Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  Christmas came and went. The villagers were uneasy, fearful, and also ashamed after Netti’s death. They had not been good neighbours. My only pleasurable memory that December is of a market. I was taken to a Christkindlmarkt by one of the women, who bought me some small gifts: a candle and a fir-tree decoration, a wooden angel painted gold and red. I touched its wings and thought of my mother.

  January came and with it another death.

  Gerda. Poor, simple-minded Gerda.

  She went skating, the ice broke, she fell through and froze to death.

  Once again, I stood at the foot of an open casket. How different Gerda looked: how dignified, how composed, how still. I stood with my back to the door — to ensure that I would not be surprised — and touched myself. The pleasure that I experienced was intense, violent and strange. I was too immature to achieve a release. Instead, I experienced a muscular convulsion, followed by pains.

  And then, as before, I sensed that I was not alone. The presence I had felt beside Netti’s casket had returned. Everything shifted and the next thing I can remember is waking up in my bedroom at home. I had passed out.

  I was feverish and my father called the doctor. It was obvious that he was concerned about my health. I asked them if I was going to die — like Netti. The doctor said No, of course not, but he spoke without conviction. My condition got worse: sickness, weakness — I could not eat. At night I had such dreams — shadowy female figures and the sound of beating wings. I would wake in a sweat, trembling, delirious. It is impossible for me to say how long I languished in this state and I later learned that I came close to dying. And it was when my illness had taken me to the very threshold of oblivion that I saw her for the first time. Death does not come in the shape of a hooded skeleton, carrying a scythe. Death comes in the shape of an angel — and she is more beautiful than you can possibly imagine.

  19

  Professor Mathias was standing by a trolley, arranging and rearranging his tools. He picked up a mallet, placed it on a lower shelf, and then positioned a knife so that it was exactly level with a small chisel; however, he was clearly dissatisfied with the result. The alignment was not quite right. Shaking his head, he picked up the offending instrument, carefully put it back, and nudged it several times until a final but barely perceptible shift met with his approval.

  Rheinhardt had long since abandoned trying to fathom the scheme which Professor Mathias employed to determine the appropriate placement of instruments on his trolley. Liebermann had urged him not to try since, in the young doctor’s opinion, Professor Mathias’s preparatory ritual was symptomatic of an obsessional neurosis.

  The old man took a small saw, reversed its orientation, and after a considerable pause placed it on the trolley’s bottom shelf.

  Mathias’s ritual was not always so lengthy and, very occasionally, he managed to proceed without its performance. There was a strong relationship between the extent of Mathias’s ritualising and his mood. The more he ritualised, the more likely it was that he would be irascible.

  Mathias rolled up his shirtsleeves and moved a drill a fraction to the left.

  ‘Professor?’ ventured Liebermann.

  ‘What?’ Mathias looked up, his lips pursed. He did not like to be disturbed while making his preparations.

  ‘I am acquainted with a medical student who chanced to hear of your reputation.’ The professor sneered. ‘She wanted to see you at work,’ Liebermann persevered. ‘I took the liberty of inviting her.’ He studied the professor for a reaction and, when there was none, risked one more word: ‘Today.’ Still the professor did not react. ‘I hope you will not object. Of course, if you do, that is perfectly-’

  ‘She!’ Mathias raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean: “she”?’

  ‘The medical student is a woman, Herr professor.’

  Liebermann failed to see how he could answer Mathias’s question in any other way, but he still felt foolish stating the obvious.

  Mathias mumbled to himself and his expression changed from disgruntlement to weary indifference.

  ‘Providing she keeps out of my way and doesn’t say anything empty-headed, I have no objection.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr professor,’ said Liebermann, exhaling with relief.

  Rheinhardt offered Liebermann a cigarette, and the two men smoked while Professor Mathias busied himself again with his tools. A large electric light was suspended above the autopsy table and twisting filaments floated across its powerful beam. Mortuary sheets had been laid over Bathild Babel’s body, but her curled right hand had slipped out from beneath the coverings: it looked small and pathetic.

  As Professor Mathias finally reached the conclusion of his ritual, there was a gentle knock on the door.

  ‘Ah, that will be the student,’ said Liebermann.

  ‘Then you’d better let her in,’ said the professor.

  When Amelia Lydgate entered, Liebermann took her coat and placed it on the stand. She was wearing a grey skirt and a plain white blouse, and her hair had been compressed into a tight bun.

  ‘Thank you so much for inviting me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Come — let me introduce you to Professor Mathias.’ Liebermann guided her to the autopsy table. Gesturing towards his friend he added: ‘Inspector Rheinhardt you already know.’

  ‘Miss Lydgate,’ said the inspector, bowing. ‘I had hoped we might encounter each other again in more happy circumstances. But it seems that — as before — a terrible tragedy,’ he nodded at the sheets, ‘has brought us together.’

  ‘And this gentleman,’ Liebermann continued, ‘is Professor Mathias. Herr professor, may I introduce Miss Amelia Lydgate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, for permitting me to attend,’ said Amelia. ‘I am most grateful.’

  Mathias tightened the knot of his apron and looked from the newcomer to Rheinhardt.

  ‘You too are acquainted with this lady?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Miss Lydgate is a talented microscopist and an expert on blood.’

  ‘A pupil of Landsteiner,’ Liebermann interjected.

  ‘She was of considerable service to the security office last year,’ said Rheinhardt.

  Amelia blushed.

  ‘Inspector Rheinhardt — you exaggerate …’

  ‘English, eh?’ said Professor Mathias.

  ‘My father is English, my mother of German origin.’

  ‘And you are studying medicine at the University?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Who teaches you pathology?’

  ‘Professor Wangermann. He speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘Wangermann!’ Mathias chuckled. ‘He was in my tutorial group over twenty years ago: it must have been ’seventy-seven — or seventy-nine, perhaps. A competent fellow — as I recall — but unimaginative.’

  ‘Miss Lydgate,’ said Rheinhardt, interceding. ‘Would you care to stand here?’

  Amelia came forward and Rheinhardt stepped back to allow her to pass. As he did so he bumped against Professor Mathias’s trolley, displacing all the instruments. A few fell onto the floor, clattering loudly.

  An ominous silence preceded Professor Mathias’s cry.

  ‘God in heaven, Rheinhardt! Look what you’ve done! Do you realize …’ The old man struggled for breath. ‘Do you realise …’ He found the sentiment he wished to communicate inexpressible.

  ‘I am so sorry, professor,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘I’ll have to start all over again now!’

  ‘Surely not,’ cried Rheinhardt.

  ‘It is essential that everything is in its right place,’ Mathias insisted.

  Liebermann tensed as he saw Amelia Lydgate bend down to pick up the fallen instruments from the floor. He tensed even more when he saw her meddling with what remained of Mathias’s meticulous arrangement.

  ‘Miss Lydgate!’ said Professor Mathias. ‘Have you not caused enough trouble already? What exactly do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Preparing you
r trolley,’ said the Englishwoman, ‘so that you may proceed.’

  Liebermann saw her move a mallet and winced.

  ‘Would you please,’ Mathias’s fists were clenched, ‘leave my instruments alone.’

  Amelia made one more adjustment and then, standing up, brushed her skirt.

  Liebermann and Rheinhardt looked at each other. Their heads were lowered and their shoulders hunched, as though they were expecting the ceiling to collapse.

  ‘Miss Lydgate!’ said Professor Mathias. ‘I am not accustomed …’ He glanced at the trolley and his sentence trailed off. He looked back at Amelia — and then back at the trolley. This oscillation continued until he said: ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘Surely you couldn’t have memorised-’

  ‘I simply put the instruments in positions that I considered practical.’

  Mathias examined the trolley more closely, his face screwed up with concentration. Quite suddenly, he laughed. It was a strained laugh, his disbelief introducing a note of hysteria into the outburst.

  ‘That is very …’ he said, returning his attention to Amelia. ‘Satisfactory. Very satisfactory.’ The professor continued staring at Amelia and by degrees his expression passed from bemusement, through curiosity, to something approximating respect. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘shall we begin?’

  Liebermann and Rheinhardt exchanged glances and sighed with relief.

  Professor Mathias pulled back the mortuary sheets, revealing the naked body of Bathild Babel.

  ‘She was discovered by her neighbour,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘In this state of undress?’ asked Mathias.

  ‘Yes. Lying on her bed — her clothes had been discarded on the floor. And she was killed in exactly the same way as Adele Zeiler.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Her name is Bathild Babel: a shop girl.’

  Mathias stroked her forehead and said softly: ‘To the quiet land. Who will guide us there? Who will guide us there with gentle hand: ah, across to the quiet land?’

  The old man looked up at Rheinhardt, his eyes liquid and luminous behind the magnifying lenses of his spectacles.

  ‘Schiller?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘No,’ said Mathias. ‘How could it be? No — Johann Gaudenz-Freiherr von Salis-Seewis.’

  Amelia looked quizzically at Liebermann, who shook his head as if to say: it’s nothing — ignore them.

  Mathias raised Bathild’s head and pulled the hair away from the nape of her neck.

  ‘Miss Lydgate …’ The professor invited the Englishwoman to take a look.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The ornamental end of a hatpin,’ said Professor Mathias. ‘The pin itself has been inserted between the first cervical vertebra and the skull. It has been pushed through the foramen magnum and into the brain, thus damaging the fundamental life-preserving structures.’ Professor Mathias pulled the hatpin out and held it aloft for all to see.

  ‘In the newspapers,’ said Amelia, ‘it was reported that Adele Zeiler had been stabbed to death. I had assumed that the instrument used was a knife.’

  ‘It is often necessary to withhold details of an inquiry for reasons of public safety,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It would be highly irresponsible to reveal ingenious and practicable methods of murder. Some readers might get ideas.’

  Amelia nodded: ‘I will respect your confidence.’

  Mathias was still staring at the pin.

  ‘You will notice,’ he said, ‘that there are two kinks: one close to the point, the other further down. The one near the point suggests that a first attempt at insertion failed. The point hit the base of the skull — instead of passing smoothly through the foramen magnum. This should not surprise us, as the manoeuvre is far from easy.’

  Mathias dropped the hatpin into a glass retort, shuffled to the other end of the autopsy table, parted the woman’s legs, and leaned forward. His nostrils flared.

  ‘She has been used — by a man.’ He glanced at Amelia. ‘The male reproductive fluid has a distinctive odour. It intensifies, becoming pungent over time. If you wish to …’ He gestured towards the woman’s sex.

  Liebermann was surprised by Amelia’s response. She did not flinch or show any sign of disgust. Instead, she joined Professor Mathias, leaned forward, and inhaled.

  ‘Like rancid oysters,’ she said plainly.

  ‘You will notice,’ said Mathias, ‘that there are no signs to suggest that this woman resisted ingress. The genital region is unscathed. Moreover, there is no bruising around her throat or abrasions around her wrists. When a woman is coerced, it is common for the assailant to ensure compliance by the threat of strangulation, or by tightly gripping her wrists. Observe: her skin is unmarked.’

  Amelia listened attentively.

  ‘You will also notice that her nails are unbroken,’ said Mathias.

  ‘May I inspect her hands?’ asked Amelia.

  ‘If you wish.’

  Amelia lifted the woman’s left hand and then her right.

  ‘There is something under her nails.’

  She reached up and pulled a hairpin out of her bun. Scraping the point beneath one of the corpse’s nails, she dislodged a few dark grains which fell into her palm. She thrust her hand under the bright electric light and the grains became rubiginous.

  ‘I think it’s blood,’ said Amelia.

  Professor Mathias looked impressed. He nodded: ‘She may have scratched her assailant before losing consciousness.’

  ‘If this is the perpetrator’s blood, then it may prove very useful,’ said Amelia. ‘Professor Mathias — do you have an envelope?’

  ‘Useful?’ asked Mathias.

  ‘Landsteiner has demonstrated that human blood can be classified into three different types: A, B, and C. A fourth type — AB — was identified by Landsteiner’s associate, Herr Doctor Sturli, only last year. It is possible to ascertain blood type from dehydrated samples or even a stain. According to Richter, the accurate identification of blood type is possible even if stains are up to two weeks old. If we know the perpetrator’s blood type,’ she turned to face Rheinhardt, ‘you will be able to exclude certain suspects. Moreover, if when the perpetrator is apprehended he has the same blood type as this sample you will have a valuable piece of convergent evidence.’

  Professor Mathias clapped his hands together.

  ‘Excellent!’ he cried. ‘A splendid idea!’

  20

  Kristina climbed the stairs. As she did so, her suspicions were aroused by the absence of any noise. The sewing machines were silent.

  Her secretary, Wanda, had gone up to collect a garment some time ago but had not returned. Kristina had grown impatient.

  The sound of voices …

  Overcome with curiosity, Kristina tiptoed across the landing and placed her ear against the door.

  ‘My mother has forbidden me to go out alone — not since the second one got killed.’

  ‘There’s no danger: not for the likes of us.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘The two that got killed: one was an artist’s model, the other was a shop girl. She lived in Spittelberg.’

  Now it was Wanda speaking: ‘You think they were both prostitutes?’

  ‘As good as.’

  Another voice — rather low and ponderous: ‘I’m not going out on my own, whatever you say. I’m frightened.’

  ‘I’d get bored cooped up at home every night. It’d drive me mad.’

  ‘I saw this man on the tram.’ Again the low voice. ‘He was staring at me.’

  ‘I should be so lucky.’

  Laughter.

  ‘Albertine, you shouldn’t joke about such things!’

  Kristina opened the door and — miraculously — the seamstresses were all busy at work. The clatter of the machines and the girls’ intent expressions suggested prolonged, concentrated industry. Wanda was standing, the dress that she had originally gone to col
lect hanging over her arm.

  ‘I may not be as young as you girls,’ Kristina shouted. ‘But I can assure you, I am not going deaf!’

  Guilty looks: burning cheeks. One or two machines slowed as the pretence of work was abandoned.

  ‘We were talking about the murders, madame.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s almost dark when we leave, madame. I don’t want to walk home in the dark …’

  ‘What are you talking about? Dark? It’s getting lighter every day.’

  ‘But, madame …’

  Another girl, the one with the low voice, said: ‘In my magazine it said the streets are no longer safe for young women, especially at night.’

  Kristina looked around the room, up and down the rows of expectant faces. The last machine slowed to a halt.

  Silence.

  ‘All right,’ said Kristina. ‘You can leave a little earlier — but only if you promise to work harder. We won’t be able to deliver the new orders on time if you sit around gossiping all day.’

  A chorus of thanks and promises.

  Kristina beckoned Wanda.

  ‘Come on. And please don’t slouch so.’

  ‘Yes, madame,’ said the secretary, straightening her back and following her mistress.

  21

  Rheinhardt entered Cafe Museum clutching Bathild Babel’s address book. He did not find the ambience of the new coffee house very welcoming. It felt rather cold and the plain decor appeared unfinished. Shortly after Cafe Museum opened, Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann what he thought of it. The young doctor had insisted that the architect — Adolf Loos — was a genius, and spoke enthusiastically about the virtue of clear lines and simplicity. The inspector had not been persuaded by Liebermann’s arguments and remained completely unmoved by the stark functional interior. He could not see beauty in emptiness, only a lack of invention. He hoped, as he sat at a table, that the cakes would not be as bland as the coffee house’s design.

  He ordered a Turkische coffee and a piece of Dobostorte. When the cake arrived — a baroque creation festooned with complex embellishments — he was grateful that the chef had not succumbed to the culinary equivalent of modernity. The pressure of his fork forced generous applications of chocolate cream to bulge out between the layers of sponge, and when he took the first mouthful of the Dobostorte the sweetness and intensity of the flavour produced in him a feeling of deep satisfaction.