Deadly Communion

by Frank Tallis

  Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. He motioned as if to speak, but immediately fell silent again.

  ‘To drive a hatpin,’ Liebermann continued, ‘through the foramen magnum and into the brain is not an easy task. The head would have to be bent forward, widening the aperture between the final vertebra and the skull; however, sexual intercourse would have afforded the perpetrator ample opportunity to conduct such manipulations. He might have lifted Fräulein Zeiler’s head — to kiss her, perhaps — while he positioned the hatpin in readiness for his … ultimate pleasure.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Ultimate pleasure?’

  ‘I mean,’ Liebermann replied, ‘that he very probably culminated as he drove the hatpin home. You see, if I am correct he is in actual fact nothing like Krafft-Ebing’s lust murderers and necrophiliacs, who find the dead arousing. He doesn’t find the dead arousing — he finds death arousing, death itself! He is a thanatophiliac!’

  Rheinhardt poured himself an extra-large brandy and gulped it down with uncharacteristic speed.

  ‘You said that it wouldn’t be easy to insert a hatpin directly into the brain.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yet he seems to have had no trouble doing so.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Liebermann, ‘he has had plenty of practice.’

  11

  ‘I’M SORRY TO DISTURB you, sir,’ said Haussmann, standing in the doorway. ‘But there’s a young woman downstairs who wants to see you. She’s a bit agitated and she’s very’ — the young man assumed a woeful expression — ‘insistent.’

  ‘Why does she want to see me?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  ‘She says she has information that will be of interest to you.’

  ‘What information?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir. She wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Did you try to find out?’

  ‘I did, sir, but my powers of persuasion proved insufficient.’

  ‘Well, I take it, Haussmann, you persuaded her to divulge her name — that much at least, eh?’

  ‘Pryska Sykora, sir.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her. Even so, I suppose you’d better bring her up.’

  Haussmann stepped back into the corridor but suddenly froze.

  ‘Yes?’ said Rheinhardt: ‘What now?’

  Haussmann’s cheeks darkened. ‘This isn’t very relevant, sir, but I think you should know. It says something about Fräulein Sykora’s character. In addition to insisting that she should be allowed to talk to you, sir, she also suggested that I might want to consider taking her to the theatre one evening this week.’

  ‘I see. And did you?’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘Consider it.’

  ‘If I am to be perfectly honest, sir, I did. She is quite pretty; however, I was quick to point out that if I acted on her proposal this would very likely provoke your displeasure.’

  ‘Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you are wise beyond your years.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Not at all. Now, if you would be so kind as to fetch this femme fatale I would be most grateful. The day is already advanced and I regret to say I have done very little.’

  After Haussmann’s departure Rheinhardt opened one of the drawers in his desk and removed a cardboard box. It was full of his wife’s Linzer biscotten. She had made them in the shape of hearts.

  Rheinhardt was particularly fond of his wife’s Linzerbiscotten because she always coated them with a thick crust of sugary icing and cemented the shortbread together with a superabundant quantity of raspberry jam. The inspector wondered if his wife’s baking (never stinting and conspicuously bountiful) betrayed something of her innermost nature. According to Liebermann, those things which were usually considered insignificant (for example, a person’s choice of pastry cutter) often supplied the richest seams for psychoanalytic inquiry. The inspector picked up one of the biscuits and contemplated its dimensions, its telling shape and the extravagant applications of icing and jam. Surely, he thought, all indisputable signs of a generous spirit. He was overcome with sentiment but then laughed out loud. Professor Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams had received mixed reviews. What would the world make of The Interpretation of Biscuits? Perhaps it was better to leave the psychoanalysis to Liebermann.

  Rheinhardt ate one of the Linzer biscotten and was contemplating eating a second when Haussmann returned with Fräulein Sykora. She was very young, perhaps no more than seventeen, small, and almost beautiful. Her face was flawed by a quality that Rheinhardt could only think of as ‘hardness’.

  ‘Fräulein Sykora,’ said Rheinhardt, rising from his chair. ‘Please, do come in.’ He observed some crumbs on his blotter and discreetly brushed them aside. ‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt.’

  Haussmann took Fräulein Sykora’s coat and offered her the chair in front of Rheinhardt’s desk. She did not make eye contact with the assistant detective and did not say ‘Thank you.’ Haussmann withdrew, hung her coat on the stand, and maintained a safe distance.

  ‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt, sitting down again. ‘I understand you are in possession of some information which you believe may be of interest to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Fräulein Sykora said. ‘I am.’ Her accent was rough, unrefined — but the timbre of her voice was pleasantly husky. ‘You’re the detective who’s investigating Adele Zeiler’s murder, aren’t you?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘I heard all about it yesterday.’

  Rheinhardt registered that she had heard about the murder — and not read about it in the newspapers.

  ‘From whom?’

  Pryska Sykora swung around and glanced at Haussmann: ‘I won’t say anything while he’s here.’

  ‘Haussmann is my assistant,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Everything I know, he must know too.’

  ‘What I’ve got to say … it’s personal.’

  Rheinhardt sighed, then looked over at his assistant and said: ‘Haussmann — would you mind waiting outside?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  Haussmann bowed and left the office, closing the door with just enough surplus force to declare his wounded pride.

  ‘So,’ said Rheinhardt, steepling his hands and tapping his fingertips against his pursed lips. ‘How did you learn about poor Adele?’

  ‘From my friends … and it was them who told me about you.’

  ‘And who might your friends be?’

  ‘They were at Rainmayr’s when you went to ask him questions.’

  ‘Ah yes — Lissi and Toni?’

  ‘Yes, that’s them.’

  Fräulein Sykora fell silent and she looked around the room. She then said: ‘Do you pay for it?’

  Surprised, Rheinhardt drew back a little.

  ‘Pay for what, exactly?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘Well, that depends.’

  ‘You do pay, though, don’t you? How much?’

  ‘When citizens provide us with serviceable information, it is our practice in the security office to reward them — sometimes — with a small gratuity.’

  ‘We used to talk,’ said Fräulein Sykora. ‘Adele and me — we were good friends.’

  ‘And what did you used to talk about?’

  ‘Things … Rainmayr.’

  Pryska Sykora pursed her lips and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

  Rheinhardt found two kronen in his pocket and placed them on his desk.

  ‘Let us assume that I am interested in what you have to tell me,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But you will have to be a little more forthcoming.’

  Fräulein Sykora nodded.

  ‘Adele was angry with Rainmayr. She wanted more work and he wouldn’t give it to her. She used to curse him. She even threatened him.’

  ‘How did she threaten him?’

  ‘He’s an artist. You know what artists are like with their models.’

  ‘Fräulein Sykora, are you implying that Herr Rainm
ayr was intimate with Adele Zeiler?’

  ‘He had his way with her, yes. When she was younger. And she told him she’d go to the police if he didn’t give her more work.’

  ‘Do you have any proof of this?’

  ‘It’s what she said to me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘She was always saying it — I can’t remember when.’

  Fräulein Sykora leaned forward and picked up the coins. She examined them in her open palm.

  ‘This isn’t very much, inspector.’

  ‘When did you last see Adele?’

  ‘Friday night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We bumped into each other on Lange Gasse.’

  ‘Had she been to see — or was she going to see — Rainmayr?’

  ‘She was going to see someone else. A gentleman friend.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘A private dining room.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did she mention the name of this gentleman friend — or say anything about him?’

  ‘No. She just said she was meeting him and that he’d promised to give her a gift.’

  ‘What kind of gift?’

  Pryska Sykora shrugged.

  Rheinhardt picked up his pen and made some notes.

  ‘I know other things … about Adele.’

  The girl rattled the coins in her clenched fist.

  ‘Where do you live, Fräulein Sykora?’

  ‘Above Kirchmann’s Coffee House.’

  ‘With your family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘May I ask … how do you pay for your lodgings?’

  ‘I don’t. Herr Kirchmann said I could stay in the attic room if I …’ she paused and diverted her gaze before adding ‘… helped out in the kitchen.’

  Rheinhardt doubted that the arrangement between landlord and lodger consisted of such an uncomplicated exchange of alms for labour.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘How long had you been acquainted with Adele Zeiler?’

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘And how did you get to know her?’

  ‘She used to come into Kirchmann’s with some of the other Rainmayr girls. When it wasn’t busy I’d join them.’ Fräulein Sykora put the coins in her dress pocket and said: ‘I really thought I’d get more than this.’

  Rheinhardt scrutinised his guest.

  ‘How old were you when Herr Kirchmann first offered you somewhere to live?’

  Fräulein Sykora frowned.

  ‘Look, I came here to tell you about Adele and Rainmayr.’

  ‘If you’ve been living at Kirchmann’s for at least a year you must have been rather young when you moved in.’

  ‘Not that young.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  Rheinhardt smiled.

  ‘Well, Fräulein,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you must be a favourite of the gods of youthfulness. Twenty, indeed. Where do your family live?’

  ‘I came here to talk about Adele and Rainmayr!’ Pryska Sykora shouted, stamping her foot on the floor. ‘Not about me! But if you’re not interested …’ She got up abruptly and turned to leave.

  ‘Fräulein Sykora?’

  Rheinhardt placed another coin on the desk. Pryska Sykora snatched it up and went to get her coat from the stand. Then she opened the door and barked at Haussmann: ‘Take me down, I’m leaving.’

  Haussmann craned his head around the door jamb and sought permission from his superior.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The interview is over.’ Then he called out, ‘Good afternoon, Fräulein Sykora. You have been most helpful.’

  12

  MISS AMELIA LYDGATE HAD come to recognise that her knowledge of music was deficient. In most cities this would not have mattered; however, in Vienna the inability to engage in intelligent conversation about music was a significant social handicap. She was determined to rectify this deficiency and had asked Liebermann to recommend some concerts. He responded by offering to take her to a piano recital at the Bösendorfer Saal. On going to the venue to buy tickets he discovered a programme that seemed peculiarly apposite, given Amelia’s temperament and nationality. It consisted largely of the English Suites by Johann Sebastian Bach. Liebermann was sure that Bach’s ‘logic’ would appeal to the cerebral Englishwoman and hoped that the nominal reference to her homeland would create an illusion of comforting familiarity (an illusion, because there was nothing particularly English about these suites at all — other than the fact that they were supposed to have been commissioned by an English nobleman).

  Liebermann and Amelia Lydgate had already heard the first and second suites, and were now listening to an energetic account of the third in G minor. The prelude and preliminary dances were vigorous and exciting; however, the mood established by the fourth movement — a saraband — was quite different: sad, reflective, and searching. The melody was ornamented and resembled a vocal improvisation over a strummed accompaniment. Occasionally, a chord change would affect Liebermann deeply. It felt like something inside him was being unlocked or undone. Bach — for all his ruthless proficiency — still had the power to move the young doctor. And yet, the music was never mawkish or sentimental. The venerable composer had dispensed with manipulative clichés, replacing them with something far more potent: ravishing ingenuity.

  Liebermann stole a quick glance at his companion, curious to see if she had been affected by the music.

  Pale skin, russet tresses, and eyes of an indeterminate blue-grey …

  Her expression was typically intense and her brow was lined with concentration.

  Amelia Lydgate confused him.

  There had been moments when he had felt so close to declaring his love for her that he could barely resist the urge. And other times when her intellectualism and cool manner made him grateful that he had never succumbed to such impulses. Their relationship was complicated; Amelia Lydgate had once been Liebermann’s patient and if this sobering consideration wasn’t enough to make him question the propriety of making an amorous overture, he could always reflect on what he had discovered to be the cause of her hysterical paralysis: a repressed memory of a sexual assault. Liebermann had treated Amelia Lydgate and over time they had become friends. At first he had justified his continued presence in her life on medical grounds; then he persuaded himself that he was being altruistic, providing assistance and advice to a stranger who was alone in a foreign country; then he had recognised how her remarkable intellectual gifts and scientific skills (she was an expert on human blood and a talented microscopist) might be utilised by the security office. Rheinhardt had consulted her on several occasions. And so the justifications had accumulated, each one binding them closer together.

  Earlier in the year Liebermann had stood on the Charles Bridge in Prague with his uncle Alexander and had confessed his attachment. Alexander had suggested that — apart from his mother — there were three women in every man’s life: his wife, his mistress, and an unattainable object of desire. Clearly — Uncle Alexander maintained — Amelia Lydgate was Liebermann’s unattainable object: a fantasy innamorata, best enjoyed not in the flesh but in the imagination — an ageless reminder of the youthful propensity for infatuation and desire. Actual consummation would be a great disappointment.

  Another exquisite change of harmony …

  Liebermann studied Amelia’s hands, folded together on the green velvet of her skirt. His uncle might well be right, but he still wanted to reach out and cover her slim fingers with his own.

  The subsequent dances of the G minor suite jolted Liebermann out of his reverie, and the final movement — a lively gigue — brought the concert to a close. Insistent applause persuaded the pianist to give an encore — a delightful arrangement of ‘Sheep May Safely Graze’. At its conclusion the pianist signalled his fatigue by shutting the piano lid, and the house lights came up as he was leaving the stage.

  ‘Well,’ said Liebermann to h
is companion. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Amelia. ‘Very much.’

  They collected their coats from the cloakroom and walked to Café Central where Liebermann suggested that they should stop for coffee and cake. At an earlier point in their acquaintance he would have considered such an invitation impertinent, but their friendship was sufficiently established to render such scruples redundant. They entered the coffee house and found a table in the Arkadenhof, a courtyard decorated with small trees and covered by a glass roof. A curved balcony hung out over three arches and the seating area was enclosed between high fenestrated walls. Spherical gas lights seemed to hover in the shadows; however, closer inspection revealed the secret of their suspension — wrought-iron stands, painted black. A waiter emerged from the arches and escorted the couple to a circular table discreetly positioned behind a miniature orange tree. Liebermann ordered a schwarzer for himself and an Earl Grey tea for Amelia.

  ‘And would you like a pastry?’ Liebermann asked Amelia.

  The waiter interrupted: ‘Could I recommend the Scheiterhaufen? It really is quite exceptional.’

  ‘Well,’ said Amelia. ‘I defer to your expert opinion. Scheiterhaufen.’

  Her German was perfect, with the merest trace of an English accent.

  And for you, sir?’

  Liebermann shrugged and smiled.

  ‘The same …’

  ‘A very wise decision, sir.’

  They spoke a little about the concert, and Amelia remarked that music — being the most abstract of the arts — presented the uninitiated with a unique conversational challenge.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Liebermann. ‘Music can befelt as well as understood. It is always possible to discuss its effects, even if one has little or no technical knowledge.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Amelia. ‘But I find conversations of that kind rather unsatisfying. A discussion of subjective impressions cannot progress very far: there can be no meaningful argument or resolution because the sine qua non of dialogue is a framework of agreed reference points.’