Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  ‘Hush now,’ said Kristina.

  ‘You didn’t say.’

  ‘It was nothing.’ She made an appeasing gesture. ‘Really, Heinz …’

  ‘With the greatest respect, Frau Vogl’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I would not describe the observation of a man waiting outside Fraulein Wirth’s apartment on the evening of her murder as nothing — particularly since he also saw you. If he was the murderer, then you may be in great danger.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Heinz Vogl, brushing a strand of hair from his wife’s face. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘A man … in the courtyard. I thought nothing of it. He could have been anybody.’

  ‘Frau Vogl,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You cannot be complacent about such things.’

  ‘It’s just as well you haven’t been out,’ said Vogl to his wife.

  ‘I intend to be at the salon tomorrow morning,’ she replied tartly.

  ‘But you are unwell.’

  ‘I am feeling much better today.’ A trace of irritation had entered Kristina’s voice.

  ‘My wife,’ said Vogl, a little exasperated, ‘is a dress designer of some reputation.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Frau Rheinhardt is a great admirer of Frau Vogl’s creations.’

  ‘Ashputtel,’ said Liebermann. All eyes fastened on the young doctor — the flow of conversation was halted by his exclamation. ‘These lithographs,’ he continued. ‘They tell the story of Ashputtel.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kristina, her voice dipping and rising — uncertain.

  ‘They are very beautiful, and so apposite.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The dresses: dresses are so important in the story. And you — being a dress designer.’

  Frau Vogl smiled.

  ‘I had not thought of that. I bought them only because I admired the artist’s style.’

  ‘Czeschka.’

  ‘Yes. He is young and very talented.’

  Liebermann paused, then asked abruptly: ‘Have you always kept in touch with Fraulein Wirth, continuously — throughout your life?’

  The effect was jarring.

  ‘No. We didn’t correspond for a while. We stopped when I was about fifteen, and I didn’t hear from her again until I was in my late twenties.’

  A curious silence ensued. Kristina produced a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her kimono and pressed it against her mouth. She coughed, this time more forcefully.

  ‘Inspector,’ said Vogl. ‘My wife really should be resting.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Forgive me. You have been most helpful.’

  As they walked down the Linke Wienzeile the sphere of gilded laurel leaves that surmounted the Secession building came into view.

  ‘Odd,’ said Liebermann.

  ‘What was?’ Rheinhardt asked.

  ‘The whole thing.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Her answers …’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were too perfect.’ Liebermann frowned. ‘Contrived. Everything fitting neatly into place.’

  ‘You think she made it all up?’ Rheinhardt looked at his friend askance. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’ Liebermann shrugged. ‘Max, if anyone was acting oddly, it wasn’t her, it was you! Why did you ask that question at the end?’

  Liebermann stopped walking.

  ‘Do you remember what she said: after you’d inquired about Fraulein Wirth and gentlemen friends? She said that Fraulein Wirth had had many, and that when she was younger Fraulein Wirth had been very striking. How would she have known that if they had lost touch as adolescents and not seen each other again in a decade or more?’

  ‘Frau Vogl obviously learned these things after they had resumed their acquaintance.’

  ‘But to say it in that way … she was very striking. She said it as though she could remember it.’

  ‘She may have seen a photograph.’

  ‘Were there any photographs found in Fraulein Wirth’s apartment?’

  ‘No. But that does not mean that such photographs have never existed.’

  Liebermann shook his head.

  ‘And why hadn’t Frau Vogl told her husband that she had seen a man standing outside Fraulein Wirth’s apartment?’

  ‘She didn’t think it important — or she didn’t want to worry him. You saw his reaction. He is her senior by a considerable margin and probably prone to the anxieties more commonly observed in a parent than a spouse. I formed the impression that he was protective — perhaps over-protective.’

  Liebermann walked a few steps further and stopped again.

  ‘And another thing.’ Rheinhardt’s expression showed that he was losing patience. ‘Didn’t it strike you as strange that Frau Vogl had made no connection between Ashputtel’s dresses in the lithographs and her occupation! She was genuinely surprised when I pointed it out. In which case, what was it about those pictures that appealed to her?’

  ‘She told you. She liked the artist’s style.’

  ‘That goes without saying. But what — in addition to the artist’s style — made her choose the story of Ashputtel?’

  ‘Max,’ said Rheinhardt, gripping his friend’s shoulder and giving him a firm shake. ‘Does it matter? She isn’t a suspect, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘So why was she acting so … strangely?’

  ‘She wasn’t!’ Rheinhardt tapped the side of his friend’s head. ‘It was all in your mind! I am sure that Frau Vogl would make a very interesting case study; however, now is not the time and this street corner is not the place. Let’s go to Cafe Schwarzenberg. I could do with another coffee.’ Rheinhardt paused before adding, ‘And something else, perhaps.’

  34

  The photographs were spread across the top of Commissioner Brugel’s desk. He selected three full-length portraits and laid them out in a row: Adele Zeiler, lying on the lawn of the Volksgarten, Bathild Babel, sprawled naked on her bed, and Selma Wirth, the hilt of a dagger sticking out of her chest. Brugel’s gaze lingered on the central image. He sighed, opened a drawer and removed a ladies’ magazine. He held the cover up for Rheinhardt to see. It was a publication concerned almost exclusively with society news and gossip.

  ‘Have you seen this, Rheinhardt?’

  ‘No. It is not a circular I subscribe to.’

  The commissioner frowned, flicked through the pages and began reading: ‘“The dinner was given by Frau Kathi shortly before her departure for the Riviera. On this occasion, my fellow guests included Prince Liechtenstein; Marquis von Becquehem; the director of the Court Opera, Herr Gustav Mahler; Herr director Palmer; the court theatre actor Max Devrient and his wife. Frau Kathi was wearing the most beautiful pearls and was, as always, the perfect hostess. After dinner, she said that she wished all the women of Vienna could escape to the Riviera with her. Of course, our dear friend was alluding to the frightful spate of murders that have recently been the subject of so much speculation in the vulgar press.”’ Brugel closed the magazine and folded it over. ‘You must have guessed the identity of Frau Kathi.’

  Rheinhardt’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He tried to swallow but found it difficult.

  ‘Katharina Schratt?’ the inspector croaked.

  Brugel nodded. It was common knowledge that Schratt — a famous comic actress — was the Emperor’s mistress.

  ‘You know what this means, Rheinhardt? It’s only a matter of time before I get a telephone call from the Hofburg. His Highness’s aides will want to know what progress is being made. What shall I tell them?’

  Rheinhardt motioned to speak, only to discover that when he opened his mouth he had no answer. He took a deep breath and tried again: ‘We have made some progress, sir.’

  Brugel patted a bundle of witness statements and reports.

  ‘Have you, now? Permit me to precis what you have discovered so far. The perpetrator has dark hair, a pale complexion, and has knowledge of human anatomy. He smells of carbolic and once called himself Griess
er. He owns an expensive frock coat and might wear a bowler hat.’ The commissioner picked up the bundle and held it out towards Rheinhardt. ‘You call that progress?’

  Rheinhardt winced as the commissioner raised his voice.

  ‘I am all too aware, sir, that the results of the investigation are disappointing.’

  Brugel dropped the papers and they landed heavily.

  ‘One more week, Rheinhardt.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘After which I’m afraid responsibility for the case will have to be transferred to someone else. There’s a specialist based in Salzburg, a detective with an academic interest in lust murder. He studied with Professor Krafft-Ebing. If I inform the palace that we’re about to recruit an expert then that might pacify them, halt damaging talk.’

  ‘With respect, sir-’

  The commissioner was not inclined to listen to Rheinhardt’s objection.

  ‘Once the palace get involved, accusations of incompetence soon follow. I’m sorry, Rheinhardt. You haven’t given me enough. I have the interests of the entire department to consider. One more week.’

  Part Three

  The Sophocles Syndrome

  35

  In the dream he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty room where an oriental woman wearing a familiar scarlet kimono served him tea. Through an open door he had observed large dragonflies with opalescent wings hovering above a koi pond. The atmosphere was peaceful, the air redolent with exotic fragrances. A breeze disturbed a carousel of wind chimes suspended in the branches of a kumquat tree. He had watched the metal tubes colliding, each contact producing a tone of beguiling purity. As the carousel turned he noticed something odd about the motion of the chimes. They were swinging slowly, too slowly, as if submerged beneath water. The soothing silvery music became more sonorous and plangent, until the effect was similar to a gamelan orchestra. A man with a bowler hat and long coat ran past the doorway.

  It was at that point that Rheinhardt was awakened by the harsh reveille of his telephone.

  The driver had chosen to weave through the deserted back streets, following a concentric course in parallel with the south-western quadrant of the Ringstrasse — Josefstadt, Neubau, Mariahilf, Wieden — and the dream had accompanied his thoughts all the way. When the carriage finally slowed, Rheinhardt made a concerted effort to dismiss the Japanese room from his mind. He opened the door, stepped out onto the cobbles, and paused to consider the view: the gatehouse of the Lower Belvedere Palace. A lamp was suspended beneath the tall archway and the windows on either side were illuminated from within by a soft yellow lambency. In daylight, Rheinhardt would have been able to see a path ascending in two stages to the western tower of the Upper Palace. Now all that he could see was the flaring of torches in the distance.

  Inside the gatehouse Rheinhardt discovered a constable sitting at a table with a much older man who was wearing overalls. They had evidently been sharing the contents of a hip flask. The constable started and attempted to stand up. His sabre became trapped behind the chair leg and he muttered an apology before straightening his back and clicking his heels.

  ‘Inspector Rheinhardt?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Constable Reiter, sir. And this gentleman is Berthold Wilfing — the head gardener. It was Herr Wilfing who discovered the body, sir.’

  Wilfing pressed his palms down on the table: rising seemed to require the strength of his arms as well as his legs. He was probably in his early sixties and appeared surprisingly frail for a gardener.

  ‘It was a terrible shock — let me tell you.’

  Rheinhardt addressed the constable: ‘Has my assistant arrived yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then who’s up there?’ The inspector gestured towards the rear window. ‘I saw torches.’

  ‘A colleague from Hainburgerstrasse, sir. Constable Kiesl. With the body, sir.’

  Rheinhardt nodded and turned again to the gardener.

  ‘Yes, it must have been a terrible shock. I am sorry; however, I am afraid I must ask you a few questions. I hope you will not find them too upsetting. Tell me, Herr Wilfing, at what time did you make your discovery?’

  ‘About three-thirty. No, later.’

  ‘May I ask what you were doing in the gardens at that time?’

  ‘Collecting these.’ Wilfing picked up a bucket from under the table. It was full of snails and slugs. One of the snails had climbed onto the rim, its tentative horns extended. ‘Nocturnal creatures, sir, and at this time of year dreadful bad for the seedlings.’

  ‘Do you always commence work so early?’

  ‘No. But these last few weeks have been exceptional.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘The Lord Chamberlain.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What has Prince Liechtenstein got to do with it?’

  ‘He’s having a function, at eleven, in the Goldkabinett.’

  ‘What? Today?’

  ‘Yes. Today. If his guests step out into the garden and all the beds have been ruined by these fellows,’ he flicked the snail on the rim back into the bucket, ‘well, that wouldn’t do, would it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘They say that Prince Eugene was a keen gardener. He had rare shrubs and trees brought to the Belvedere from all over the world. You have to take care of a legacy like that. These gluttons,’ Wilfing shook the bucket, ‘will eat anything!’

  ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘However, if we could perhaps return now to the more pressing matter of your discovery?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I was crossing one of the sunken lawns — and I very nearly trod on her. What’s this? I said to myself. And there she was — just lying there … a pretty thing as well. Dead. But not a mark on her. She must have just keeled over. It happens, I suppose. The heart.’ Wilfing tapped his chest authoritatively. ‘What was she doing there, eh? That’s what I’d like to know — out in the gardens after dark.’

  ‘Did you touch the body?’

  ‘You must be joking. It’s bad luck to touch the dead.’ The gardener shivered and lowered the bucket to the floor. ‘I went straight to the stables. I woke up one of the lads and sent him off to Hainburgerstrasse — told him to go as quick as his legs would carry him.’ Wilfing’s expression became anxious. He took a watch from his pocket and, glancing at its face, added: ‘Can I get back to work now? If the beds get ruined and the prince’s guests are displeased there’ll be hell to pay!’

  ‘Herr Wilfing, I suspect the prince’s guests will be even more displeased if the body hasn’t been removed by eleven o’ clock. I am afraid I must ask you to wait here until my assistant arrives. You must make a statement. When this is done you can proceed with your duties.’

  Rheinhardt left the gatehouse and walked up the path, heading towards the torches. He could see very little, but as he made his ascent his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he became aware of the Upper Palace as an elevated penumbra situated at the other end of the gardens. The distinctive line of the roof — suggesting a desert kingdom of tents and pavilions — was made just visible by the dull glow of the sleeping city beyond. Aiming for the feverish incandescence of the torches, Rheinhardt entered a mazelike arrangement of hedges. They enclosed a sunken lawn, in the middle of which was the conspicuous form of a supine female body. Next to her stood an anxious-looking constable, his hand gripping the hilt of his sabre, his tense posture communicating his readiness to use it.

  ‘It’s all right, Kiesl. Inspector Rheinhardt — security office.’

  The constable let go of his weapon.

  ‘Sir.’

  Rheinhardt approached the body.

  ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Where did you get these torches from?’

  ‘Herr Wilfing — the head gardener. You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His paraffin lamp didn’t give off enough light. I thought you’d be needin
g something better.’

  ‘Well done, Kiesl. Commendable foresight.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Rheinhardt gazed at the dead woman. The scene evoked memories of the opera house: a shield maiden laid out beneath a starry sky, torch-bearers and a pyre. Crouching down beside her and falling on one knee like a vassal, he studied her face. Young. Early twenties, perhaps? A beauty spot beneath her left eye; coils of blonde hair complementing strong features; her chin, a little too broad — a dimple near its apex; long white lashes. The redness of her cheeks was borrowed from the flames.

  Bracing himself, Rheinhardt slipped his hand beneath her occipital bone. He felt something cold and hard projecting out above the uppermost vertebra. When he tried to move it he found that it was fixed. He did not trouble to raise the body any higher in order to examine the object. He knew exactly what it was. The decorative head of a hatpin. To be exact: the decorative head of the hatpin purchased at Frau Schuschnig’s shop by the man calling himself Griesser.

  Rheinhardt positioned himself at the other extremity of the woman’s body and lifted the hem of her skirt. There was no mistaking the pungent odour and — as he had expected — she wasn’t wearing any drawers. He knew before he looked over his shoulder that the young constable’s expression would be disapproving.

  ‘Kiesl. I would be most grateful if you would search the area for a ladies’ hat — and a ladies undergarment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The constable pulled one of the torches from the ground and disappeared behind a hedge.

  Rheinhardt searched the dead woman’s pockets. He found some money, a set of keys, a box of slim cigars, and a silk monogrammed handkerchief showing the interlinked letters C and R. He experimented with some possible names: Clara Raich, Charlotte Ruzicker, Christel Rebane … He thought of the other victims: Zeiler, Babel and Wirth. How many more women would this monster take? Rheinhardt was overcome by a wave of pity and hopelessness. The investigation had not progressed at all and it was his fault. It was his case, his responsibility — and what had he achieved? The collection of a few worthless facts, useless scraps of information. Commissioner Brugel had been right to admonish him. Guilt found a niche in Rheinhardt’s gut. It settled somewhere in his lower abdomen, among the peristaltic mass of his intestines. Nausea threatened to empty his stomach. He stood up and made his way back to the path.