Deadly Communion (6 page)

‘Herr Rainmayr?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am Inspector Rheinhardt — from the security office.’

Rainmayr was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t bother to look up.

‘What’s it about?’ he said gruffly.

‘I am afraid I will need to speak to you in private.’

Rainmayr sighed, made a swift head-to-toe assessment of Rheinhardt, then addressed the women: ‘All right, you two, get dressed. Go and have a coffee at Kirchmann’s. But make sure you get back within the hour.’

The models stood up, exposing their bodies without a hint of self-consciousness, and stepped behind a screen over which their dresses and underwear had been thrown. A petticoat suddenly vanished.

‘Can I offer you something to drink, inspector?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Schnapps?’

‘No, thank you,’ Rheinhardt repeated.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Rainmayr began cleaning his brushes with a rag soaked in turpentine; a simple task, but one which seemed
to require his complete and undivided attention. The sound of giggling and whispering came from behind the screen. Then a slap, the unmistakable whip-crack of an open palm landing squarely on buttocks, followed by a hiss and a curse so obscene that it might have made a stevedore blush.

Rainmayr rolled his eyes and barked: ‘Lissi, Toni. That’s enough!’

A number of unframed but completed canvases were lined up against the far wall. Rheinhardt moved closer to take a look. The floor was covered with charcoal dust. All the paintings were of young women in various states of undress who all shared the same emaciated physique. The largest and most arresting image showed an adolescent girl standing by a mirror, wearing only black stockings and a neck band. The stockings were not held up by garters and hung loosely off her legs. The girl’s right hand was held against her belly, the extended forefinger reaching towards the object of her attention (which Rainmayr had represented in the mirror with a vivid red daub amid the tangle of her pubic hair). She had large eyes, a full mouth, and her expression was provocative. It was a skilfully executed portrait, but Rheinhardt found the subject matter disturbing.

‘Are you interested in buying one, inspector?’ Rainmayr called out.

‘No.’

The syllable was delivered with more vehemence than Rheinhardt had intended.

Rainmayr shrugged.

The two models came out from behind the screen. They were wearing calico dresses and wide-brimmed hats with decorative rosettes.

‘Here,’ said Rainmayr, scooping some coins out of a bowl on the table. ‘Take this.’ He dropped a few hellers into an outstretched hand. ‘No longer than an hour. Understand?’

The women nodded and dashed for the door, suddenly laughing
out loud on account of some private joke. Once they were out of the studio, Rheinhardt remarked frostily: ‘Your models are very young, Herr Rainmayr.’

‘All women look young,’ the artist replied, ‘once you get to a certain age. Besides, they’re older than you think, inspector, and more worldly than you can imagine.’

‘Do you always choose young women as your subjects?’

‘An artist — like everyone else — must have food in his belly. My work reflects the tastes of my patrons. There are a number of collectors who have a weakness for the female form when it enters the transitional phase between adolescence and maturity.’

‘I would very much like to see that list.’

‘Indeed,’ said Rainmayr. ‘I’m sure you would — and if I wasn’t bound to respect confidences I’d enjoy showing it to you. You’d be surprised to learn how many
art lovers
occupy positions of influence and power.’

It was obvious that Rainmayr didn’t fear prosecution.

Commissions from
judges? Rheinhardt wondered.

‘I understand,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that you employ a model called Adele Zeiler — is that correct?’

Rainmayr placed his brushes on the table.

‘Yes. Although I don’t use her as much as I used to. She only works for me occasionally.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Sunday afternoon.’

‘How was she?’

‘No different than usual.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘A dance show that she wanted to see … the new fashion house on Bauernmarkt. At one point she asked me for more work, but I couldn’t satisfy her request and she became a little petulant.’

‘Would you say that you are well acquainted with Fräulein Zeiler?’

‘Yes. I’ve known her for about three years.’

‘You mean to say she started modelling for you when she was fifteen?’

‘Sixteen. I saw her sitting on a park bench with her father and was intrigued by her face. She looked utterly indifferent. A child, yet already bored with everything life might have to offer. I approached Herr Zeiler and we came to an arrangement. He has two more daughters — one suffers from a terrible cough and the other’s a cripple. I did some sketches of the one with the cough once: an engaging face — but not engaging enough.’ Rainmayr shook his head. ‘Herr Zeiler even brought the cripple here when he lost his job and begged me to use her too, but I’m not a charity.’ Rainmayr paused and asked: ‘Has Adele stolen something? Is that why you’re here?’

Rheinhardt examined some drawings that had been stuck to the wall: more naked women in positions suggestive of self-exploration. He responded with a question of his own: ‘Did she say where she was going on Sunday?’

‘After leaving here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ahh,’ said Rainmayr. ‘I see. Run off, has she? Now that wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I think she was getting tired of her situation. At home, I mean. She used to complain about it. She was supporting her family — more or less. You know how it is, inspector: an attractive young woman can always make money.’

‘She didn’t run away, Herr Rainmayr. Adele Zeiler was murdered.’

The artist smiled, as if Rheinhardt was joking.

‘What are you talking about? Murdered!’

‘On Sunday night. Her body was found in the Volksgarten. She’d been stabbed.’

Rainmayr touched the table to steady himself.

‘My God … Poor Adele. Murdered …’

‘Well, did she say where she was going?’

Rainmayr looked up.

‘Yes, she said she was going to meet someone at a coffee house.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. I presumed a man.’

‘Which coffee house?’

‘She mentioned Honniger’s — by the Ulrichskirche.’

T
HEY WERE NEARING THE
end of their music-making and Liebermann found himself reflecting on Rheinhardt’s choice of songs. His friend had demonstrated a distinctly morbid bias, favouring lyrics about gravediggers, sadness, partings and the moon. At one point, the inspector had been quite insistent that they should attempt an infrequently performed Schubert song titled ‘To Death’ and when Rheinhardt sang the opening line —
Death, you horror of nature, Ever-moving runs your clock
— Liebermann detected troubled nuances which made him suspect that his friend had recently paid a visit to the morgue. Years of service in the security office had not inured Rheinhardt to the sight of a corpse: the dead might decompose in the soil but in the medium of his memory they were preserved indefinitely.

‘Before we finish,’ said Liebermann, ‘I would very much like to hear
this
.’ He picked up another volume of Schubert and set it on the music stand.

‘“Der Doppelgänger.”’

Rheinhardt wasn’t entirely sure that his tired vocal cords would be able to deliver a creditable performance. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he assented. ‘But you cannot expect very much from me. My voice is beginning to go.’

Liebermann paused, allowing a respectful silence to precede Schubert’s mysterious introduction. He let his fingers descend and
the keys surrendered under the weight of his hands. The contact produced dense harmonies, played softly like the tolling of a distant bell, evocative of darkness and the ominous approach of something strange. Rheinhardt began to sing:

The narrator returns to the house where a woman he loved once lived. Outside, he sees a man, wringing his hands, racked by grief.

A dissonant note in the melody: a stab of anguish.

Rheinhardt’s voice filled with horror:

The inspector’s rich baritone became powerfully resonant as he sang: ‘You ghostly double, pale companion! Why do you ape the pain of love?’

For a few seconds the music seemed to find release from despair, but the insistent chords of the piano, fateful and benighted, guided the song to its desolate conclusion.

Liebermann did not lift his hands from the keyboard. He was deep in thought.

An interesting lyric …

The narrator sees his doppelgänger; however, his double is not a supernatural being but a vision of himself suffering the agonies of unrequited love. Liebermann wondered how such a hallucination
might arise and what purpose it might serve in the psychic economy? Perhaps the narrator’s inner torment was too much to bear, threatening his sanity, and some protective mechanism had been triggered? His grief — or the overwhelming part of it — had been displaced. If this was the case, then the doppelgänger might be construed as an elaborate defence: the custodian of memories and emotions that would otherwise cause mental disintegration. Liebermann thought of Herr Erstweiler and how he had spoken affectionately of Frau Milena, the young wife of his landlord, Kolinsky. As these ideas accumulated, the young doctor became dimly aware of something impinging on his consciousness, a sound which carried with it a note of frustration. It had originated in the vicinity of his friend.

‘God in heaven, Max. Pay attention! You’ve gone into a trance!’

Liebermann turned. He had still not fully extricated himself from his cogitations.

‘You haven’t heard a single word I’ve been saying!’

Liebermann lifted his hands from the keyboard.

‘I’m afraid not, Oskar. The music inspired a train of thought and I became utterly lost in a fog of my own speculations.’ He closed the lid of the piano and stroked the glossy black lacquer. ‘I’m sorry, what were you saying?’

Rheinhardt heaved a prodigious sigh.

‘It hardly matters now.’

‘Come, Oskar,’ said Liebermann, standing. ‘Let us retire. If I am not mistaken, we will have much to discuss this evening.’

The two men entered the smoking room and sat in chairs that faced a modest fire. Liebermann poured brandy and offered his friend a cigar. When they were both settled, Rheinhardt produced an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to his friend.

‘As I expected,’ said Liebermann, taking out the contents. The envelope contained photographs.

A
young woman, lying on grass.

Coat open, striped stockings, ankle boots …

‘Her name is Adele Zeiler,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Age nineteen. She was discovered in the Volksgarten by a constable early on Monday morning. Her underwear had been removed and traces of dried semen were found on her dress. There were no signs to suggest that a struggle had taken place. Her fingernails were unbroken, there was no bruising, and no tearing of clothes. Moreover, Professor Mathias did not find any significant’ — Rheinhardt coughed into his hand —
‘internal
indications of injury.’

A
close-up of her face.

Another of her right hand
— the
long nails intact.

‘She consented to intercourse?’

‘So it would seem. I found one of the buttons from her coat under the eaves of the Theseus Temple. I imagine that she and the perpetrator had become intimate while sheltering beneath the roof of the monument. Perhaps he became intemperate in his excitement and began to pull at her coat — breaking the thread. Whatever, in due course she must have agreed to find a place where they would be better concealed and they chose a row of bushes close by.’

‘How did she die?’

‘She was stabbed.’ Liebermann inspected the first photograph again and frowned. ‘With
this,’
Rheinhardt added. The inspector reached into his pocket for a second time.

‘A hat pin?’

‘Precisely.’

Liebermann took the hatpin from his companion and studied the silver acorn. Then he ran his finger along the length of the needle and tapped the sharp point.

‘We know that it was purchased,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘from a small shop on the Hoher Markt called Jaufenthaler s. It was one of
five supplied by a Pole called Krawczyk. Herr Krawczyk hadn’t been able to persuade many jewellers in Vienna to stock them. In fact, only two outlets other than Jaufenthaler’s bought these silver-acorn hatpins and I understand that, to date, they have yet to make a sale.’ Rheinhardt paused and exhaled a vast cloud of cigar smoke. ‘Herr Jaufenthaler, on the other hand, was able to sell all five of Krawczyk’s hatpins, and, significantly, he recalls that one of these customers was a gentleman.’

‘Did you get a description?’

‘Yes, but not a very good one: dark hair, pale complexion — well mannered. Late twenties. No distinguishing marks.’

Liebermann placed the hatpin on the table and returned his attention to the photographs.

‘Where was she stabbed? I see no bloodstains on her dress — particularly near her heart, where I would have expected there to be some.’

Rheinhardt remained silent.

‘Surely,’ Liebermann continued, ‘Fräulein Zeiler wasn’t stabbed in the back. Inflicting a fatal wound, or rather, an
instantly
fatal wound, from behind with such an inconsequential weapon would be virtually impossible. One could puncture the lungs, I suppose … but that would be so very inefficient.’

Rheinhardt derived a shameful degree of satisfaction from the sight of his friend floundering. It was an infrequent occurrence and he intended to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible.

‘Professor Mathias was rather impressed by the killer’s ingenuity,’ said the inspector.