Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  ‘Isn’t that-?’

  ‘The same kimono that Frau Vogl was wearing? Yes, it is.’

  ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘Erstweiler works for a businessman called Herr Winkler who imports objets d’art from Japan. He told me that he stole it for Frau Kolinsky. Herr Winkler must also supply Frau Vogl with kimonos for sale in her salon.’

  Liebermann put the garment back in the wardrobe and turned his attention to the chest of drawers. The top drawer was filled with men’s clothing: socks, undergarments, shirts and trousers. The two lower drawers were empty.

  ‘Herr Kolinsky’s clothes are still here,’ said Liebermann. ‘But Frau Kolinsky’s are gone. It is interesting that she took all her clothes except the kimono.’

  ‘Why? What does that mean?’

  ‘She didn’t want to be reminded.’

  Liebermann closed the empty drawers, stood up, and stepped out onto the landing. Rheinhardt followed.

  ‘Erstweiler’s room?’

  ‘It must be.’

  Liebermann turned the handle and entered. Whereas the Kolinskys’ bedroom was cramped, Erstweiler’s was more spacious. The single bed and narrow wardrobe took up less floor space. A table and chair were positioned by the window and a large white bowl and razor showed where Erstweiler conducted his ablutions. On a stool beside the bed was a small pile of books. Liebermann examined the spines. The first was an anthology of fantastic literature, and the other two were slim volumes of romantic poetry.

  Rheinhardt placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room.

  ‘Something’s going on — I grant you. But, clearly, it isn’t what you’ve been thinking. I would suggest that Frau Kolinsky packed her bags, departed, and, shortly after, a distraught Herr Kolinsky ran after her.’

  ‘Without his coat?’

  ‘Perhaps he has two coats.’

  ‘Stopping — as he rushed out the door — to clear the kitchen of perishable foodstuffs?’

  Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his moustache. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he sighed.

  ‘Yes, it is very peculiar. But the fact remains …’

  Liebermann shook his head.

  ‘The fact remains that Erstweiler’s symptoms, his peculiar dream, and Freud’s notion of a universal Oedipal syndrome, suggest — very strongly — that something bad has happened here.’

  ‘But look around you.’ Rheinhardt began to turn. ‘Where’s the evidence?’

  Clicking his fingers, Liebermann said: ‘The cellar. We haven’t looked in the cellar yet. Come, Oskar.’

  Liebermann launched himself out of the room and hurried down the stairs, dashing through the kitchen and out into the garden. Rheinhardt caught up with the young doctor as he was about to open the cellar door. Liebermann took a deep breath and lifted the catch. As the rusty hinges groaned, Rheinhardt saw Liebermann’s shoulders sag. The interior was empty.

  Rheinhardt slapped his hand against Liebermann’s back.

  ‘Never mind, eh?’

  ‘But I was so sure.’ Liebermann ducked beneath the low lintel and stepped into the vault. ‘I’m sorry, Oskar.’ His voice sounded particularly dejected in the closed space. ‘It appears I’ve wasted your time.’

  ‘The disappearance of the Kolinskys is indeed suspicious. It will merit a report.’

  Liebermann bit his lower lip.

  ‘There’s always the attic. Was there one? I wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Max — we would have smelt something!’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Rheinhardt threw his head back, looked at the curved ceiling, then stared down at the space between his feet. He circled Liebermann, keeping his eyes down, before squatting to inspect the surface of the tiles. He ran a finger across the glaze.

  ‘Mmmm …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These tiles …’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re very clean.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘And there’s nothing in here. Nothing has been stored. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  ‘I don’t see-’

  ‘Max,’ interrupted Rheinhardt. ‘Be a good fellow and get me a jug of water and a knife from the kitchen.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Rheinhardt was now on all fours, crawling towards the nearest wall, his nose alarmingly close to the floor.

  ‘A jug of water and a knife.’ Rheinhardt repeated. ‘I saw a striped green jug standing in the sink. The knife needn’t be sharp, but the blade should be strong.’

  Liebermann left — somewhat bemused — to do Rheinhardt’s bidding. When he returned, the inspector was standing in the middle of the cellar, deep in thought.

  ‘Oskar?’

  Rheinhardt took the knife from Liebermann, put it in his pocket, and then showed his readiness to receive the jug. It was heavy and some water swept over the rim, splashing his shoes.

  ‘If you would stand by the door, please?’ said Rheinardt.

  Liebermann took a step back.

  Rheinhardt tipped the jug and a thin braid of water twisted to the floor. When he had created a small puddle, he stopped and observed how under the influence of gravity the water sought the path of least resistance. A silver tendril thickened and flowed towards the groove between two adjacent tiles. Rheinhardt canted the jug again and watched as the rivulet accelerated down the channel, diverting abruptly into another as it obeyed the discipline of the floor’s gradient.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Liebermann. He sounded a little irritated.

  ‘Determining the lowest point in the cellar.’

  ‘To what end?’

  Rheinhardt poured more water and smiled.

  ‘Have you heard, by any chance, of Gustav Mace?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Over thirty years ago a man called Desire Bodasse was murdered and dismembered. His body parts were discovered washed up on the banks of the river Seine. Gustav Mace — the detective involved in the case — suspected one of Bodasse’s friends, a man called Pierre Voirbo. Mace believed that if he was correct and Voirbo was the killer, then the villain had most probably committed the murder and dismemberment in his own private lodgings. When the great detective arrived he found no traces of blood. Everything was spotlessly clean. Too clean, Mace thought. He subsequently asked for some water, which he proceeded to pour onto the floor. If Bodasse had been dismembered in Voirbo’s lodgings, then his blood would have drained beneath the tiles, accumulating at the lowest point in the room.’

  About half a metre from the wall, the rivulet had begun to feed a second puddle. The water collected, revealing the presence of a slight depression.

  ‘There it is,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The lowest point.’

  Rheinhardt placed the jug on the floor and, kneeling by the second puddle, he brushed the water away with his hand and removed the knife from his pocket. He pushed the blade between two tiles and worked one of them loose. Turning it over, he inspected the underside. A layer of pale adhesive was caked with dried blood. He held it up to show Liebermann.

  The young doctor came forward.

  ‘You were right, Max,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Something very bad did happen here. Something very bad indeed.’

  45

  The carriage deposited them outside the Schottenring police station. Rheinhardt and Liebermann entered the building and without exchanging words or glances ascended the stairs to the inspector’s office. Rheinhardt sat behind his desk and removed a stack of forms from one of the drawers. He picked up his pen and prepared to take a statement from his friend, but was distracted by the sweet fragrance of his wife’s baking. Reaching to the back of the drawer, he found the box of Linzer biscotten, which he took out and pushed towards Liebermann.

  ‘Else made them.’

  ‘In which case …’

  Liebermann bit through the thick, brittle crust of icing. The shortbread crumbled and he had to perform some complex manoeuvres to stop ja
m from dropping onto his trousers.

  ‘She makes them in the shape of hearts. Do you think that says anything about her character?’

  Liebermann drew back a little.

  ‘Are you really asking me to analyse your wife’s choice of pastry cutter?’

  ‘I was just wondering — that’s all.’ Rheinhardt acknowledged his friend’s censorious look and, pushing the final quarter of his own biscuit into his already crowded mouth, picked up the pen again. ‘Let us begin. However, I trust that when expressing the ideas that guided your thinking — the ideas that we discussed earlier — you will make allowances for the layman.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Moreover, I think that it would be preferable if you avoided the use of certain technical terms. Such as …’ Rheinhardt’s tired eyes made a tacit but eloquent plea ‘… infant sexuality?’

  ‘Rest assured, I will do my best to eschew language that might cause offence.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Liebermann loosened his necktie.

  ‘Herr Norbert Erstweiler is currently a psychiatric inpatient at the General Hospital. He was referred to the department by his general practitioner, Doctor Vitzhum, after reporting insomnia, agitation, and feelings of dread.’

  ‘A little slower, please.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  Rheinhardt looked up from his writing.

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘I saw him for the first time during a ward round with Professor Pallenberg on Friday the fourth of April and undertook my own assessment on Sunday the sixth of April.’

  Liebermann continued, but was obliged to stop when Haussmann appeared. The young man’s head craned around the edge of the door.

  ‘Sir?’

  Rheinhardt produced a prodigious sigh.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Herr Loiberger’s downstairs — just arrived. He wants to see you. He says it is a matter of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Herr Loiberger?’

  ‘The gentleman who-’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Rheinhardt. ‘I know who he is!’ After a pause of considerable length, during which the pouches of loose skin beneath Rheinhardt’s eyes seemed to sink yet further down his cheeks, the inspector said: ‘Oh, very well. Go and get him.’ Turning to address Liebermann, he added: ‘You might as well stay here.’ He offered his friend another biscuit in order to justify taking another one himself. ‘When Loiberger arrives, take a good look at him. He bears a striking resemblance to Franz Schubert.’

  After the biscuits had been consumed a silence ensued, which Liebermann relieved by humming.

  ‘Not that,’ said Rheinhardt, brushing some crumbs into a bin. ‘If Herr Loiberger hears, he’ll think you’re mocking him.’

  Liebermann suddenly realised he had been humming the introductory theme of Schubert’s B minor ‘Unfinished’ Symphony.

  ‘I’m sorry, Oskar’ said Liebermann. ‘The melody just came into my head. It was quite unconscious.’

  Rheinhardt moved the biscuits out of view as soon as he detected the steady beat of approaching footsteps. The door opened and Haussmann ushered Loiberger into the office. Rheinhardt stood to greet the coffee-house proprietor.

  ‘Herr Loiberger. Haussmann, please get Herr Schu- do get Herr Loiberger a chair.’ The inspector covered his mouth in an effort to convince everyone present that his slip was nothing more than a cough. ‘Please take a seat,’ he added, clearing his throat, and anxious to carry the conversation forward. ‘Permit me to introduce a colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann.’

  Loiberger bowed and lowered himself into the chair that Haussmann had provided.

  After the exchange of pleasantries, Rheinhardt made a steeple with his hands, peered over the pinnacle created by his touching forefingers, and waited for Herr Loiberger to speak.

  ‘Inspector. Forgive me for this intrusion — but …’ Herr Loiberger suddenly looked less confident. ‘I think I am in possession of information that could possibly be of some use to you.’

  ‘Please proceed.’

  ‘My wife’s cousin died yesterday.’

  ‘Did she? I am very sorry.’

  ‘There is no need to be. The familial bond was not particularly strong. Indeed, I must confess that my wife didn’t really like her cousin.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She was a valetudinarian, completely preoccupied by imaginary illnesses.’

  ‘That is a very peculiar thing to say of someone who has just died, Herr Loiberger.’

  ‘None of us are immortal, inspector. Even valetudinarians must die of something … eventually.’

  ‘You were saying: your wife and her cousin were not close.’

  ‘Quite so. Be that as it may, the responsibility of arranging the funeral has fallen upon my wife. My wife’s cousin’s estranged sister lives in England and the cousin’s brother — I regret to say — is something of a ne’er-do-well. He lost all his fortune at the gaming table and escaped his debtors by going to America. He is still in America, but God only knows where.’

  ‘I am sorry, but how — may I ask — is this information useful to me?’

  ‘When you came to my coffee house you were asking questions about the man whom I had seen with Cacilie Roster. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember our conversation very well.’

  ‘Today, I accompanied my wife to Schopp and Sons — the undertakers. They are situated near the old Town Hall. Our meeting with Herr Schopp was rather protracted on account of my wife’s cousin having left behind rather elaborate instructions for the church service and her interment. I have no idea why, because she was an atheist. It was as we were leaving that I saw him. He emerged from a door at the back of the reception area and immediately made his exit through another door.’

  ‘Him — being the man?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You are quite sure,’ said Rheinhardt slowly, ‘that it was the same man — the man with black hair and blue eyes — whom you saw with Cacilie Roster on Sunday night?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  Rheinhardt leaned forward.

  ‘Could he have recognised you?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He didn’t look over.’

  ‘And when did this happen?’

  ‘About an hour ago. I came here directly.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Loiberger,’ said Rheinhardt. Then, calling over to his assistant, he added: ‘Haussmann. Would you be so kind as to organise a carriage?’

  46

  Liebermann, Rheinhardt and Haussmann said very little to each other as the carriage rattled past the Stock Exchange, up Wipplingerstrasse and towards the Old Town Hall. It was a short journey and completed in a matter of minutes. Before getting out, Rheinhardt reached into his coat pocket and produced a pistol — a gleaming Luger Po8. He made some final checks and indicated his readiness to proceed.

  They stepped down from the carriage and walked to the entrance of Schopp and Sons.

  ‘Haussmann, you wait here. If he runs out — tackle him.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Rheinhardt opened the door and entered, Liebermann following behind him. The vestibule of the funeral parlour was large and austere. Apart from a crucifix, the ubiquitous portrait of the Emperor, and a vase of fragrant flowers, there were no other decorative features. A roll of black carpet encouraged visitors to step forward to a walnut reception desk which was at that moment unattended. One of several doors located behind the desk suddenly opened, and a gaunt grey-haired man, dressed in a long old-fashioned frock coat and wearing half-moon glasses, advanced to greet them. He seemed to have mastered the skill of soundless locomotion and glided forward silently, like a ghost. His hands were clasped in front of his chest and his shoulders were slightly hunched.

  ‘Gentlemen. Herr Wiesner — at your service.’

  He bowed and remained in this submissive attitude for longer than protocol required. When he straightened
up again — or at least straightened up as much as his wilting spine would allow — Rheinhardt showed him his identification.

  ‘I would like to speak to the director,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘One moment, please,’ said Wiesner.

  After a brief absence, he returned and guided them down a long windowless corridor lit by flickering gas lamps. On either side were pedestals supporting ornate cinerary urns and statues of sphinxes. The effect was rather dreamlike. They arrived at a door on which Wiesner tapped with the knuckle of a crooked finger, producing a knock so faint that it was barely audible. Then he opened the door and extended his arm, inviting Rheinhardt and Liebermann to enter.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said a man standing by a tall window. He was gazing up at the sky which sagged with the promise of imminent rain.

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and this is my colleague, Doctor Liebermann.’

  ‘That will be all, Wiesner.’ Schopp was completely bald but for two tufts of white hair that fanned out from behind his ears. His beard and moustache were also white but jaundiced by cigar smoke. ‘Please sit.’ He left the window and sat down on an ostentatious chair with a high carved back. It created the illusion of two eagles perched on his shoulders.

  ‘I would like to interview one of your employees,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I do not know his name but I do have a description. He is a young man in his late twenties or early thirties. He has black hair and blue eyes.’

  Schopp nodded.

  Rheinhardt expected him to speak but a peculiarity of his manner delayed his response by a few uneasy seconds.

  ‘You must mean Herr Sprenger. Markus Sprenger.’

  ‘In what capacity does he work here?’

  ‘He is an undertaker. But he has also made himself very useful to Doctor Profanter — our embalmer.’

  ‘Useful?’

  Again, the response was delayed.

  ‘He prepares Doctor Profanter’s instruments and assists him when he arrives.’