Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘What is it, Haussmann?’

  ‘Another one, sir.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Spittelberg.’

  Part Two

  The Carbolic Stranger

  17

  Liebermann was halfway through volume one of Bach’s Forty-Eight Preludes and Fugues when a messenger rapped on the door of his apartment. Rheinhardt’s brief dispatch had been scrawled on a page torn from his notebook. The ragged edge of the paper added an extra dimension of urgency to the words — a request for Liebermann to leave immediately for an address in Spittelberg. Taking his astrakhan coat from the hallstand, Liebermann ran down the stairs, past the concierge and out onto the street, just in time to stop a cab.

  The gently flowing left-hand figure of the E minor Prelude repeated itself in Liebermann’s head. This musical fragment, consisting of only the first four bars, would not fade. As images of Vienna flashed by, the mellifluous semiquavers continued, a peculiarly incongruent accompaniment to the busy life of the city.

  Soon after entering Spittelberg, the carriage began to slow down. Liebermann opened the window and leaned out. The road ahead ran between eighteenth-century buildings that had fallen into a woeful state of disrepair. All of the facades were dilapidated, the stucco covered in patches of mould and the decorative window hoods blackened with grime. A constable was standing outside one of the entrances.

  ‘All right, you can stop here,’ Liebermann called.

  The carriage halted and Liebermann stepped out.

  ‘What’s going on down there?’ asked the driver.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Liebermann said and shrugged, handing the driver some coins. Liebermann made his way up the road to the waiting constable and introduced himself.

  ‘This way, Herr doctor,’ said the young man, opening a large wooden door. On the other side was a vaulted tunnel which led to a spacious courtyard. It was surrounded by two-storey dwellings with plain walls and rectangular windows. Lower apartments were set back behind an arched arcade, beneath which several old carts with tarpaulin covers had been left. A balcony — supported by the arcade — provided those residing on the upper level with a railing on which to dry their laundry. Liebermann noticed that a horses’ drinking trough had been filled with earth and planted with trees; however, this attempt to beautify the courtyard had not been successful. The trees had died and their leafless, twisted branches were afflicted by a leprous dark green moss. A pool of brown water had collected beneath the mouth of a drainpipe and a swarm of tiny flies hovered above its surface.

  The balcony was reached by a staircase that occupied one of the corners of the square. It was built against the wall of the building to the left and ascended to the first floor of the building facing Liebermann. At the foot of the staircase were a group of women and Inspector Rheinhardt’s assistant, Haussmann. It seemed to Liebermann that the women were questioning Haussmann, not the other way round. Their chattering was shrill and excited.

  Haussmann saw Liebermann and beckoned him over.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Liebermann heard one of the women ask.

  ‘That is no concern of yours,’ replied Haussmann. ‘Please stand aside.’

  Haussmann herded the women away from the foot of the stairs, allowing Liebermann to pass. Liebermann thanked Haussmann and began to climb. At the top of the stairs was an open door. He entered the apartment and found himself in a dark, cramped kitchen. Pots and a ladle were suspended from a wooden beam that spanned the width of the low ceiling.

  ‘Oskar?’

  ‘I’m in here, Max.’

  Liebermann pushed open a second door and saw Rheinhardt seated on a chair. The inspector’s expression was glum. The flesh on his face seemed to sag and only the upturned points of his moustache contradicted the general impression of descent.

  A young woman, entirely naked, was lying on a single bed. Her legs were spread apart and one hung casually off the side. The delicate foot at its end was tilted downwards so that the toes were just touching the floorboards. Her sex was exposed, the vertical lips folded back, offering the observer a disconcertingly frank view of her shadowy interior. She was very thin and her hip bones jutted out below an equally distinct ribcage. Her breasts were of such little substance that gravity had deprived her entirely of a bust, giving her torso a masculine appearance. She possessed a pretty face: harmonious, regular features marred only — perhaps — by overly thick eyebrows. Her hair was blonde and framed her face like a saintly aura. Although the fingers of her left hand were spread out, those of her right were contracted and clawlike. Liebermann also noticed something odd about the position of the woman’s head. It seemed to be bent forward and slightly raised.

  ‘The same method?’ He spoke without looking at Rheinhardt.

  ‘Not only that,’ said the inspector. ‘But the same hatpin. On Friday I learned from Herr Jaufenthaler, the jeweller on the Hoher Markt, that he had sold not one silver-acorn hatpin to the gentleman who visited his shop, but two. I knew immediately that it would only be a matter of days before …’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘But I never thought he would strike again quite so soon.’

  ‘May I?’

  Liebermann indicated that he wished to examine the body.

  ‘Of course.’

  The young doctor crouched by the bed and felt beneath the woman’s neck. His fingers found the cold metal of the hatpin. He stood up and considered his surroundings: drab wallpaper and curtains, some mildewed and sentimental prints of animals, a wash table with a tilting mirror, a heap of discarded clothes.

  ‘You will notice,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that her dress is at the bottom of the pile, then her corset, then her drawers, and finally her stockings. It appears that she removed her garments in a leisurely fashion — casually dropping each item onto the floor.’

  Liebermann opened a small wardrobe in which he found a coat and some more dresses. Above the horizontal rail was a shelf on which the woman kept her hat, underwear and gloves.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Bathild Babel, a shop girl, aged eighteen. She came to Vienna six months ago from Styria.’ Liebermann threw a quizzical glance at his friend. ‘I’ve just finished interviewing Fraulein Babel’s neighbour, Frau Prodoprigora.’

  ‘How was Fraulein Babel discovered?’

  ‘Frau Prodoprigora noticed that the front door had been left open and came in to investigate.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, the door must have been left open by the perpetrator.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘An open door is conspicuous and could only serve to hasten police involvement.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘A vestige of conscience still survives. Some part of him wants to be stopped.’

  Rheinhardt sighed: ‘Perhaps he simply departed in a hurry and neglected to pull the door hard enough to ensure its closure.’

  ‘No action, however trivial it may seem, is truly accidental.’

  ‘I don’t know, Max,’ said Rheinhardt wearily. ‘If he wanted to be caught surely he would simply present himself at a police station and confess.’

  ‘The human mind is not a unified whole,’ Liebermann responded, ‘but rather a community of parts, each with different requirements and objectives, and each possessed of varying amounts of knowledge concerning its accessories. Professor Freud has demonstrated that contradictory beliefs and desires are an essential feature of the human condition. In a sense, he has rendered the Greek aphorism know thyself utterly meaningless. There is no self — as we imagine it — to know. While one part of the mind attempts to execute an action another part resists. I have no doubt that the perpetrator intended to close the door; however, a remnant of his conscience exerted sufficient influence to arrest the action before it was completed.’

  Rheinhardt pulled at his chin.

  ‘Perhaps he feels
invulnerable and left the door open out of contempt for the security office. It might be translated as: I do not need to be careful because I am confident you will not catch me.’

  Liebermann turned to look at his friend and smiled.

  ‘Actually, both hypotheses might be true. The perpetrator might have left the door open, partly because of a desire to be stopped and partly out of conceit. Once again I would remind you that Professor Freud considers human behaviour to be the result of many — sometimes contradictory — impulses.’

  Rheinhardt did not wish to delve any deeper into psychoanalytic theory and returned the conversation to the terra firma of conventional detection.

  ‘Fraulein Babel was typical of her class. She had made the acquaintance of several gentlemen from whom she accepted small gifts and dinner invitations; however, she was not in the habit of bringing them home. Her assignations usually took place in private dining rooms and hotels.’

  ‘Fraulein Babel discussed such intimate details of her life with her neighbour?’

  ‘The two women were very close. When we spoke, Frau Prodoprigora was distraught — and not just because of the shocking nature of her discovery. She was clearly very fond of her young friend.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘On her way to the Schottenring station to make a statement.’ Rheinhardt took a slim volume from his pocket. ‘I found this.’ He held it up. ‘In the kitchen.’

  ‘An address book?’

  ‘Yes. It doesn’t contain many names — but there are a few entries of interest.’ Rheinhardt turned some pages. ‘Here, for example. Velentin Frece. The address given is an accountancy firm called Fischof and Cerny on Singerstrasse. I doubt Fraulein Babel needed the services of an accountant. Presumably Herr Frece gave Fraulein Babel his work address to avoid personal correspondence falling into the hands of Frau Frece.’

  Liebermann closed the wardrobe door and stood at the end of the bed. He dropped to his knees, leaned forward, and inspected the linen.

  ‘We must suppose that, like Adele Zeiler, Fraulein Babel consented to sexual intercourse. She removed her clothes in a provocative manner before lying down in readiness to receive her guest. During their congress, he brought her head forward and inserted the hatpin — a new gift and readily at hand — through the foramen magnum of her skull and into her brain. Observing her death made him culminate.’ Liebermann stood up and in less pensive tones asked: ‘Where is the photographer?’

  ‘He has already been. I was just waiting for you and the mortuary van.’

  ‘Is Professor Mathias to undertake the autopsy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Liebermann took his spectacles from his top pocket and began cleaning them with a handkerchief.

  ‘Did you receive my note concerning Miss Lydgate?’

  ‘She wants to see Mathias at work …’

  ‘And assist in the investigation.’

  ‘Well, I have no objection. You are welcome to invite her along, although it is a peculiar request for a young woman to make — to attend a police autopsy.’

  ‘It might be advisable to leave that sentiment unexpressed in her company, Oskar.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She is a medical student, accustomed to the dissection of corpses, and I believe that Miss Lydgate has strong views concerning equality between the sexes. I fear she might be offended were you to imply that pathology was not an appropriate interest for a young woman.’

  Rheinhardt got up from his chair and sighed.

  ‘Sometimes I feel lost in the modern world. All of the old certainties seem to have vanished.’ He looked down at the naked form of Fraulein Babel and, clapping a hand on Liebermann’s shoulder, said: ‘Come, Max — let’s wait for the mortuary van outside.’

  Liebermann put on his spectacles and followed the melancholy inspector.

  18

  You wanted to know more about my early life — and my first erotic experiences. I suppose that is to be expected under the circumstances. Well, I am happy to oblige. Indeed, I must confess that I am finding this exercise curiously satisfying. It is like the relief one feels after divulging a long-held secret. Even a small concealment becomes burdensome. It weighs heavily on the soul. The desire to share it with others mounts, until disclosure becomes irresistible. Imagine, then, how I must feel now. It is like some great catharsis — the untying of a Gordian knot. You have promised me peace when this history is complete. I must admit I did not believe you. But as I write more I can see there may be something in it.

  Are you familiar with the folk customs of upper Bavaria and the Balkans? At funerals, food is prepared and laid on the coffin of the deceased. A person, known as the sin-eater, is summoned to the house, and by eating the food the sin-eater absolves the deceased of his sins. The food takes the form of bread, dead-loaves, or simple sweetmeats — dead-cakes.

  You have an appetite for my sins. You are hungry for them. I can see it in your eyes.

  But again, I digress. You wanted to know about the awakening of Eros.

  Memory is unreliable, yet I am sure that in this respect my recollections are accurate. I was precocious. When those village women, full of pity and love and sorrow, pulled me close and I inhaled their salty, sugary fragrances I was aware of their physicality, the softness and warmth beneath the dirndls, and I experienced a curious sensation that I would later come to identify with desire. At first the sensation was very faint and located in my stomach. It was almost indistinguishable from anxious anticipation. But in due course the sensation matured, becoming stronger and more finely nuanced. Expectancy became a pleasurable tension and the fearfulness became guilt. Why is it — I wonder — that even the very first intimations of sexual pleasure are tainted with an undertow of shame?

  My mind filled with images of nudity and a corresponding desire to be naked myself. The only opportunity I had to be naked was at night. I would slip off my nightshirt and run my hands over my body. If the moon was bright I would fold back the eiderdown and look upon my nakedness with eager satisfaction. Such was my guilty conscience — I have always suffered from scruples — that I became excessively anxious about disturbing my father. I imagined him bursting in, catching me in my state of undress and meting out some form of retributive punishment. The idea that he might harm my manhood came into my mind. In this nervous state, every sound I made — every rustle of the sheets, every creak of the mattress springs — seemed horribly loud, and I formed the habit of remaining very still and holding my breath.

  I wonder now whether the fear of being discovered became itself sexually exciting. When I consider my subsequent behaviour, this would seem to be so. I would steal away into the woods, alone, where I would take off my clothes and stand naked for hours. All the time I was fearful of being observed by someone from the village, but I could not stop myself.

  The fluttering sensation that had formerly been in my stomach descended and settled in my loins. This transmigration coincided with my burgeoning interest in the anatomy of girls. I managed to persuade some of them to venture into the woods with me. One of their number — a simple-minded creature called Gerda — I persuaded to strip. I instructed her to stand very still while holding her breath. It was intolerably exciting. This was when I first experienced an adult response. The lick of fire on the thighs: animation of the flesh.

  Of all the girls in the village the one I loved most was Netti. I adored her. She was sweet-natured, kind and beautiful. We played together — but she would never come walking with me. One winter she fell ill and became very weak. She had to stay in bed. The children in the village were not permitted to visit her. I can remember how the women spoke softly whenever Netti’s name was mentioned. They looked at each other and pulled their little ones close. They feared infection.

  Netti died just before Christmas.

  My father made a point of going to pay his respects. It was in his nature to do such things. He could be contrary — and his black moods made him reckless. We marched throu
gh the snow, down the hill to Netti’s house, where we were shown into the parlour to see the dead child in her casket. The room was filled with flowers. I can still remember the intoxicating scent. Long purple drapes covered the mirrors and a massive silver crucifix had been hung on one of the walls. Four candles, on large stands, filled the room with a fitful yellow light.

  Netti looked exquisite. And so very still — a stillness and a breathless tranquillity that I had never seen before. In Vienna, you hear people saying that they hope to have a schone Leich — a beautiful corpse. Netti was a schone Leich. Truly.

  My father said a prayer and rose to leave. I could not move. I was transfixed by Netti. I begged him to let me stay a few minutes longer so that I might say one final goodbye to my playmate. He squeezed my arm and left the room: big shoulders hunched — face grey and drawn.

  I stared at Netti and felt the fluttering sensation below. It intensified until my loins were tense. I felt my flesh move.

  But how to continue?

  What followed is really inexpressible. Language is insufficient. I can offer you only an approximate description, a correspondent situation with which you will be familiar that reflects something of my experience. When a great cathedral organ is played, you hear music — but you can also feel the pew vibrating. What I am capable of expressing bears the same relationship to my actual experience as the vibrating pew does to the music. What I can express is only a small part of an ineffable whole.

  This is what happened: I felt as though I was being watched. The impression was so strong that I turned round. But there was nobody there. Even so, this did nothing to mitigate the feeling. The evidence of my physical senses had become irrelevant. There was someone in the room — a presence. It did not cross my mind that this manifestation might be the ghost of my playmate, nor was I afraid.

  I do not know how long I remained like this — watchful, curious — it may have been for some time. My father came back to collect me. Before we left, Netti’s mother kissed my forehead. Her tears froze on my skin as we stepped out into the cold.