Deadly Communion

by Frank Tallis

  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 collect 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 CAFÉ 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 Café 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 Türkische 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.

  When he had finished the cake, Rheinhardt asked to see the head waiter. The man who arrived was not unlike himself. A portly gentleman with a well-waxed moustache.

  His name was Herr Heregger.

  ‘I trust the Dobostorte was to your satisfaction, sir?’

  ‘It was excellent. The consistency of the chocolate cream was particularly good.’

  Rheinhardt showed the waiter his identification.

  ‘Security office?’ asked Herr Heregger, surprised.

  ‘Yes — please take a seat.’ The waiter lowered his large haunches onto a spindly chair, and Rheinhardt opened Bathild Babel’s address book. ‘I’m looking for a man called Griesser. He gave Café Museum as his address. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, I do. He’s a customer.’

  ‘How long has he been coming here?’

  ‘Actually, he’s only been a few times.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Yes, last week and the week before. He told me that he’d just moved to Vienna and was living in temporary accommodation. He asked if it would be possible for us to collect his mail, as it was his intention to breakfast at Café Museum when he was settled. I said that I had no objection.’

  ‘Did any letters arrive?’

  ‘Just one.’

  ‘And did he collect it?’

  ‘On his second visit.’

  ‘And he’s had no more since?’

  ‘No.’

  Rheinhardt offered Herr Heregger a cigar, but the man refused.

  ‘Did Herr Griesser tell you what his profession was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think he did for a living?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Can you describe him to me?’

  The head waiter scratched his chin.

  ‘Tallish. Black hair.’ His tone was cautious — as though he lacked confidence in the accuracy of his memory.

  ‘Eye colour?’ Rheinhardt prompted.

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember that, inspector.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Quite young.’

  ‘What? Early twenties? Mid-twenties?’

  ‘Yes. Mid- to late twenties, I should think.’

  ‘Educated?’

  ‘He spoke well.’

  ‘Anything else you remember?’ The head waiter looked across the floor towards the two billiard tables. His vacant expression changed suddenly, a glimmer of light appearing in his eyes. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, now that you mention it …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can remember something else about him.’ Heregger smiled and a second chin appeared beneath the first. ‘His smell.’

  ‘His cologne?’

  ‘No. It was something else. A sweet, tarry smell. Like carbolic.’

  22

  LIEBERMANN LOOKED AT HIS supine patient. For once, though, Erstweiler was not agitated. Liebermann made no assumptions about his mental state. Sometimes the apparent calm of anxious patients was actually exhaustion, and as soon as they had recovered their strength the agitation returned.

  After a prolonged silence, Liebermann inquired: ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Erstweiler rolled his head from side to side.

  ‘No. I woke up several times … one of the other patients on the ward became distressed. He was shouting something about the Hungarians coming. I managed to get to sleep after he was removed, but woke again from a bad dream.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I say bad, but that’s only how it felt at the time. Now that I think about it, the dream was really rather silly.’

  ‘Were you frightened by the dream?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  Erstweiler sighed.

  ‘When I was very young, my parents had an English friend, Frau Middleton, who used to tell my brother and me fairy stories. Some of them were already familiar to us, but oth
ers were unfamiliar. I suppose these latter stories must have been of English origin. One of them concerned a boy without any money and some magic beans — have you come across it?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, the dream I had was very much like this English fairy story — except I was the boy. The dream was quite confused, though, especially the beginning.’

  Liebermann remained silent, hoping that this would be sufficient to make Erstweiler continue. The strategy was unsuccessful. Erstweiler reverted to his earlier concern. ‘What was wrong with that patient? The one who was taken off the ward? What did he mean by “the Hungarians are coming”?’

  ‘Your dream, Herr Erstweiler? What happened in your dream?’ Liebermann urged.

  Erstweiler rotated his hand in the air for a few moments and then let it drop onto his chest.

  ‘There were trams and large buildings and a man with a cow, who I spoke to — he might have sold me the beans — and suddenly I was the boy in the story and the beans had grown into a huge beanstalk which rose up into the sky. I climbed the beanstalk and found myself on a cloud, and on the cloud was a huge castle. I entered the castle but was frightened by the sound of an ogre, stomping around and crying out that he could smell the blood of an intruder — my blood. In one of the rooms I discovered mountains of treasure and a goose laying golden eggs. Not eggs the colour of gold, you understand, but eggs made from gold. I picked the goose up and ran from the castle, pursued by the ogre. I slid down the beanstalk and the ogre followed, but he wasn’t as quick as me. When I got to the bottom I chopped the beanstalk down with an axe—’ Erstweiler suddenly broke off, his forehead glistening with perspiration.

  ‘Yes?’ Liebermann prompted.

  ‘And the ogre tumbled to the ground.’

  ‘Did he die?’

  ‘Yes, he …’ Erstweiler paused before completing his sentence with a stutter ‘… d-d-died.’

  ‘You escaped, then,’ said Liebermann. ‘And with the goose.’

  Erstweiler showed no signs of relief.

  ‘Herr doctor, why are we talking about a ridiculous childish dream? Surely there are more important things to discuss. I had hoped you would be applying yourself to the task of convincing me that the appearance of my doppelgänger was nothing more than a hallucination. At least then I might allow myself a glimmer of hope, the prospect of peace.’

  ‘The two may be connected — the dream and the hallucination.’

  ‘Impossible!’ Erstweiler cried.

  The anger invested in this explosive denial was sufficient to convince Liebermann that he was correct. After an extended hiatus Liebermann said: ‘I went to see Herr Polster, at The Chimney Sweep.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Erstweiler twisted awkwardly on the rest bed in order to make eye contact with Liebermann.

  ‘Yes,’ said the young doctor. ‘He remembered the conversation you referred to. But he didn’t think he had spoken to your doppelgänger. He was confident that he had spoken to you.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ said Erstweiler, sighing. ‘What did you think he would say?’

  23

  RHEINHARDT WAS SHOWN INTO the accountant’s office by a middle-aged woman wearing a high-collared blouse.

  ‘Herr Frece,’ she said: ‘Inspector Rheinhardt to see you.’

  ‘Ah, thank you, Anselma,’ said the accountant. He was balding, red-faced, and possessed a large stomach that pressed against his waistcoat. ‘Please, do sit down, inspector.’ Rheinhardt caught sight of a framed photograph on Frece’s desk, showing a matronly woman and two children. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘That will be all, Anselma.’ When the secretary had gone, Frece smiled and added: ‘How can I be of assistance?’

  ‘Herr Frece, I understand that you are acquainted with a young lady called Bathild Babel. Is that correct?’

  Frece pursed his lips.

  ‘Fräulein Babel … Fräulein Babel …’ He muttered. ‘No. I’m afraid that name isn’t familiar to me.’

  Rheinhardt sighed.

  ‘You are mentioned in her address book.’

  ‘Bathild?’ said Frece, cupping his ear and feigning deafness. ‘Did you say Bathild Babel?’ He stressed the syllables of ‘Bathild’ in a peculiar way.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Bathild Babel.’

  The accountant shifted in his chair.

  ‘Yes, yes … I do know someone of that name. I’m sorry, my hearing isn’t very good.’

  ‘And what is the nature of your relationship?’

  ‘She is a client.’

  ‘I see. Could I see her documents, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible …’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because …’ Frece searched the ceiling for a convincing answer, but the cornicing failed to supply one.

  ‘Herr Frece,’ said Rheinhardt firmly. ‘If you continue to be uncooperative, I am afraid we will have to continue this interview at the Schottenring station.’

  ‘Please — no,’ said the accountant. ‘I’m sorry. That won’t be necessary.’ He opened a cigarette box with trembling fingers and struck a match. After lighting the cigarette, he drew on its gold filter. His exhalation dissipated the cloud of smoke that hung in front of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, inspector … a man in my position. It was a mistake … I never should have …’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘With respect, inspector, why should my peccadilloes be of interest to the police? I don’t understand.’

  Rheinhardt glared at the accountant.

  ‘Where did you meet her?’ he repeated.

  ‘In Frau Schuschnig’s hat shop, behind the Town Hall. I was buying a hat for my wife. Bathild was very forward.’ Rheinhardt listened as Frece spoke of his illicit meetings with Bathild Babel, in private dining rooms and cheap hotels. At its conclusion, Frece pleaded: ‘Inspector, if my wife were to find out she would be mortified. She hasn’t any idea. My marriage would be over.’ The accountant reached out and turned the family photograph towards Rheinhardt. ‘I have two children. Richarda and Friedo. I beg you to be discreet — if not for my sake, then for theirs.’

  Rheinhardt chewed the end of his pencil.

  ‘Did she ever speak of her other …’ Rheinhardt thought clients was too strong a word and chose a less offensive substitute ‘… admirers?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Her other gentleman friends,’ said Rheinhardt.

  The accountant looked indignant.

  ‘I was her only …’ Frece was unable to finish his sentence, given Rheinhardt’s world-weary expression. He might as well have said out loud: You can’t possibly be that naive! Frece’s shoulders fell. ‘No,’ the accountant continued. ‘She didn’t mention anyone else.’

  Rheinhardt made a few notes and when he looked up again Frece was staring into space.

  ‘What is it?’ Rheinhardt asked.

  ‘I remember, I went to the hat shop a few weeks ago, and Bathild was talking to a man. They seemed very familiar. After he had left, I asked her who he was. She was evasive and tried to make a joke of her flirtation. She said she flirted with all the men who came into the shop — it was good for business, according to Frau Schuschnig.’ Frece scratched his nose. ‘He was educated and wearing an expensive frock coat.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Quite tall — dark hair.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twenty-nine, thirty — perhaps.’

  ‘What colour were his eyes?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Think, Herr Frece. What colour were his eyes?’

  ‘Blue … or grey … I can’t be sure. A light colour anyway. He was buying a hat pin. And he smelt rather strange. A sort of hospital smell.’

  ‘Could he have been a doctor?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Frece observed the tightening of Rheinhardt’s facial muscles, the sudden intensifying
of his expression. ‘Inspector, why are you asking me all of these questions?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Rheinhardt bluntly. ‘Murdered — on Saturday.’

  The accountant said something inaudible, and the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks. His hands shook so much that when he tried to light a second cigarette Rheinhardt was obliged to give him some assistance.

  24

  PROFESSOR FREUD TAPPED THE ash from his cigar and consulted the pages of a manuscript. The writing was his own: regular and leaning forward, showing, perhaps, a certain impatience to proceed, ideas arriving more swiftly than his hand could comfortably transcribe. He opened his mouth, releasing a cloud of smoke that tarried in the air before losing definition in the already opaque atmosphere.

  They had been discussing the professor’s unpublished and unfinished work on sexuality, and Liebermann had — by means of subtle questioning — moved the conversation from more general considerations to the specific problem of deviance.

  ‘The sexual instinct is, I believe, infinitely pliable with respect to its aims,’ said Freud. ‘Indeed, I am of the belief that all human beings are born with what might be described as a polymorphously perverse disposition: that is to say, a disposition that can be diverted into all possible kinds of sexual irregularity.’ He was in full spate, glancing down at the text to remind himself of his conclusions. ‘If one defines healthy sexual behaviour as that which is necessary for human reproduction, namely, heterosexual congress, it follows that all other forms of arousal-seeking behaviour are surplus, and therefore, in a literal sense, perverse. Their introduction into marital relations does little to further the primary reproductive purpose of the union between man and woman. Yet …’ Freud sucked on his cigar. ‘The human sexual instinct is so plastic that we find evidence of its Protean character everywhere — even in the most ordinary couplings. Take, for example, fetishism. The point of contact with the normal is provided by the psychologically essential overvaluation of the sexual object, which invariably extends to everything that is associated with it. A certain degree of fetishism is thus usually present in normal love, especially in those stages of it in which the normal sexual aim seems unattainable or its fulfilment prevented. May I remind you of Goethe’s Faust, Part One, Scene Seven.’ He looked at Liebermann expectantly.