by Frank Tallis
I did — but only as a husband might feel closer to his wife when he contemplates a photograph. There was, however, one exception. Whenever I saw a funeral she seemed to come closer.
On rainy afternoons I would loiter by the open graves, in readiness. Then I would join the mourners as they arrived. No one noticed me or challenged me. I would close my eyes and be rewarded by a faint sense of her presence. And once or twice my heart leaped at a flicker of purple light.
It was after one of these funerals that I fell into conversation with an undertaker’s assistant. He was very sanguine about his profession. Business was good. The population of Vienna was growing and, with it, increasing demand for his services: he mentioned that there had been talk of building a high-speed pipeline, running from the Innere Stadt to the Zentralfriedhof, for the purpose of transporting the great number of corpses. I asked him if he could offer me a job. He gave me his card and said that I should visit the company premises the following morning as they had a vacancy for a junior member of staff. I went and was interviewed by the funeral director who said that I could start work there the following day.
28
Heinz Vogl accepted that he could do nothing more for his patient. If there was a God, then the old general’s fate was very much in His hands now. The veteran soldier had coughed up blood and his lungs had made ominous noises that suggested their imminent collapse. Vogl remained at the man’s bedside for two long hours, waiting for the ‘attack’ to run its course. Eventually the coughing stopped and the old general sank back against his pillows. He showed no obvious signs of discomfort and his shallow breathing became stertorous.
As Vogl left the hospital a flash of lightning turned night into preternatural day. A rumble of thunder released a shower of unseasonal hailstones that landed on his hat with casual violence. Such inclemency, thought the doctor, was downright inconsiderate — although he had no idea who he was blaming. This vague sense that the weather was being manipulated with spiteful intent was reinforced when the arrival of a cab coincided with the sudden cessation of the storm.
The journey to his house in the seventeenth district was not a long one. He hoped that his wife would still be awake, but when he finally got to his bedroom there was no light showing under her door. The doctor performed his ablutions, put on his nightshirt and got into bed.
It was impossible for him to estimate how long he had been asleep; however, he sensed that it had not been very long. He was awakened by Kristina, who had evidently risen from her own bed to join him.
‘My darling,’ he said sleepily.
She made herself comfortable, lying on her side with her head resting on her husband’s chest.
They remained in this position for some time — exchanging body heat and caresses. A clock ticked loudly in the darkness. Vogl was on the brink of falling asleep again when the gentle ministrations of his wife’s fingers on his upper thigh prevented him from descending further into oblivion. His subsequent engorgement attracted his wife’s interest, and she shifted down beneath the bedclothes until her lips closed around his rigid organ.
The doctor let out a cry that suggested pain as much as pleasure.
Vogl was a man of the world. He had enjoyed relations with women before his marriage. He was, therefore, highly appreciative of his wife’s readiness to give him such satisfaction. Most women — he had found — were repulsed by the idea.
How fortunate I am, he thought, as he gently encouraged Kristina with the palm of his hand on the crown of her head. I adore her.
Kristina dispensed with the eiderdown and mounted her husband with a swift, easy movement. She bore down hard and rotated her hips — maximising the extent of his penetration. Overcome with desire, Vogl reached up and grabbed her breasts. Kristina placed her hands over his and squeezed his fingers until her accommodating flesh was so compressed that it could yield no further. The hardness of her nipples proved too much for Vogl, who experienced the inevitable consequence of such intense excitement.
‘Oh my darling,’ he gasped. ‘My beautiful darling.’
Vogl’s buttocks rose from the bed, lifting his wife in the process. He felt himself pouring into her. Then, when his release was complete, he slumped back down onto the mattress. Spent. Drained. Empty. He was dimly conscious of his wife changing position.
‘Thank you,’ Vogl whispered into the darkness.
Kristina rested a finger against his lips, admonishing him for his gratitude.
Vogl inhaled his wife’s perfume — a heavy, rich scent — that combined musk with subtle registers of lavender. Its soporific qualities ensured his delivery from the world. When he woke again it was the middle of the night, and he found that the bed was empty. Kristina had returned to her room. He turned his head into the pillow, inhaled the lingering perfume one last time, and slept soundly until morning.
29
Liebermann was engaged in the preliminary examination of a woman suffering from abdominal pains which, according to her gynaecologist and gastroenterologist, had no obvious physical causation. He was approximately halfway through his assessment when a nurse knocked on the door, entered, and requested him to ‘step outside’ for a moment. Liebermann frowned and tilted his head, encouraging her to tell him more. The nurse’s eyes warned him that in the interests of his patient he should not press for an explanation. The young doctor stood and followed her outside, where she directed Liebermann’s gaze down the corridor towards the silhouette of a figure wearing a long coat and spiked helmet.
‘Thank you, nurse.’
‘Shall I wait with your patient?’
‘Yes. That would be most helpful.’
Liebermann advanced towards his visitor.
‘Herr Doctor Liebermann?’
‘Yes.’
The constable clicked his heels.
‘You are a difficult man to find, Herr doctor. I’ve been wandering around the hospital without success for some time — I got quite lost, in fact, ended up by the Fools’ Tower. There must be more passageways in here than in the Hofburg! You wouldn’t think so-’
‘Did Detective Inspector Rheinhardt send you?’ Liebermann interrupted.
The constable rolled back on his heels.
‘There has been another …’
‘Murder,’ said Liebermann, helpfully.
‘Yes,’ whispered the constable. ‘In Neubau.’
‘I am afraid I cannot come at once. I am with a patient.’
The constable took out a notebook, wrote down an address, and tore out the page. Handing it to Liebermann he said: ‘What shall I say to Inspector Rheinhardt?’
‘Tell him I’ll do my best to be there within the hour.’
The constable bowed, moved as if to depart, then stopped and asked: ‘I’m sorry, Herr doctor, but … how do I get out?’
‘Proceed down this corridor, turn left at the end, descend the first staircase, turn left again — then right — then left again.’
The constable repeated Liebermann’s instructions, bowed once again, then took his leave, attracting curious glances from two nurses pushing men in wheelchairs.
When Liebermann entered the shabby parlour he experienced a jolt of surprise. Firstly, he had wrongly assumed that he would discover the body in the bedroom and secondly, he had not expected to see any blood. The sight of so much made him hesitate.
Rheinhardt was standing by a chest of drawers. He had obviously been examining the contents, removing papers and documents that were now piled between two iron candelabra. The inspector gestured towards the dead woman, his hand moving uselessly in the air beside him.
The parlour was situated on the second floor of an eighteenth-century apartment building. It was not a large room and the few items it contained created an impression of restricted space. In addition to the chest of drawers, there were two chintz sofas, several potted plants on three-legged stands, a glass-fronted cabinet, and a stove. The glass-fronted cabinet contained some chipped porcelain figures, tarnished silverwear, and an assor
tment of commemorative plates featuring images of the deceased Empress Elisabeth.
A distinctive rusty taint permeated the air and caught at the back of Liebermann’s throat.
Between the two sofas, lying on the floor, was a woman in her thirties. She was wearing a simple low-cut blue dress, the bodice of which was stained almost black. The hilt of a dagger indicated the location of her heart. No part of the blade was visible. It had been pushed in deep, between her ribs and angled beneath the protective plate of her sternum. The hem of her dress had risen above a pair of scuffed boots and her white legs were spread apart, crooked slightly at the knee. Discarded on the floor beside the body was an undergarment: red silk bloomers with a trim of black lace.
Liebermann crossed the floor to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked down into a tiny courtyard. The light was failing and the proximity of the opposite wall was claustrophobic. He noticed a walking stick resting against the windowsill.
‘Does this belong to her?’ asked Liebermann.
‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘She had a bad leg.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Her name is Selma Wirth. She was discovered by the landlord’s agent — a Ruthenian gentleman called Shevchenko — around five o’clock. Fraulein Wirth owed three months’ rent and Shevchenko had come to collect it.’
‘Was the door open when he arrived?’
‘No. The door was closed; however, it had not been locked.’
Liebermann let go of the curtain and his attention was drawn back to the corpse.
‘What did she do for a living?’
‘She was a laundry worker.’ Rheinhardt lit a cigarette and dropped the blackened matchstick into a cracked glass ashtray. ‘The undergarment seems to have been removed before she lay on the floor.’
‘I wonder why she chose to receive her guest here, rather than in the bedroom? I presume there is a bedroom?’
‘Yes, it’s the next door along.’ Rheinhardt waved his cigarette towards the corridor. ‘One must suppose that Fraulein Wirth and her companion were so overcome that in the heat of the moment comfort was not a consideration.’
‘Are you sure she was … taken?’
‘It certainly looks like it.’
Liebermann knelt on the floor, lifted the woman’s skirt, and shook it to displace the trapped air. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and shook his head.
‘I can’t tell. I don’t possess Professor Mathias’s nose for such things.’
‘What do you make of the dagger? Was Fraulein Wirth killed by the same fiend who killed Adele Zeiler and Bathild Babel, or did someone else do this?’
Liebermann stood up.
‘My thoughts go back to something Professor Mathias said concerning the hatpin used to kill Bathild Babel. You will recall that he observed a kink — near the sharp end — which suggested a failed first attempt to breach the foramen magnum. This blunder might have given Fraulein Babel an opportunity to retaliate — hence the blood discovered beneath her fingernails. Encountering resistance might have caused the perpetrator to review his modus operandi. A dagger pressed into the heart is a less elegant but more efficient means of dispatch.’
Rheinhardt took some papers from the top of the chest of drawers and placed them in his pocket.
‘I haven’t been able to find an address book, which is a shame. Babel’s proved very useful. It included the name of a man — Griesser — who gave Cafe Museum as his mailing address. He collected only one letter and hasn’t been back since. The head waiter described him as educated and smelling of carbolic. One of Babel’s admirers — Frece, an accountant — can remember her flirting with a customer in Frau Schuschnig’s establishment …’
‘Frau Schuschnig?’
‘The proprietor of the hat shop where Babel worked. Frece gave a similar description, and also remarked on the man’s hospital smell. That cannot be a coincidence. One must assume that the man who called himself Griesser and the flirtatious customer were the same individual. Taken together with previous reports, a clear picture is emerging: a young gentleman, educated, well dressed, with black hair and blue or blue-grey eyes. A professional man with a knowledge of human anatomy …’
‘Frece saw this gentleman in Frau Schuschnig’s hat shop. What was he doing there?’
‘Buying a hatpin. He must have made the purchase before Fraulein Babel’s sharp fingernails forced him to reconsider his procedures.’
Liebermann acknowledged the point with a curt nod and sat down on one of the sofas. Selma Wirth’s face was deeply lined. Yet the height of her cheekbones and her well-defined chin suggested that she must have been beautiful once.
‘Did the landlord’s agent tell you anything about her history?’
‘No. He didn’t know her very well — and I haven’t been able to glean much from her documents. He advised me to speak to her neighbour, Frau Lachkovics. She lives downstairs with her daughter. Apparently Frau Lachkovics and Fraulein Wirth were good friends.’
‘She’s not in yet — Frau Lachkovics?’
Rheinhardt shook his head.
There was a knock and both men turned to see Haussmann’s head craning round the door.
‘Sir. The mortuary van has arrived.’
‘Very well — tell them to come up. Have we had a reply from Professor Mathias yet?’
‘We have, sir. He said he was going to dine at Cafe Landtmann but would be back at the Institute by eight o’ clock. He also said that he wasn’t feeling very well and might need an assistant. He requested Miss Lydgate.’
Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows and addressed Liebermann: ‘Do you think Miss Lydgate would be willing to join us at this late hour?’
‘Such is her nature,’ said Liebermann, sighing, ‘I suspect that nothing in the world would please her more.’
30
The morgue was particularly cold at night. Liebermann and Rheinhardt had kept their coats on, but Professor Mathias seemed comfortable in his shirtsleeves. The electric light suspended above the autopsy table shone down on the mortuary sheets, making them glow vividly. This artificial landscape of luminous hills and hollows was disturbed by a central peak, the summit of which was, by contrast, unnaturally sharp.
Liebermann was sitting on a stool, contemplating the mysterious contents of a jar filled with formalin. The preserved organ, which looked vaguely like a sea horse, was magnified by the curvature of the glass. It was pink with yellow pleats down one side, creating the illusion of a spine which curled to form a hooked tail. The young doctor thought it might be an unusually proportioned vermiform appendix.
Rheinhardt was pacing around the autopsy table and Professor Mathias, muttering softly to himself, was engrossed by the organisational possibilities of his trolley.
A knock roused the men from their respective states of self-absorption.
‘Enter!’ cried Professor Mathias.
The door opened and Amelia’s voice floated out of the darkness.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’
She emerged from the shadows, her pale face and hands preceding the rest of her body like a ghost at a seance.
‘Ah, Miss Lydgate,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I would offer to take your coat, but the temperature in here is so low I would suggest you continue to take advantage of its benefit.’
Liebermann stood and inclined his head. As she approached, her hair drew the hard brilliance of the light and transmuted it into a ruddy haze. She glanced down at the mortuary sheets and a vertical crease appeared on her brow.
‘So, he has struck again.’
‘He has indeed,’ said Rheinhardt, coming forward. ‘This unfortunate lady,’ he swept his hand over the covered body with its conspicuous peak, ‘is his third victim.’ Amelia stared at the salient irregularity that destroyed the gentle geography of the sheets. ‘The hilt of a knife,’ Rheinhardt explained. The inspector was about to say more but was cut short by Professor Mathias, who was tutting loudly.
‘Miss Lydgate?’ The professor
looked up and beckoned. ‘Would you be so kind as to arrange my instruments?’ His voice sounded nasal and he took a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I have a head cold,’ he added, as if this constituted sufficient explanation for his inability to complete his preparations.
‘With pleasure,’ Amelia replied.
Liebermann caught Rheinhardt’s eye and their shared amazement brought them perilously close to laughter. Such an invitation was unprecedented.
Professor Mathias blew his nose and observed the Englishwoman’s deft movements. When she was finished, she stepped back from the trolley and Mathias inspected her handiwork. His palpable relief was evident in the softening of his features.
‘Very good,’ he said, as if nothing remarkable had transpired.
He turned to face the autopsy table and folded the upper sheet back, revealing the corpse’s face. He placed a finger on the dead woman’s cheek and traced one of the lines that curved out from her nostrils and arced around her lips.
‘Only distant death can heal the presence of such suffering; where the portals shall open, there shall I be healed again …’
Then he removed the sheets, exposing the dead woman completely.
‘What is her name?’
‘Selma Wirth,’ Rheinhardt replied.
‘And where was she discovered?’
‘Neubau. In her apartment — lying on the parlour floor.’
‘Was she found lying on her back?’
‘Yes.’
Mathias picked up a large pair of scissors and cut vertically from the hem of the dress to the cinched waist.
‘No undergarments?’
‘Her drawers had been removed — voluntarily, so it would seem. We found them in the parlour beside her.’
Mathias examined the material that was bunched up directly underneath the woman’s genitals. He pressed out the creases with the palm of his hand.
‘I cannot see any traces. And there are no indications to suggest forced ingress.’ Then he leaned forward, prised the woman’s labia apart with his fingers and inhaled. The subsequent noise he produced was stertorous. The old man looked round at his companions. ‘My nose is congested: I can’t smell a thing.’ His words were as much an appeal for assistance as a statement of fact.
