Deadly Communion lp-5

by Frank Tallis

  ‘See how worn it is,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t it very old — this postcard? I’m afraid I don’t recognise them — no — how could I?’

  Liebermann leaned forward.

  ‘Ashputtel.’

  Kristina Vogl turned to face the young doctor. Her expression demonstrated that she welcomed his interjection, even though it was utterly incomprehensible.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Ashputtel — the story — as depicted in the lithographs hanging on your bedroom wall: last month, when Inspector Rheinhardt and I came to your house, I made some comments concerning the lithographs and your profession. How fitting — I said — that a couturiere should have a special liking for a story in which so many dresses appear. You said that this had never before occurred to you.’

  Kristina smiled but the delivery of her response was mildly indignant.

  ‘I purchased those lithographs because I like the artist’s style, not because the story of Ashputtel has dresses in it!’

  ‘Indeed. And we must also suppose that sometimes you are so impressed by the cut of a new dress out of Paris that you see only the inventive lines and nothing else — not even the fabric. Naturally, some things are attended to at the expense of others. But the issue here is what things and why?’

  ‘With respect, Herr doctor, I am finding it exceedingly difficult to grasp your meaning.’

  ‘Then let me speak more plainly. You did not fully appreciate that the story of Ashputtel features dresses, because there is another dimension to the Ashputtel narrative that — in your mind — is afforded priority of interest.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘Ashputtel tells the story of a girl who is despised by her stepsisters but who struggles against poverty and adversity and is finally rewarded with the hand of a prince.’

  Kristina’s features hardened. She did not respond to the young doctor, but turned instead to Rheinhardt and held out the postcards: ‘Please — take these back. I am sorry I cannot help you.’

  ‘But you haven’t looked at all of them,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘I cannot help you,’ Kristina insisted.

  ‘Then perhaps you would be willing to consider another image?’ Rheinhardt removed Rainmayr’s sketch from his holdall. Pointing at the reclining figure of Erika Hofler, he added: ‘This girl … does she not seem familiar to you? Notice, she has a birthmark, just here.’ Rheinhardt touched his own stomach. ‘It would be very easy to identify her — even if she has now grown to adulthood.’

  The room became very still.

  Kristina stared at Rainmayr’s sketch. She did so for an inordinate amount of time and then, quite suddenly, jerked away as if wrenching her head out from between the plates of a vice. Rheinhardt was about to speak but Liebermann stopped him with an admonitory frown. Tears were imminent. He could feel them coming. As a consequence of sitting — year after year — with lachrymose patients, he had developed an uncanny sense of when people were about to cry.

  The couturiere’s shoulders began to shake and when she looked up the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘The girl. It’s me — but you know that already …’ Rheinhardt found a handkerchief in his pocket, a crisp square of linen, which he handed to the sobbing woman.

  ‘And the other girl is …’ He invited Kristina to complete the sentence.

  ‘Selma.’ Kristina blew her nose and dabbed the handkerchief against her skin. ‘There it is, then! You have discovered my secret. I am a fraud!’

  ‘You are not a fraud, Frau Vogl,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You are a lady possessed of a very considerable talent.’

  ‘Talent!’ she repeated, spitting out the word as if it tasted of bile. ‘Yes, I may have talent but I am not, as you say, a lady. I am this girl.’ She flicked the sketch with her hand and the violence of her abrupt movement created a tear in the paper.

  ‘Erika Hofler,’ said Rheinhardt.

  The sound of her real name made Kristina start.

  ‘How do you know?’ Her gaze fell on the cursive scrawl that occupied the bottom right-hand corner of the sketch. ‘Rainmayr. You’ve spoken to Rainmayr?’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘He gave his word! He promised never to betray me.’

  ‘Herr Rainmayr only revealed your true identity under duress,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He would not have done so otherwise.’

  Kristina raised her chin and, recovering her composure, asked: ‘What do you intend to do now that you have found me out? Tell the newspapers? My husband?’

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  ‘No. We intend to do neither of those things.’

  The couturiere looked puzzled.

  ‘Frau Vogl,’ said Liebermann, ‘when we were here yesterday, you said that Herr Shevchenko — the landlord’s agent — made Fraulein Wirth an indecent proposal. That wasn’t quite true, was it?’

  ‘I told you what I could remember.’

  ‘Well, none of us have a perfect memory — although your powers of recollection in this instance are not really relevant. You see, I believe that what you told us yesterday was a wilful distortion of something that Fraulein Wirth told you.’

  ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Fraulein Wirth confessed to you that her financial situation was so dire she was contemplating offering herself to Shevchenko.’

  ‘That is an absurd thing to say, Herr doctor. She despised Shevchenko.’

  ‘One must suppose she hoped to make you feel guilty.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To increase the likelihood of you giving her money.’

  ‘Selma did not need to make me feel guilty, Herr doctor. I was happy to give her financial assistance. The problem was getting her to accept it.’

  ‘On the contrary. You resented giving her anything.’

  ‘How dare you say that!’

  ‘You thought it wise to offer Selma inducements to ensure that she would be discreet concerning your common history and she accepted your pecuniary gifts without scruple. Indeed, her ready acceptance was tinged with an air of entitlement. She expected you to give her money. On those occasions when you did not give her money she became manipulative, demanding. Even so, you were able to cope with this situation. She could be pacified with medical consultations and therapies of modest expense and the strained fiction of your friendship was yet sustainable. But when the opening of this fine fashion house was reported widely in the press and your name appeared in the columns of the society pages — alongside those of counts and countesses — the disparity of your circumstances became too much for poor Selma to bear. You were Rainmayr’s favourite when this sketch was made, and now you had become a favourite of the great and good of Vienna. Bad feelings boiled up inside her: envy, resentment — intensified by her infirmity. What did she say to you? How did she justify her excessive requests? You can afford it, you are wealthy? And are we not old friends? And when you finally said no, that was when things became deeply unpleasant. It was then that Selma Wirth informed you of these items — the sketch, the postcards — items that might easily fall into the wrong hands.

  ‘Something had to be done. You had read about the murders of Fraulein Zeiler and Fraulein Babel in the newspapers. Everyone in the city was talking about the Volksgarten fiend — his heinous crimes — and the fact that the police were sure he would strike again.’

  ‘What exactly, Herr doctor, are you accusing me of?’

  ‘Your old comrade had become a liability — one you could ill afford to tolerate.’

  The tears began to flow again, but on this occasion Liebermann suspected artifice. Kristina stole a glance at Rheinhardt to gauge his mood.

  ‘Of course I wanted her out of my life,’ said the couturiere, unfolding the neat square of linen and shaking it in the air. She buried her face in the handkerchief. ‘She had the means — and the will — to destroy everything that I had worked for.’ Liebermann noted with satisfaction
that the couturiere had already rejected the idea of challenging the accuracy of his version of events. ‘You have no appreciation, Herr doctor, of what difficulties I have had to overcome. No understanding of what I have had to go through in order to escape a wretched and degrading existence. How could you understand? You who have enjoyed — no doubt — every advantage available to a man of your class. Of course I wanted to be rid of her — this poisonous, covetous creature. But I did not kill her, if that is what you are insinuating. How could it have been me? Dear God, the woman was used by a man! It said so in the Tagblatt, the Zeitung, the Neue Freie Presse. She was taken by a man!’

  Neither Rheinhardt nor Liebermann responded to her outburst. Kristina sighed, wiped away her tears, and nodded — as if she had suddenly been supplied with a very important piece of information.

  ‘I see,’ she said softly, continuing the agitated head movement. ‘You think that I paid someone? Do you really think I would risk being blackmailed again? Do you really think I would risk being blackmailed over a murder? I would have to be insane!’

  ‘I do not think you paid someone,’ said Liebermann

  ‘Then what do you think?’ Kristina straightened her back and pushed her bust forward. The movement seemed calculated to emphasise her gender. It gave Liebermann even more confidence.

  ‘I could not help noticing,’ said Liebermann, ‘that you and your husband sleep in separate rooms. A very practical arrangement favoured by many doctors and their spouses. Your husband must often arrive home late, and on returning he can attend to his toilet before retiring without disturbing your sleep. However, this choice also reveals a logistical feature of your conjugal relations. You must go to your husband or he must come to you.’

  ‘Inspector!’ cried Kristina. ‘This is not proper. These are private matters. I will not sit here and be insulted. You cannot allow this man to-’

  ‘Please,’ said Rheinhardt firmly. ‘Allow Doctor Liebermann to continue.’

  ‘On the evening of the sixteenth of April,’ said Liebermann, ‘you visited Fraulein Wirth. She showed you some postcards and sketches — just like the ones Inspector Rheinhardt showed you today. We must suppose that they were a recent acquisition, otherwise you would have known of their existence somewhat earlier. I fancy she came across them by chance in one of the junk shops on Wiebliger Strasse. You arranged to return much later the same evening in order to buy the images from her — for what I imagine must have been a substantial sum.’ Liebermann sat back in his chair and pulled at his chin. ‘I do not know whether you hatched your plan on the way home or whether an opportunity arose for intimacy with your husband — an opportunity that served as inspiration. You did, however, make love to him, and subsequently went back to your bedroom taking that part of his being essential to your purpose. You expelled his vital fluid and poured it into a syringe taken from your husband’s study. I cannot say exactly how events transpired on your return to Fraulein Wirth’s apartment. Here I must speculate. Did you stab Fraulein Wirth directly? I don’t think so: the knife was too well placed. Perhaps you arrived with some chloral hydrate — also taken from your husband’s study — which you poured into a drink? Once she was unconscious, it would have been considerably easier for you to insert the knife between Fraulein Wirth’s ribs and inject your husband’s semen into her person. Of course, you had no idea that there were more images. No idea that Fraulein Wirth had intended to extort even more money from your purse.’

  Kristina Vogl stared at Liebermann. The handkerchief fell from her hands and she clasped her stomach as if suddenly afficted by gastric pain.

  ‘You do not know how I have suffered … to get all this … you do not know what this means to me.’ The couturiere looked around the reception room, her eyes glistening. ‘You do not know what a woman like me must do.’ She bent over as if the pain in her stomach was becoming more intense. ‘And now you’re going to take it all away.’ Turning to Rheinhardt she smiled — a peculiar smile that made her look innocent and girlish. When she spoke again, her voice was equally juvenile: she sounded like a lost child. ‘Will I be hanged, inspector?’

  Rheinhardt stood up and walked to the vitrine. His step was ponderous and he was breathing heavily — a series of linked sighs. He looked through the tilted glass at the colourful jewellery, the semiprecious stones and salamander bracelet, but he did not reply.

  62

  Liebermann was seated in a box just to the right of the opera-house stage. The stalls were almost full and he glanced anxiously at his wristwatch.

  Where was Rheinhardt?

  An extraordinarily large chandelier hung down from the ornate ceiling. It consisted of two rings of light (a smaller circle floating above a much larger one) from which thousands of adamantine crystals were suspended. The Emperor’s box was dark, but beneath it the standing enclosure was crowded: military personnel and civilians kept apart by a bronze pole. Directly below, the finely dressed patrons were making more noise than usual, excited by the promise of a revolutionary production. A strikingly beautiful young woman dressed in blue velvet and pearls was gliding down the central aisle, accompanied on either side by Hussars. In the middle of the front row, two gentlemen dressed in the uniform of Court officials were taking their places next to a gentleman who was possibly the German Ambassador.

  Liebermann heard the door opening and turned to see Rheinhardt making an awkward entrance — struggling to part the red drapes. He was clutching a bag of pralines. The inspector blustered into the box and sat down next to his friend.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I got rather delayed … something I had to sort out for tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Rheinhardt dismissed the inquiry with a hand gesture.

  ‘I have some news.’

  ‘Concerning?’

  ‘Frau Milena. The Czech police have arrested her.’

  ‘When did that happen?’

  ‘Last night. She had adopted a false identity and was living in a village close to the Bavarian border.’

  ‘How did they find her?’

  ‘They didn’t — she found them.’

  ‘She gave herself up?’

  ‘Yes: made a full confession.’ Rheinhardt opened the bag and invited Liebermann to take a praline. The young doctor chose a white crenellated sphere dusted with cocoa the colour of ochre. He bit the chocolate in half and examined the interior, which was black and pitted with tiny pieces of crushed almond. The chocolate melted in his mouth, releasing a delicate blend of coffee and oranges. ‘Good?’ continued Rheinhardt. ‘They should be — I got them from the shop downstairs and they were prohibitively expensive.’ The inspector selected a praline covered in toasted coconut. He began chewing, closed his eyes and produced a groan of deep satisfaction. After which he added: ‘She’s being brought back to Vienna in the morning.’

  ‘Guilt — I suppose.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That is why she gave herself up. Guilt. Like Erstweiler, her mental constitution was not strong enough to survive the emotional consequences of her own crime. When she and Erstweiler killed Bozidar Kolinsky, in a way they also killed themselves.’

  Rheinhardt nodded in agreement. He took a second praline, the sweetness of which seemed to render him incapable of speech: an almost idiotic smile played around his lips. In due course he came to his senses and said: ‘So — Tristan ana holac — thank you so much for getting tickets.’

  ‘Well, a celebration was in order, surely — and I thought the themes apposite.’

  ‘The reviews have been stupendous! The dawn of a new epoch in the history of opera — so they say.’

  ‘I am most eager to see Roller’s sets. Apparently, his work is richly symbolic. Everything he incorporates has meaning — even the colours and small decorative details. In this respect he’s a little like a psychoanalyst …’

  They continued talking about the production’s excellent reviews until the orchestra finished tuning up, the lights dimmed, and the wiry fram
e of director Mahler appeared on the podium.

  The prelude was exquisite, emerging naturally from the preceding moment of silence and repeatedly dissolving into mute lacunae before rising in a great wave of sound which — when it broke — created an indefinable yearning, the physicality of which united the audience in a collective and audible sigh. Mahler’s genius made the score entirely transparent, a slow tempo encouraging the ear to savour every melodic line and nuance. He was like some great anatomist, wielding his baton like a scalpel, revealing mysteries that had hitherto remained beyond the reach of human comprehension.

  When the curtain rose, Liebermann found himself looking down on the deck of a ship, the rigging of which stretched out towards the audience. But this was no ordinary vessel: the sea that it had crossed was not the body of water separating Ireland from Cornwall but the deeper and less fathomable ocean of the unconscious. This vessel had sailed straight out of a dream. Liebermann noticed that the deck was strewn with curious objects: a gold chest shaped like a reliquary, a couch marked with pagan carvings, and sumptuous brocaded cushions.

  Unfortunately, with the arrival of the singers, the music changed — and the spell which had up to that point held Liebermann in thrall lost some of its potency. Although Liebermann was highly appreciative of Wagner’s orchestral writing, he frequently found the composer’s declarative vocal parts less impressive. Be that as it may, Liebermann was still able to enjoy the performance by focusing his attention on the statuesque figure of Anna von Mildenburg, who made an arresting Isolde. The great soprano was dressed entirely in silver-grey and wore a collar piece encrusted with semi-precious stones in a geometrical arrangement. It reminded Liebermann of Frau Vogl’s brooch …

  During the first interval the two friends went outside to smoke cigars. They stood under the loggia talking about the performance and watching the carriages and trams rolling around the Ringstrasse.

  ‘How is Haussmann?’ Liebermann asked, suddenly recalling the last time he’d seen him: the poor boy writhing around on Sprenger’s floor.

  ‘I am pleased to report that he is fully recovered. In fact, he’ll be helping me with a little police business tomorrow morning.’