by Jody Sheilds
He moves his head, and there’s a glint of silver as the metal triangle over his nose draws all the light in the room.
CHAPTER 9
A new theory must be created from the facts of Dora’s murder. A girl discovered dead in a park. After several months, the Inspector had anticipated there would be enough evidence to identify the murderer. But now the careful measure of his investigation seems to mock him. This isn’t a fault of his character, he reminds himself. It’s just his strategy. He goes over the case, wondering what he’s left undone. Has logic not taken him far enough? What are his shortcomings? He needs to find the false step, the unforeseen error, the loose end that the murderer has left for him to unravel.
He focuses on Dora’s family. Philipp claimed he was at home the night of the murder. His wife confirmed his statement. But Philipp and his wife could both be lying. He’s certain that if confronted, the hysterical woman will only weep her way through a falsehood to help her husband. More probably, her statement is true to what she knows. But the boy. He’s let the boy slip. Otto might be pressured into giving a different account of the evening of Dora’s death. The error in the situation.
But here is not a task in which one can advance little by little, along a natural and clearly demarcated route, terminating when one has completed a certain amount of work mapped out in advance; there is always a new problem to unravel; the investigator whose work is half done has accomplished nothing. Either he has solved the problem and quite finished the work: that means success; or he has done nothing, absolutely nothing.
With threats, official documents, and patience, the Inspector has forced his way into the Kinderklinik.
Firmly clutching Otto’s hand, a nurse bustles him into the bare white room where the Inspector waits. Although she instructs the boy to answer the policeman’s questions and not be frightened, the tight grip of her fingers tells him otherwise. She leads him to a stool across the room.
The Inspector gently suggests Otto be moved closer, so they can talk. She grimly shakes her head.
“He must stay at a distance from you. It’s for your own good. The boy is infectious. He’s under quarantine.”
Otto is skinny and hollow-eyed in his thin pajamas. He gives the Inspector an embarrassed grin.
“Now Fräulein, I’d like you to leave us alone.” She begins to protest, and he continues speaking without raising his voice. “I want the boy to concentrate on my questions. I need his assistance. Please. May I remind you I’m investigating a criminal case?”
The nurse sighs heavily and pinches Otto’s cheek — hard — before she leaves. The Inspector is certain she’ll wait outside the door. The boy is visibly relieved and waits for the Inspector to speak first.
“Otto, let us stand here by the window.” He knows another focus makes it easier for children to talk. “I’m sorry about your sister. I’m trying to discover what happened to her. Can you help me?”
Without taking his eyes off the street below the window, Otto nods solemnly.
“I know this might be difficult for you, but I just have a few questions. Did Dora have any suitors?”
“No.”
“There was no one — a man — she was fond of?”
“No one.”
“Did she get along well with your father?”
The boy begins to rub his finger against the window. “I don’t understand.”
“Did they have arguments?”
“Yes,” he whispers. “Papa took her piano away because I asked him to.” He turns to the Inspector, his eyes shining with tears.
The Inspector briefly touches the boy’s shoulder. “I’m certain your papa had a good reason for what he did. Don’t let it disturb you.”
Otto stares out the window and says nothing. He smears his hand across the moisture condensed on the glass.
“This was a long time ago, but can you remember what happened the last night Dora was at home? Your family ate dinner together. Then how did everyone spend the evening?”
After some hesitation, Otto says his mother was home all night. She went to bed early. Right after dinner, he was sent to his room to study. He remembers his father came home very late. He knew he’d been out since he was wearing a jacket.
“Why do you remember that night? Did something happen when your father returned?” The Inspector submerges his excitement. He must test the boy’s story as if it were a coin, see if it’s real gold.
Very matter-of-fact, Otto explains that his bedroom adjoins the dining room, so he woke up when his father came in and then watched him through a crack in the door. His father went to the cabinet where the brandy was locked up. His mother always kept the key with her. His father pounded on the glass door of the cabinet until it broke open and cut his hand. He stood there for a long time without touching the brandy. Blood covered his hand. He believes it was three days later when his father told him that Dora had died. That’s all I have to say, he adds, nimbly stepping away from the Inspector. He begins to cough violently, his body shaking.
The Inspector watches him helplessly. When the boy is quiet again, he motions for the Inspector to come closer, he’s having trouble speaking.
“Will you ask Mama when I can come home?” he rasps.
He gravely makes a promise and then thanks Otto for sharing his information. The interview is over.
Afterward, the Inspector is surprised by the vehemence of his pleasure. Otto has destroyed his father’s alibi. Philipp has been caught in a lie. However, his pleasure in the confirmation of his suspicions is precarious, since another piece of information may overturn it. His accomplishment is flawed with the fear of loss. A vessel with a hidden crack.
Occasionally, a suspect’s or a witness’s words or facial expression will instantly become a point of connection to other circumstances previously established in a crime. This magically alters its structure. The facts fall into a new order, becoming as clear, dry, and final as a game of cards. This never happens chronologically. It can never be anticipated. He can never force the process.
He finds himself going directly to a familiar street and entering Philipp’s building. A shy secretary scurries from her desk to announce him, then stares at the floor as he enters Philipp’s office.
This time there is no offer of a cigar. Sending a silent message, the Inspector aggressively angles his chair in a different direction before he sits down in it. He makes a leisurely search of all his pockets for his notebook, never taking his eyes off Philipp’s expressionless face.
“What time did you return to the house the night of your daughter’s murder?”
Philipp turns and looks out the window, but not before the Inspector notices his eyes rapidly blink.
“As I certainly told you, I was at home for the entire evening.” His voice is weary and patient.
“Your son has a different story.”
“Ah, yes? His mind must be sharper than mine.”
“The boy had no doubt about the date and remembered you’d injured your hand.”
Philipp touches his lips, then rests his hand on the desk. The room is silent.
“Perhaps my memory is at fault. To be honest, I’d been drinking. I do believe that I spent some time with my physician, Dr. Steinach. Maybe we ran into each other that evening in Café Pucher.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair.
The Inspector quickly jots down a half sentence describing the man’s change of posture. Defiant. Uneasy about his alibi. Their conversation has speeded up. Dora’s father is rattled, and he intends to keep him off balance.
“Do you recollect what time you met Dr. Steinach?”
Dora’s father regretfully shakes his head.
“How late was it when you returned to the house that night?”
“Unfortunately, that I don’t remember.” After a moment he adds, “It was a while ago. It’s difficult to be exact about such matters.”
“Never mind. I will contact the doctor. Perhaps he’ll remember
the time.”
The Inspector suddenly stands up and permits himself a stiff smile.
“I’ll be back in touch with you very soon.”
Philipp hesitates, and his hands fumble with some papers. “My son isn’t well. As you know, he’s hospitalized for a lung ailment. I wouldn’t rely on his memory if I were you. I doubt anyone else would take his statements seriously. No one would believe a sick child.” He looks as if he’s about to say something else, and then the moment slips away.
“I’ll need to see your appointment book to verify your activities on the day of the murder.”
Philipp frowns. “I’ll consult the book when I have a moment.”
“I have time now. I’d like to wait.”
“Very well.” His voice is loud and insistent. “Fräulein Fürj?”
The door opens, and the young secretary soundlessly enters the room. She’s uneasy, and stands with her eyes fixed on the carpet.
“Would you bring my appointment book? You may have trouble finding it.”
Without raising her head, she nods and leaves.
The Inspector noticed the indirect instruction and the change in Philipp’s voice when he asked her to get his book. He’s certain she won’t be able to locate it. The men make stiff small talk about Bürgermeister Dr. Lueger’s attempt to organize a servant’s registry until Fräulein Fürj reappears, embarrassed and empty-handed.
Philipp shakes his head. “What a shame. No luck. When my appointment book turns up, I’ll let you know.” His voice barely apologetic.
The Inspector suddenly stands up. “Fine. I’ll be expecting to hear from you soon. Fräulein, a few words alone with you?”
Now she raises her eyes in alarm, glancing wildly at her employer. He shrugs, and his gesture looks like a warning.
“Come with me, please?”
The Inspector quickly ushers her out the door and closes it behind them. To make himself less threatening, for he is a tall man, he leans against the edge of her desk. She stands in front of him, waiting, poised as a shamed schoolgirl. He notices her scuffed shoes and the soiled cuffs on her blouse. She’s a plump blonde, and he suspects her ill-fitting skirt is held at the waist with a pin. She can’t afford to help me, he thinks. He struggles to find a place between kindly concern and authority before slipping into the routine of an interview. He gently tells her it is absolutely necessary to find the missing appointment book. It may have crucial information to help solve Dora’s death. He’s careful not to associate her employer with the murder. The deceased girl was about your age, Fräulein, perhaps you knew her?
She fidgets, looking frightened. He smiles reassuringly. Her nervousness reminds him of a small animal. If she were a rabbit, he’d slowly, slowly reach out his hand and cup her pale head right behind her ears before lifting up the rest of her body. Alarmed, as if reading his mind, she stammers she didn’t know Dora, she met her once, and she’ll search for the appointment book. She can’t imagine how it disappeared. Truly.
When he asks her to describe it, she tells him it’s a fancy leather book from Pachhofer with gold-edged paper. One page for each day. Yes, she writes down all of her employer’s appointments. He once had a smaller duplicate book to take on his travels.
“Fräulein Fürj, I trust you’ll keep your eyes open for me?”
Her nod of agreement is tremulous, and when she looks up, her eyes are magnified by tears. He solemnly kisses her hand.
The Inspector makes an official appointment to meet with endocrinologist Eugen Steinach to discuss his patient Philipp. The Inspector is familiar with the renowned doctor’s research. Neue Freie Presse has often published reports of Steinach’s terrible method of forcing oxen to give milk and shriveling the breasts of female guinea pigs, turning them into hermaphrodites. By altering the hormones of his human patients, the doctor claims, he can grant them perpetual youth. The office of Steinach and his partner, Dr. Last, is located near the Institute for the Investigation of Radium, on Waisenhausgasse in the Ninth District. Steinach’s experiments on animals are conducted in a laboratory attached to the medical office.
The Inspector joins a group of men and women, most of them elderly foreigners, in Steinach’s overheated laboratory. They make a strange procession, filing between the towering stacks of wire cages — a city of ziggurats — filled with small animals. The ladies pinch their nostrils or hold handkerchiefs against the smell and pull their wraps close around their shoulders to keep them away from the cages.
Steinach motions for everyone to gather around a cage. Smiling, he instructs them to breathe deeply, inhale the unfamiliar animal odor as the first step of their treatment. Look here, he says. This rat is ten years old but has the energy and appearance of a young animal.
The women giggle nervously and hesitantly move closer.
My rejuvenation process will restore your youth, he tells them. You’ll have joy again. Under the intense overhead lights, the bars of a cage are reflected on his spectacles, dark lines that waver as he speaks, striping his eyes. When a frail-looking man asks how the process works, Steinach’s face floods with color, and he twists around in the small space. He gazes at them with the fervor of a man dispensing salvation.
The reproduction channel in the male generative gland will be sutured, he explains, to increase the production of a second liquid, which enters the bloodstream and preserves vigor. This halts the aging process. There is no danger or pain from the surgery.
The elderly man nods. Several of the women are bothered by this discussion and two of them quietly leave the room. The Inspector watches their hats bob away between the cages.
An hour later, the Inspector sits in Steinach’s office. The file on Dora’s father tilts on top of the other papers shipwrecked on the desk. The doctor opens the file and leisurely glances through it before handing it over.
“Here’s the file you requested. I’ve had a copy made, so you can keep the original.”
The Inspector leafs through the papers, pages of elaborate, scrolling handwriting. He stops at a photograph. It’s difficult to make out. He frowns at the black-and-white splotches, whorls of dark lines, before he recognizes it as a man’s genitals.
“This is a photograph of Philipp?”
“Yes. He has syphilis. I’m treating him with mercury. The Krankengeschichte photographs chart the course of the disease. Unfortunately, syphilis has more visible effects than what you see in the photographs of his male organ.”
“His face?”
“You must have met him, yes? His nose is caving in. There’s only a slight change in the cartilage now. Later on, I’ll have to insert wax or an ivory plate to fill in where the bridge will sink. Otherwise, he’ll have a hole in his face.”
The Inspector involuntarily touches his own nose. “How long has he been under your care?”
“Three years. Does your visit have anything to do with his daughter’s death?”
He nods.
Steinach leans forward, lowers his voice. “Terrible, terrible shame. The girl was so young. Puzzling case. Any idea who is responsible?”
“I couldn’t really say.”
“I’m certain it must have been a foreigner. Or Gypsies. Remember that young seamstress who was murdered in Polna a few years ago? A ritual murder, wasn’t it?”
“It seems highly unlikely.”
The doctor asks if he’s seen the crowd of men in the Volksprater, all unemployed criminal types.
The Inspector says nothing. He opens his notebook. “Let me ask you to bring your attention back to your patient Philipp. He claims you were together on the evening his daughter died.” He’s gratified to see Steinach blink and frown.
“We occasionally meet at a café in the evening. It’s possible we met that night, yes.” Steinach’s face folds into a helpless, worried expression.
The Inspector studies him, directing all the energy of his skepticism into this silent exchange. In that instant, he recognizes his own pleasure in the process of calculation
. Even the silences and the waiting. There’s a word for it, Schwebezustand, suspended in time and space.
“Perhaps I met Philipp that night, but at the moment I simply don’t remember. Where did he say we were?”
The Inspector raises his eyebrows in answer to this question.
“Yes, of course.” Steinach throws up his hands. Since there’s nothing more to harvest from the man’s expression, the Inspector resumes his questions.
“Have you noticed any changes in Philipp’s behavior since his daughter’s death?”
Steinach shrugs. “He’s lost weight. He’s missed some appointments. He’s not a man who shows his cards, if you understand what I mean.”
“But what is his mental state?”
“Mental state? Grief has strained his health. His lungs are infected. He’s a man in mourning. That’s all I can tell you.”
“And his wife?”
Steinach is restless from the questioning. “Regrettably, Philipp contracted syphilis before he was married and passed it on to her. She goes to spas for treatment. I know she’s obsessed with her illness. The whole family is sickly.”
Steinach abruptly asks if he’d like a private tour of the laboratory. Yes, the Inspector says, I’d like another tour, and puts away his notebook.
The laboratory is a nervous hive of activity, the jerky movements of small animals. The doctor sweeps his arms over the cages. My kingdom, he says. My assistants call them my subjects. Guinea pigs. Rats. Rabbits.
The Inspector walks ahead. He sticks his finger into a cage, and it’s nuzzled by a lively rat with a red scar zigzagged across the shaved skin on its back. My most celebrated patient, Steinach announces. I turned this male rat into a female rat. The nipples were transplanted in pairs. Amazing how you can toss a creature from one sex to the other, isn’t it?
The Inspector finds his way out of Steinach’s laboratory. He recollects a passage from Kriminalistik. “The Investigating Officer must always make himself form an idea as to whether the person has spoken the truth and the whole truth, or whether he has lied or passed over something in silence.”