Deadly Communion

by Frank Tallis

  ‘How did Erika survive?’

  ‘I supported her for a while, but eventually she stopped modelling and found other ways of making money—’

  ‘Prostitution?’ Rheinhardt cut in.

  ‘You know how it is, inspector.’ Rainmayr picked up one of his brushes and began to clean it with a rag. ‘Three years ago I was invited to an exhibition: and there she was — Erika Hofler. She was calling herself Kristina Feuerstein. She’d become a respected couturière. She’d worked in the big fashion houses of Paris and on her return to Vienna mixed with the secessionists.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she recognised you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘We talked about art, inspector.’ Rainmayr dropped the clean paintbrush into the groove on his easel. ‘I don’t have to say any more, do I, inspector? I’m sure you know enough now for your purposes.’

  ‘Why do you feel obliged to protect Frau Vogl? We are speaking about Frau Vogl — aren’t we?’

  ‘I don’t feel obliged, inspector.’

  ‘All right: why do you want to then?’

  ‘She started off as a street girl and now she enjoys the society of countesses. I admire her. You think I’m some kind of monster, like Sprenger. You are quite wrong. I have my own code of conduct which might be different to yours — but it is a code of conduct nevertheless. Erika has managed to put her past behind her. Well, Good luck to her. She was my little favourite …’

  As Rainmayr said the word favourite the cast of his countenance altered. There was something about his expression that made Rheinhardt think of the gentleman he had observed in the playground. He saw again the man’s hungry eyes locked on his daughter Mitzi as she ascended the climbing frame.

  ‘What happned to Frau Hofler?’ asked Liebermann.

  The artist shrugged.

  ‘How should I know?’

  61

  KRISTINA DISMISSED HER ASSISTANT and offered Rheinhardt and Liebermann chairs. They were gathered, once again, in the modernist reception room of House Vogl. A sketchbook lay open on the cuboid table, showing a female figure in a shapeless ‘reform’ kaftan, her arms raised above her head and the wide, loose sleeves collapsed into generous folds around her narrow shoulders. Kristina remarked that she had not anticipated the pleasure of their company again so soon, and as she spoke Liebermann noticed how she brushed Rheinhardt’s hand — ever so gently — with her own. It was a quick and subtle manoeuvre that might easily have been missed had he not been studying the couturière as closely as he would a patient.

  ‘Now, inspector’ she said, her facial muscles tensing to revive her wilting smile, ‘how may I help?’

  Rheinhardt looked weary.

  ‘Some items have come into our possession which I would like you to examine.’

  ‘Items?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rheinhardt opened his holdall and took out the postcards. ‘Some images of young women: formerly the property of Fräulein Wirth. I am obliged to forewarn you that they represent examples of a low art produced for gentlemen of questionable character.’

  He handed Kristina the postcards and she placed them on her lap. As soon as she registered the first tableau — the two girls standing awkwardly in front of the floral backdrop — she was clearly shaken. A pulse became visible on her long neck. She struggled to manufacture an impression of disinterested bewilderment.

  ‘Inspector.’ She made a supplicating gesture, showing her palms. ‘I don’t know what to say …’

  ‘Where do you think Fräulein Wirth got these from?’

  ‘They must have been left in her apartment by a gentleman.’

  ‘We did not find them in her apartment.’

  The couturière swallowed.

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘In a luggage locker at the Südbahnhof.’

  Kristina repeated her gesture of supplication.

  ‘Perhaps she intended to sell them. Poor Selma had very little money.’

  ‘Frau Vogl, look closely — if you will — at that first image. Do you recognise those girls?’

  Kristina ran her fingers along the edge of the uppermost card.

  ‘See how worn it is,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t it very old — this postcard? I’m afraid I don’t recognise them — no — how could I?’

  Liebermann leaned forward.

  ‘Ashputtel.’

  Kristina Vogl turned to face the young doctor. Her expression demonstrated that she welcomed his interjection, even though it was utterly incomprehensible.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Ashputtel — the story — as depicted in the lithographs hanging on your bedroom wall: last month, when Inspector Rheinhardt and I came to your house, I made some comments concerning the lithographs and your profession. How fitting — I said — that a couturière should have a special liking for a story in which so many dresses appear. You said that this had never before occurred to you.’

  Kristina smiled but the delivery of her response was mildly indignant.

  ‘I purchased those lithographs because I like the artist’s style, not because the story of Ashputtel has dresses in it!’

  ‘Indeed. And we must also suppose that sometimes you are so impressed by the cut of a new dress out of Paris that you see only the inventive lines and nothing else — not even the fabric. Naturally, some things are attended to at the expense of others. But the issue here is what things and why?’

  ‘With respect, Herr doctor, I am finding it exceedingly difficult to grasp your meaning.’

  ‘Then let me speak more plainly. You did not fully appreciate that the story of Ashputtel features dresses, because there is another dimension to the Ashputtel narrative that — in your mind — is afforded priority of interest.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Ashputtel tells the story of a girl who is despised by her stepsisters but who struggles against poverty and adversity and is finally rewarded with the hand of a prince.’

  Kristina’s features hardened. She did not respond to the young doctor, but turned instead to Rheinhardt and held out the postcards: ‘Please — take these back. I am sorry I cannot help you.’

  ‘But you haven’t looked at all of them,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘I cannot help you,’ Kristina insisted.

  ‘Then perhaps you would be willing to consider another image?’ Rheinhardt removed Rainmayr’s sketch from his holdall. Pointing at the reclining figure of Erika Hofler, he added: ‘This girl … does she not seem familiar to you? Notice, she has a birthmark, just here.’ Rheinhardt touched his own stomach. ‘It would be very easy to identify her — even if she has now grown to adulthood.’

  The room became very still.

  Kristina stared at Rainmayr’s sketch. She did so for an inordinate amount of time and then, quite suddenly, jerked away as if wrenching her head out from between the plates of a vice. Rheinhardt was about to speak but Liebermann stopped him with an admonitory frown. Tears were imminent. He could feel them coming. As a consequence of sitting — year after year — with lachrymose patients, he had developed an uncanny sense of when people were about to cry.

  The couturière’s shoulders began to shake and when she looked up the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘The girl. It’s me — but you know that already …’ Rheinhardt found a handkerchief in his pocket, a crisp square of linen, which he handed to the sobbing woman.

  ‘And the other girl is …’ He invited Kristina to complete the sentence.

  ‘Selma.’ Kristina blew her nose and dabbed the handkerchief against her skin. ‘There it is, then! You have discovered my secret. I am a fraud!’

  ‘You are not a fraud, Frau Vogl,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You are a lady possessed of a very considerable talent.’

  ‘Talent!’ she repeated, spitting out the word as if it tasted of bile. ‘Yes, I may have talent but I am not, a
s you say, a lady. I am this girl.’ She flicked the sketch with her hand and the violence of her abrupt movement created a tear in the paper.

  ‘Erika Hofler,’ said Rheinhardt.

  The sound of her real name made Kristina start.

  ‘How do you know?’ Her gaze fell on the cursive scrawl that occupied the bottom right-hand corner of the sketch. ‘Rainmayr. You’ve spoken to Rainmayr?’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘He gave his word! He promised never to betray me.’

  ‘Herr Rainmayr only revealed your true identity under duress,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He would not have done so otherwise.’

  Kristina raised her chin and, recovering her composure, asked: ‘What do you intend to do now that you have found me out? Tell the newspapers? My husband?’

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  ‘No. We intend to do neither of those things.’

  The couturière looked puzzled.

  ‘Frau Vogl,’ said Liebermann, ‘when we were here yesterday, you said that Herr Shevchenko — the landlord’s agent — made Fräulein Wirth an indecent proposal. That wasn’t quite true, was it?’

  ‘I told you what I could remember.’

  ‘Well, none of us have a perfect memory — although your powers of recollection in this instance are not really relevant. You see, I believe that what you told us yesterday was a wilful distortion of something that Fräulein Wirth told you.’

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Fräulein Wirth confessed to you that her financial situation was so dire she was contemplating offering herself to Shevchenko.’

  ‘That is an absurd thing to say, Herr doctor. She despised Shevchenko.’

  ‘One must suppose she hoped to make you feel guilty.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To increase the likelihood of you giving her money.’

  ‘Selma did not need to make me feel guilty, Herr doctor. I was happy to give her financial assistance. The problem was getting her to accept it.’

  ‘On the contrary. You resented giving her anything.’

  ‘How dare you say that!’

  ‘You thought it wise to offer Selma inducements to ensure that she would be discreet concerning your common history and she accepted your pecuniary gifts without scruple. Indeed, her ready acceptance was tinged with an air of entitlement. She expected you to give her money. On those occasions when you did not give her money she became manipulative, demanding. Even so, you were able to cope with this situation. She could be pacified with medical consultations and therapies of modest expense and the strained fiction of your friendship was yet sustainable. But when the opening of this fine fashion house was reported widely in the press and your name appeared in the columns of the society pages — alongside those of counts and countesses — the disparity of your circumstances became too much for poor Selma to bear. You were Rainmayr’s favourite when this sketch was made, and now you had become a favourite of the great and good of Vienna. Bad feelings boiled up inside her: envy, resentment — intensified by her infirmity. What did she say to you? How did she justify her excessive requests? You can afford it, you are wealthy? And are we not old friends? And when you finally said no, that was when things became deeply unpleasant. It was then that Selma Wirth informed you of these items — the sketch, the postcards — items that might easily fall into the wrong hands.

  ‘Something had to be done. You had read about the murders of Fräulein Zeiler and Fräulein Babel in the newspapers. Everyone in the city was talking about the Volksgarten fiend — his heinous crimes — and the fact that the police were sure he would strike again.’

  ‘What exactly, Herr doctor, are you accusing me of?’

  ‘Your old comrade had become a liability — one you could ill afford to tolerate.’

  The tears began to flow again, but on this occasion Liebermann suspected artifice. Kristina stole a glance at Rheinhardt to gauge his mood.

  ‘Of course I wanted her out of my life,’ said the couturière, unfolding the neat square of linen and shaking it in the air. She buried her face in the handkerchief. ‘She had the means — and the will — to destroy everything that I had worked for.’ Liebermann noted with satisfaction that the couturière had already rejected the idea of challenging the accuracy of his version of events. ‘You have no appreciation, Herr doctor, of what difficulties I have had to overcome. No understanding of what I have had to go through in order to escape a wretched and degrading existence. How could you understand? You who have enjoyed — no doubt — every advantage available to a man of your class. Of course I wanted to be rid of her — this poisonous, covetous creature. But I did not kill her, if that is what you are insinuating. How could it have been me? Dear God, the woman was used by a man! It said so in the Tagblatt, the Zeitung, the Neue Freie Presse. She was taken by a man!’

  Neither Rheinhardt nor Liebermann responded to her outburst. Kristina sighed, wiped away her tears, and nodded — as if she had suddenly been supplied with a very important piece of information.

  ‘I see,’ she said softly, continuing the agitated head movement. ‘You think that I paid someone? Do you really think I would risk being blackmailed again? Do you really think I would risk being blackmailed over a murder? I would have to be insane!’

  ‘I do not think you paid someone,’ said Liebermann

  ‘Then what do you think?’ Kristina straightened her back and pushed her bust forward. The movement seemed calculated to emphasise her gender. It gave Liebermann even more confidence.

  ‘I could not help noticing,’ said Liebermann, ‘that you and your husband sleep in separate rooms. A very practical arrangement favoured by many doctors and their spouses. Your husband must often arrive home late, and on returning he can attend to his toilet before retiring without disturbing your sleep. However, this choice also reveals a logistical feature of your conjugal relations. You must go to your husband or he must come to you.’

  ‘Inspector!’ cried Kristina. ‘This is not proper. These are private matters. I will not sit here and be insulted. You cannot allow this man to—’

  ‘Please,’ said Rheinhardt firmly. ‘Allow Doctor Liebermann to continue.’

  ‘On the evening of the sixteenth of April,’ said Liebermann, ‘you visited Fräulein Wirth. She showed you some postcards and sketches — just like the ones Inspector Rheinhardt showed you today. We must suppose that they were a recent acquisition, otherwise you would have known of their existence somewhat earlier. I fancy she came across them by chance in one of the junk shops on Wiebliger Strasse. You arranged to return much later the same evening in order to buy the images from her — for what I imagine must have been a substantial sum.’ Liebermann sat back in his chair and pulled at his chin. ‘I do not know whether you hatched your plan on the way home or whether an opportunity arose for intimacy with your husband — an opportunity that served as inspiration. You did, however, make love to him, and subsequently went back to your bedroom taking that part of his being essential to your purpose. You expelled his vital fluid and poured it into a syringe taken from your husband’s study. I cannot say exactly how events transpired on your return to Fräulein Wirth’s apartment. Here I must speculate. Did you stab Fräulein Wirth directly? I don’t think so: the knife was too well placed. Perhaps you arrived with some chloral hydrate — also taken from your husband’s study — which you poured into a drink? Once she was unconscious, it would have been considerably easier for you to insert the knife between Fräulein Wirth’s ribs and inject your husband’s semen into her person. Of course, you had no idea that there were more images. No idea that Fräulein Wirth had intended to extort even more money from your purse.’

  Kristina Vogl stared at Liebermann. The handkerchief fell from her hands and she clasped her stomach as if suddenly afficted by gastric pain.

  ‘You do not know how I have suffered … to get all this … you do not know what this means to me.’ The couturière looked around the reception
room, her eyes glistening. ‘You do not know what a woman like me must do.’ She bent over as if the pain in her stomach was becoming more intense. ‘And now you’re going to take it all away.’ Turning to Rheinhardt she smiled — a peculiar smile that made her look innocent and girlish. When she spoke again, her voice was equally juvenile: she sounded like a lost child. ‘Will I be hanged, inspector?’

  Rheinhardt stood up and walked to the vitrine. His step was ponderous and he was breathing heavily — a series of linked sighs. He looked through the tilted glass at the colourful jewellery, the semiprecious stones and salamander bracelet, but he did not reply.

  62

  LIEBERMANN WAS SEATED IN a box just to the right of the opera-house stage. The stalls were almost full and he glanced anxiously at his wristwatch.

  Where was Rheinhardt?

  An extraordinarily large chandelier hung down from the ornate ceiling. It consisted of two rings of light (a smaller circle floating above a much larger one) from which thousands of adamantine crystals were suspended. The Emperor’s box was dark, but beneath it the standing enclosure was crowded: military personnel and civilians kept apart by a bronze pole. Directly below, the finely dressed patrons were making more noise than usual, excited by the promise of a revolutionary production. A strikingly beautiful young woman dressed in blue velvet and pearls was gliding down the central aisle, accompanied on either side by Hussars. In the middle of the front row, two gentlemen dressed in the uniform of Court officials were taking their places next to a gentleman who was possibly the German Ambassador.