by Frank Tallis
Kristina Vogl sat at her dressing table, looking through the day’s post. The letters were mostly expressions of gratitude from friends and associates whom she had invited to the grand opening of her salon. Halfway through the pile she came across an envelope made of cheap, thin paper which she set aside. After reading her correspondence, she tied it all together with a red ribbon and placed the bundle in the lowest of her dressing-table drawers. Picking up the envelope she had set aside, she studied the handwriting and after a lengthy pause began to tear the paper into thin strips. She then tore each strip into little pieces, and sprinkled the resulting confetti into a wicker basket.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror.
The cast of light had placed shadows under her eyes. She tested the skin — pulling it down to make sure that the discoloration was an illusion.
Journalists had been generous in the society pages. An attractive woman: that was how most people — she understood — would choose to describe her. Neverthless, she was acutely aware of the ravages of time. An ‘attractive’ woman could become virtually invisible to the opposite sex within the space of a few unkind years. She had already marked the first signs of her falling stock. Kristina was a keen student of human behaviour and had learned to read men’s minds by watching their eye movements. Even an immature girl like her secretary Wanda — with her bad posture and rounded features — could deprive her of the first admiring glances that she had formerly taken for granted.
Kristina looked into her basket and, on seeing the remains of the unread letter, screwed up some writing paper which she placed strategically over the waste for the purpose of concealment. It was an unnecessary precaution, but old habits were difficult to break. Diligence cost nothing.
Rising from her chair, Kristina crossed the room and got into bed. She reached out to turn off the electric lamp — the bulb of which was hidden by a floral shade — but her action was arrested by a gentle, deferential knock.
The soft percussion was coming from her husband’s bedroom that adjoined her own.
‘Come in,’ Kristina called out.
The door opened, revealing the figure of Doctor Heinz Vogl. He was a man in his late middle years, with significant amounts of grey in his well-trimmed beard and moustache. He had taken off his jacket but had not removed his waistcoat. His gold watch chain was conspicuously bright against the charcoal-grey fabric.
‘Ah, my darling,’ he said. ‘You are still awake.’
He entered and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Was there an emergency?’
‘Yes, the old general. His breathing was terrible. I thought he was going to die. But he pulled through. I was delayed by his family. They had many questions — too many, if you ask me.’
‘Oh?’
‘His son was overly interested in the details of his father’s medical condition. I strongly suspect that he is already thinking about his inheritance.’
‘How dreadful.’
‘The old general deserves better.’ Vogl touched the collar of his wife’s nightdress. ‘Is this new?’
‘Yes. I got one of the seamstresses to run it off.’
‘Your design?’
Kristina nodded: ‘We had a new delivery of Chinese silk. I couldn’t resist it.’
Vogl smiled. ‘It’s very beautiful. You look exquisite.’
He placed his crooked knuckle under Kristina’s chin and lifted her lips to meet his own. His tenderness acquired urgency and his free hand found the warm, acquiescing curve of his wife’s breast beneath the slippery diaphanous silk. Kristina became tense.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry, Heinz. I’m very tired.’
She felt a pang of guilt. Kristina had been unable to give her husband the children he had so dearly desired and she had come to regard it as her duty always to grant him his conjugal rights. On this occasion, however, the shredded letter in the basket was still on her mind: the cheap paper, the ugly handwriting.
‘You have been working hard too. How foolish of me to forget.’ Vogl showed no sign of irritation. He withdrew and, clasping Kristina’s hand in his own, added: ‘Any new customers?’
‘Yes. Countess Kezdi.’
‘How did she hear about you?’
‘She’s an acquaintance of Frau Schmollinger.’
‘I see.’
Vogl mentioned that the medical director, Professor Hipfl, had invited them to dinner, and that Frau Professor Hipfl had expressed an interest in visiting the salon. They spoke for a few minutes more about their respective days, until Kristina stifled a yawn. Vogl kissed his wife chastely on the forehead and reluctantly let go of her hand.
‘I’ll sleep next door. I want to read a little. Goodnight, my love.’
Kristina turned the light off. The nightdress felt good on her skin. The perfumes on her dressing table scented the air with rose and lavender. She had worked hard for this life of hers. No one was going to take it away.
14
Rheinhardt ushered Herr Jaufenthaler and Jochen Wetl (the waiter at Honnigers) into a large room. A row of soberly dressed men flanked by police constables stood against the opposite wall. The inspector did not really expect his two witnesses to recognise the ‘black-haired blue-eyed’ gentleman among their number but, he reasoned, even if the likelihood of a positive identification was remote it was not impossible. He had read of several cases in the police gazette where identity parades had brought cases to a swift and successful conclusion, avoiding months of painstaking detection. One had to be lucky, of course, but Providence occasionally sided with the law.
All the gentlemen standing against the wall were professionals with at least some knowledge of anatomy. Two were doctors, one was a physiologist, another a medical student, and the final member was a mortuary assistant. They had all been approached by constables who were patrolling the Volksgarten. Rheinhardt had issued an order that any dark-haired gentlemen with blue eyes observed loitering near the Theseus Temple should be questioned. Murderers — as every policeman knew — were often strangely compelled to return to the scene of their crime. Of those questioned, any with a medical occupation were to be recruited for inclusion in the identification exercise that was about to begin.
Jaufenthaler and Wetl moved up and down the row and looked closely at each individual. It became apparent that neither the jeweller nor the waiter had seen any of the men before.
They both shook their heads and returned to Rheinhardt.
‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ The inspector called across the room. ‘You have been most patient. The Emperor and the security office are indebted.’
In the corridor, Herr Jaufenthaler said: ‘I’m sorry, inspector.’
‘There is no need to apologise,’ Rheinhardt replied.
The jeweller seemed uncomfortable.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes?’
‘I discovered something in my ledger which may be relevant.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’d quite forgotten. The gentleman who purchased the silver-acorn hatpin …’
‘Yes? What about him?’
‘He didn’t buy one hatpin — he bought two. You see, I had taken six originally, not five, as I told your assistant. I’m sorry. One can’t remember everything.’
15
Liebermann jumped out of the cab and told the driver to wait. He was standing in a cheerless road facing a decrepit terrace of low buildings. A crudely painted sign leaning up against railings directed visitors down to The Chimney Sweep. Liebermann adjusted his coat and descended a flight of concrete stairs which led to a green door. He rested his palm on one of the sunken panels and pushed — it yielded easily. A draught of warm air escaped, carrying with it a melange of smells: alcohol, tobacco, paraffin and sweat. He stepped into the gloom and surveyed his surroundings. A low vaulted ceiling was supported by stone columns that were so wide and numerous that it was barely possible to see the furthest walls. Wooden tables were packed closely toge
ther, and around these sat a clientele of solitary, silent patrons. Paraffin lamps suspended on ceiling hooks did little to mitigate the gloom of the shadowy interior and somewhere, concealed in the darkness, was an invisible musician improvising a mournful lament on an accordion.
Squeezing himself between the tables, Liebermann made his way to the bar, which consisted of nothing more than planks supported by two trellises. A hefty man was standing behind this ramshackle construction, wiping beer steins with a cloth and hanging them on pegs that had been hammered into the wall. He had a wide, swollen nose, set in a broad face. His hair was brushed back from his forehead and his untrimmed beard hung over the top of his apron.
‘Herr Polster?’ Liebermann asked.
The publican stopped wiping the stein and squinted.
‘Do I know you?’
‘No. You don’t,’ said Liebermann. ‘Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Liebermann. I’m a doctor.’ The publican inclined his head. ‘I was wondering whether you would be willing to answer a few questions concerning one of my patients who — I believe — comes here regularly: Herr Erstweiler?’
‘Norbert?’ said the landlord, ‘I haven’t seen him recently. Is he all right? What’s happened to him?’
‘Unfortunately, Herr Erstweiler is not very well. He has been admitted into the General Hospital.’
‘Why? Nothing serious, I hope.’
Liebermann did not want to divulge the details of Herr Erstweiler’s medical condition and, observing the redness of the publican’s nose, diverted the man’s attention with an obvious ploy. Placing a tower of silver coins on the makeshift bar Liebermann said: ‘Whatever you recommend — and one for yourself, of course.’
‘Oh, thank you very much, sir,’ said the landlord. Herr Polster turned and filled two enormous steins with a dark, frothy liquid that issued from the tap of a small barrel.
‘Bavarian,’ said the publican. ‘Prost!’
They clashed their steins together and Herr Polster took a long draught. He paused, smacked his lips, and then gulped the rest down before flicking the hinged lid of his stein closed.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’
Liebermann — who had drunk more temperately — was nevertheless able to answer with sincerity: ‘Yes, it is very good indeed.’
‘Expensive. But you get what you pay for, eh?’
‘Quite so,’ Liebermann agreed, sampling again the woody, aromatic beer. He then added casually: ‘Herr Erstweiler told me he never comes here on Wednesday evenings.’
‘That’s right. Usually he doesn’t.’
‘But he did once.’
‘Yes.’
‘And would you say he acted out of character that evening?’
‘I should say so!’
‘In what way?’
‘Norbert isn’t a great drinker. He comes in, has a few, and then leaves. But on this occasion, this one Wednesday night, he got well drunk! Not horribly drunk, you understand, but drunk enough to say things he didn’t mean to. And when I saw him next, he acted as if nothing had happened. I don’t know whether he was just embarrassed, or whether he’d really forgotten everything. It happens sometimes — although, thinking about it, he didn’t drink that much. Still, if you’re not used to it, eh? You should see the state some get into. God in heaven! I have to pick them up off the floor and leave them outside in the gutter!’
‘What did Herr Erstweiler say — that Wednesday evening?’ The landlord looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Will you have another one?’ said Liebermann, nonchalantly pointing to the small barrel of Bavarian beer.
Herr Polster’s troubled expression was erased by a wide, foolish grin.
‘You’re a gentleman, sir, a true gentleman.’ Liebermann produced some more coins while Polster thrust his stein under the tap. ‘And will you be wanting another one for yourself, Herr doctor?’
‘Not just yet. You were saying …’
‘Oh yes, that Wednesay evening …’ Herr Polster raised the stein and poured half the contents down his throat. ‘Well, he said a lot of things — but he spoke mostly about his landlord’s wife. He went on about how beautiful she was and how she wasn’t appreciated by her old husband. And then he got more drunk and said other things. And these other things became more earthy, if you know what I mean? At the time we had a good laugh. When I saw him again — the next time — I reminded him of some of the things he’d said, and he reacted very strangely. And then he got quite annoyed … I suppose he was just embarrassed. I felt sorry for him. He doesn’t strike me as the type to have had very much luck with women. He’s a shy man. And he wouldn’t consider going to a …’ The publican winked in lieu of supplying a euphemism for brothel. ‘It must be difficult for him. Naturally. Living in a house with an attractive young woman. He’s only human.’
Liebermann finished his beer.
‘Herr Polster, I have one more question, which at first you might think odd, but I would be most grateful if you would give it your most careful and serious consideration. My question is this: are you absolutely sure that the man who came here that Wednesday night was — without question — Herr Erstweiler?’
The publican frowned.
‘I don’t understand? What do you mean? Are you asking if it could have been an impostor?’
‘Let us say someone who strongly resembled Herr Erstweiler.’
Herr Polster shook his head.
‘No, it was Norbert! No doubt about it.’
16
‘Herr Rainmayr,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘When we spoke last, you said that Fraulein Zeiler became petulant when you couldn’t offer her work. But would it be more accurate to say that you argued and that subsequently she threatened you in some way?’
‘Threatened me?’ Rainmayr replied. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
The artist was seated on a chair while Rheinhardt walked around the studio.
‘She never mentioned that she might go to the police?’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘To accuse you of improper conduct: seduction of a minor, to be precise.’
‘That is absurd, inspector.’
Rheinhardt turned to examine the artist’s face. It showed no emotion.
‘I recognise, Herr Rainmayr, that you are not fearful of the law. But I doubt whether your patrons or associates — whoever they are — would be able to give you an absolute guarantee of protection. Had Fraulein Zeiler made such an allegation, you would have been detained for questioning, tried, and the outcome — regardless of petitions and intercession — might have been a prison sentence lasting months, if not years.’
Rainmayr sighed.
‘You’ve been talking to that stupid bitch Pryska, haven’t you? Pryska Sykora?’
‘I am afraid I cannot disclose my sources.’
‘You don’t have to. I know exactly what’s happened here.’ The artist shook his head and smiled, baring his teeth without good humour. ‘It’s like this: Pryska has got herself involved with Kirchmann — a local coffee shop owner. He’s an ugly fellow and she’s been trying to get out of his clutches for some time. Herr Kirchmann’s charity is not without conditions, you understand? Now, a couple of months ago Pryska started coming here with her friends — models — and then she started coming on her own. It was obvious what she was up to. Needless to say, I didn’t respond to her clumsy attempts at playing the temptress and she became very angry. In fact, she threw the most ridiculous tantrum. She actually put her foot through a commission I was working on. It took me days to repair the damage. Clearly, she’s still smarting from the rejection. And now she’s decided to make trouble for me by telling you a pack of lies. Did you pay her for them, inspector? I hope not.’
Rheinhardt twisted his moustache and considered the unfinished canvas on Rainmayr’s easel. It showed a young woman lying on a divan. She was nude and her knees were spaced just far enough apart to expose a hectic stripe. Her skin was mottled and transparent, to the extent that the portrait was as
much a study of the human skeleton as the naked body. Her ribcage was clearly visible and her breasts were shaded a putrescent green. It was a deeply troubling portrait, which managed to situate eroticism close to — if not in — the grave.
The artist observed Rheinhardt’s expression change from curiosity to disgust. He sighed and continued in a more conciliatory tone: ‘Look, inspector, I’m no angel — I’d be the first to admit it. But I do care about the girls who model for me. And when they’re in trouble, I try to help them. I’m an artist. My way of life might not meet with your approval but I can assure you I have standards — moral standards. Different from yours, but standards nevertheless. I don’t think I’ve been responsible for corrupting or harming any of the models I’ve sketched or painted. I’m not a child molester and I’m certainly not a murderer. Adele Zeiler was moody and we sometimes argued. But she never threatened to go to the police. That is completely false.’
‘Did you have relations with Adele Zeiler?’
The artist paused before saying: ‘Yes, I did.’
‘And how old was she?’
‘I don’t know. I thought she was seventeen. She might have been younger. It’s possible that her father lied about her age when we first met.’
Rheinhardt continued to question Rainmayr but he was already satisfied that the purpose of his visit had been accomplished. Fraulein Sykora’s evidence was — as he had suspected — quite worthless. In due course, Rheinhardt crossed the floor and opened the door.
‘Are you going already, inspector?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve told you the truth.’
As Rheinhardt departed there were no formal exchanges — only a heavy silence.
The inspector walked between the squat cottages, negotiating debris that had been strewn across the path. Above the vaulted tunnel that led to Lange Gasse he could see the upper storeys of apartment buildings. When he stepped out onto the main thoroughfare he was surprised to see his assistant waiting on the other side of the road. The young man hurried over.
