Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  ‘When did Herr Sprenger start working for Schopp and Sons?’

  ‘He commenced work here about a year ago. Before then, I believe he was employed by Concordia. He came to us with excellent references.’

  Schopp’s delivery was disconcerting. It was as though his sense of time deviated from everyone else’s.

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. I’ll call Wiesner.’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble, Herr Schopp, I would be most grateful if it was you who helped us to find him.’

  Schopp shrugged and rose from his chair.

  ‘Herr Wiesner is perfectly capable.’

  ‘With respect, Herr Schopp …’ Rheinhardt gestured towards the door.

  ‘Very well. This way, please.’

  The corridor outside led past a series of offices, some of which were occupied by middle-aged men attending to paperwork. Herr Schopp asked them if they had seen Herr Sprenger, but none of them had. A larger room, filled with coffins and smelling of sawdust and varnish, was empty. The morgue was also deserted.

  Herr Schopp consulted his pocket watch. He stared at its face for an inordinate period of time before saying: ‘I’m sorry, Inspector Rheinhardt. It is five minutes past five. He must have gone home.’

  ‘Do you have his address?’

  ‘Wiesner will get it for you.’

  As they retraced their way down the corridor Rheinhardt was conscious of the sphinxes on their pedestals. They were close cousins of the sphinxes in the garden of the Belvedere Palace, with wings, braided hair and breastplates. He remembered the discovery of Cacilie Roster’s body, and how, overcome with despair, he had begged one of the great stone beasts for assistance. It was absurd — and he knew it. But he could not quell the conviction that his entreaty had been heard.

  47

  Sprenger’s apartment block was located on one of the side roads between the Hoher Markt and the Danube canal. On entering the building Haussmann was about to ascend the stairs when Rheinhardt restrained him. His assistant looked puzzled.

  ‘The concierge,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I want to talk to the concierge first. You wait here.’

  Rheinhardt found the concierge’s quarters further down the hall. A nameplate read Herr Adolf Kolowrat, Hausmeister and beneath this was an electric bell. Rheinhardt pressed it and shortly after the door was opened by a middle-aged man holding a meerschaum pipe.

  ‘Herr Kolowrat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office. May we come in?’

  The concierge led Rheinhardt and Liebermann into a shabby little parlour.

  ‘Please take a seat, inspector.’

  Rheinhardt declined. ‘I would like to ask you some questions about one of your tenants: Herr Sprenger.’

  ‘Herr Sprenger? Yes. First floor.’

  ‘Do you know if he’s in?’

  ‘Yes. I passed him on the stairs a few minutes ago. He’s just back from work.’

  Somewhere in the building a door slammed shut. Rheinhardt and Liebermann exchanged glances.

  ‘Herr Kolowrat, can you remember what time Herr Sprenger returned on Sunday night?’

  The concierge looked uncomfortable. Most apartment blocks in Vienna were locked by ten o’clock, obliging latecomers to wake the concierge and pay an admittance fee — the Sperrgeld. Kolowrat exhaled, producing a cloud of dense smoke, the acrid fragrance of which was not unlike burning leaves. His response to Rheinhardt’s question was hesitant: ‘Herr Sprenger returned … very late.’

  ‘How late?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t check the time. I just let him in and then went back to bed.’

  ‘Was it after midnight?’

  ‘Very probably.’

  ‘How was he acting?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘His behaviour … was he, for example, agitated?’

  Kolowrat bit the stem of his pipe, revealing his yellow teeth.

  ‘No. I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Did he look dishevelled?’

  ‘No. He looked perfectly respectable.’

  ‘Does Herr Sprenger often return late?’

  ‘He’s a young man,’ said Kolowrat, smiling indulgently and raising his hands. ‘Yes, he often comes back after I’ve locked up. But he never returns drunk — not like some. And he’s always very respectful,’ the concierge paused before adding, ‘and generous.’

  Rheinhardt lowered his chin — a curt acknowledgement that he understood Kolowrat’s meaning.

  ‘Where do you think Herr Sprenger goes — when he returns late?’

  The concierge glanced at Liebermann.

  ‘Where all young men go.’

  Rheinhardt adopted a more severe expression. The concierge, responding to Rheinhardt’s disapproval, took the pipe from his mouth and corrected his posture.

  ‘Has he ever returned with a woman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has he ever mentioned a woman by name?’

  ‘With respect, inspector, we do not talk of such things. I let him in, we discuss the weather, he gives me ten hellers — sometimes twelve — then I go back to bed and he goes upstairs.’

  Rheinhardt thanked Herr Kolowrat for his assistance and as they were leaving pressed a one-krone coin into the concierge’s palm.

  ‘At last,’ Rheinhardt whispered to Liebermann. ‘We have him!’

  ‘Well,’ Liebermann cautioned. ‘The evidence is certainly mounting. But we cannot be sure — as yet.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘Policeman’s intuition?’

  Rheinhardt smiled.

  ‘Something like that.’ Rheinhardt was not inclined to mention his desperate appeal to the Belvedere sphinx or his peculiar conviction that some nameless force was now working to their advantage. ‘You know,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘for weeks I have been eager to confront this monster. I have thought of little else. But now the time has arrived …’ Rheinhardt abandoned the sentence and shook his head. ‘I must confess to being more than a little apprehensive.’

  ‘You would be a very peculiar fellow if it were otherwise, Oskar.’

  They joined Haussmann and walked up the stairs to the first floor. In a metal frame screwed below the knocker of a painted door was a card on which the name Herr Markus Sprenger was written.

  ‘Gentlemen: are you ready?’ whispered Rheinhardt.

  Liebermann and Haussmann nodded.

  Rheinhardt took a deep breath, lifted the knocker, and let it fall.

  Footsteps …

  Time seemed to slow, intensifying expectation.

  A bolt disengaged and the door swung open.

  Eyes …

  This was Liebermann’s first impression.

  Eyes like stained glass — a dark, luminous blue. The blue of cathedral windows and lapis lazuli, made even more arresting by their appearance beneath a shock of jet-black hair. Sprenger was clean-shaven and strikingly handsome, with well-defined features that recapitulated the physical perfection of sculpture — an impression that was reinforced by the pallor of his unblemished marmoreal skin. He stood, studying his visitors with detached interest.

  ‘Herr Sprenger?’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt.’ He produced his identification but Sprenger did not look at it. ‘This is my assistant, Haussmann, and my colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann.’

  ‘You wish to speak with me?’ Sprenger sounded mildly surprised.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about — may I ask?’

  ‘Perhaps, Herr Sprenger, it might be better if we continued this conversation in private?’

  ‘Yes, of course. This way, please.’

  Rheinhardt and his two companions followed Sprenger down the hallway and he admitted them into a reading room. The shelves of a substantial bookcase sagged beneath the weight of a well-stocked library. Every available space in the book
case had been used up — additional volumes had been inserted horizontally above the vertical spines of others. Some architectural prints hung on the walls and heavy half-drawn curtains created a sombre, shadowy atmosphere. There were only two places to sit.

  ‘Please …’ said Sprenger, gesturing towards an old chesterfield. He pulled a chair from beneath a table and offered it to Liebermann and Haussmann.

  ‘My associates are happy to stand,’ said Rheinhardt. Sprenger sat down in front of his portly guest. ‘We have just come from the premises of Schopp and Sons.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Where you have been employed for the past year?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘You are an undertaker.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  Rheinhardt smiled.

  ‘Herr Schopp speaks very highly of you.’

  ‘I always try to do my best.’

  ‘He told us that the references supplied by your previous employer were excellent.’

  ‘That would be Herr Hanl. He was very kind.’

  ‘You enjoyed working at Concordia?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Then why did you leave?’

  ‘The position that I took at Schopp and Sons — my present position — was a more senior post.’

  ‘And more remunerative, no doubt?’

  ‘Yes — although money was not my only consideration.’

  While Rheinhardt continued to engage Sprenger in conversation about his work, Liebermann edged closer to the bookcase. He scrutinised the titles: The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Roman Gods, Athens and Sparta, Greece and the Hellenistic World. Below these academic works were several collections of folk-tales, and among these, a copy of the Tristan of Gottfried von Strassburg.

  Across the hallway, Liebermann spied an open door. Through it he saw a wardrobe and an iron bedstead. He signalled to Rheinhardt that he should keep Sprenger talking, and nudged Haussmann forward to create a diversion. Liebermann crept across the hallway and entered Sprenger’s bedroom. A frock coat had been thrown onto the eiderdown. The fabric emitted a smell with which Liebermann was very familiar: carbolic. On the washstand he found a porcelain bowl and next to it a collection of bottles. Liebermann crouched down and read the labels. They were mostly colognes; however, two of the bottles seemed out of place. One contained slaked lime and the other lead oxide. He might easily have failed to recognise their significance had he not also noticed as he stood up the dark, gritty streaks that ribbed the inner surface of the bowl.

  Hair dye, thought Liebermann.

  A second and more significant realisation followed immediately after.

  ‘Forgive me,’ Sprenger’s muffled voice floated across hallway. ‘But I am unclear as to why you are here, inspector. Am I to understand that you are conducting an investigation and that you believe I might be able to help?’

  Liebermann re-entered the reading room and, catching Rheinhardt’s eye, nodded.

  The inspector changed position, shifting his weight to the left.

  ‘Herr Sprenger, can you tell me what you were doing on Sunday night?’

  ‘I was out.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Well, if you must know …’ Sprenger raked his hand through his hair. ‘I fell into conversation with a Galician woman and she invited me back to her room in Spittelberg.’

  Mention of the red-light district obviated further explanation.

  ‘I see,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Would you be able to identify the woman and the house?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I regret to say that I’d been drinking.’

  ‘Really? That surprises me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Herr Kolowrat told us that when you returned on Sunday you were sober.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to him?’ Alertness turned to indifference. Sprenger shrugged. ‘Then he was mistaken.’

  ‘You may be wondering’, said Rheinhardt, ‘why it is that my assistant and I are accompanied by a doctor. The reason is quite straightforward. He is here to examine you.’

  ‘What?’

  Liebermann stepped forward.

  ‘Only a superficial examination,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He needs to take a look at your torso.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann, employing the commanding tone of a medical professor, ‘Would you please stand and remove your shirt?’

  The undertaker did not move.

  ‘I am obliged to inform you,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that failure to cooperate with the security office is a very serious offence.’

  Sprenger produced a loud sigh, stood up, and deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt with one hand. Then he removed the garment and laid it over the back of his chair.

  ‘Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann, ‘your back is covered in scratches.’

  ‘I know. What of it?’

  ‘Some of them are very deep.’

  Sprenger flashed an angry glance at Rheinhardt. ‘Look, inspector, what’s the purpose of this?’

  Rheinhardt joined Liebermann.

  ‘How did you get these injuries, Herr Sprenger?’

  ‘It was the woman — the Galician woman on Sunday night. She went wild.’

  ‘These injuries were not sustained on Sunday,’ said Liebermann. ‘I’d say they were sustained earlier. About two weeks ago.’

  ‘Well, that’s easily explained. I often go to Spittelberg.’

  Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows: ‘Do all of the women you have relations with go wild, Herr Sprenger?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon, inspector. May I get dressed?’

  Rheinhardt crossed to the window and drew the curtains aside to let more light in.

  ‘Does the name Bathild Babel mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Adele Zeiler?’

  Sprenger paused before answering: ‘Yes, I do know that name. She was murdered. I read about it in the newspapers.’

  ‘And what about Selma Wirth and Cacilie Roster — do those names mean anything to you?’

  Sprenger picked up his shirt.

  ‘Cacilie Roster was a singer. She was murdered too.’

  ‘On Sunday night.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You suspect me?’ Sprenger laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous. You have the wrong man, inspector. I’m sorry.’

  Sprenger fastened the buttons of his shirt.

  Liebermann coughed to attract his attention: ‘Do you dye your hair, Herr Sprenger?’

  Sprenger rolled his eyes.

  ‘As it happens — yes, I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why do you think, Herr doctor? Why do most men dye their hair? I’m going grey.’

  ‘Would you be so kind as to open your mouth?’

  The unexpected request made Rheinhardt turn around sharply.

  ‘What?’ asked Sprenger.

  ‘Open your mouth wide — and pull your lower lip down.’ Liebermann demonstrated by tugging at his own lip. ‘Like this.’

  Sprenger copied him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liebermann. ‘You are not going grey, Herr Sprenger. You are a young man. Further, you have been dyeing your hair black for many years. You started long before greyness would have been an issue. No, Herr Sprenger, you do not dye your hair because you are going grey. You dye your hair for a quite different reason. The fact that you dye your hair black — the opposite of your natural blond — provides us, I believe, with some indication as to why you do it. By dyeing your hair black you distance yourself from the realm of day and associate yourself with the night. It is symbolic — is it not? Black is the colour of mourning, the colour of death. And death has special significance for you.’

  Sprenger did not move. Although his stare was fixed on Liebermann’s his expression was oddly vacant, as though he, Sprenger, had retreated into himself. It was therefore something of a shock when Liebermann felt Sprenger’s fist slam into his stomach. The blow was powerful and lift
ed him off his feet. Liebermann was propelled backwards and landed awkwardly on Rheinhardt. The pain was excruciating and Liebermann was blinded by the tears which filled his eyes. The next thing he saw was Haussmann, curled up on the floor and with blood pouring through the fingers that covered his face. Sprenger was no longer there.

  48

  Liebermann pitched himself at the door. He felt a pang of guilt — the moral traction of his Hippocratic obligation — as he leapt past Haussmann’s writhing body. Yet he was not delayed by his conscience. The imperative of catching Sprenger was sufficiently powerful to negate all other considerations, including that of his own safety.

  At the end of the hallway Sprenger was opening a small window.

  ‘Max, get down!’ Rheinhardt shouted, aiming his pistol.

  Liebermann threw himself on the floor.

  A shot rang out.

  Sprenger was still moving and showed considerable athleticism as he slipped beneath the sash.

  Liebermann scrambled to his feet and followed, but he found the window less easy to negotiate than he had expected. He was dimly aware of Rheinhardt’s approach and guessed that the inspector would have some difficulty squeezing through the narrow gap. Rolling over the windowsill, Liebermann landed on a cast-iron platform which formed part of a fire escape. The whole structure shook as Sprenger made his descent.

  When Liebermann reached the ground he found himself in an alley separating two apartment blocks. Sprenger had interposed a distance of some twenty metres between them and was only a few strides from the exit and the streets beyond.

  Another shot.

  Sprenger veered off to the right and disappeared from view.

  Liebermann heard Rheinhardt cursing. The expletive bounced off the opposite wall and sounded like the voice of an enraged god. Liebermann continued his pursuit, his feet pounding the cobbles until he was disgorged into a dilapidated backstreet. He caught sight of Sprenger, who was heading north towards the Danube canal. Sprenger’s punch had left a bolus of pain in Liebermann’s stomach. The young doctor was finding it more and more difficult to breathe, his chest ached and his limbs felt heavy.

  The distance between them was widening.

  Don’t give up …

  Don’t give up …