Deadly Communion

by Frank Tallis

  The arrest of Markus Sprenger had been discussed interminably at the laundry; however, knowledge of his arrest did not embolden her to ask Rheinhardt why he had come back again to ask more questions. She passively accepted the policeman’s authority.

  ‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘are you quite certain that Fräulein Wirth did not have any gentlemen friends?’

  ‘I cannot be absolutely sure. But I think it very unlikely. You see, we saw a great deal of each other. We would walk to the laundry together in the morning and return together at the end of the day. And I always knew when Selma had visitors. You can hear people knocking on her door from here. The walls are thin. I never saw any gentlemen arriving, apart from Herr Shevchenko, the landlord’s agent. I saw Selma’s friend Frau Vogl and some other girls from the laundry, Christa and Steffi — but never any men. Besides, if she had met someone, I’m sure she would have said something. It was in her nature to share personal things. She was never reticent.’

  ‘About the time when Fräulein Wirth …’ Rheinhardt glanced at the girl in the corner and searched for a diplomatic turn of phrase. ‘About the time when Fräulein Wirth met with her sad end, do you recall ever seeing any strangers loitering in the courtyard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A man wearing a bowler hat and a long coat?’

  ‘I do not recall seeing any strangers.’

  ‘But what about any gentlemen answering to that particular description?’

  ‘A bowler hat and long coat? There are many men who dress like that.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Rheinhardt altered his position: ‘You mentioned Herr Shevchenko …’

  Frau Lachkovics frowned.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Has he always behaved … correctly?’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘Always shown you the proper respect that a lady is entitled to expect from a gentleman?’ The woman looked at Rheinhardt blankly. ‘I am sorry,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘but I must ask you an indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko ever proposition you? Did he ever make an unwelcome amorous advance?’

  ‘Herr Shevchenko! Good heavens, no!’

  Frau Lachkovics’s cheeks became luminous and a hectic flush travelled down her neck.

  ‘I am sorry, madam, but I am obliged to ask you yet another indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko — to your knowledge — ever proposition Fräulein Wirth?’

  The flush intensified.

  ‘No, no …’

  ‘Would Fräulein Wirth have told you — do you think — if he had?’

  Frau Lachkovics paused before answering. Rheinhardt could see that she was giving his question serious consideration.

  ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Yes, I think she would. Herr Shevchenko is not that sort of man. His only concern is collecting rents. He never makes small talk, never dallies. He just collects the rent and leaves. Most of the tenants around here don’t like him. It’s true: he never smiles and he can be abrupt and surly. But I do not think he is a bad man — rather someone who is sad and lonely.’

  The wicker chair creaked as the girl in the corner stood up. She crossed the floor and stood behind her mother. Frau Lachkovics turned and smiled.

  ‘Jana?’

  The girl did not respond. Instead, she fixed her stare on Rheinhardt. Her gaze was purposeful, yet her expression remained disconcertingly void. Her lineaments gave no clue as to the nature of her personality, her mood or what she might be thinking. She raised her arm. In her hand she was holding a book.

  ‘Can I keep this,’ she said in a dull monotone, ‘now that she is dead?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘Jana!’ exclaimed Frau Lachkovics, tugging the girl’s skirt sharply to express her disapproval. The admonishment had no effect.

  ‘Now that Selma is dead,’ Jana continued, ‘can I keep her books?’

  ‘Selma gave you that?’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘Yes.’

  Rheinhardt extricated himself from the sofa and rose to take the volume from the girl’s hand. He examined the spine and discovered it was a collection of children’s stories.

  ‘There’s another one in the kitchen,’ said Jana.

  Rheinhardt fanned through the pages. Some illustrations flashed out from the blur of text. Suddenly the fluttering came to a halt at a point where a little ticket had been inserted. Rheinhardt pulled it out, studied the print, and then said to Frau Lachkovics: ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Liebermann.

  ‘A ticket for one of the luggage lockers at the Südbahnhof.’

  The ensuing silence was broken by Jana.

  ‘Well — can I keep the books?’

  ‘You can keep the books,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘if I can keep this ticket.’

  58

  HEINZ VOGL ENTERED HIS wife’s bedroom. It was not very late and he was surprised to find that she had retired so early. Indeed, he felt a little indignant and persuaded himself that, if she was asleep, waking her could be justified.

  ‘My dear?’ he called. The eiderdown undulated as she turned to face him.

  ‘I’m still awake,’ she said, somewhat redundantly. Vogl advanced along the wedge of light that infiltrated Kristina’s room from his own. He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, blinking up at him.

  ‘Ten o’clock — or thereabouts.’

  ‘How was your meeting?’

  ‘It went well enough. Professor Raich was in favour of appointing Mitterwallner — but Professor Lischka and that fool Kinigader objected. Fortunately, I was able to persuade Salvenmoser to vote with us and in the end the outcome was satisfactory. But it was a tiring, frustrating process, and I fear that the discussion — which became quite heated — will leave an atmosphere of ill feeling in some quarters. The air will have to be cleared in due course.’

  Vogl reached out and touched Kristina’s cheek.

  ‘What is it, my dear?’

  ‘Do you remember the police inspector — Rheinhardt — and his colleague Liebermann?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘They came to the salon today.’

  ‘Really? What did they want?’

  ‘They said that they have acquired some more evidence and that the man whom they caught — Sprenger — the man who was supposed to have killed Selma, well, now it seems he didn’t kill her after all.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, that is terrible news. You are still in danger.’ Vogl lifted his wife’s limp hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, each one in turn. ‘I hope you didn’t come home on your own.’ Kristina did not reply. ‘You did? Oh, my dear — you must be more careful. You cannot afford to take such risks. Not now.’

  ‘I cannot go on living like this,’ Kristina whispered. The tone of her voice was curious, almost strangulated. Her eyes became glassy as the tears welled up.

  Vogl gathered her into his arms, and rocked her backwards and forwards.

  ‘My poor darling … do not cry. Inspector Rheinhardt managed to catch Sprenger — and I’m sure he’ll catch whoever was responsible for poor Selma’s murder, eventually. It’s only a matter of time.’

  These words — intended to be comforting — seemed to have the very opposite effect. Vogl felt his wife’s body becoming tense in his arms as the tears washed down her face.

  59

  THE CAB CAME TO a halt outside the Südbahnhof, joining a line of parked carriages. The two men stepped down onto the expansive forecourt. While Rheinhardt paid the driver, Liebermann admired the architecture. It was a perfect example of Viennese ostentation. He might have been looking up at the façade of any of the great European opera houses rather than at a train station. Its grandiosity made him smile and although he was a committed modernist the sheer bravado of the structure’s vaulting ambition made him quietly proud to call Vienna his home. The building boasted five entrance portals above which sat a tier of arched windows and a further row of oblon
g windows. A terracotta tympanum enlivened the massive pediment, each corner of which supported a majestic classical figure. Sphinxes could be seen on the roofs of the two wings which flanked the façade, and each of these wings possessed pediments of their own.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ said Rheinhardt, joining his friend. ‘But now isn’t the time …’

  He slapped a hand on Liebermann’s back and the impact of the good-natured whack propelled the young doctor forward.

  The interior of the Südbahnhof was as magnificent as the exterior. Rheinhardt and Liebermann entered a vast hallway dominated by a grand staircase that rose and divided below a balustraded gallery. The floor was illuminated by rows of spherical gas lamps mounted on tall posts of intricately worked iron and yet more flickering globes floated beneath the ceiling, the detail of which was almost invisible on account of its lofty elevation.

  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.

  60

  RAINMAYR 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.’