed, accompanied by a porter dragging a gilded chest on a trolley. Following close behind him were a group of extraordinarily noisy Italian women, and some Austrian businessmen who clearly thought that ‘ladies’ should conduct themselves with greater decorum in a public place. A whistle sounded and somewhere a jet of steam was expelled. The air smelt of coal dust and oil.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann struggled through the stream of human traffic and made their way to the luggage lockers. They presented Fräulein Wirth’s ticket to the clerk and, after making an entry in his ledger, he gave them a key in return.

Each of the lockers was numbered, and they found number one hundred and six at the end of the first row. Rheinhardt crouched down. Before he turned the key he glanced up at his friend.

‘I am reluctant to open it up for fear of being disappointed.’ The bolt sounded and Rheinhardt eased the door open. ‘Yes, there’s something inside.’ The inspector reached in and took out a cylinder of rolled-up paper and some postcards. He rose and turned the first photographic image towards Liebermann.

It showed two young girls — naked. Their bodies were barely pubescent and they stood, rather awkwardly, in front of a floral backdrop. They affected interest in a horned figurine that had been placed on a stand. The second photographic image showed the same two girls sprawled on a rug, and the third showed them kissing.

Liebermann took the postcards and studied them closely. He picked out the first again and tilted it to capture more light.

‘This girl — the one with the birthmark on her stomach …’

Rheinhardt glanced at the naked model and then back at Liebermann.

‘She looks …’ He hesistated before adding: ‘Familiar.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking.’

‘It can’t be — surely not.’

‘I think it is … and I strongly suspect that her companion is Selma Wirth.’

Liebermann turned the card over to see if he could find out where it had been printed. But there was no information of that kind. Rheinhardt began unrolling the cylinder of paper. He discovered that he was holding a very accomplished but extremely distasteful pencil sketch: two girls — clearly the same girls — lying side by side, their legs spread apart. One of them was wearing black stockings while the other was entirely nude.

Rheinhardt recognised the style: the emaciated bodies, the mass of baroque detail where their young thighs met. The signature confirmed his initial suspicion.

‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked Liebermann, pointing to the cursive scrawl in the lower right-hand corner.

R
AINMAYR STOOD IN THE
centre of his studio, admiring his own sketch.

‘Well, well,’ he said to Rheinhardt. ‘Wherever did you get this from?’ It’s not bad really. There are a few things I’d do differently today. The perspective is a little uninteresting and the faces are somewhat dull — but it’s perfectly acceptable. Of course, I could get the same effect with less effort these days.’

‘When did you make this sketch?’

Rainmayr shook his head: ‘Oh, I couldn’t say exactly. It must have been over twenty years ago.’ He made a knocking sound on the roof of his mouth with his tongue, before adding: ‘No, more than that, most probably: twenty-five, perhaps?’

‘Who did you sell it to?’

‘I can’t remember, inspector. I’ve done so many sketches like this. But you must tell me, where did you get it from?’

‘Herr Rainmayr, do you recall the names of these young models?’

‘No, it was too long ago.’

‘Do you remember anything about them?’

‘I do,’ said Rainmayr. Then, correcting himself, he added. ‘I mean, I don’t. No.’

Rheinhardt glanced at Liebermann. The inspector had become as sensitive as any analyst to the small and telling errors of speech described by Professor Freud. Liebermann nodded, confirming that the slip was significant.

Rainmayr noticed that something had passed between the two men and added nervously: ‘They were street girls. I don’t know how many street girls have worked for me over the years — hundreds. You can’t expect me to remember every single one of them.’

‘Herr Rainmayr,’ said Liebermann. ‘You know very well who these girls are.’

The artist laid the sketch down on his table and looked across the room at Liebermann: ‘No, I don’t. I honestly can’t remember.’

‘With respect,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I have found Doctor Liebermann to be very good at determining whether or not people are telling the truth.’

‘What? He can read minds?’

Liebermann shrugged, as if to say:
as good as.

‘Then maybe he should do a turn at Ronacher’s,’ said the artist, smiling. ‘They’re looking for some new acts.’

Rheinhardt circled the easel and considered Rainmayr’s unfinished painting. It was typical of the artist’s work: a young woman with wasted limbs, small breasts, and exposed pudendum. Rheinhardt focused his attention on the girl’s eyes. He searched for the person within but found no evidence of occupation. It was as though her soul had departed. The emptiness was chilling.

‘Herr Rainmayr, if you do not cooperate I will be returning this evening accompanied by my assistant and three constables. We will confiscate all of your work, you will be tried and you will spend many months in jail. Well, Herr Rainmayr? Are you going to cooperate, or are you going to put your trust in those powerful patrons of yours — gentlemen who I am confident will offer you little assistance at the first sign of trouble?’

‘You cannot intimidate me, Rheinhardt,’ Rainmayr sneered.

‘Good day, then,’ Rheinhardt replied, bowing curtly. He marched towards the door, inviting Liebermann to follow.

‘No — wait,’ Rainmayr called out. His voice had become thin and attenuated. The artist picked up a solitary cigarette from among the
detritus on his table. Then he rummaged, without success, for some matches.

Rheinhardt offered him a light.

‘There. Now, who are they?’

Rainmayr drew on the cigarette and shook his head. ‘This girl here is Selma Wirth.’ He pointed at one of the reclining nudes depicted in his sketch. ‘You are already familiar with that name, of course. Like poor Adele Zeiler — one of Sprenger’s victims.’ He shook his head again. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I first read of Selma’s murder — and so soon after Adele’s. Two of them! It was like being jinxed. I was worried that you would discover that Wirth had also been one of my models once, albeit a long time ago, and make a connection. You will appreciate that I did not want to find myself arrested on suspicion of committing a double murder.’

‘Were you still acquainted with Selma Wirth?’

‘No.’ Rainmayr blew smoke out through his nostrils. ‘About a year ago we ran into each other by chance in a coffee house. We spoke briefly, but it wasn’t a very agreeable exchange. She asked me for money — which I didn’t have. She was bitter and quite rude as it happens.’

‘Why do you think that was?’

‘I have no idea and I didn’t stay long enough to find out. Apart from that one occasion, the last time I saw her would have been over twenty years ago. When she was sixteen or seventeen.’

Rheinhardt pointed to the other reclining nude.

‘And this girl? Who is she?’

Rainmayr grimaced and was evidently struggling to resolve some inner quandary. He sighed and said quietly: ‘Hofler. Erika Hofler.’

Liebermann stepped forward.

‘Herr Rainmayr, you are lying.’

The artist threw an evil look at the young doctor. ‘Not such a great mind-reader after all. You had me fooled for a minute.’

Rheinhardt raised his hand to stop Liebermann’s riposte and said: ‘Go on, Herr Rainmayr.’

‘Erika Hofler,’ Rainmayr continued. ‘A pretty one: I liked her a great deal. She was different from the others. She actually showed an interest in my work and asked questions about colour and form. When she wasn’t modelling she wouldn’t just lounge around being cheeky, she’d pick up one of my books. I’d catch her reading Vasari’s
Lives
or Cellini. She wanted to learn, so I gave her some lessons and she wasn’t at all bad. The other girls resented her, of course. They were jealous.’

The artist took a few more drags from his cigarette and stubbed it out on a plate.

‘She had it hard, young Erika. Her father was a brute. He drank heavily and flogged his wife and children with a strap. I can still remember the marks those beatings left.’ Rainmayr traced some lines in the air. ‘Once, I did a study of Erika’s wounds for a client.’ Rainmayr’s eyes glazed over as he recreated the image in his mind. ‘Hofler eventually drank himself to death, which was a good thing in some ways but not in others. Frau Hofler didn’t have much money when Hofler was alive, but after he was gone …’ Rainmayr showed his palms. ‘The money I paid Erika was all they had. There was a younger sister, too: Mona, a beautiful little girl, but always sickly. She couldn’t run without coughing up blood. One of the bad winters finished her off. The charity doctors did what they could. It wasn’t enough.’ Rainmayr shook his head. ‘She needed to see a specialist. Poor Erika was devastated. And Frau Hofler … well, what can one say. Something happened to her head.’ Rainmayr screwed his finger against his temple. ‘They put her away in one of the institutions.’

‘How did Erika survive?’

‘I supported her for a while, but eventually she stopped modelling and found other ways of making money—’

‘Prostitution?’ Rheinhardt cut in.

‘You know how it is, inspector.’ Rainmayr picked up one of his
brushes and began to clean it with a rag. ‘Three years ago I was invited to an exhibition: and there she was — Erika Hofler. She was calling herself Kristina Feuerstein. She’d become a respected couturière. She’d worked in the big fashion houses of Paris and on her return to Vienna mixed with the secessionists.’

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she recognised you?’

‘Of course.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘We talked about art, inspector.’ Rainmayr dropped the clean paintbrush into the groove on his easel. ‘I don’t have to say any more, do I, inspector? I’m sure you know enough now for your purposes.’

‘Why do you feel obliged to protect Frau Vogl? We
are
speaking about Frau Vogl — aren’t we?’

‘I don’t feel
obliged,
inspector.’

‘All right: why do you
want
to then?’

‘She started off as a street girl and now she enjoys the society of countesses. I admire her. You think I’m some kind of monster, like Sprenger. You are quite wrong. I have my own code of conduct which might be different to yours — but it is a code of conduct nevertheless. Erika has managed to put her past behind her. Well, Good luck to her. She was my little favourite …’

As Rainmayr said the word
favourite
the cast of his countenance altered. There was something about his expression that made Rheinhardt think of the gentleman he had observed in the playground. He saw again the man’s hungry eyes locked on his daughter Mitzi as she ascended the climbing frame.

‘What happned to Frau Hofler?’ asked Liebermann.

The artist shrugged.

‘How should I know?’

K
RISTINA DISMISSED HER ASSISTANT
and offered Rheinhardt and Liebermann chairs. They were gathered, once again, in the modernist reception room of House Vogl. A sketchbook lay open on the cuboid table, showing a female figure in a shapeless ‘reform’ kaftan, her arms raised above her head and the wide, loose sleeves collapsed into generous folds around her narrow shoulders. Kristina remarked that she had not anticipated the pleasure of their company again so soon, and as she spoke Liebermann noticed how she brushed Rheinhardt’s hand — ever so gently — with her own. It was a quick and subtle manoeuvre that might easily have been missed had he not been studying the couturière as closely as he would a patient.

‘Now, inspector’ she said, her facial muscles tensing to revive her wilting smile, ‘how may I help?’

Rheinhardt looked weary.

‘Some items have come into our possession which I would like you to examine.’

‘Items?’

‘Yes.’ Rheinhardt opened his holdall and took out the postcards. ‘Some images of young women: formerly the property of Fräulein Wirth. I am obliged to forewarn you that they represent examples of a low art produced for gentlemen of questionable character.’

He handed Kristina the postcards and she placed them on her lap. As soon as she registered the first tableau — the two girls standing
awkwardly in front of the floral backdrop — she was clearly shaken. A pulse became visible on her long neck. She struggled to manufacture an impression of disinterested bewilderment.

‘Inspector.’ She made a supplicating gesture, showing her palms. ‘I don’t know what to say …’

‘Where do you think Fräulein Wirth got these from?’

‘They must have been left in her apartment by a gentleman.’

‘We did not find them in her apartment.’

The couturière swallowed.

‘Where, then?’

‘In a luggage locker at the Südbahnhof.’

Kristina repeated her gesture of supplication.

‘Perhaps she intended to sell them. Poor Selma had very little money.’

‘Frau Vogl, look closely — if you will — at that first image. Do you recognise those girls?’

Kristina ran her fingers along the edge of the uppermost card.

‘See how worn it is,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t it very old — this postcard? I’m afraid I don’t recognise them — no — how could I?’

Liebermann leaned forward.

‘Ashputtel.’

Kristina Vogl turned to face the young doctor. Her expression demonstrated that she welcomed his interjection, even though it was utterly incomprehensible.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Ashputtel — the story — as depicted in the lithographs hanging on your bedroom wall: last month, when Inspector Rheinhardt and I came to your house, I made some comments concerning the lithographs and your profession. How fitting — I said — that a couturière should have a special liking for a story in which so many dresses appear. You said that this had never before occurred to you.’