Death and the Maiden (36 page)

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That is most kind. However—’

‘There is nothing more to discuss,’ Brügel cut in. He collected the photographs of Saminksy, slid them into a buff folder and snapped it shut. Looking up at Rheinhardt with peculiar intensity he added, ‘The case is closed.’ Brügel’s severe expression declared that he was not in the mood to be contradicted.

‘Very good, sir.’

Rheinhardt felt that some kind of bargain had been struck, although he couldn’t specify what exactly. He also sensed that the commissioner might owe him some small favour in return for his acquiescence.

‘Sir?’

‘What is it, Rheinhardt?’

‘I would like to conduct an exhumation.’

Rheinhardt returned to his office where he found a message from Professor Mathias. The old man wanted him to visit the pathological institute as soon as possible. Paying less attention than he should have, Rheinhardt rushed through some outstanding paperwork and was soon waving down a cab on the Schottenring. Within minutes he
was sitting in the morgue, next to the autopsy table. Professor Mathias was still working on a corpse. Rheinhardt registered the pretty and youthful face: golden braids, gemstone eyes, and translucent skin. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

The professor stroked the girl’s smooth forehead. ‘Voltaire once wrote that it is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue: witty, of course – as one would expect – but woefully wrong-headed. Why is it that the French, whose medieval courtiers invented romance, have become so cynical in modern times? A German writer would never make jests at the expense of modesty. I fear that, now, we alone among the peoples of Europe carry the flame.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t been to the theatre lately, Herr Professor. Our young writers show little respect for the old ways. They mock romance.’

‘God help us, then. We’ll go the way of the second empire. You mark my words.’ Mathias put down his instruments and covered the girl’s face with a green sheet.

‘Why did you want to speak to me, Herr Professor?’

The old man took off his spectacles and began to clean them with his apron.

‘Something’s been troubling me.’

‘Oh?’

‘Was the lake in which Saminsky drowned very muddy?’

‘I didn’t pay much attention to the lake. I was rather preoccupied with Saminsky. Why?’

Mathias put his spectacles back on and reached for a small bottle. Holding it up to the electric light he said, ‘What do you see?’

‘Water? A brown sediment of some kind has collected at the bottom.’

‘Correct.’

‘Watch.’ The Professor gave the bottle a vigorous shake and held it up again. The water was now cloudy and opaque.

‘Herr Professor, what has this got to do with Saminsky?’

‘I obtained the contents of this bottle from Saminsky’s lungs – which isn’t always possible. You may be surprised to learn that sometimes the lungs of a drowned man are dry. Now, observe the particles. They are fine and take a long time to settle. I must confess, I didn’t notice how much precipitate there was at first.’ Mathias appeared somewhat embarrassed by the admission.

Rheinhardt made a forgiving gesture. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Unfortunates who drown themselves don’t usually thrash around. They simply lie back, allow their lungs to fill, and lose consciousness. Drowning isn’t as unpleasant as you might imagine. Individuals who have been saved from drowning often describe having experienced a feeling of detachment and peace after an initial stage of panic. The fact that there’s so much mud in this bottle suggests to me that it was kicked up.’

‘Saminsky was struggling?’

‘Indeed.’

The two men looked at each other. Professor Mathias’s eyes blinked behind the thick lenses of his spectacles.

‘Are you saying, Professor, that Saminsky might not have committed suicide after all?’

‘I am saying that you had better take another look at that lake. If the water is relatively clear …’ Mathias allowed the implications of the incomplete sentence to multiply.

Rheinhardt took the bottle from the old man. ‘May I ask you to compose a brief supplementary report, Herr Professor?’

‘Of course.’

Saminsky had made Rosenkrantz pregnant. He had attempted to
implicate the mayor, and now there was reason to believe that Saminsky might – like Rosenkrantz – also have been murdered.

The case was far from closed.

Rheinhardt tilted the bottle and a rainbow of colours appeared beneath the dark blue stopper. He was obliged to continue the investigation. If Commissioner Brügel challenged him, he could always blame Professor Mathias.

A
PART FROM THE OCCASIONAL
rustling of reeds and leaves, the lake was, once again, shrouded in absolute silence, the surface a sheet of glass beneath a white void. Rheinhardt passed through the beech trees and followed the gravel path until he reached the changing hut. For a few moments he stood quietly, contemplating the hushed scene. He placed his hands on his thighs and, leaning forward, peered into the water. He couldn’t see very much, only the sky’s pale reflection.

In the hut he stripped off his clothes and donned a black and green swimming costume. He hadn’t been swimming for months and was quietly excited by the prospect. The door hinges needed oil and bellowed a bovine protest as he made his exit.

Rheinhardt edged down the gentle incline until his feet were covered in water, and then began to wade out slowly into the lake. It was cold, but not cold enough to make him shiver. When the water was lapping around his waist, he bent his knees and pushed off, launching himself into a horizontal glide before initiating a languid breast stroke. Occasionally he would allow his legs to descend in order to test for depth, and he discovered that the lake was generally shallow. Only when he was in the very middle was there a place where the bottom was beyond the reach of his toes. Taking a deep breath he dipped his head beneath the surface and stared at the bed of the lake. The water was pellucid. He saw flat stones and some bricks embedded in the mud. Coming up for air, he took another deep breath and lowered
his head again. He scissored his legs, creating a disturbance, and watched dark nebulae rising. They expanded until the agitated water was opaque. Rheinhardt undertook various experiments of this kind, and when he was satisfied that he had gathered enough evidence to support Professor Mathias’s hypothesis he swam a few circuits of the lake for pleasure.

As he followed the bank opposite the wooden hut, Rheinhardt caught a glimpse of someone walking beyond the beech trees. He expected to see a man emerging onto the path at any moment – another swimmer, perhaps? But no one did emerge. His instinct was to go and investigate, but he resisted the urge and continued to circle the lake. Where had the man gone? Rheinhardt became acutely aware of his vulnerability. The lake was a lonely place. Moreover, he had just established that Saminsky had very probably been murdered there. Rheinhardt’s carriage was parked some distance away. He wondered whether the driver would hear him if he called for help.

Feigning indifference, Rheinhardt rolled onto his back and allowed the buoyancy of the water to support his body. He continued to observe, and did so for some time, but saw nothing unusual. In fact, he was beginning to question whether he had seen anything at all when, quite suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man wearing a coat and hat leap from behind one tree to a new hiding place behind another.

Rheinhardt decided that it was unwise to remain passive. He was a sitting target. Rolling over, he immediately began a fast crawl, hoping that an element of surpise might work to his advantage. He made directly for the bank, which at its nearest point was quite steep. Finding some purchase, he heaved himself out of the water. He stood up, crossed the path, and made his way through the trees. When he arrived at the location where he expected to discover a man crouched down in the scrub and brushwood, he found nothing. Nor, when he
looked across the grass towards the road, did he see anyone attempting to make their escape.

The inspector scratched his head.

After Rheinhardt had dried himself off and changed back into his clothes he conducted a quick search of the area and then made his way back to the road. His carriage was waiting for him near one of the unfinished villas. Rheinhardt looked up at the driver.

‘Did you see anyone by those trees?’ He pointed towards the beeches.

The driver shook his head.

‘There was a man skulking around up there. He was wearing a coat and hat – you must have seen him!’

The driver shrugged.

‘I didn’t see anyone.’

T
HE DIRECTOR LOOKED
A
MSEL
directly in the eye and said, ‘I am afraid that your contract will not be renewed next year.’

At first, the singer looked as if she was going to cry. Her haughty expression lost its integrity as her lower lip began to tremble. But then she touched her crucifix and seemed to draw strength and inspiration from its substance. Suddenly she was like a martyr, bravely accepting her destiny as the faggots ignited and the flames licked at the hem of her gown. Arianne Amsel shook her mane of dark curls and raised her chin. ‘I am not surprised, Herr Director. You have been undermining me for years now. It was inevitable that you would one day deliver the final blow.’

‘That is a very serious allegation, Fräulein Amsel.’

The singer responded by assuming an expression of pure contempt. ‘You men are so weak.’ Mahler drew back, his quizzical expression intensifying. ‘So easily manipulated.’

‘What?’

‘She turned you all against me.’

Mahler laughed incredulously.

‘Are you referring to Ida Rosenkrantz?’

Amsel reached across the director’s desk, pointing.

‘You were duped, just like the rest of them. Prince Liechtenstein, Intendant Plappart, Mayor Lueger! Yes, even you fell for her act.’ Amsel
jabbed her rigid finger. ‘Even you were seduced by her counterfeit innocence.’

‘I can assure you,’ said the director with earnest authority, ‘Ida Rosenkrantz played no part in my decision to end your contract.’

‘That is something I find very hard to believe.’

‘Perhaps so, but it is true. There is only one person responsible for your fate.’ Mahler produced a knowing look. A subtle movement was sufficient to clarify his meaning. ‘You have given me many reasons to terminate your contract – your frequent indispositions, your tantrums and your tiresome objections to being cast in perfectly good roles. All these I have overlooked. But there is one thing that I could not, and cannot, overlook – your stubborn refusal to accept my prohibition of the claque.’

‘You are mistaken, Herr Director. I have never required services of that kind. I can hardly be blamed if my supporters are moved by the beauty of the human voice and choose to show their gratitude for artistry with applause.’

Mahler sighed.

‘I might have been persuaded otherwise last year, but this …’ Mahler’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right word, ‘…
nuisance
has become particularly conspicuous of late.’

Amsel motioned as if to speak but then suddenly changed her mind. She shook her head and her curls bounced before settling. This gesture, which usually betokened pride and vainglory, was now devoid of confidence. It had been reduced to a nervous tic, little more than an involuntary spasm.

‘I have employed some professional gentlemen of my own,’ Mahler continued. ‘Private detectives.’ He allowed Amsel a moment in which to register the implications of this admission: ‘The likes of Herr Vranitzky have no place in the opera house of the new century.’

The look of defeat on Amsel’s face was unmistakable. She rose from
her chair and walked to the door. Mahler stood up and bowed. The gesture was entirely redundant but it was unthinkable for him to remain seated. It was important to observe the customary courtesies. Amsel turned. Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes glinted with moisture.

‘I am sorry,’ said the director. ‘But the score is sacred, and the music must come before everything.’

‘You’ll never win, you know. ‘

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The claque. You’ll never get rid of them.’

‘Perhaps not. But I intend to have a very good try.’

‘A word of advice, Herr Director?’

‘Oh?’

‘You are making yourself very unpopular. You are making yourself enemies in high places.’

The director smiled.

‘I know.’

R
HEINHARDT LOOKED DOWN THE
hallway and saw light spilling from his youngest daughter’s bedroom. He poked his head round the door and saw Mitzi, sitting in a nest of pillows, studying the contents of a book.

‘You should be asleep.’ Mitzi made an appeal for clemency with her large dark eyes, and Rheinhardt was immediately disarmed. A permanent half-smile, inherited from her mother, softened the child’s expression and provoked a sympathetic flowering of good humour that expanded in the vicinity of her father’s heart. ‘What are you reading?’