Deadly Communion

by Frank Tallis

  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.’

  56

  SHEVCHENKO’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.’

  ‘You did not find Fräulein Wirth attractive?’

  ‘No, inspector. I didn’t.’ Shevchenko lifted his head and looked directly at Rheinhardt. ‘When was I supposed to have made this proposal?’

  ‘Some time ago. A year — perhaps …’

  The opening bars of the Pathetique Sonata added melodrama to the exchange.

  ‘About a year ago,’ Shevchenko repeated. He paused and counted his fingers while whispering the months of the year. ‘Actually, inspector, a proposal of that nature was made at that time. But it wasn’t me who made it.’

  The music stopped abruptly, mid-phrase.

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  ‘I am not a man to sully the reputation of the dead. The poor woman is in her grave.’

  ‘Herr Shevchenko, am I understanding you correctly? Fräulein Wirth offered you sexual favours in exchange for financial assistance?’

  The Ruthenian placed his hand in his frock coat and took out a leather wallet that opened up like a book. He held it out so that Rheinhardt and Liebermann could see inside. It contained a photograph of a woman and an image of Jesus Christ ascending up to heaven in a cone of light. ‘Frau Shevchenko,’ said the rent collector. ‘We were married for twenty-five years. God didn’t choose to bless us with children — we only had each other. I never so much as looked at another woman my whole life — and haven’t since Frau Shevchenko died.’ The opening chords of the Pathetique sounded again. ‘She died about a year ago: a terrible illness, a wasting disease. Pain, vomiting, blood in the bedpan — and lots of it. I would work all day and be up all night nursing her. Sometimes the priest or one of the nuns would come and I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep, but no more. The doctors couldn’t do anything for her.’

  At that moment the pianist below began an airy waltz, in which a repeated discordant semitone was employed to humorous effect. The change in mood was jarring.

  ‘Do you really think that under those circumstances,’ Shevchenko continued, ‘I would be seeking an arrangement — of the kind you suggest — with Fräulein Wirth?’

  Rheinhardt and Liebermann were silent. The waltz petered out.

  Shevchenko looked at the image of his wife for a moment before putting it back in his pocket. His knuckle went to his right eye and his attempt to collect the tear that was waiting to fall did not succeed.

  Liebermann felt a pang of regret. He had judged Shevchenko unkindly. The man’s lack of self-care had an obvious cause: profound grief. He was simply biding his time, waiting for death and a much longed-for reunion with his wife.

  ‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Herr Shevchenko,’ said Rheinhardt very softly, rising from his chair.

  The Ruthenian nodded.

  Rheinhardt and Liebermann crossed the floor, their footsteps coinciding uncomfortably with the beat of a jolly German dance tune.

  57

  FRAU LACHKOVICS’S APARTMENT WAS empty. Liebermann and Rheinhardt waited for her to return, smoking in the courtyard, and when Rheinhardt’s stomach began to emit gurgling sounds it was decided that they should repair to a local beer cellar. They found a welcoming establishment and spent the next hour enjoying well-cooked tafelspitz — boiled beef — served with fried potatoes, apple horseradish and chive sauce. The meal was washed down with several steins of Edelweiss. Fortified by the wholesome fare and the cordial properties of the liquor, they marched back to Frau Lachkovics’s apartment and were relieved to find the windows brightly illuminated.

  The two men were admitted into a h
umble parlour where Jana, Frau Lachkovics’s daughter, sat silently on a wicker chair in the corner. Rheinhardt introduced Liebermann and was surprised by Frau Lachkovics’s response. She became agitated — her gaze oscillating anxiously between Jana and Liebermann. It appeared to Rheinhardt that Frau Lachkovics had jumped to an erroneous conclusion: that he had brought a doctor with him to examine Jana, with the intention of getting her admitted into a hospital. Rheinhardt was moved by a wave of pity.

  ‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said the inspector, reaching out and gently touching the woman’s sleeve. ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is my colleague. He is not here to act in a medical capacity.’

  The woman sighed: a release of tension.

  She motioned as if to speak — but an idea seemed to rise up in her mind which robbed her of confidence.

  ‘Frau Lachkovics?’ Rheinhardt inquired.

  She shook her head: ‘Please sit.’

  Rheinhardt and Liebermann were obliged to share the narrow space between the arms of a small sofa. They found themselves squeezed together, and no amount of shifting, wriggling or turning eased their compression.

  ‘You were out earlier,’ said Rheinhardt to Frau Lachkovics, withdrawing his elbow from beneath Liebermann’s arm.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Frau Lachkovics, drawing up a stool. ‘I’m sorry, we were in Ottakring. My mother … you remember — I told you I have an elderly mother?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Frau Lachkovics adjusted the drop of her skirt as she sat down.

  ‘The tram was late — I don’t know why. Did you send a message? If I had known then—’

  Rheinhardt cut in: ‘Please do not fret on our account, Frau Lachkovics, your late return afforded us an opportunity to enjoy the splendid tafelspitz served at the Trinklied.’ He gestured vaguely towards the street. ‘Frau Lachkovics, I have some more questions I would like to ask you in connection with Fräulein Wirth.’ Frau Lachkovics did not raise any objection.