Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  ‘I believe it is a hatpin,’ Mathias replied. ‘How resourceful!’

  ‘Resourceful?’ Rheinhardt responded. ‘How is stabbing someone in the neck with a hat pin resourceful?’

  ‘No, inspector — you misunderstand. This woman wasn’t stabbed in the neck. It was her brain that was stabbed.’

  ‘I still don’t see what’s clever about that.’

  ‘Think, Rheinhardt, think!’

  Mathias rapped his own head with his knuckles.

  Rheinhardt frowned: ‘I would appreciate a straightforward answer, Herr professor.’

  ‘The brain is encased in the skull, inspector. It is the most well protected organ in the body.’

  ‘Making ingress difficult?’

  ‘Almost impossible.’

  ‘However?’

  ‘In the floor of the skull is an aperture — in the occipital bone to be precise — called the foramen magnum. It’s about this big.’ Mathias made a circle with his thumb and forefinger ‘When the head is tilted forward, the foramen magnum is aligned with a relatively small opening above the uppermost vertebra. By taking advantage of this chink in the human anatomical armour, a sharp object, such as a hatpin, can be inserted directly into the medulla oblongata — a brain structure which very likely sustains the most basic bodily functions: breathing and heart rate. It is an extremely efficient and tidy way of killing someone. The pin itself destroys the critical brain centres and the head of the pin serves as a plug to stop leakage of blood and cerebrospinal fluid!’

  Mathias handed the hatpin to Rheinhardt. The workmanship was not accomplished. It was made from cheap silver.

  ‘Well, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Where do you think a person might purchase one of these?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would be so good as to find out?’

  He handed the hatpin to his assistant.

  ‘Now, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Haussmann. Now.’

  5

  The sign outside the salon was simple and discreet.

  A glazed tile, set into the wall; straight black capitals: HOUSE VOGL.

  Beneath, in a small, cursive script, was the word couturiere.

  Kristina Vogl and her secretary, Wanda Wolnik, stood in the circular vestibule, looking expectantly out of the window. A servant had been posted by the door. The proprietor of the fashion house was an attractive woman, with dark hair and striking blue eyes. She was tall and wore a plain black dress; however, the pendant that hung from her neck was colourful — a silver rose surrounded by semi-precious stones of different sizes. Wanda was shorter than her mistress and was also dressed in black. She was pretty, with blonde hair and flawless skin, but there was something about the roundness of her features and her awkward posture that revealed a lack of sophistication. She had not yet acquired the air of arrogant detachment cultivated by most of her peers in the world of haute couture.

  ‘Oh, do stand up straight, Wanda,’ said Kristina.

  ‘Yes, madame,’ said the secretary. She inhaled and raised her bosom.

  ‘Frau Schmollinger is a very important person. We must make a good impression.’

  Kristina glanced anxiously at the wall clock.

  Two minutes late …

  What if Frau Schmollinger didn’t come? A note must be sent, obviously. A few lines expressing regret and concern: I am so sorry you were unable to keep your appointment and trust you are in good health. No, too presumptuous. It would be better, perhaps, to send a plain card with a new appointment time and eschew over-familiarity.

  Kristina’s misgivings were needless. The sound of clattering hoofs preceded the arrival of an impressive coach pulled by four horses.

  ‘Is it her, madame?’ asked Wanda.

  ‘Of course it is. Now, for heaven’s sake, remember not to slouch.’

  Through the net curtains they watched the driver jump down from his box and help Frau Schmollinger out of the carriage. She was in her mid-fifties, wore a wide-brimmed hat festooned with exotic plumages, and a long sable coat.

  Kristina called out to the servant: ‘Karoline. Open the door. Slowly.’ Then she glanced at her secretary, removed an errant gold hair from the girl’s sleeve, and stood erect, assuming an expression of tranquil indifference.

  Frau Schmollinger glided through the open door.

  Kristina inclined her head and Wanda — overawed by this vision of fur and feathers — produced something closer to genuflexion than to a curtsy.

  ‘Frau Schmollinger,’ said Kristina, adopting a languorous, refined accent. ‘Welcome. We are honoured. This way, please.’

  No introductions were necessary. It was assumed that Frau Vogl herself would receive such a distinguished client.

  Kristina ushered Frau Schmollinger into the reception room, where Wanda took her hat and coat.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ Kristina asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Frau Schmollinger, looking around the room. Her expression was one of curiosity and surprise. The walls were lacquered white and decorated with mirrors, and from the ceiling lamps composed of hammered copper with glass spheres hung down on delicately wrought chains. Frau Schmollinger’s attention was captured by a smart vitrine with metal fittings. Through the tilted glass she saw jewellery displayed on a bed of blue velvet: tourmaline brooches, agate earrings and a coral bracelet made in the likeness of linked salamanders.

  ‘Please,’ said Kristina. ‘Do take a seat.’

  Frau Schmollinger lowered herself onto a wooden chair, the high back of which was made up of rectangular ‘hoops’, the smaller being nested within the larger. The oak had been stained black and flecks of chalk had been rubbed into the grain. On the table — just a cube with a square panel on top — were catalogues and magazines: La Couturiere Parisienne, La Mode Illustree and the journal of the Secessionist art movement, Ver Sacrum. Frau Schmollinger turned her grey watery eyes to Kristina. A smile made her powdered, papery skin wrinkle.

  ‘You come highly recommended, Frau Vogl. I am a close friend of Countess Oberndorf.’

  ‘The countess is one of our most valued clients.’

  ‘You made an exquisite summer dress for her last year.’

  ‘Indeed. A white and yellow smock with lace sleeves.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one! She wore it when my husband and I were guests at Schloss Oberndorf. Sensational.’

  ‘You are too kind.’

  Frau Schmollinger raised her hand and performed an odd benediction in the air: ‘I was wondering — my husband and I will be returning to Schloss Oberndorf this summer …’

  ‘You would like something similar?’

  ‘Yes.’ She drew the syllable out. ‘Something interesting. Something new.’

  Frau Schmollinger’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t want something similar. She wanted something better.

  ‘I’m sure we will be able to find something suitable for you,’ said Kristina, ‘in this year’s summer collection.’

  Frau Schmollinger smiled.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Wanda,’ said Kristina. ‘Would you fetch my red book, please?’

  The secretary crossed to a corner cupboard. She opened the doors, inlaid with sparkling tears of glass, and took out a big leather volume which she carried to her mistress. Kristina sat down beside Frau Schmollinger. The volume contained sketches and coloured lithographs gummed onto thick paper.

  Most of the designs were loose-fitting and resembled kaftans. There were no furbelows and trimmings, but Kristina explained that the materials she used were of the highest quality — peau de soie, satins and organza. Moreover, all the patterns — some geometric, others floral — had been commissioned from artists of the Secession.

  ‘The raised waist,’ Kristina said, pointing to a typical example, ‘renders the corset redundant, and affords the wearer unprecedented freedom of movement. My clients frequently describe House Vogl couture as’ �
�� she raised an attractive plucked eyebrow — ‘liberating.’

  There was something slightly subversive about Frau Vogl’s vocabulary. Her choice of words sounded strangely political: freedom and liberation. At one point she even spoke of ‘equality’. The older woman listened with keen interest. And as she did so, she became acutely aware of the tightness of the whalebone cage in which her torso was imprisoned. She remembered the previous summer, her breath labouring as she walked with the countess in the gardens of Schloss Oberndorf, and the copious bright fabric of the countess’s dress billowing in the gentle breeze.

  When they had finished looking at the summer catalogue, Frau Vogl invited Frau Schmollinger to view some of the designs that had already been made up. She led her into a wide corridor lined on both sides with glass cabinets. In each was a dressed mannequin. Couturiere and client were followed at a respectful distance by Wanda. It was obvious from the tone of the conversation that Frau Schmollinger intended to order several garments.

  About halfway along the corridor, Frau Schmollinger halted in order to study a gown that seemed to have been woven from spun gold. It might have been taken from the wardrobe of an angel.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked, her voice awed.

  ‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ Kristina replied.

  ‘Made from gold?’

  ‘A metallic yarn called lame. It’s by the Callot sisters … in Paris.’

  ‘Would it be possible to have a summer dress made from …’

  ‘Lame? Yes, of course. It also comes in silver.’

  Frau Schmollinger imagined herself stepping out onto the terrace of Schloss Oberndorf, the late sun catching the metallic weave, the men falling silent.

  At the end of the corridor, double doors led into the changing room. It was a large space and included a chair — again, black, angular and simple — and a full-length adjustable mirror. The floor had been covered in grey felt so that wealthy customers could walk in comfort with their shoes off.

  Above, the sound of industry could be heard: the rattle of sewing machines and the soft music of female voices. House Vogl employed a team of seamstresses and two cutters.

  ‘Well,’ said Kristina to Frau Schmollinger. ‘Shall we proceed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frau Schmollinger.

  ‘Wanda,’ said Kristina. ‘If you would get me a tape measure and my notebook?’

  The secretary smiled and left the changing room. She was in a state of excitement. Frau Vogl always treated her to lunch at the Imperial when they secured a lucrative order from a new patron. Wanda was already contemplating what she would order: roast pork and dumplings followed by Topfenstrudel. Or should she have the Viennese Walnut-Apple Torte? She really couldn’t decide.

  6

  Rheinhardt looked across his desk at Arno Zeiler. Everything about him suggested deflation: lank hair, crumpled clothes and sunken cheeks. His eyes were dark and empty.

  ‘Cigarette?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  The man turned and nodded.

  Rheinhardt lit the cigarette and passed it to Zeiler, who took it awkwardly between his thumb and second finger. He drew on it once, coughed, and continued to stare blankly into space.

  Zeiler had been brought to the Schottenring station directly from the Pathological Institute, where he had been taken to identify the body of his daughter, Adele.

  ‘Herr Zeiler — forgive me,’ said Rheinhardt softly. ‘But may I ask: why didn’t you report Adele missing last night?’

  Zeiler shook his head.

  ‘She often stays out.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Zeiler rubbed one of his eyes with the heel of his palm. ‘It wasn’t until this afternoon that we started to worry. My wife said I should go to the police. Adele is usually back by midday.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ Rheinhardt pursed his lips before adding, ‘All night.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The inspector tapped his pen on the desk top.

  ‘Forgive me, but am I to believe, Herr Zeiler, that your daughter was in the habit of staying out all night, and you never troubled to ask her where she’d been?’

  ‘Do you have a daughter, inspector?’

  ‘I have two.’

  ‘Do you? Well, I have three.’ Zeiler suddenly corrected himself. ‘No, I have only two now. Adele is dead. The two I have left — Trude and Inna. Trude is sixteen and has bronchial problems. She’s never been very strong — terrible phlegm that sits on her chest. Inna is thirteen and can’t walk properly. It’s something to do with her joints. Nothing can be done for her. I used to work in a timber yard in Favoriten, but I lost my job when the proprietor went bankrupt and I haven’t been able to get another since. My wife gets occasional work at the laundry, but not very often. Life hasn’t been easy, inspector. Adele was a sweet girl. She did what she could …’ Zeiler bit his lower lip. ‘She did what she could for all of us. We didn’t like it but what could we do? We either accepted Adele’s help, or we starved. What could we do?’

  ‘Are you saying that she became a …’ Rheinhardt’s sensitivity did not permit him to complete the sentence.

  ‘A prostitute? No. She wasn’t a prostitute. But she knew how to get a man’s attention and gentlemen gave her gifts — never money, you understand — just gifts, and sometimes she didn’t come home. Adele would take the gifts to the pawnshop. We needed the money. Inspector, I hope that you are never put in my position. No father should have to go through what I’ve gone through. That’s why I didn’t ask, you understand? I didn’t need to ask — and in truth I didn’t want to know.’ Zeiler sucked on the cigarette and, looking towards the window, continued: ‘She was stabbed. They said she’d been stabbed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rheinhardt replied. He was reluctant to disclose the details of Adele’s murder and moved the conversation on: ‘When was the last time you saw Adele?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Where did she say she was going?’

  ‘To see Rainmayr.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Herr Rainmayr — he’s an artist. She modelled for him.’ As Rheinhardt was writing the name down, Zeiler added: ‘But it wouldn’t have been him, inspector. Not Herr Rainmayr.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She’s been going to see him for years. Besides, he’s a decent man. He once paid for a specialist to see Trude when she was very ill.’

  Rheinhardt grimaced.

  ‘I know this is difficult, Herr Zeiler, but …’

  ‘You want to know if he had relations with her, if that was part of their arrangement?’ Zeiler flicked some ash onto the floor. ‘I don’t know, inspector. Like I said, I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Did you suspect …’ Rheinhardt’s sentence trailed off. Zeiler was not going to share his thoughts on the matter. ‘Do you know where Herr Rainmayr lives?’

  ‘Yes. He has a studio somewhere in Lange Gasse.’

  7

  Haussmann marched past caryatids holding up lintels and stucco facades crowded with putti. The rooftops seemed to be teeming with activity: statues of fabulous creatures, goddesses and legendary heroes disporting themselves against a darkening sky. He had spent all day searching the city for shops that sold the silver-acorn hatpin. Not one of the milliners or jewellers in the first district had recognised the design. Standing on a corner, Haussmann consulted his crumpled list of addresses.

  How could he be expected to find all the distributors of hatpins in Vienna? Milliners, jewellers, stallholders, street vendors, junk shops — there were simply too many possibilities. Further, there was no evidence to suggest that the murderer had purchased the acorn hatpin recently. It might have been in his possession for years, a family heirloom belonging to his great-grandmother!

  Haussmann crossed the Hoher Markt — an open square dominated by a massive fountain which commemorated the marriage of Mary and Joseph. The holy couple were protected by angels and a bronze baldachin resting on four lofty Corinthian columns. The entir
e edifice was finished with a radiant gilded sun, the upper spokes of which glinted with rays emanating from the sinking original.

  In due course, Haussmann arrived at his destination: Tassilo Jaufenthaler — jeweller.

  It was a modest establishment. A small shop space, some dusty display cabinets filled with unimpressive paste jewellery, moth-eaten drapes, and a counter behind which sat a diminutive balding man with unremarkable features and steel-rimmed spectacles. He stood as Haussmann entered.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘Herr Jaufenthaler?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Weary of trading pleasantries, Haussmann asked bluntly: ‘Do you sell hatpins like this one?’

  He placed the silver-acorn hatpin on the counter.

  Herr Jaufenthaler picked it up and replied: ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t got any more of these, sir. Sold out. But I have something very similar about the same price. If you’d care to look in the cabinet by the door?’

  Haussmann — disbelieving — repeated his question.

  ‘You’re quite sure?’ Haussmann pointed across the counter. ‘The hatpins you sold were just like that?’

  ‘Identical.’ The jeweller looked at Haussmann suspiciously.

  Haussmann showed his identification.

  ‘Security office?’ said Herr Jaufenthaler. ‘I don’t understand. I can assure you, the hatpins that I sold weren’t stolen. I got them from Krawczyk, my Polish supplier. He’s a devout Catholic — he wouldn’t have accepted stolen goods.’

  Haussmann raised his hand.

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Herr Jaufenthaler. I’d just like to ask you a few questions. Now, can you remember which customers purchased your acorn hatpins?’

  Herr Jaufenthaler thought for a few moments before replying.

  ‘I took five off Krawczyk. I didn’t take that many because they’re rather unusual. The pin is quite thick — see? They’re really for very large hats, and I wasn’t sure that there would be much demand But they did sell — and faster than I’d expected. A few young ladies — oh yes, and Frau Felbiger — she’s a regular — and a gentleman.’