Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  While Rheinhardt and Liebermann were exchanging looks of alarm, Amelia took Professor Mathias’s place between Selma Wirth’s legs and breathed in deeply. She did so with the serious determination of a convalescent eager to experience the invigorating tang of a coastal breeze.

  ‘I cannot detect anything …’ she paused before adding ‘distinctive.’ Then, addressing Professor Mathias, she said: ‘Be that as it may, the question of her violation could be resolved — definitively — with the aid of a microscope.’ Mathias gestured towards a hefty optical device that stood next to the jar containing the mysterious organ. The tube was made of brass and it stood on three heavy iron legs. Amelia raised an inquisitive eyebrow and asked: ‘Do you have any hematoxylin, Herr professor?’

  Mathias shuffled over to a cupboard and returned with a flask of blue-purple liquid and a tray of glass slides and cover slips. He placed them by the microscope.

  ‘I am happy for you to prepare the slide, Miss Lydgate,’ said Mathias. ‘Please proceed.’

  The Englishwoman stood at the end of the autopsy table, folded her coat sleeve back, and insinuated her right forefinger into the dead woman’s vagina. Her first metacarpal began to move from side to side, suggesting that the hidden digit was rotating. This image of Amelia Lydgate — so prim and controlled — exploring the internal anatomy of another woman (albeit a dead woman) aroused shameful feelings in Liebermann which he tried to suppress. He lowered his eyes and garnered some consolation from the sound of Rheinhardt nervously coughing into his hand and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Curiously, Amelia showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort, only the focused resolve of an individual utterly engaged in an important task.

  Amelia withdrew her finger and turned it beneath the electric light. The cast of her face altered slightly — suggesting satisfaction — as the semi-transparent film covering her white skin glistened. Taking a glass slide from the tray, she rolled her finger over its surface, leaving a grey mucoid smear. She then dipped the slide into the hematoxylin, shook off the excess liquid and fixed the slide on the stage of the microscope. Finally, she wiped her finger on a grubby towel that was hanging from a hook under the bench and sat down on the stool.

  With practised ease she altered the angle of the mirror, changed the objectives, and made coarse and fine adjustments.

  ‘She was most definitely violated,’ said Amelia.

  The Englishwoman moved aside and let Professor Mathias look into the eyepiece.

  ‘Come over here and see for yourself, inspector,’ said the professor.

  When Rheinhardt peered into the microscope he saw a luminous blue world populated by a swarm of bullet-headed creatures with long tails.

  ‘Sperm cells,’ said Mathias. He returned to the autopsy table where he completed the task of cutting off and removing Selma Wirth’s clothes.

  Her nakedness, brilliantly pale beneath the electric light, produced in the onlookers a respectful silence. In due course, the hilt of the dagger commanded their attention. It seemed monstrously large. An annulus of dark crystals had collected around the blade and the dead woman’s breasts were marbled with blood. Professor Mathias filled a bucket with water and cleaned the body with a sponge.

  ‘I do not see any bruises,’ said the professor. ‘But you will notice that her arms and hands are quite red — the skin is dry and cracked. What do you make of that, Miss Lydgate?’

  ‘Did this lady suffer from a dermatological complaint?’

  Mathias tilted his hand in the air and then reversed the movement. His expression communicated that although this was an acceptable answer, it was not the right one.

  ‘The inflammation does not proceed up the arm,’ said Mathias. ‘Notice how it stops rather abruptly at the elbow.’ Amelia frowned. ‘Such an unusual pattern strongly suggests that Fraulein Wirth was a laundry worker. Am I right, inspector?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You are.’

  The old man allowed himself a self-congratulatory half-smile. Mathias dropped the sponge into the bucket and then grasped the hilt of the dagger. He pulled — but the weapon resisted. He pulled harder and it came out, producing a slight rasp. The old man looked at Rheinhardt: ‘You don’t need a pathologist to tell you how she died, inspector.’

  31

  It was early morning and a weightless sun hovered behind a screen of diaphanous cloud. Rheinhardt was making a wary descent down a slippery cobbled road towards a square-fronted building with a flat roof on which four cylindrical water tanks were clearly visible. A second storey, rising behind these tanks, presented an exterior comprised almost entirely of slatted shutters.

  The drying room, thought Rheinhardt.

  His speculation was confirmed when one of the shutters opened, revealing row after row of suspended undergarments.

  A waste pipe, positioned next to the tanks, was expelling steam in sharp bursts. The sound it produced was oppressive and industrial, a repetitive mechanical cough, the unrelieved regularity of which had the potential, so Rheinhardt supposed, to induce a very bad headache. He watched the steam rise and wondered how the occupants of the building preserved their mental equilibrium. Perhaps they didn’t …

  When Rheinhardt arrived at the entrance he stopped and listened to the cacophony coming from inside: raucous laughter, shrieks, whistles, a peculiar rasping noise, and snatches of popular songs issuing from the throats of brassy untrained contraltos. Rheinhardt advanced across a flagstone floor covered in shallow puddles. All around he could see soap bars, packets of soda and jars of bleach. He discovered an office, little more than a cubicle, created by the erection of flimsy partition walls. Peering through the tiny window, Rheinhardt caught sight of a woman sitting behind a desk piled high with ledgers. He rapped on the glass and the woman looked up from her paperwork. She had grey hair, tied back in a bun, and wore small half-moon spectacles. Indicating by a sign that she would come out, she rose from her chair and, emerging from a side door, introduced herself as the manageress, Frau Aehrenthal.

  ‘Detective Inspector Rheinhardt: security office,’ said Rheinhardt, bowing respectfully. ‘I am looking for a laundry worker called Lachkovics.’

  ‘That would be Viki Lachkovics? Not Jana, her daughter?’

  ‘They both work here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I may need to speak to both of them, actually.’

  Frau Aehrenthal gave Rheinhardt a curious, doubtful look, the meaning of which escaped him.

  ‘This way, inspector.’

  The interior of the building was like an enormous shed, with cast-iron pillars supporting exposed beams that ran across the ceiling. Rheinhardt could not see very far ahead because of a white mist that seemed to become more opaque as they progressed. Droplets of water fell from above like gentle rain, and the dank air contained a chemical sharpness that made his eyes prickle. The din that had first greeted him was now very loud.

  Quite suddenly the fog lifted, and Rheinhardt found himself walking between two rows of washboards and washtubs. Each bay was occupied by a laundry worker. They were all female: sleeves rolled up, skirts hitched high enough to reveal coloured stockings and big thick-soled boots. Scrubbing, sloshing, shouting — the racket they were making was quite extraordinary. Yet Rheinhardt could still hear the unremitting cough of the waste pipe on the roof.

  Halting at one of the bays, the manageress introduced Frau Lachkovics and left. She was evidently not interested in discovering the purpose of Rheinhardt’s visit. Frau Lachkovics — a mousy woman whose hair was concealed by a waterproof bonnet — looked up at Rheinhardt nervously. He was considering how to proceed when a plump pink-faced woman with the collar of her dress pulled down to create a shockingly low decollete plunged her hands into a tub, splashing everyone and everything around her.

  ‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said Rheinhardt, wiping the suds from his eyes and attending to the limp horns of his moustache, ‘is there somewhere we can talk, somewhere private, perhaps?’

>   ‘Only the alley that runs round the back.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That will have to do.’

  Frau Lachkovics left her bay and a young woman, no more than sixteen years of age and also wearing a waterproof bonnet, vacated the next position and fell into step behind them.

  ‘My daughter,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘Jana.’

  The girl had a peculiar shuffling gait. She walked with her right hand clasping her left wrist, which made her shoulder twist forward.

  In the milky distance, a group of women armed with wicker implements shaped like tennis racquets were beating sheets that had been thrown over brass lines.

  A door in a windowless wall led out into a narrow alley that separated the laundry from a warehouse.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Rheinhardt, relieved to put the noise behind him. ‘At least we can hear ourselves speak now.’ He smiled at Frau Lachkovics and then at her daughter. The mother returned his smile but Jana’s expression remained blank. ‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt began, ‘may I ask why it was that you did not return to your apartment last night?’

  ‘I was at my mother’s,’ she said with surprise.

  ‘And where does your mother live?’

  ‘Ottakring. She’s old. Almost eighty now. I go to see her every Friday to wash her hair and cut her toenails. She wasn’t very well last night. I was worried and stayed later than usual. I didn’t want to walk home: not in the dark.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Very wise. Did Jana visit her grandmother with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiled approvingly at the girl, but again her expression communicated nothing but vacancy.

  ‘Tell me, Frau Lachkovics, how long have you lived in Neubau?’

  ‘A year or so. I used to live out in Ottakring with my mother but her apartment got too small for us.’ Frau Lachkovics glanced at her daughter. ‘Jana needed a room of her own. It’s only right.’

  ‘Forgive me — but is there a … a Herr Lachkovics?’

  Frau Lachkovics blushed: ‘My husband deserted us soon after Jana was born.’

  She cowered slightly, as if the shame of her unsuccessful marriage was like a yoke bearing down on her shoulders.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That must have been very difficult for you.’ The woman blinked at her interlocutor, more confused than relieved by his sympathy. ‘Were you acquainted with your neighbour, Fraulein Wirth, before you moved to Neubau?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are good friends?’

  ‘Yes. It was Fraulein Wirth who got me my job here at the laundry.’ She paused and added. ‘She isn’t in today. Is she all right?’

  Rheinhardt looked upwards. Steam from the waste pipe drifted across the thin strip of sky.

  ‘Could I ask: when was the last time you saw Fraulein Wirth?’

  ‘Thursday night.’

  ‘The night before last …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how was she?’ Frau Lachkovics appeared mystified by his question. ‘Was Fraulein Wirth the same as she usually is? Or did you notice anything different about her?’

  ‘She didn’t look unwell, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Did she have any visitors on Thursday?’

  Frau Lachkovics thought for a moment then said: ‘Yes — she did. A friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A lady. Frau Vogl.’

  ‘Frau Vogl,’ Rheinhardt repeated.

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. He had an odd feeling that he had heard it only recently during a conversation with his wife.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘An old friend. They go back a long way. She’s quite a well-to-do woman. I met her once, a very fine lady … and such clothes.’

  She shook her head and looked down at her shabby dress.

  ‘Do you remember what time it was when Frau Vogl visited Fraulein Wirth?’

  ‘It must have been early evening. I looked out the window and saw her leaving. Her carriage came into the yard.’

  ‘Tell me … did anything unusual happen on Thursday night?’

  ‘No,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘Nothing unusual happened.’

  Jana, who had been very still — almost absent — pulled at her mother’s skirt. It was a peculiar thing for a girl of her age to do. Rheinhardt looked at Jana’s face and realised that her void expression was probably the result of some defect of the brain. He thought of his own bright daughters and felt a stab of pity for Frau Lachkovics.

  ‘What is it, Jana?’ said Frau Lachkovics.

  ‘I heard someone,’ the girl answered. ‘You’d gone to bed — but I was still up looking at one of Selma’s books. I heard someone walking. I went out onto the landing and called: “Is anyone there?”’ She cupped her hands around her mouth to demonstrate.

  Frau Lachkovics’s surprise rapidly turned to anxiety.

  ‘Why ever did you do that?’

  ‘No one answered.’

  ‘Jana? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  The girl’s face was blank again: an impassive mask.

  ‘My dear,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘try to remember what you heard. It might be important and I would very much appreciate your help.’

  ‘Footsteps,’ said the girl.

  ‘Loud, soft, slow, fast? What kind of footsteps?’

  She paused and replied ‘Footsteps’ — as if, on reflection, no further qualification was necessary.

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  Frau Lachkovics put her arm around her daughter and drew her closer.

  ‘Inspector, what has happened?’

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook and began to write.

  ‘Has Fraulein Wirth had any other visitors? A gentleman friend, perhaps?’

  Frau Lachkovics shook her head, this time with considerable force. Rheinhardt suspected that she might be trying to protect her friend’s honour.

  ‘Come now,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It is perfectly reasonable for a woman to enjoy the company of a gentleman. She must have had … admirers?’

  ‘No. Not Selma. She isn’t interested. She doesn’t want anything to do with men.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘She is lame, did you know that? She can walk, but she gets tired and needs a stick. The muscles are weak. I think she is ashamed.’

  ‘And what about you, Frau Lachkovics? Do you have any gentlemen friends?’

  ‘No,’ the woman said firmly. ‘Not after Lachkovics.’ Her hand rose up and she touched her face, as if the sting of a hard slap — administered many years ago — still tingled on her cheek. She shrugged. ‘We don’t need anyone else now. We can cope on our own — me and Jana. We have our little home — and our work — and our friends. We are quite happy — aren’t we, Jana?’ She shook the girl’s shoulders and the movement placed a feeble smile on the young woman’s face. ‘But inspector — what are you asking me all these questions for? She is all right — isn’t she? Selma?’

  ‘Her rent has not been paid for three months.’

  ‘Oh. I see. You’ve spoken to Herr Shevchenko.’

  ‘I have. Why did she get so far behind?’

  ‘She’s always spending money on doctors. Trying to find a cure. She can’t accept that nothing can be done. You’re not going to arrest her, are you? It isn’t a great sum of money and she’ll pay it back.’

  Rheinhardt looked into the woman’s pleading eyes. He found that he had to force himself to speak: ‘I have some terrible news.’ Dismissing thoughts of impropriety he reached out and held her hand. ‘I am afraid Fraulein Wirth is dead.’

  Frau Lachkovics appeared stunned. Her mouth worked wordlessly until she finally managed to cry: ‘Oh, Jana.’

  Apart from a slight tensing of her brow, the daughter seemed indifferent to her mother’s grief.

  Above their heads the waste pipe continued to discharge steam into the atmosphere. Its beat had begun to coincide with a pulse of pain in Rhe
inhardt’s head.

  32

  Erstweiler appeared comfortable, but a muscle beneath his left eye was quivering.

  ‘To be honest, Herr doctor, I didn’t like my father. He was a domineering man who always thought he was right. I don’t know how my mother put up with him. She was the opposite: a diminutive, genial creature, always prepared to listen to both sides of an argument. My grandfather — my mother’s father — was somewhat impecunious, and I suspect that her family forced her into the marriage. Father was not wealthy, by any means, but he had a secure job in the railway office.’ Erstweiler produced a crooked, sardonic smile: ‘Although he never ascended as far up the bureaucratic hierarchy as my brother — and was never obliged to don the garb of a general!’

  Liebermann waited. He could see in his patient’s eyes that memories were surfacing.

  ‘I remember,’ Erstweiler continued. ‘I once accompanied my father on a trip to Vienna. I forget why. Indeed, I’ve forgotten virtually everything that happened, except one thing. We were walking past the Stephansdom and my father said we should climb to the top in order to see the view. We began our climb, and almost immediately I felt apprehensive. I looked out of the narrow windows and it made me feel dizzy. I remember seeing the Habsburg eagle on the cathedral roof … the city below. I didn’t want to go any higher: I thought the whole spire might tumble down. My father asked me what was the matter and I said: I don’t feel well.’ The memory was so vivid that Erstweiler’s voice suddenly acquired the timbre of a frightened child’s: ‘Nonsense! said my father. There’s nothing wrong with you!’ Again, Erstweiler’s voice changed, becoming officious and unsympathetic. ‘He dragged me up — higher and higher — and I began to cry. He lost his temper and called me cowardly, told me to be a man … told me to stop acting like a milksop. When we reached the viewing room at the summit I sat down on a bench and refused to look out. Even a glimpse of those rooftops, so far below, made my head spin. He pointed out a girl in a pink dress and said, Look! Even she has more courage than you! My father was disgusted with me. He left me there, on my own, full of shame and anger, while he walked around — enjoying the view. I longed for my mother. If she had been present, she would never have let this happen … After a while, I asked my father if we could go down. No, he said. I want to hear the Pummerin. He told me that the great bell had been made from the melted cannons that the gutless Turks had left behind when they fled the city. What did I care … about that?’