Vienna Secrets

57

Rheinhardt knocked at the door. There was no response.

He observed across the street a plump red face looking out of one of the windows. The pressure of the woman’s nose on the glass had turned it upward, revealing two circular nostrils. Seen through the frost of her condensed breath, she appeared distinctly porcine. She did not avert her gaze when detected but continued to watch with a fixed stare.

Rheinhardt indicated that he wished to speak with her. She blinked at him and then withdrew behind the drapes; however, she did not come to the door immediately.

Because it was still early, Rheinhardt assumed that the plump woman was making herself presentable, if such a thing were possible. He then chastised himself for entertaining this uncharitable thought. After all, his own figure left much to be desired. In due course there was the sound of a metal bolt being drawn, and the door creaked open.

The woman stood squarely, in an attitude of defiance, with ruddy arms folded across a bust of considerable bulk.

“Yes?”

“Good morning. My name is Rheinhardt. Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.” He produced his identification. The woman squinted, her eyes shrinking in the morning light. “May I ask you a few questions?”

“Questions? What questions?”

“Well, perhaps we could start with your name?”

“Tilde Warmisch.”

“Very good. Now, Frau Warmisch, that house over there.” Rheinhardt pointed at the filthy exterior opposite. “Do you know who lives there?”

“Yes. Herr Sachs.”

“Jeheil Sachs?”

“I don’t know about his first name. I just know him as Sachs, the Jew.”

“When was the last time you saw Herr Sachs?”

“Does he owe money? That wouldn’t surprise me. Let me think.” Frau Warmisch sucked on her lower lip. “Yesterday… at about six o’clock.”

“What does Herr Sachs do?”

“Do you mean work?”

“Yes. His occupation.”

Frau Warmisch sneered. “He doesn’t do anything. He lives off women.”

“He lives off women?” Rheinhardt repeated.

“This is Spittelberg, Inspector. You know what goes on here.”

“He’s a procurer?”

“Call it what you like.” The woman made a snorting sound-as evocative of the farmyard as her round face-in lieu of laughter. “Pretty girls, some of them, and his own kind too. Yes, always his own kind. What’s he done wrong?”

“Would I be correct in surmising that you are not overly fond of Herr Sachs?”

“Yes, you would be. He isn’t much liked around here.”

“Why?”

“He’s ill-mannered. Rude, dirty, and he…” Frau Warmisch trailed off.

“Yes? What were you going to say?”

“You won’t tell him I told you?”

“That, I can promise you with complete confidence.”

“He mistreats his women,” she went on. “In the summer, with the windows open, you can hear everything. But the noise the last one made was terrible.” She shook her head, and the wattle of flesh that hung beneath her neck swung like a pendulum. “I almost called the police myself. And I haven’t seen her since. Did the ladies send you?”

“What ladies?”

“The two smart young ladies.”

“No. They didn’t. To whom are you referring?”

“They came to see Sachs about a week ago. They were accusing him of something. I think it must have been to do with the last one-you know, his doxy, his girl. They said that they’d got a doctor’s report, and that justice would be done. One of them was furious-banged on his door and shouted about coming back.”

“Had you ever seen them before?”

“No. We don’t get their sort in Spittelberg, Inspector.”

“Could you describe them to me?”

“Well-to-do, smart. One had black hair, the other brown. Their dresses were made of silk. Quite pretty…”

“How tall were they?”

“Not very. They were quite small, really-smaller than me.”

“Indeed,” said Rheinhardt. He cringed internally, embarrassed by his careless use of language. Frau Warmisch, however, was not offended. “Any other details?” Rheinhardt asked, eager to move the conversation on.

“I think they were Jews too,” said Frau Warmisch. “They were telling him off for using Jewish women. They said something about how bad it was for him to be making money from his own people.”

Rheinhardt took out his notebook and made some jottings. When he was satisfied that he had learned all that he could, he thanked Frau Warmisch, bowed, and began to walk back toward the main road.

“Inspector?”

Rheinhardt turned.

“Don’t you want to know their names?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The names of the fine ladies.”

“You know them?”

“Yes. I heard them introduce themselves. Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl.”

Rheinhardt took out his notebook again and began writing.

“It’s a cold morning, Inspector,” the woman added. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in for a few minutes? Just to warm up.”

Rheinhardt detected a certain lascivious cast in Frau Warmisch’s expression. She was leaning against the doorjamb and had raised her gown a little to reveal a chunky, swollen ankle.

“Most kind,” Rheinhardt replied. “But no, thank you.” He hurried off, his mind filled with nightmarish images of porcine congress.