by Frank Tallis
Rheinhardt shrugged, took another sip of his coffee and resumed eating. When he had consumed roughly half of his flan he remembered his companion and said: ‘Well. What did you think?’
Liebermann stirred his Schwarzer and stared into his cup as if the answer he should give was written on the spiral of light brown froth.
‘Something isn’t right.’
Rheinhardt stopped chewing.
‘You thought she was, what? Lying?’
Liebermann put down his spoon.
‘From the moment she saw you, she seemed anxious to disarm you. She offered her hand, flattered you, and smiled like a coquette.’
‘Perhaps she saw in my person an admirable figure of manhood — and was unable to contain herself.’
Rheinhardt smiled into Liebermann’s surly visage.
The young doctor considered his friend’s remark and proceeded as if it had never been made.
‘She said that Selma Wirth had looked different and was about to say that Wirth had bought a new dress; then, on remembering that Wirth was in no position to make such a purchase she changed her mind and opted for an innocuous comment concerning the woman’s grooming habits.’
‘You are not a psychic, Max. That is pure supposition.’
‘She seemed bemused when you first mentiond the man with the bowler hat, and I strongly suspect that this was because she had only the faintest recollection of having claimed to have seen him. When you announced that Wirth’s killer was still at large, her reaction was most interesting: she was more concerned about how you had come to that conclusion than her own safety: and when you pressed her for more information concerning Fraulein Wirth’s circumstances, she seemed to pluck the Shevchenko incident out of the air. The way she was speaking sounded to me like … like an improvisation. Particularly when she pretended that she couldn’t remember his name. In fact, she has a very good memory for names.’ Liebermann picked up his fork but the utensil halted before reaching its destination. ‘Frau Vogl said that Wirth had told her about Shevchenko’s proposition almost a year ago — without the slightest hesitation. Most people, when recalling an event in the past, pause or slow down so that they can calculate the time that has elapsed. The absence of a pause suggests that no calculation was necessary.’
‘Which means?’
‘Contrary to appearances, she had already given the matter of Shevchenko’s indecent proposal much consideration, or …’
‘What?’
‘She was making it all up.’
Rheinhardt pushed the remains of his plum flan around the edge of his plate.
‘You know, Max, I am in danger of being persuaded.’
The inspector finished his cake and took some cigars from his pocket. He gave one to Liebermann, lit it, and then lit his own. Liebermann turned his head and gazed out of the window. Rheinhardt wanted to ask his friend what he was thinking but knew there would be little point. The young doctor had retreated into himself.
If Rheinhardt had asked the question and Liebermann had responded candidly, the answer would have taken Rheinhardt by surprise. Indeed, it would have shocked him. For at that precise moment Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lydgate inserting her fingers into Bathild Babel’s sex. This image — which had previously disturbed Liebermann — was suddenly no longer prurient, but expressive of certain possibilities …
They smoked their cigars in silence and passed the next hour in desultory conversation. The only topic which moved them to fluency was the music of Karl Goldmark — in particular, the early songs, and his opera Die Konigin von Saba. In due course the head waiter came to their table. He bowed low and said: ‘Inspector, your assistant is on the telephone.’
56
Shevchenko’s office was in a room above a piano shop which seemed to attract a very accomplished clientele. Bursts of Beethoven — played with great power and ferocity — rose up through the floorboards. The music created a curious tension in Liebermann’s fingers. They began to twitch sympathetically. It was as if the spirit of Beethoven’s violent genius had stormed his brain and taken possession of his nervous system. Liebermann locked his hands together, fearing that he might be compelled to shadow the presto agitato of the C sharp minor Sonata on an imaginary keyboard.
The remains of Shevchenko’s midday meal had not been cleared. An apple core had turned brown and the inedible skin of a sausage — crumpled and semi-transparent — resembled the sloughed-off hide of a snake. A smear of bright yellow mustard contributed an incongruous splash of colour to this otherwise moribund still life. Liebermann was overcome by a sense of bathos. The mundane trappings of Shevchenko’s routine — scraps on a plate — underscored the gulf that separated high art from the necessities of material existence. It seemed to the young doctor that the music which filled the air was arriving from another universe, a place entirely free from corruption, decay and corporeal imperfections.
They had been in Shevchenko’s office for approximately ten minutes.
After introducing Liebermann, Rheinhardt had explained the purpose of their visit. Shevchenko had listened impassively. Indeed, his expression had verged on indifference.
Liebermann found that he could not look at the Ruthenian without feeling slightly nauseous. The man’s hair was greasy, his beard untrimmed, and dirt had accumulated beneath his fingernails. He wore a frock coat, the material of which had become shiny in places through excessive wear. He also seemed to give off an unpleasant odour, similar to the sour smell that Liebermann associated with geriatric wards — an unpleasant blend of stale perspiration with ammonia.
‘Well, inspector,’ said Shevchenko. ‘I’m sorry to hear that the man who killed Fraulein Wirth is still free — naturally. But I’m afraid you’re wasting your time talking to me. I’ve already told you all that I know about Fraulein Wirth.’
Rheinhardt leaned forward.
‘When we last spoke, Herr Shevchenko, you said that Fraulein Wirth hadn’t paid her rent for months.’
‘Yes. She was always a bad payer. And she would give me such excuses.’ Shevchenko shook his head. ‘Such weak excuses.’
A few bars of the slow movement from the Waldstein Sonata wafted up from below.
‘It must be difficult for you to work up here,’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The music! Don’t you find it distracting?’
Shevchenko shrugged.
‘It doesn’t bother me.’
Rheinhardt leaned back and his chair creaked loudly.
‘Tell me, Herr Shevchenko. How would you describe your relations with Fraulein Wirth?’
‘Relations? What do you mean by relations?’
‘Did you get on?’
‘It’s not my job to get on with tenants, Herr inspector. I collect rents. A rent collector is never very popular.’
‘But, within reason, would you describe your relations with Fraulein Wirth as good?’
Shevchenko paused to consider the question before answering: ‘As good as they could be, given my responsibilities.’
‘She was not an unattractive woman — Fraulein Wirth.’ Shevchenko shrugged again. ‘Did you find her attractive?’
The Ruthenian’s eyes narrowed. He grunted and said: ‘What are you getting at, inspector? I am a plain-speaking man and would prefer it if you came directly to the point.’
‘Did you offer Fraulein Wirth exemption from the payment of rental arrears in exchange for sexual favours?’
The Ruthenian’s right eyebrow rose by a fraction.
‘Who told you that?’
‘A friend of the deceased.’
‘The neighbour? What’s her name? Lenkiewicz? No — Lachkovics! That’s it — was it Frau Lachkovics?’
‘It was not Frau Lachkovics.’
‘Then who? I have a right to know.’ Shevchenko held Rheinhardt’s gaze for a few moments, then sighed and looked away. ‘You have been misinformed, inspector.’
‘You did not find Fraulein Wirth
attractive?’
‘No, inspector. I didn’t.’ Shevchenko lifted his head and looked directly at Rheinhardt. ‘When was I supposed to have made this proposal?’
‘Some time ago. A year — perhaps …’
The opening bars of the Pathetique Sonata added melodrama to the exchange.
‘About a year ago,’ Shevchenko repeated. He paused and counted his fingers while whispering the months of the year. ‘Actually, inspector, a proposal of that nature was made at that time. But it wasn’t me who made it.’
The music stopped abruptly, mid-phrase.
‘Would you care to elaborate?’
‘I am not a man to sully the reputation of the dead. The poor woman is in her grave.’
‘Herr Shevchenko, am I understanding you correctly? Fraulein Wirth offered you sexual favours in exchange for financial assistance?’
The Ruthenian placed his hand in his frock coat and took out a leather wallet that opened up like a book. He held it out so that Rheinhardt and Liebermann could see inside. It contained a photograph of a woman and an image of Jesus Christ ascending up to heaven in a cone of light. ‘Frau Shevchenko,’ said the rent collector. ‘We were married for twenty-five years. God didn’t choose to bless us with children — we only had each other. I never so much as looked at another woman my whole life — and haven’t since Frau Shevchenko died.’ The opening chords of the Pathetique sounded again. ‘She died about a year ago: a terrible illness, a wasting disease. Pain, vomiting, blood in the bedpan — and lots of it. I would work all day and be up all night nursing her. Sometimes the priest or one of the nuns would come and I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep, but no more. The doctors couldn’t do anything for her.’
At that moment the pianist below began an airy waltz, in which a repeated discordant semitone was employed to humorous effect. The change in mood was jarring.
‘Do you really think that under those circumstances,’ Shevchenko continued, ‘I would be seeking an arrangement — of the kind you suggest — with Fraulein Wirth?’
Rheinhardt and Liebermann were silent. The waltz petered out.
Shevchenko looked at the image of his wife for a moment before putting it back in his pocket. His knuckle went to his right eye and his attempt to collect the tear that was waiting to fall did not succeed.
Liebermann felt a pang of regret. He had judged Shevchenko unkindly. The man’s lack of self-care had an obvious cause: profound grief. He was simply biding his time, waiting for death and a much longed-for reunion with his wife.
‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Herr Shevchenko,’ said Rheinhardt very softly, rising from his chair.
The Ruthenian nodded.
Rheinhardt and Liebermann crossed the floor, their footsteps coinciding uncomfortably with the beat of a jolly German dance tune.
57
Frau Lachkovics’s apartment was empty. Liebermann and Rheinhardt waited for her to return, smoking in the courtyard, and when Rheinhardt’s stomach began to emit gurgling sounds it was decided that they should repair to a local beer cellar. They found a welcoming establishment and spent the next hour enjoying well-cooked tafelspitz — boiled beef — served with fried potatoes, apple horseradish and chive sauce. The meal was washed down with several steins of Edelweiss. Fortified by the wholesome fare and the cordial properties of the liquor, they marched back to Frau Lachkovics’s apartment and were relieved to find the windows brightly illuminated.
The two men were admitted into a humble parlour where Jana, Frau Lachkovics’s daughter, sat silently on a wicker chair in the corner. Rheinhardt introduced Liebermann and was surprised by Frau Lachkovics’s response. She became agitated — her gaze oscillating anxiously between Jana and Liebermann. It appeared to Rheinhardt that Frau Lachkovics had jumped to an erroneous conclusion: that he had brought a doctor with him to examine Jana, with the intention of getting her admitted into a hospital. Rheinhardt was moved by a wave of pity.
‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said the inspector, reaching out and gently touching the woman’s sleeve. ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is my colleague. He is not here to act in a medical capacity.’
The woman sighed: a release of tension.
She motioned as if to speak — but an idea seemed to rise up in her mind which robbed her of confidence.
‘Frau Lachkovics?’ Rheinhardt inquired.
She shook her head: ‘Please sit.’
Rheinhardt and Liebermann were obliged to share the narrow space between the arms of a small sofa. They found themselves squeezed together, and no amount of shifting, wriggling or turning eased their compression.
‘You were out earlier,’ said Rheinhardt to Frau Lachkovics, withdrawing his elbow from beneath Liebermann’s arm.
‘Yes,’ replied Frau Lachkovics, drawing up a stool. ‘I’m sorry, we were in Ottakring. My mother … you remember — I told you I have an elderly mother?’
‘Indeed.’
Frau Lachkovics adjusted the drop of her skirt as she sat down.
‘The tram was late — I don’t know why. Did you send a message? If I had known then-’
Rheinhardt cut in: ‘Please do not fret on our account, Frau Lachkovics, your late return afforded us an opportunity to enjoy the splendid tafelspitz served at the Trinklied.’ He gestured vaguely towards the street. ‘Frau Lachkovics, I have some more questions I would like to ask you in connection with Fraulein Wirth.’ Frau Lachkovics did not raise any objection.
The arrest of Markus Sprenger had been discussed interminably at the laundry; however, knowledge of his arrest did not embolden her to ask Rheinhardt why he had come back again to ask more questions. She passively accepted the policeman’s authority.
‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘are you quite certain that Fraulein Wirth did not have any gentlemen friends?’
‘I cannot be absolutely sure. But I think it very unlikely. You see, we saw a great deal of each other. We would walk to the laundry together in the morning and return together at the end of the day. And I always knew when Selma had visitors. You can hear people knocking on her door from here. The walls are thin. I never saw any gentlemen arriving, apart from Herr Shevchenko, the landlord’s agent. I saw Selma’s friend Frau Vogl and some other girls from the laundry, Christa and Steffi — but never any men. Besides, if she had met someone, I’m sure she would have said something. It was in her nature to share personal things. She was never reticent.’
‘About the time when Fraulein Wirth …’ Rheinhardt glanced at the girl in the corner and searched for a diplomatic turn of phrase. ‘About the time when Fraulein Wirth met with her sad end, do you recall ever seeing any strangers loitering in the courtyard?’
‘No.’
‘A man wearing a bowler hat and a long coat?’
‘I do not recall seeing any strangers.’
‘But what about any gentlemen answering to that particular description?’
‘A bowler hat and long coat? There are many men who dress like that.’
‘Indeed,’ Rheinhardt altered his position: ‘You mentioned Herr Shevchenko …’
Frau Lachkovics frowned.
‘Yes?’
‘Has he always behaved … correctly?’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘Always shown you the proper respect that a lady is entitled to expect from a gentleman?’ The woman looked at Rheinhardt blankly. ‘I am sorry,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘but I must ask you an indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko ever proposition you? Did he ever make an unwelcome amorous advance?’
‘Herr Shevchenko! Good heavens, no!’
Frau Lachkovics’s cheeks became luminous and a hectic flush travelled down her neck.
‘I am sorry, madam, but I am obliged to ask you yet another indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko — to your knowledge — ever proposition Fraulein Wirth?’
The flush intensified.
‘No, no …’
‘Would Fraulein Wirth have told you — do you think — if he had?
’
Frau Lachkovics paused before answering. Rheinhardt could see that she was giving his question serious consideration.
‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Yes, I think she would. Herr Shevchenko is not that sort of man. His only concern is collecting rents. He never makes small talk, never dallies. He just collects the rent and leaves. Most of the tenants around here don’t like him. It’s true: he never smiles and he can be abrupt and surly. But I do not think he is a bad man — rather someone who is sad and lonely.’
The wicker chair creaked as the girl in the corner stood up. She crossed the floor and stood behind her mother. Frau Lachkovics turned and smiled.
‘Jana?’
The girl did not respond. Instead, she fixed her stare on Rheinhardt. Her gaze was purposeful, yet her expression remained disconcertingly void. Her lineaments gave no clue as to the nature of her personality, her mood or what she might be thinking. She raised her arm. In her hand she was holding a book.
‘Can I keep this,’ she said in a dull monotone, ‘now that she is dead?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Jana!’ exclaimed Frau Lachkovics, tugging the girl’s skirt sharply to express her disapproval. The admonishment had no effect.
‘Now that Selma is dead,’ Jana continued, ‘can I keep her books?’
‘Selma gave you that?’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Yes.’
Rheinhardt extricated himself from the sofa and rose to take the volume from the girl’s hand. He examined the spine and discovered it was a collection of children’s stories.
‘There’s another one in the kitchen,’ said Jana.
Rheinhardt fanned through the pages. Some illustrations flashed out from the blur of text. Suddenly the fluttering came to a halt at a point where a little ticket had been inserted. Rheinhardt pulled it out, studied the print, and then said to Frau Lachkovics: ‘Is this yours?’
‘No.’
‘What is it?’ asked Liebermann.
‘A ticket for one of the luggage lockers at the Sudbahnhof.’
The ensuing silence was broken by Jana.
