by Frank Tallis
Rheinhardt appeared from behind the church and joined Liebermann by the column. He offered his friend a Trabuco cheroot, which the young doctor accepted.
“Do you know anything about these saints?” Liebermann asked.
“Saint Barbara was a renowned beauty and, I believe, is the patron saint of artillerymen. As for Saint Rosalia”—Rheinhardt lit Liebermann’s cigar, then his own—“I’m afraid my memory fails me. Although she may have halted a plague once, which is probably why she is here.”
Liebermann nodded and exhaled a stream of smoke.
“How did you discover the victim’s identity?”
“He was carrying some papers. In fact, he lives just around the corner. I’ll be going to take a look at his house once we’ve finished here. Would you care to join me?”
“I can’t,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “Patients.”
“Of course.”
“Who found the body?”
“A fellow called Bietak, a hotel porter. He was on his way home after work.”
“Did he see anything unusual? Hear anything?”
“No.”
Rheinhardt stepped off the pavement and looked up and down the silent street.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked. “I thought the golem was supposed to protect Jews.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Liebermann, his voice strained by disbelief. “It doesn’t make any sense at all!”
57
RHEINHARDT KNOCKED AT THE door. There was no response.
He observed across the street a plump red face looking out of one of the windows. The pressure of the woman’s nose on the glass had turned it upward, revealing two circular nostrils. Seen through the frost of her condensed breath, she appeared distinctly porcine. She did not avert her gaze when detected but continued to watch with a fixed stare.
Rheinhardt indicated that he wished to speak with her. She blinked at him and then withdrew behind the drapes; however, she did not come to the door immediately.
Because it was still early, Rheinhardt assumed that the plump woman was making herself presentable, if such a thing were possible. He then chastised himself for entertaining this uncharitable thought. After all, his own figure left much to be desired. In due course there was the sound of a metal bolt being drawn, and the door creaked open.
The woman stood squarely, in an attitude of defiance, with ruddy arms folded across a bust of considerable bulk.
“Yes?”
“Good morning. My name is Rheinhardt. Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.” He produced his identification. The woman squinted, her eyes shrinking in the morning light. “May I ask you a few questions?”
“Questions? What questions?”
“Well, perhaps we could start with your name?”
“Tilde Warmisch.”
“Very good. Now, Frau Warmisch, that house over there.” Rheinhardt pointed at the filthy exterior opposite. “Do you know who lives there?”
“Yes. Herr Sachs.”
“Jeheil Sachs?”
“I don’t know about his first name. I just know him as Sachs, the Jew.”
“When was the last time you saw Herr Sachs?”
“Does he owe money? That wouldn’t surprise me. Let me think.” Frau Warmisch sucked on her lower lip. “Yesterday… at about six o’clock.”
“What does Herr Sachs do?”
“Do you mean work?”
“Yes. His occupation.”
Frau Warmisch sneered. “He doesn’t do anything. He lives off women.”
“He lives off women?” Rheinhardt repeated.
“This is Spittelberg, Inspector. You know what goes on here.”
“He’s a procurer?”
“Call it what you like.” The woman made a snorting sound—as evocative of the farmyard as her round face—in lieu of laughter. “Pretty girls, some of them, and his own kind too. Yes, always his own kind. What’s he done wrong?”
“Would I be correct in surmising that you are not overly fond of Herr Sachs?”
“Yes, you would be. He isn’t much liked around here.”
“Why?”
“He’s ill-mannered. Rude, dirty, and he…” Frau Warmisch trailed off.
“Yes? What were you going to say?”
“You won’t tell him I told you?”
“That, I can promise you with complete confidence.”
“He mistreats his women,” she went on. “In the summer, with the windows open, you can hear everything. But the noise the last one made was terrible.” She shook her head, and the wattle of flesh that hung beneath her neck swung like a pendulum. “I almost called the police myself. And I haven’t seen her since. Did the ladies send you?”
“What ladies?”
“The two smart young ladies.”
“No. They didn’t. To whom are you referring?”
“They came to see Sachs about a week ago. They were accusing him of something. I think it must have been to do with the last one—you know, his doxy, his girl. They said that they’d got a doctor’s report, and that justice would be done. One of them was furious—banged on his door and shouted about coming back.”
“Had you ever seen them before?”
“No. We don’t get their sort in Spittelberg, Inspector.”
“Could you describe them to me?”
“Well-to-do, smart. One had black hair, the other brown. Their dresses were made of silk. Quite pretty…”
“How tall were they?”
“Not very. They were quite small, really—smaller than me.”
“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He cringed internally, embarrassed by his careless use of language. Frau Warmisch, however, was not offended. “Any other details?” Rheinhardt asked, eager to move the conversation on.
“I think they were Jews too,” said Frau Warmisch. “They were telling him off for using Jewish women. They said something about how bad it was for him to be making money from his own people.”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook and made some jottings. When he was satisfied that he had learned all that he could, he thanked Frau Warmisch, bowed, and began to walk back toward the main road.
“Inspector?”
Rheinhardt turned.
“Don’t you want to know their names?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The names of the fine ladies.”
“You know them?”
“Yes. I heard them introduce themselves. Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl.”
Rheinhardt took out his notebook again and began writing.
“It’s a cold morning, Inspector,” the woman added. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a few minutes? Just to warm up.”
Rheinhardt detected a certain lascivious cast in Frau Warmisch’s expression. She was leaning against the doorjamb and had raised her gown a little to reveal a chunky, swollen ankle.
“Most kind,” Rheinhardt replied. “But no, thank you.” He hurried off, his mind filled with nightmarish images of porcine congress.
58
FRAU ARABELLE POPPMEIER ENTERED the consulting room and hesitated by the door. She had mousy blond hair, bright eyes, and although not beautiful, she might have merited that accolade with the very slightest alteration of her features. Liebermann stood, walked around his desk, and rested his hands on a high-backed chair. It was obvious, from the looseness of her sunny yellow dress and her bulging abdomen, that Frau Poppmeier was pregnant. She saw how Liebermann’s gaze had momentarily lowered, and smiled coyly.
“Please, do come in.”
Exhibiting the ponderous gait typical of gravid women, she walked to the chair and took Liebermann’s offered hand. With this small assistance, she was able to achieve a graceful descent in spite of her condition.
“One moment,” said Liebermann. Snatching a pillow from the rest bed, he lodged it between the base of her spine and the back of the chair. “There, that should be more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” sh
e said.
Liebermann sat behind his desk and opened a file of blank pages.
“So, Frau Poppmeier, how can I help?”
“Well, it isn’t my problem, exactly. But then again, I suppose it is my problem—insofar as any problem that affects one’s nearest and dearest also affects oneself. It’s my husband, Ivo. He hasn’t been very well lately. He’s still working, but—”
“What is your husband’s occupation?” Liebermann interjected.
“He’s a salesman for a firm of jewelry designers and manufacturers. They have offices on the Graben.”
Liebermann began to take notes. “And where do you live?”
“On Krongasse.”
“In the fifth district?”
“Yes. Not far from the Naschmarkt. We’ve been very happy there. It’s a little cramped, I suppose…. We already have a daughter, Leonie. She’s four now. But when the little one arrives”—Frau Poppmeier laid a hand on her belly and smiled—“we will probably have to move. I’d like to get an apartment somewhere around here, but Ivo says we can’t afford it. So perhaps it will have to be Landstrasse. It’s not that he isn’t doing well. In fact, he’s been promised a promotion next year. But one can’t help worrying, what with this problem of his.” Her lips became a horizontal, bloodless line. “He isn’t himself.”
“How do you mean—not himself?”
“He’s been sickly… less vigorous.”
Liebermann asked a few more questions but found that Frau Poppmeier’s answers were imprecise. She seemed embarrassed. A touch of color occasionally rose to her cheeks. Liebermann assumed that her husband’s problem was most probably sexual. The physical changes that altered a woman’s body during pregnancy increased libido in some men while reducing it in others. She had mentioned her husband being less vigorous, which sounded like a euphemism; however, it was most unusual for a woman to present on her husband’s behalf. This tended to happen only when the husband had become overly fond of drink. Liebermann decided that it would be in everyone’s interest to expedite matters by being direct.
“Frau Poppmeier, if your husband is suffering from a problem that is affecting your marital relations—”
“Oh, good heavens, no,” she quickly interrupted. Glancing down at her bulge, she added, “Ivo has always been able to function as a man. Our relations have become less intimate of late, but that is only because he is concerned for my and the little one’s safety.”
Raising the topic of sex had not caused Frau Poppmeier any awkwardness. What, then, was she so embarrassed about?
“Frau Poppmeier, you have suggested that your husband is out of sorts, unwell, not himself, but could you please try to be a little more specific?”
The young woman sighed, and began to enumerate her husband’s symptoms: indigestion, nausea, constipation, changes of appetite…
Liebermann looked up from his notes.
“Frau Poppmeier, I think there must be some mistake. This is the department of psychological medicine. It sounds like your husband requires the services of a specialist in gastric disorders, not a psychiatrist.”
“We’ve already seen one. Herr Dr. Felbiger.”
“Felbiger?”
“Yes. It was he who suggested we come to see you.”
Liebermann scratched his head. “Are these symptoms making your husband depressed?”
“Not really…” Frau Poppmeier shifted on her chair and grimaced. “This is rather difficult, Herr Doctor. My husband’s nausea tends to happen only in the morning…. He retches but only occasionally vomits. I said that his appetite has changed, but really it would be more accurate to say that he has developed odd food cravings. Fads. And he complains of pressure in his pelvis, tightness of the abdomen, and…” She paused and adjusted the drop of her skirt.
“Yes?” Liebermann prompted.
“Quickening sensations.”
Liebermann put his pen down. Frau Poppmeier looked perfectly sane, but what if she wasn’t? What if everything she had said was an elaborate delusional fantasy? It certainly sounded that way. The young woman detected the change in his expression: the narrowing of his eyes, the setting of his jaw, both suggesting suspicion and doubt.
“Herr Doctor,” Frau Poppmeier continued, “I think you must be well aware of what these symptoms mean.”
Liebermann involuntarily glanced at the woman’s belly.
“What did Dr. Felbiger say?”
“What you are probably thinking but cannot say for fear of sounding foolish. My predicament exactly!” She threw her hands up in a desperate appeal to the heavens. “But yes, you are quite right. My husband appears to have gotten himself pregnant.”
59
“DOES THE NAME JEHEIL SACHS mean anything to you?” asked Rheinhardt.
Anna Katzer was wearing a crisp white blouse and a pink skirt. She straightened her back, frowned, and said, “Yes, unfortunately it does.”
Rheinhardt flicked his notebook open.
“How did you become acquainted?”
Anna’s frown became more pronounced.
“I wouldn’t call Herr Sachs an acquaintance, Inspector.”
“Why not? Didn’t you pay him a visit last week?”
Anna was evidently surprised. “Who told you that? He hasn’t made a complaint, has he?”
“No,” said Rheinhardt calmly. “No, he hasn’t.”
Anna scowled.
“Well, Fräulein Katzer?” Rheinhardt asked. “Why did you go to see Herr Sachs?”
“Inspector, do you know the new wärmestube in Spittelberg?”
“Yes.”
“On Wednesday, a Galician woman named Kadia Pinski fainted there. A doctor was called, and he discovered that she had been badly injured. She was a prostitute, and the man she named as her attacker was also her procurer—Jeheil Sachs.” Anna paused and secured one of her hairpins. “Apparently Fräulein Pinski had wanted to end her association with Herr Sachs, and he had responded by violating her person in the cruelest way imaginable. You see, Inspector…” She touched her neck and looked away. “Fräulein Pinski’s injuries were internal, and had been inflicted with the handle of a brush.” Rheinhardt winced. “Had she not received medical attention, she most probably would have died.”
“Where is she now?”
“Recovering in the hospital. We were able to make arrangements for her care.”
“We?”
“Myself and my dear friend Olga Mandl. As you can imagine, Inspector, we were horrified—and we resolved to pay Herr Sachs a visit in order to issue him with a warning, before he assaulted some other poor wretch.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“We did, but Fräulein Pinski was too frightened to make a statement. Besides, as I am sure you are aware, Inspector, the police are disinclined to assist women of her nationality and profession.”
Anna looked directly at Rheinhardt. She was tacitly challenging him to deny her allegation. He couldn’t: What she had said was perfectly true. Rheinhardt sighed, the exhalation carrying his next question. “What did you say to Herr Sachs?”
“I can’t remember exactly,” Anna replied. “We told him that we knew what he had done, that we had a doctor’s report, that we would be taking things further…”
“And how did he react?”
“At first he wasn’t very much bothered. He was clearly confident that the police wouldn’t be interested. He admitted introducing Fräulein Pinski to some soldiers, so that she could have, as he called it, ‘a good time,’ but denied everything else. He became angry only when we refused to leave.”
“What did he do?”
“He shouted and pushed me out of the way.”
Rheinhardt tilted his head quizzically.
“I was holding his door open,” Anna explained. “He had to get me out of the way to close it.”
Rheinhardt made some notes.
“It was a foolish thing that you did, you and your friend—going into Spittelberg to rile a man like
Sachs. You could have been hurt as a consequence. What did you hope to achieve?”
“We thought we might scare him,” said Anna.
Rheinhardt had to make a conscious effort not to laugh out loud.
“Inspector,” Anna asked, “why are you here, asking me these questions? Is Herr Sachs involved in one of your cases?”
“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “You could say that.” He squeezed one of the horns of his mustache between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it to sharpen the point. “Apart from the police—and the doctors who are taking care of Fräulein Pinski—have you spoken to anyone else about Sachs?”
“My parents and…”
Rheinhardt detected a certain hesitancy.
“Yes?”
“Another friend.”
Her voice had softened.
“What is your friend’s name?”
“Gabriel. Gabriel Kusevitsky.”
Rheinhardt looked up. “And where might I find this gentleman?”
60
HERR POPPMEIER WAS A dapper man in his early thirties. His hair was a fair reddish-brown color and was parted in the center. He looked quite young for his age, almost cherubic, and his mustache—which was also fair and meticulously combed—did little to mitigate a first impression of immaturity. His clothes were finely tailored, and his tiepin (a flamboyant coral reef of colored stones) looked conspicuously expensive. He was in the habit of constantly making small adjustments to his cuffs, and his use of cologne was so liberal that he had been preceded by a cloud of blossomy fragrances long before his actual arrival.
“Were you a happy child?” Liebermann asked.
“Happy enough…. I got on well with my mother and father.”
“And your brothers and sisters?”