Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  ‘Oh?’ said Rheinhardt, blinking as he emerged from the closed world of his private cogitations.

  ‘Us,’ said Liebermann.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Us: me — you — all of us — we Viennese. We are utterly preoccupied with sex and death. The signs of this preoccupation are everywhere: in our theatres, art galleries, opera houses, and concert halls. Consider Klimt’s seductresses, or the funeral marches that director Mahler puts in his symphonies. The good people of Vienna are flocking to the opera house in order to see the new production of Tristan and Isolde: a story in which — tellingly — the potions of love and death are confused. Young rakes are always having affairs which end with a demand for satisfaction. What begins in the bedroom progresses inexorably to the grave: prostitutes on the Graben and suicides reported daily in the newspapers — Professor Freud, who has shown us that even a dream of flying is libidinous — Krafft-Ebing — Schnitzler’s promiscuous shop girls — the overblown pomp and macabre ceremony of our funerals — and syphilis, our national disease — always there to remind us of our dual obsession: sex and death. Sick bodies produce symptoms — and the sick body of our society has produced Sprenger!’

  Rheinhardt grunted into his brandy glass.

  ‘You seem to be making an appeal for clemency on Sprenger’s behalf. Let us not forget those poor women: Frauleins Zeiler, Babel, Wirth and Roster.’ Rheinhardt put down his brandy glass and pulled at his lower lip. ‘Just a moment …’ His eyes widened. ‘Sprenger doesn’t mention Fraulein Wirth.’

  ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to realise that.’

  Two furrows appeared on Rheinhardt’s forehead.

  ‘Why doesn’t he mention Selma Wirth?’

  ‘He doesn’t mention Selma Wirth — because he has no idea who she is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He didn’t kill her.’

  ‘How can you say that?’

  Liebermann lifted the notebook and held it up in the air like a fervent preacher wielding his Bible: ‘What Sprenger has written in here is entirely coherent. One couldn’t fabricate such a history. A fabricated history would be full of anomalies and wouldn’t make sense psychologically. He has not baulked at admitting the murders of Frauleins Zeiler, Babel and Roster, so why should he baulk at admitting to the murder of Fraulein Wirth?’

  ‘Could the omission of Fraulein Wirth be a failure of memory? You said he is being given morphium.’

  ‘No, Oskar. Sprenger never knew her. She was killed with a dagger, not a hatpin. We should have given this inconsistency more thought, afforded it greater significance.’ Liebermann allowed his words to register and waited for the alarm to show in Rheinhardt’s eyes, before adding: ‘Fraulein Wirth’s murderer is still at large.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said Rheinhardt, picking up his glass again. Liebermann poured him another brandy. The inspector swung his head back and dispensed with the contents like a shot of schnapps. He coughed and repeated: ‘Dear God.’ Rheinhardt turned the empty glass in his hand: ‘What now? Where do we begin?’

  ‘Frau Vogl?’ Liebermann ventured.

  ‘Yes, and Fraulein Wirth’s neighbour, Frau Lachkovics. Perhaps they will be able to remember some new detail. The neighbour’s daughter — Jana — was a simple child. I doubt that she will be able to help us more than she already has.’

  ‘When we questioned Frau Vogl she mentioned seeing a man wearing a bowler hat waiting in the courtyard outside Fraulein Wirth’s apartment.’

  ‘She did indeed.’

  ‘And Frau Vogl believed that Frau Wirth was seeing someone — a lover.’

  ‘It was only a suspicion and if the gentleman wearing the bowler hat was Frau Wirth’s lover why would he have been loitering in the courtyard?’

  ‘A good question: to which the answer might be that he was waiting in the courtyard in order to observe the arrival of Frau Vogl.’

  ‘To what end?’

  Liebermann shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  It was obvious to Rheinhardt that his friend had had an idea but was not eager to share it. The inspector, slightly irritated by Liebermann’s evasiveness, voiced his own train of thought.

  ‘There was also the landlord’s agent,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Shevchenko. I’ll talk to him again. Fraulein Wirth had fallen behind with her rent. Frau Lachkovics said that her neighbour was in debt because she was always spending money on doctors.’

  ‘Doctors …’ Liebermann repeated. Then, playing a five-finger exercise on Sprenger’s notebook, he added: ‘Fraulein Wirth had a consultation with Doctor Vogl.’ The word ‘consultation’ sagged under a weight of innuendo.

  Rheinhardt spoke sofly: ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘When we left the Vogls’ house I couldn’t help feeling that there was something-’

  ‘Wrong,’ Rheinhardt cut in. ‘I know, Max. But you didn’t succeed in winning me over to that view.’

  ‘What if there had been some impropriety?’

  ‘Between Vogl and Wirth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, Vogl wouldn’t have killed Wirth to ensure her silence — if that’s what you’re thinking — even if exposure would have meant the end of his marriage. A man in Vogl’s position wouldn’t take such a risk. Besides, Frau Vogl is a striking, handsome woman — is she not? It seems unlikely that Vogl would have chosen to pursue his wife’s lame friend. What are we to suppose — that while Vogl was examining her wasted leg he was overcome with passion?’

  ‘She could have seduced him. She could have offered him particular favours — to which men are partial and for which women commonly express distaste.’

  ‘And why would she have done that?’

  ‘To spite Frau Vogl.’

  ‘Frau Vogl was Frau Wirth’s friend.’

  ‘A beautiful, healthy, talented, successful friend — feted by society and loved by her husband. One could grow to resent such a friend if one was a lame laundry worker.’

  Rheinhardt considered Liebermann’s proposal and shook his head.

  ‘No … you are wrong.’

  Liebermann smiled.

  ‘I might be wrong — but not very wrong.’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘Actually, I’m having the day off.’

  ‘Then I hope,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you haven’t arranged to do anything important.’

  55

  Liebermann and Rheinhardt met mid-morning for coffee and proceeded directly to Frau Vogl’s salon. On entering, they found the vestibule empty. They waited a few moments to be received but no one came to greet them.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Rheinhardt. Liebermann pointed to an electric bell push mounted on the wall and pressed it.

  A faint ringing emanated from somewhere within the building.

  In due course, the door at the rear of the vestibule opened and a young woman with blonde hair entered. They both recognised her from their visit to Frau Vogl’s house.

  ‘Inspector,’ said the young woman.

  ‘Fraulein,’ Rheinhardt responded, bowing.

  ‘Was Madame expecting you? She didn’t say-’

  ‘No,’ Rheinhardt cut in. ‘Frau Vogl wasn’t expecting me; however, I would be most grateful if she would spare us a few minutes of her valuable time.’

  ‘What shall I tell her?’

  ‘That I wish to speak with her.’

  ‘In connection with …?’

  ‘A matter of utmost importance.’

  ‘Madame is upstairs with the machinists. I’ll let her know that you’re here.’ Then she curtsied and excused herself. The sound of her footsteps — remarkably heavy for a young woman — could be heard as she made her ascent.

  Several minutes later the figure of Kristina Vogl appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a blue dress which complemented her eyes and her dark hair had been skilfully arranged in a bouffant wave. A few loose strands hung down past her ears: a hint of dishabille
which softened her features and carried with it a suggestion of the bedroom. Above her heart was a large brooch. It was square-shaped, partitioned into quadrants by a silver cross, and each of these quadrants was filled with colourful semi-precious stones.

  ‘Inspector,’ Kristina said warmly. ‘What a surprise.’ She advanced and offered Rheinhardt her hand, which he took and kissed. When he lifted his head, he took a step backwards, as if he could not tolerate standing so close to such a radiant being.

  ‘Frau Vogl,’ he said, unable to conceal his admiration.

  ‘May I get you some refreshment, inspector? Some tea, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Kristina addressed her assistant: ‘Wanda, is the reception room ready?’

  ‘Yes, madame,’ replied the young woman.

  ‘We’ll continue when I’ve finished with Inspector Rheinhardt and Doctor Liebermann. Run along now.’ Liebermann was surprised that Frau Vogl could remember his name — particularly as she had not taken the trouble to acknowledge his presence. ‘This way, please, gentlemen.’

  She led them to a large room which so overwhelmed the young doctor that he found himself surveying his surroundings in a state of blissful enchantment. Being a devotee of all things modern he was almost incapacitated by the white lacquered walls and the long mirrors, the glass lamps and the elegant simplicity of the furniture. The cuboid table looked very much like the one he had purchased for his smoking room.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Liebermann. ‘Is the decor by Moser?’

  ‘Moser and Hoffmann: if you are interested, there are some examples of their jewellery-work displayed in the vitrine.’ Liebermann looked through the tilted window at the treasures displayed within. His attention was immediately captured by a bracelet, made from coral salamanders. ‘Please,’ the hostess continued. ‘Do sit down, inspector.’

  Rheinhardt waited for Kristina to settle before lowering himself onto one of the hoop-backed chairs.

  ‘Herr doctor …’ said Rheinhardt, looking up at his friend. ‘Would you care to join us?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Liebermann, a little embarrassed. ‘My apologies.’

  With some difficulty, he pulled himself away from the vitrine. Taking one of the vacant places, he addressed Frau Vogl: ‘Delightful. I am very fond of Moser. I have a table just like this one.’

  ‘By Moser?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kristina’s expression showed that she was impressed; however, she did not enccourage Liebermann to elaborate. Instead, she turned to face Rheinhardt.

  ‘Inspector, I must congratulate you. When I saw the headline on the front page of the Wiener Zeitung … well, you cannot imagine my relief. My dear husband was so worried for my safety he would not let me leave the house without an escort! It is wonderful to be free of fear once again.’

  ‘Frau Vogl, you are most kind, but I did not catch Sprenger alone. Much of the credit for his capture must go to my colleague here — Doctor Liebermann — who, for professional reasons, prefers his police activities to remain unreported in the newspapers.’

  Kristina glanced at Liebermann, somewhat uneasily.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me concerning a matter of utmost importance. I presume it has something to do with poor Selma.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That is correct. There are some aspects of Fraulein Wirth’s circumstances which require clarification. You may be able to help us.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You will recall that during our prior interview, you suggested that Fraulein Wirth might have found an admirer.’

  ‘I …’ Kristina hesitated and shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. I pitied Selma. Her life was never easy and she seemed to be the recipient of more than her fair share of bad luck. I was always hoping that she would meet someone. I think in my eagerness to see her happily married I rashly overestimated the significance of the small changes I observed in her dress and manner.’

  ‘Frau Vogl,’ Liebermann ventured. ‘What were these small changes?’

  ‘Oh,’ Kristina replied. ‘I can’t remember, precisely. She smiled more: I suppose one would say she was … I don’t know, more girlish.’

  ‘And her dress?’ Liebermann pressed.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘How was it different?’

  ‘She had bought a new … no.’ Kristina looked flustered. ‘No. She looked more groomed — that’s all …’

  Rheinhardt leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Frau Vogl, you said that you saw a man waiting outside Fraulein Wirth’s apartment.’

  Kristina looked confused — but then, quite suddenly, her face brightened with recognition.

  ‘Yes, that’s right: a man with a bowler hat.’

  ‘Please, Frau Vogl. Think very carefully. Can you remember anything else about him?’

  ‘No. He was just … a man.’

  ‘Is it possible that this gentleman could have been Fraulein Wirth’s admirer?’

  ‘Inspector, on reflection, I do not think that Selma had an admirer.’

  ‘But, let us assume — for argument’s sake — that your early suspicions were correct. Is it at all conceivable that the gentleman who you saw might have been Fraulein Wirth’s lover?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’ A note of irritation had crept into her voice. ‘With respect, inspector, I don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions. What difference does it make if this man was or wasn’t Selma’s lover? Indeed, what difference does it make if she did or didn’t have a lover at all?’

  Rheinhardt leaned forward.

  ‘I regret to say that the answer to these questions may be of considerable importance, Frau Vogl, because we now have good reason to believe that Markus Sprenger did not kill Selma Wirth.’

  Frau Vogl’s expression hardened.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am sorry. I appreciate that you will find this news most distressing.’

  Kristina breathed deeply and her bosom rose and fell.

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you saying, inspector?’ The pitch of her voice rose hysterically. ‘Sprenger … it was in all the newspapers. Markus Sprenger.’

  ‘I am afraid that some new evidence has come to light.’

  ‘New evidence?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. He did not reveal more, even though Kristina’s expression communicated an urgent appeal for more information. Some moments passed before she straightened her back and recovered her composure. ‘Do you think then,’ she said in a lower, more controlled register, ‘that I am still in danger?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Rheinhardt.

  Kristina raised a trembling hand to her temple.

  ‘Oh, this is dreadful. Quite dreadful. Are you sure, inspector? Are you sure it was not Sprenger?’

  Rheinhardt nodded solemnly.

  ‘Frau Vogl, we are very much in need of your help. Think very carefully. Did Fraulein Wirth give you any reason to worry about her safety? Did she say anything that might be pertinent?’

  Kristina looked from Rheinhardt to Liebermann — and back again.

  ‘Yes.’ The word was tentative, experimental. ‘Yes, she may have …’

  Rheinhardt took out his notebook and pencil.

  ‘Please …’

  ‘Selma despised the landlord’s agent.’

  ‘Shevchenko?’

  ‘Was that his name? I only knew him as the landlord’s agent.’

  ‘Why did she despise him?’

  ‘She said he was ill-mannered — uncouth — an animal — and…’ Kristina touched her colourful brooch as if the stones were magical and might endow her with the strength to continue. ‘I think he once presented her with an obscene proposition.’

  ‘I am afraid you must be specific, Frau Vogl.’

  ‘He offered to cancel her debt, if she …’

  ‘Submitted to him,’ Rheinhardt offered helpfully.

  ‘Yes. If she submitted to him.’

  ‘I
see.’

  Rheinhardt made a few notes.

  ‘Frau Vogl,’ said Liebermann. ‘You say that you think Shevchenko made an obscene proposition. Why think? Surely, if Fraulein Wirth told you this, it is not speculative.’

  ‘I’m sorry … The agent did make such a proposition. Yes.’

  ‘Selma told you this?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  ‘Yes. She did.’

  The inspector bit the end of his pencil: ‘Frau Vogl. Why did you not mention this before?’

  ‘It had slipped my mind. You must understand — this conversation — we had it almost a year ago. And Selma never referred to it again. I naturally assumed that after Selma had refused him the landlord’s agent had refrained from making further advances. Nor did I imagine that Shev — … Shev — …’

  ‘Shevchenko,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘That Shevchenko would perhaps — one day — force himself upon her. If I had thought such a thing I would have demanded she leave the apartment — whatever she said, however she objected — and made appropriate provision.’

  Rheinhardt looked up from his notebook. Liebermann sighed as he saw the flame of admiration reignite behind his friend’s melancholy eyes.

  They found a coffee house close to the cathedral.

  ‘I’m going to telephone Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I’ll get him to locate Shevchenko and call me back here if he has any success.’

  Rheinhardt went to find the telephone booth and on his return Liebermann saw his friend talking to the head waiter. A few coins changed hands and the waiter bowed obsequiously.

  ‘Ah,’ said Rheinhardt, delighted to see that their order had arrived. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’ He sipped his Turkische and cut through the plum flan with the edge of his fork. It was a generous portion: a slab of moist pastry, covered in crescents of purple fruit and sprinkled with icing sugar. He chewed slowly to prolong his first moments of pleasure. ‘Excellent. What did you order?’ He looked at Liebermann’s nondescript white wedge.

  ‘Cheesecake,’ said Liebermann.