by Frank Tallis
‘A gentleman?’
‘Yes. A gentleman.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Tall. Dark hair. Well-mannered.’
‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘When did he buy the hatpin?’
‘About three weeks ago. I can check my books if you want?’
‘Have you seen him since?’
‘No.’
‘Did Krawczyk supply these pins to any other shops?’
‘Well, you’d have to ask him.’
‘Herr Jaufenthaler,’ said Haussmann. ‘I am afraid I must ask you to come with me to the Schottenring station in order to make a statement.’
‘Statement!’ Herr Jaufenthaler cried. ‘You’re acting as if someone’s been murdered!’
‘They have,’ said Haussmann.
‘What?’ Jaufenthaler laughed. ‘With a hatpin?’
‘Yes,’ replied Haussmann. ‘The one you are holding.’
The smile vanished from Herr Jaufenthaler’s face as he dropped the hatpin onto the counter, his face crumpling in disgust.
8
‘So,’ said Liebermann. ‘Has anyone else seen your doppelganger?’
‘You think I imagined it all, don’t you?’ said Erstweiler. ‘You think I am insane!’
Liebermann was still considering how he might respond when Herr Erstweiler added: ‘Forgive my impertinence, Herr doctor, but you are evidently trying to formulate a diplomatic answer. Please don’t tax your brain on my account — it really isn’t necessary. I am fully aware of how ridiculous everything I have said sounds. Indeed, I would think you a peculiar representative of your profession if you didn’t think my doppelganger anything but a figment of my imagination. As I’ve already said, I would be relieved to discover that I am mad. Oh, how comforting, to be assured that this creature, this devil in my own shape was nothing but a hallucination, and that this terrible sense of foreboding was a piece of harmless self-deception.’
‘Then why respond to my question with a rebuke?’
‘Because I cannot give you the answer you expect, the answer that would confirm your medical prejudices and give me hope. Has anyone else seen my doppelganger? The answer regretfully is yes. Herr Polster.’
‘Who?’
‘Herr Polster. He’s the publican of a beer cellar in Simmering. A place called The Chimney Sweep.’ Erstweiler paused, glanced at the door, took a deep breath and continued: ‘On my way back home from work, I occasionally stop off at The Chimney Sweep for some light refreshment; however, I never go there on Wednesday nights — the reason being that it is on this day that we take deliveries at the warehouse and I must must stay late to check the stock, prepare an inventory, and write letters if everything is not in order. About two weeks ago, I was in The Chimney Sweep and Herr Polster came to my table and said something like: Back again, so soon? I thought nothing of it. But during the course of our conversation he kept on referring to things that I had no recollection of ever having said. I took this to be some kind of joke and did not react. However, Herr Polster persisted and eventually I became quite annoyed. I demanded: When, when did I say that? And he replied, Last night, of course! Which was, as I am sure you have already guessed, a Wednesday. I lost my temper and to my surprise Herr Polster responded with no small amount of embarrassment and confusion. He then made light of my reaction, reminded me that I had drunk rather more than usual and promised he would be discreet. It became clear to me then that Herr Polster wasn’t joking at all. As far as he was concerned, I really had been to The Chimney Sweep the night before. Which I realised could mean but one thing.’
‘Your doppelganger?’
‘Indeed.’
‘From your conversation with Herr Polster, were you able to ascertain what the double said?’
‘I was left with the impression of a person considerably more ill-mannered than myself — a lewd individual.’
Erstweiler’s face reddened.
‘In what way?’
‘Is it really necessary that I tell you everything, Herr doctor?’ Liebermann allowed the silence to build. ‘Oh, very well,’ Erstweiler muttered. ‘From Herr Polster’s comments, I realised that my doppelganger had made remarks about the desirability of Frau Milena, the wife of my landlord, Kolinsky.’
Liebermann leaned forward.
‘What is she like? Frau Milena?’
‘She is a very attr-’ Erstweiler stopped himself from saying ‘attractive’ and continued, ‘sweet-natured person. Kolinsky really doesn’t appreciate her. Indeed, I have to say the man is something of a brute. He comes home drunk and shouts at her … and sometimes I hear noises — as if she’s being pushed around.’
‘What do you do when that happens?’
‘I go downstairs to ask if everything is all right. And Frau Milena says, Yes, Herr Erstweiler, everything is well, I am sorry about the noise. Or Bozidar isn’t feeling well, or I tripped and fell, or some such nonsense. And old Kolinsky just sits there, grunting and waving his hand in the air. At least it settles down after I make such an appearance, which must be appreciated by Frau Milena. But I’ve often asked myself What’s the point of intervening? — it only starts up again a few days later. They say it’s unwise to get involved in domestic arguments and I can see why. Besides, marriage is supposed to be holy. We are advised not to come between a man and woman who have been joined together by God.’
Liebermann made a note: Resists admitting Frau Milena attractive? Why?
‘Do you believe that?’ asked Liebermann. ‘That marriage reflects the will of God?’
‘I don’t know. It’s what we’re told. Or perhaps I’m just making excuses. Perhaps I should do more for Frau Milena? Perhaps I should have words with old Kolinsky.’
‘Threaten him?’
Erstweiler sat up, his gaze suddenly fixed on the door. His hands were trembling.
‘There’s someone standing outside!’
Liebermann rose swiftly and approached the door.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ cried Erstweiler. ‘Don’t let him in!’
The young doctor depressed the handle and pulled the door open, revealing a vacant corridor.
‘You see? Nothing to be frightened of.’
Slumping back onto the rest bed, Erstweiler sighed: ‘I could have sworn …’
‘What?’
‘I thought I saw a shadow, through the glass.’
Liebermann sat down again and picked up his notes. He immediately wrote: Thought of threatening Herr Kolinsky triggers hallucination. He wondered: Why would that happen? Struggling to understand the underlying psychodynamics, Liebermann turned over in his mind the facts of the case. Here was a man who desired his landlord’s wife but disowned such feelings. Perhaps the notion of coming between man and wife had become associated with divine retribution. Did the hallucination represent a punishment for failing to respect God’s sacrament of marriage? Liebermann glanced down at Erstweiler. The poor fellow certainly believed in God, but he was not devout or fanatical.
‘Herr Erstweiler?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you object to me speaking to Herr Polster?’
Erstweiler was still looking uneasily at the panel of glass.
‘Do you think I made it all up?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do you want to speak to Herr Polster?’
‘I think it will be …’ Liebermann hesitated before selecting a suitably anodyne word ‘… instructive.’
Rolling his head to the side, Erstweiler closed his eyes and whispered: ‘Do as you please, Herr doctor.’
He was evidently too exhausted to continue the session.
9
Rheinhardt strode down Lange Gasse, hopping off the pavement to allow a perambulator to pass and hopping back on again to avoid a carriage. He was humming the Andante con moto from Schubert’s B-flat Piano Trio, allowing his baritone voice to take on the expressive sonorities of a ce
llo. The melody reflected his mood: subdued yet purposeful. In due course he came to his destination, a pair of tall wooden doors. He touched the peeling paintwork, pressed lightly, and entered a vaulted tunnel.
The inspector stepped over a rusting bicycle frame and an obstacle course of discarded items: a box of coat hangers, numerous empty wine bottles, and the statue of an angel (with weather-worn features and broken wings) lying on its side.
Beyond the tunnel was a narrow path which ran between two rows of identical terraced cottages. They had plain whitewashed exteriors and flat roofs. Someone, somewhere, was playing a Chopin prelude on an out-of-tune piano; however, Rheinhardt was impressed by the technical proficiency of the pianist. Raising his eyes, the inspector saw that he had entered a cul-de-sac. The path was truncated by a brick wall on which two large urns were precariously balanced. Behind the wall he could see the tops of trees and, some distance beyond these, the fenestrated rear of a high residential block.
Rheinhardt came to an open door and called out: ‘Hello?’
A scruffy-looking young man appeared. He wasn’t wearing a collar and his untucked shirt hung over a pair of dirty corduroy trousers.
‘Yes?’ His accent was almost aristocratic.
‘I’m looking for Herr Rainmayr.’
‘Ludo Rainmayr? Last cottage on the right; be that as it may, I feel obliged to inform you that he is presently engaged by his muse and he can’t abide interruptions. It puts him in a foul temper. I assume you have come to settle a debt?’ Rheinhardt did not answer. ‘Well, if so,’ the young man continued, ‘you will — I am sorry to say — be disappointed. Ludo hasn’t a heller left. He spent all his money last night. We went to see a troupe of comedy acrobats — The Dorfmeisters — at Ronachers.’
Rheinhardt was confident that he was speaking to an impoverished actor.
‘Thank you for your assistance,’ he said, raising his hat. ‘Please accept my apologies for interrupting your busy day.’
‘Not at all,’ said the young man — oblivious of the inspector’s irony. ‘My pleasure.’
Rheinhardt ventured further down the path. A scrawny cat jumped down from a window ledge and ran on ahead like a herald. When the inspector reached the final cottage on the right he rapped his knuckles on the door.
A voice from inside shouted: ‘Come in!’
The room that Rheinhardt entered was gloomy for an artist’s studio; however, the absence of natural light was compensated for by several oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. There was an iron stove, some chairs stacked in the corner, an easel, and a table cluttered with rags, brushes, bottles, bowls and paint pots. Next to the easel stood a man in his late fifties. He was wearing a blue kaftan with yellow flowers embroidered into the fabric. His grey hair was exceptionally thick and long, as was his beard.
In front of the artist was a mattress covered with a white sheet on which two naked women were positioned. They were both very young and extraordinarily thin. One was lying on her front, the other on her back. The latter had underdeveloped breasts which barely rose from her chest. Her legs were slightly parted. She did not move or seek to cover herself when Rheinhardt entered. Indeed, her expression communicated only intense boredom. The other woman twisted her neck and glanced back over her shoulder but, like her companion, she seemed unperturbed by the arrival of a stranger.
‘Yes?’ said the artist.
‘Herr Rainmayr?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am Inspector Rheinhardt — from the security office.’
Rainmayr was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t bother to look up.
‘What’s it about?’ he said gruffly.
‘I am afraid I will need to speak to you in private.’
Rainmayr sighed, made a swift head-to-toe assessment of Rheinhardt, then addressed the women: ‘All right, you two, get dressed. Go and have a coffee at Kirchmann’s. But make sure you get back within the hour.’
The models stood up, exposing their bodies without a hint of self-consciousness, and stepped behind a screen over which their dresses and underwear had been thrown. A petticoat suddenly vanished.
‘Can I offer you something to drink, inspector?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Schnapps?’
‘No, thank you,’ Rheinhardt repeated.
‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Rainmayr began cleaning his brushes with a rag soaked in turpentine; a simple task, but one which seemed to require his complete and undivided attention. The sound of giggling and whispering came from behind the screen. Then a slap, the unmistakable whip-crack of an open palm landing squarely on buttocks, followed by a hiss and a curse so obscene that it might have made a stevedore blush.
Rainmayr rolled his eyes and barked: ‘Lissi, Toni. That’s enough!’
A number of unframed but completed canvases were lined up against the far wall. Rheinhardt moved closer to take a look. The floor was covered with charcoal dust. All the paintings were of young women in various states of undress who all shared the same emaciated physique. The largest and most arresting image showed an adolescent girl standing by a mirror, wearing only black stockings and a neck band. The stockings were not held up by garters and hung loosely off her legs. The girl’s right hand was held against her belly, the extended forefinger reaching towards the object of her attention (which Rainmayr had represented in the mirror with a vivid red daub amid the tangle of her pubic hair). She had large eyes, a full mouth, and her expression was provocative. It was a skilfully executed portrait, but Rheinhardt found the subject matter disturbing.
‘Are you interested in buying one, inspector?’ Rainmayr called out.
‘No.’
The syllable was delivered with more vehemence than Rheinhardt had intended.
Rainmayr shrugged.
The two models came out from behind the screen. They were wearing calico dresses and wide-brimmed hats with decorative rosettes.
‘Here,’ said Rainmayr, scooping some coins out of a bowl on the table. ‘Take this.’ He dropped a few hellers into an outstretched hand. ‘No longer than an hour. Understand?’
The women nodded and dashed for the door, suddenly laughing out loud on account of some private joke. Once they were out of the studio, Rheinhardt remarked frostily: ‘Your models are very young, Herr Rainmayr.’
‘All women look young,’ the artist replied, ‘once you get to a certain age. Besides, they’re older than you think, inspector, and more worldly than you can imagine.’
‘Do you always choose young women as your subjects?’
‘An artist — like everyone else — must have food in his belly. My work reflects the tastes of my patrons. There are a number of collectors who have a weakness for the female form when it enters the transitional phase between adolescence and maturity.’
‘I would very much like to see that list.’
‘Indeed,’ said Rainmayr. ‘I’m sure you would — and if I wasn’t bound to respect confidences I’d enjoy showing it to you. You’d be surprised to learn how many art lovers occupy positions of influence and power.’
It was obvious that Rainmayr didn’t fear prosecution.
Commissions from judges? Rheinhardt wondered.
‘I understand,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that you employ a model called Adele Zeiler — is that correct?’
Rainmayr placed his brushes on the table.
‘Yes. Although I don’t use her as much as I used to. She only works for me occasionally.’
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Sunday afternoon.’
‘How was she?’
‘No different than usual.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘A dance show that she wanted to see … the new fashion house on Bauernmarkt. At one point she asked me for more work, but I couldn’t satisfy her request and she became a little petulant.’
‘Would you say that you are well acquainted with Fraulein Zeiler?’
‘Yes. I’ve known her
for about three years.’
‘You mean to say she started modelling for you when she was fifteen?’
‘Sixteen. I saw her sitting on a park bench with her father and was intrigued by her face. She looked utterly indifferent. A child, yet already bored with everything life might have to offer. I approached Herr Zeiler and we came to an arrangement. He has two more daughters — one suffers from a terrible cough and the other’s a cripple. I did some sketches of the one with the cough once: an engaging face — but not engaging enough.’ Rainmayr shook his head. ‘Herr Zeiler even brought the cripple here when he lost his job and begged me to use her too, but I’m not a charity.’ Rainmayr paused and asked: ‘Has Adele stolen something? Is that why you’re here?’
Rheinhardt examined some drawings that had been stuck to the wall: more naked women in positions suggestive of self-exploration. He responded with a question of his own: ‘Did she say where she was going on Sunday?’
‘After leaving here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ahh,’ said Rainmayr. ‘I see. Run off, has she? Now that wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I think she was getting tired of her situation. At home, I mean. She used to complain about it. She was supporting her family — more or less. You know how it is, inspector: an attractive young woman can always make money.’
‘She didn’t run away, Herr Rainmayr. Adele Zeiler was murdered.’
The artist smiled, as if Rheinhardt was joking.
‘What are you talking about? Murdered!’
‘On Sunday night. Her body was found in the Volksgarten. She’d been stabbed.’
Rainmayr touched the table to steady himself.
‘My God … Poor Adele. Murdered …’
‘Well, did she say where she was going?’
Rainmayr looked up.
‘Yes, she said she was going to meet someone at a coffee house.’
