Deadly Communion

10

THEY WERE NEARING THE end of their music-making and Liebermann found himself reflecting on Rheinhardt’s choice of songs. His friend had demonstrated a distinctly morbid bias, favouring lyrics about gravediggers, sadness, partings and the moon. At one point, the inspector had been quite insistent that they should attempt an infrequently performed Schubert song titled ‘To Death’ and when Rheinhardt sang the opening line — Death, you horror of nature, Ever-moving runs your clock — Liebermann detected troubled nuances which made him suspect that his friend had recently paid a visit to the morgue. Years of service in the security office had not inured Rheinhardt to the sight of a corpse: the dead might decompose in the soil but in the medium of his memory they were preserved indefinitely.

‘Before we finish,’ said Liebermann, ‘I would very much like to hear this.’ He picked up another volume of Schubert and set it on the music stand.

‘“Der Doppelgänger.”’

Rheinhardt wasn’t entirely sure that his tired vocal cords would be able to deliver a creditable performance. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he assented. ‘But you cannot expect very much from me. My voice is beginning to go.’

Liebermann paused, allowing a respectful silence to precede Schubert’s mysterious introduction. He let his fingers descend and the keys surrendered under the weight of his hands. The contact produced dense harmonies, played softly like the tolling of a distant bell, evocative of darkness and the ominous approach of something strange. Rheinhardt began to sing:

‘Still ist die Nacht’

Still is the night …

The narrator returns to the house where a woman he loved once lived. Outside, he sees a man, wringing his hands, racked by grief.

A dissonant note in the melody: a stab of anguish.

Rheinhardt’s voice filled with horror:

‘Mir

graust es, wenn ich sein Antlitz sehe

—

Der

Mond

zeigt

mir meine eigne Gestalt.’

I shudder when I see his face —

The moon shows me my own form.

The inspector’s rich baritone became powerfully resonant as he sang: ‘You ghostly double, pale companion! Why do you ape the pain of love?’

For a few seconds the music seemed to find release from despair, but the insistent chords of the piano, fateful and benighted, guided the song to its desolate conclusion.

Liebermann did not lift his hands from the keyboard. He was deep in thought.

An interesting lyric …

The narrator sees his doppelgänger; however, his double is not a supernatural being but a vision of himself suffering the agonies of unrequited love. Liebermann wondered how such a hallucination might arise and what purpose it might serve in the psychic economy? Perhaps the narrator’s inner torment was too much to bear, threatening his sanity, and some protective mechanism had been triggered? His grief — or the overwhelming part of it — had been displaced. If this was the case, then the doppelgänger might be construed as an elaborate defence: the custodian of memories and emotions that would otherwise cause mental disintegration. Liebermann thought of Herr Erstweiler and how he had spoken affectionately of Frau Milena, the young wife of his landlord, Kolinsky. As these ideas accumulated, the young doctor became dimly aware of something impinging on his consciousness, a sound which carried with it a note of frustration. It had originated in the vicinity of his friend.

‘God in heaven, Max. Pay attention! You’ve gone into a trance!’

Liebermann turned. He had still not fully extricated himself from his cogitations.

‘You haven’t heard a single word I’ve been saying!’

Liebermann lifted his hands from the keyboard.

‘I’m afraid not, Oskar. The music inspired a train of thought and I became utterly lost in a fog of my own speculations.’ He closed the lid of the piano and stroked the glossy black lacquer. ‘I’m sorry, what were you saying?’

Rheinhardt heaved a prodigious sigh.

‘It hardly matters now.’

‘Come, Oskar,’ said Liebermann, standing. ‘Let us retire. If I am not mistaken, we will have much to discuss this evening.’

The two men entered the smoking room and sat in chairs that faced a modest fire. Liebermann poured brandy and offered his friend a cigar. When they were both settled, Rheinhardt produced an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to his friend.

‘As I expected,’ said Liebermann, taking out the contents. The envelope contained photographs.

A young woman, lying on grass.

Coat open, striped stockings, ankle boots …

‘Her name is Adele Zeiler,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Age nineteen. She was discovered in the Volksgarten by a constable early on Monday morning. Her underwear had been removed and traces of dried semen were found on her dress. There were no signs to suggest that a struggle had taken place. Her fingernails were unbroken, there was no bruising, and no tearing of clothes. Moreover, Professor Mathias did not find any significant’ — Rheinhardt coughed into his hand — ‘internal indications of injury.’

A close-up of her face.

Another of her right hand — the long nails intact.

‘She consented to intercourse?’

‘So it would seem. I found one of the buttons from her coat under the eaves of the Theseus Temple. I imagine that she and the perpetrator had become intimate while sheltering beneath the roof of the monument. Perhaps he became intemperate in his excitement and began to pull at her coat — breaking the thread. Whatever, in due course she must have agreed to find a place where they would be better concealed and they chose a row of bushes close by.’

‘How did she die?’

‘She was stabbed.’ Liebermann inspected the first photograph again and frowned. ‘With this,’ Rheinhardt added. The inspector reached into his pocket for a second time.

‘A hat pin?’

‘Precisely.’

Liebermann took the hatpin from his companion and studied the silver acorn. Then he ran his finger along the length of the needle and tapped the sharp point.

‘We know that it was purchased,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘from a small shop on the Hoher Markt called Jaufenthaler s. It was one of five supplied by a Pole called Krawczyk. Herr Krawczyk hadn’t been able to persuade many jewellers in Vienna to stock them. In fact, only two outlets other than Jaufenthaler’s bought these silver-acorn hatpins and I understand that, to date, they have yet to make a sale.’ Rheinhardt paused and exhaled a vast cloud of cigar smoke. ‘Herr Jaufenthaler, on the other hand, was able to sell all five of Krawczyk’s hatpins, and, significantly, he recalls that one of these customers was a gentleman.’

‘Did you get a description?’

‘Yes, but not a very good one: dark hair, pale complexion — well mannered. Late twenties. No distinguishing marks.’

Liebermann placed the hatpin on the table and returned his attention to the photographs.

‘Where was she stabbed? I see no bloodstains on her dress — particularly near her heart, where I would have expected there to be some.’

Rheinhardt remained silent.

‘Surely,’ Liebermann continued, ‘Fräulein Zeiler wasn’t stabbed in the back. Inflicting a fatal wound, or rather, an instantly fatal wound, from behind with such an inconsequential weapon would be virtually impossible. One could puncture the lungs, I suppose … but that would be so very inefficient.’

Rheinhardt derived a shameful degree of satisfaction from the sight of his friend floundering. It was an infrequent occurrence and he intended to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible.

‘Professor Mathias was rather impressed by the killer’s ingenuity,’ said the inspector.

Liebermann, now evidently irritated by his own inability to solve the mystery, glared at his friend: ‘Well?’

Rheinhardt took a leisurely sip of brandy.

‘The pin,’ he said — before pausing to delay his disclosure a few seconds more — ‘was pushed through the gap between the uppermost vertebra of the spinal column and the skull, through the hole at the base of the skull — the foramen magnum, I believe it is called — and into the brain.’

Liebermann banged the side of his head with the palm of his hand.

‘Of course, how stupid of me: and how very interesting.’ He said the word ‘interesting’ in such a way as to suggest sudden illumination.

‘Why interesting?’

It was now Liebermann’s turn to be coy.

‘Please continue.’

Rheinhardt knew that there would be little point in pressing his friend for an answer.

‘Fräulein Zeiler was reported missing by her father who subsequently identified the body. She lived with her family — father, mother, and two sisters — in the sixteenth district. The two sisters are infirm; one suffers from a chest disease and the other is crippled. The Zeilers had become increasingly dependent on Adele for support, particularly after Herr Zeiler lost his job. She was able to provide subsistence for herself and her family by selling the gifts she received from gentlemen: gentlemen whose friendship she cultivated specifically for that purpose. Her father was insistent that Adele never accepted money, but most people would probably judge her to be not very different from a prostitute. She also supplemented her income by modelling for an artist called Rainmayr — a most unsavoury fellow whom I visited yesterday. I say unsavoury, largely on account of the work he produces. His oeuvre — if we can distinguish it by such a term — must appeal mostly to the kind of man one sees in Café Central, exchanging coins under the table for lewd postcards. He specialises in portraits of young women. Very young women.’ Rheinhardt’s expression darkened. ‘Rainmayr claims to have patrons in exalted circles, a boast which I fear might very well be true. Fräulein Zeiler went to see Rainmayr on Sunday afternoon. She wanted more modelling work, which he says he was unable to provide. I suspect they might have argued. She then left the artist’s studio for a small coffee house called Honniger’s where Rainmayr believes she intended to meet one of her admirers. I went to Honniger’s and one of the waiters recognised Fräulein Zeiler from a photograph. He was able to confirm that she had been there on Sunday night with a male companion. He provided a description broadly consistent with that of Herr Jaufen thaler: dark hair, tallish, thin, pale — but with the notable addition of blue eyes. The waiter supposed him to be some kind of professional.’

Liebermann picked up the hatpin and studied it again. He seemed particularly absorbed by the bend — the small kink — close to the silver acorn. Once again, he ran his finger along its length.

A small shower of sparks erupted among the flames of the fire.

‘It is tempting to assume,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that Fräulein Zeiler’s dark-haired companion is the perpetrator; however, the evidence is circumstantial. He might have purchased the hatpin as a gift, given it to Fräulein Zeiler, and then they could have parted. We should also remember that a woman like Fräulein Zeiler might easily arouse jealous passions. She was obviously unattached to her gentlemen friends, but who knows what they felt about her? Did she mislead them? And what if one of their number had learned that Fräulein Zeiler had been trifling with his affections? Could such a besotted admirer have stumbled upon Fräulein Zeiler in Honniger’s — flirting outrageously with the dark-haired stranger — and become enraged? Could he have lain in wait, pretending, when the opportunity arose, that a chance meeting had occurred? And finally, could he have then persuaded Fräulein Zeiler to walk with him to the Volksgarten in order to enjoy her sexual favours one last time, before—’

‘No, no, no,’ cried Liebermann, waving his hand in the air impatiently. ‘That is quite wrong! This murder isn’t related to some cheap demi-monde melodrama. It has nothing to do with broken promises, dashed hopes and wounded pride!’

Rheinhardt — somewhat startled — raised an eyebrow.

‘Jealousy,’ Liebermann continued, ‘especially in men, is indeed a common cause of retributive sexual violence; however, the individual who murdered Fräulein Zeiler is, I believe, quite different from the common herd of infatuated, intemperate, and vengeful lovers. His motives are as strange as the air of another planet. Indeed, I would go as far as to say that this man is unique in the annals of psychopathology.’ The young doctor became feverish. ‘Even the Psychopathia Sexualis with its exhaustive bestiary of lust murderers, necrophiliacs, fetishists, and sadomasochists, vampires and coprophiliacs, hermaphrodites and exhibitionists, does not include a comparable case.’

Rheinhardt’s expression became increasingly sceptical as Liebermann’s excitement mounted.

‘Really, Max! This man is very interesting — I grant you that — insofar as he has recognised and exploited the murderous possibilities of the seemingly innocuous hatpin. But beyond this irregularity I see nothing singular or remarkable about his crime. If he is not a jealous lover then he is, at worst, a lust murderer. He availed himself of Fräulein Zeiler’s favours and then he killed her.’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘I would have thought that much was indisputable!’

‘Allow me to make some clinically relevant observations. In cases of lust murder, the pervert kills to ensure compliance. A dead woman cannot reject sexual advances. The same is true — only even more so — of a necrophile. We know from Professor Mathias’s evidence that Fräulein Zeiler gave herself willingly. Her murderer, therefore, did not need to render her insensible. He did not need to take her because what would otherwise need to be taken was already being freely offered!’

Rheinhardt looked confused.

‘I’m not really following your argument … and I still don’t understand your objection to my initial remark.’

‘You suggested that intercourse occurred and then the perpetrator killed Fräulein Zeiler. This gives a false impression of what I believe actually happened. The perpetrator did not kill Fräulein Zeiler after sexual intercourse — he killed her during intercourse!’

Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. He motioned as if to speak, but immediately fell silent again.

‘To drive a hatpin,’ Liebermann continued, ‘through the foramen magnum and into the brain is not an easy task. The head would have to be bent forward, widening the aperture between the final vertebra and the skull; however, sexual intercourse would have afforded the perpetrator ample opportunity to conduct such manipulations. He might have lifted Fräulein Zeiler’s head — to kiss her, perhaps — while he positioned the hatpin in readiness for his … ultimate pleasure.’

‘What do you mean by that? Ultimate pleasure?’

‘I mean,’ Liebermann replied, ‘that he very probably culminated as he drove the hatpin home. You see, if I am correct he is in actual fact nothing like Krafft-Ebing’s lust murderers and necrophiliacs, who find the dead arousing. He doesn’t find the dead arousing — he finds death arousing, death itself! He is a thanatophiliac!’

Rheinhardt poured himself an extra-large brandy and gulped it down with uncharacteristic speed.

‘You said that it wouldn’t be easy to insert a hatpin directly into the brain.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Yet he seems to have had no trouble doing so.’

‘In which case,’ said Liebermann, ‘he has had plenty of practice.’