by Frank Tallis
‘Yes. But I cannot say for certain. She did not say anything to confirm my suspicions.’
‘What did she talk about when you last saw her?’
‘How much she disliked working at the laundry. I had — of course — offered her a good position among my household staff on numerous occasions, but she always refused. Pride again, you see. She talked about her leg; although she always talked about her leg. She wanted to go to a spa in Switzerland where she had read about a new miracle cure.’
‘When you visited her on Thursday evening, did you see anyone else?’
‘I saw her neighbour — looking out of the window. And there was a man in the yard.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘No.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I wasn’t paying much attention.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘I think …’ Kristina bit her lower lip. ‘I think he was wearing a bowler hat and a long coat.’
‘Did he have a beard? A moustache?’
‘I really can’t remember.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He wasn’t doing anything — he was just standing.’
‘Waiting?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘In which case, I would urge you to be very vigilant. If you see this man again, you must not hesitate to contact us.’
‘But I took very little notice of him. He isn’t someone I’d recognise.’
While Rheinhardt and Frau Vogl continued their conversation, Liebermann’s attention was drawn to a series of lithographs. They were executed in a style that reminded him of illustrations he had seen in Ver Sacrum, the journal of the Vienna Secession. The female figures, in mannered stances, were greatly influenced by Klimt. Liebermann moved closer and examined the autograph: Carl Otto Czeschka. Each image showed a scene from the fairy story ‘Ashputtel’. He followed the narrative: the ugly step-sisters, confiscating Ashputtel’s fine clothes and giving her instead an old frock; Ashputtel, by the wishing tree, taking delivery of her ‘magical’ dresses — each more beautiful than the last; the handsome prince sliding a golden slipper onto Ashputtel’s dainty foot as the stepsisters reel back in horror …
A gentle knock rescued Liebermann from the phantasmagorical world of the Brothers Grimm. On the other side of the room a door was slowly opening. The man who appeared was middle-aged and dignified. Before the newcomer closed the door again, Liebermann saw that the adjoining chamber was also a bedroom.
‘May I introduce my husband,’ said Kristina. ‘Doctor Heinz Vogl. My dear, these gentlemen are Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and his colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann.’
Heinz Vogl bowed: ‘Doctor Liebermann?’
‘I am a psychiatrist.’
‘And you work for the security office?’
‘Doctor Liebermann is a psychological consultant,’ interjected Rheinhardt.
‘I see,’ said the older man. ‘Then I sincerely hope, Herr Doctor Liebermann, that your branch of medicine — controversial though it is — can provide such insights as lead to the swift apprehension of this …’ his features screwed up in distaste ‘… monster!’
He inclined his head in modest deference and went to his wife, who reached out to him as he approached. Taking her hand, Vogl sat down on the bed beside her.
‘Are you all right, my darling?’ Kristina responded with a faint smile and then coughed. Her husband addressed the visitors: ‘A chest infection. She needs to rest.’
‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘We will not disturb you for very much longer.’
Heinz Vogl picked up one of his wife’s sketchbooks.
‘You have been working, my dear.’ The tone of his voice carried a gentle censure.
‘I was bored,’ Kristina replied.
The physician shook his head and sighed.
‘Were you acquainted with Fräulein Wirth, Herr doctor?’ Rheinhardt asked.
‘Yes, I met her once. Kristina wanted me to examine her — to give an opinion. I’m not really a leg man, so I arranged for her to see a colleague, Alvintzi. I met her briefly at the hospital.’
‘What was wrong with Fräulein Wirth?’
‘It was difficult to establish. Alvintzi wasn’t sure whether it was a muscular or orthopaedic problem.’
‘Frau Vogl must take great care,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The man she saw outside Fräulein Wirth’s—’
‘What man?’ Vogl cut in. He looked from Rheinhardt to his wife. ‘You saw a man?’
‘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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein Wirth and gentlemen friends? She said that Fräulein Wirth had had many, and that when she was younger Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Café 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 Brügel’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. Brügel’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.”’ Brügel 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.
Brügel 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.’
Brügel patted a bundle of witness statements and reports.
‘Have you, now? Permit me to précis 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 Griesser. 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.’
Brügel 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 t
he 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 Eugène 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?’
