Deadly Communion

9

RHEINHARDT STRODE DOWN LANGE Gasse, hopping off the pavement to allow a perambulator to pass and hopping back on again to avoid a carriage. He was humming the Andante con moto from Schubert’s B-flat Piano Trio, allowing his baritone voice to take on the expressive sonorities of a cello. The melody reflected his mood: subdued yet purposeful. In due course he came to his destination, a pair of tall wooden doors. He touched the peeling paintwork, pressed lightly, and entered a vaulted tunnel.

The inspector stepped over a rusting bicycle frame and an obstacle course of discarded items: a box of coat hangers, numerous empty wine bottles, and the statue of an angel (with weather-worn features and broken wings) lying on its side.

Beyond the tunnel was a narrow path which ran between two rows of identical terraced cottages. They had plain whitewashed exteriors and flat roofs. Someone, somewhere, was playing a Chopin prelude on an out-of-tune piano; however, Rheinhardt was impressed by the technical proficiency of the pianist. Raising his eyes, the inspector saw that he had entered a cul-de-sac. The path was truncated by a brick wall on which two large urns were precariously balanced. Behind the wall he could see the tops of trees and, some distance beyond these, the fenestrated rear of a high residential block.

Rheinhardt came to an open door and called out: ‘Hello?’

A scruffy-looking young man appeared. He wasn’t wearing a collar and his untucked shirt hung over a pair of dirty corduroy trousers.

‘Yes?’ His accent was almost aristocratic.

‘I’m looking for Herr Rainmayr.’

‘Ludo Rainmayr? Last cottage on the right; be that as it may, I feel obliged to inform you that he is presently engaged by his muse and he can’t abide interruptions. It puts him in a foul temper. I assume you have come to settle a debt?’ Rheinhardt did not answer. ‘Well, if so,’ the young man continued, ‘you will — I am sorry to say — be disappointed. Ludo hasn’t a heller left. He spent all his money last night. We went to see a troupe of comedy acrobats — The Dorfmeisters — at Ronachers.’

Rheinhardt was confident that he was speaking to an impoverished actor.

‘Thank you for your assistance,’ he said, raising his hat. ‘Please accept my apologies for interrupting your busy day.’

‘Not at all,’ said the young man — oblivious of the inspector’s irony. ‘My pleasure.’

Rheinhardt ventured further down the path. A scrawny cat jumped down from a window ledge and ran on ahead like a herald. When the inspector reached the final cottage on the right he rapped his knuckles on the door.

A voice from inside shouted: ‘Come in!’

The room that Rheinhardt entered was gloomy for an artist’s studio; however, the absence of natural light was compensated for by several oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. There was an iron stove, some chairs stacked in the corner, an easel, and a table cluttered with rags, brushes, bottles, bowls and paint pots. Next to the easel stood a man in his late fifties. He was wearing a blue kaftan with yellow flowers embroidered into the fabric. His grey hair was exceptionally thick and long, as was his beard.

In front of the artist was a mattress covered with a white sheet on which two naked women were positioned. They were both very young and extraordinarily thin. One was lying on her front, the other on her back. The latter had underdeveloped breasts which barely rose from her chest. Her legs were slightly parted. She did not move or seek to cover herself when Rheinhardt entered. Indeed, her expression communicated only intense boredom. The other woman twisted her neck and glanced back over her shoulder but, like her companion, she seemed unperturbed by the arrival of a stranger.

‘Yes?’ said the artist.

‘Herr Rainmayr?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am Inspector Rheinhardt — from the security office.’

Rainmayr was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t bother to look up.

‘What’s it about?’ he said gruffly.

‘I am afraid I will need to speak to you in private.’

Rainmayr sighed, made a swift head-to-toe assessment of Rheinhardt, then addressed the women: ‘All right, you two, get dressed. Go and have a coffee at Kirchmann’s. But make sure you get back within the hour.’

The models stood up, exposing their bodies without a hint of self-consciousness, and stepped behind a screen over which their dresses and underwear had been thrown. A petticoat suddenly vanished.

‘Can I offer you something to drink, inspector?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Schnapps?’

‘No, thank you,’ Rheinhardt repeated.

‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Rainmayr began cleaning his brushes with a rag soaked in turpentine; a simple task, but one which seemed to require his complete and undivided attention. The sound of giggling and whispering came from behind the screen. Then a slap, the unmistakable whip-crack of an open palm landing squarely on buttocks, followed by a hiss and a curse so obscene that it might have made a stevedore blush.

Rainmayr rolled his eyes and barked: ‘Lissi, Toni. That’s enough!’

A number of unframed but completed canvases were lined up against the far wall. Rheinhardt moved closer to take a look. The floor was covered with charcoal dust. All the paintings were of young women in various states of undress who all shared the same emaciated physique. The largest and most arresting image showed an adolescent girl standing by a mirror, wearing only black stockings and a neck band. The stockings were not held up by garters and hung loosely off her legs. The girl’s right hand was held against her belly, the extended forefinger reaching towards the object of her attention (which Rainmayr had represented in the mirror with a vivid red daub amid the tangle of her pubic hair). She had large eyes, a full mouth, and her expression was provocative. It was a skilfully executed portrait, but Rheinhardt found the subject matter disturbing.

‘Are you interested in buying one, inspector?’ Rainmayr called out.

‘No.’

The syllable was delivered with more vehemence than Rheinhardt had intended.

Rainmayr shrugged.

The two models came out from behind the screen. They were wearing calico dresses and wide-brimmed hats with decorative rosettes.

‘Here,’ said Rainmayr, scooping some coins out of a bowl on the table. ‘Take this.’ He dropped a few hellers into an outstretched hand. ‘No longer than an hour. Understand?’

The women nodded and dashed for the door, suddenly laughing out loud on account of some private joke. Once they were out of the studio, Rheinhardt remarked frostily: ‘Your models are very young, Herr Rainmayr.’

‘All women look young,’ the artist replied, ‘once you get to a certain age. Besides, they’re older than you think, inspector, and more worldly than you can imagine.’

‘Do you always choose young women as your subjects?’

‘An artist — like everyone else — must have food in his belly. My work reflects the tastes of my patrons. There are a number of collectors who have a weakness for the female form when it enters the transitional phase between adolescence and maturity.’

‘I would very much like to see that list.’

‘Indeed,’ said Rainmayr. ‘I’m sure you would — and if I wasn’t bound to respect confidences I’d enjoy showing it to you. You’d be surprised to learn how many art lovers occupy positions of influence and power.’

It was obvious that Rainmayr didn’t fear prosecution.

Commissions from judges? Rheinhardt wondered.

‘I understand,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that you employ a model called Adele Zeiler — is that correct?’

Rainmayr placed his brushes on the table.

‘Yes. Although I don’t use her as much as I used to. She only works for me occasionally.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Sunday afternoon.’

‘How was she?’

‘No different than usual.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘A dance show that she wanted to see … the new fashion house on Bauernmarkt. At one point she asked me for more work, but I couldn’t satisfy her request and she became a little petulant.’

‘Would you say that you are well acquainted with Fräulein Zeiler?’

‘Yes. I’ve known her for about three years.’

‘You mean to say she started modelling for you when she was fifteen?’

‘Sixteen. I saw her sitting on a park bench with her father and was intrigued by her face. She looked utterly indifferent. A child, yet already bored with everything life might have to offer. I approached Herr Zeiler and we came to an arrangement. He has two more daughters — one suffers from a terrible cough and the other’s a cripple. I did some sketches of the one with the cough once: an engaging face — but not engaging enough.’ Rainmayr shook his head. ‘Herr Zeiler even brought the cripple here when he lost his job and begged me to use her too, but I’m not a charity.’ Rainmayr paused and asked: ‘Has Adele stolen something? Is that why you’re here?’

Rheinhardt examined some drawings that had been stuck to the wall: more naked women in positions suggestive of self-exploration. He responded with a question of his own: ‘Did she say where she was going on Sunday?’

‘After leaving here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ahh,’ said Rainmayr. ‘I see. Run off, has she? Now that wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I think she was getting tired of her situation. At home, I mean. She used to complain about it. She was supporting her family — more or less. You know how it is, inspector: an attractive young woman can always make money.’

‘She didn’t run away, Herr Rainmayr. Adele Zeiler was murdered.’

The artist smiled, as if Rheinhardt was joking.

‘What are you talking about? Murdered!’

‘On Sunday night. Her body was found in the Volksgarten. She’d been stabbed.’

Rainmayr touched the table to steady himself.

‘My God … Poor Adele. Murdered …’

‘Well, did she say where she was going?’

Rainmayr looked up.

‘Yes, she said she was going to meet someone at a coffee house.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. I presumed a man.’

‘Which coffee house?’

‘She mentioned Honniger’s — by the Ulrichskirche.’