Deadly Communion

11

‘I’M SORRY TO DISTURB you, sir,’ said Haussmann, standing in the doorway. ‘But there’s a young woman downstairs who wants to see you. She’s a bit agitated and she’s very’ — the young man assumed a woeful expression — ‘insistent.’

‘Why does she want to see me?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘She says she has information that will be of interest to you.’

‘What information?’

‘I have no idea, sir. She wouldn’t say.’

‘Did you try to find out?’

‘I did, sir, but my powers of persuasion proved insufficient.’

‘Well, I take it, Haussmann, you persuaded her to divulge her name — that much at least, eh?’

‘Pryska Sykora, sir.’

‘I’ve never heard of her. Even so, I suppose you’d better bring her up.’

Haussmann stepped back into the corridor but suddenly froze.

‘Yes?’ said Rheinhardt: ‘What now?’

Haussmann’s cheeks darkened. ‘This isn’t very relevant, sir, but I think you should know. It says something about Fräulein Sykora’s character. In addition to insisting that she should be allowed to talk to you, sir, she also suggested that I might want to consider taking her to the theatre one evening this week.’

‘I see. And did you?’

‘What, sir?’

‘Consider it.’

‘If I am to be perfectly honest, sir, I did. She is quite pretty; however, I was quick to point out that if I acted on her proposal this would very likely provoke your displeasure.’

‘Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you are wise beyond your years.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Not at all. Now, if you would be so kind as to fetch this femme fatale I would be most grateful. The day is already advanced and I regret to say I have done very little.’

After Haussmann’s departure Rheinhardt opened one of the drawers in his desk and removed a cardboard box. It was full of his wife’s Linzer biscotten. She had made them in the shape of hearts.

Rheinhardt was particularly fond of his wife’s Linzerbiscotten because she always coated them with a thick crust of sugary icing and cemented the shortbread together with a superabundant quantity of raspberry jam. The inspector wondered if his wife’s baking (never stinting and conspicuously bountiful) betrayed something of her innermost nature. According to Liebermann, those things which were usually considered insignificant (for example, a person’s choice of pastry cutter) often supplied the richest seams for psychoanalytic inquiry. The inspector picked up one of the biscuits and contemplated its dimensions, its telling shape and the extravagant applications of icing and jam. Surely, he thought, all indisputable signs of a generous spirit. He was overcome with sentiment but then laughed out loud. Professor Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams had received mixed reviews. What would the world make of The Interpretation of Biscuits? Perhaps it was better to leave the psychoanalysis to Liebermann.

Rheinhardt ate one of the Linzer biscotten and was contemplating eating a second when Haussmann returned with Fräulein Sykora. She was very young, perhaps no more than seventeen, small, and almost beautiful. Her face was flawed by a quality that Rheinhardt could only think of as ‘hardness’.

‘Fräulein Sykora,’ said Rheinhardt, rising from his chair. ‘Please, do come in.’ He observed some crumbs on his blotter and discreetly brushed them aside. ‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt.’

Haussmann took Fräulein Sykora’s coat and offered her the chair in front of Rheinhardt’s desk. She did not make eye contact with the assistant detective and did not say ‘Thank you.’ Haussmann withdrew, hung her coat on the stand, and maintained a safe distance.

‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt, sitting down again. ‘I understand you are in possession of some information which you believe may be of interest to me.’

‘Yes,’ Fräulein Sykora said. ‘I am.’ Her accent was rough, unrefined — but the timbre of her voice was pleasantly husky. ‘You’re the detective who’s investigating Adele Zeiler’s murder, aren’t you?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I heard all about it yesterday.’

Rheinhardt registered that she had heard about the murder — and not read about it in the newspapers.

‘From whom?’

Pryska Sykora swung around and glanced at Haussmann: ‘I won’t say anything while he’s here.’

‘Haussmann is my assistant,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Everything I know, he must know too.’

‘What I’ve got to say … it’s personal.’

Rheinhardt sighed, then looked over at his assistant and said: ‘Haussmann — would you mind waiting outside?’

‘Not at all, sir.’

Haussmann bowed and left the office, closing the door with just enough surplus force to declare his wounded pride.

‘So,’ said Rheinhardt, steepling his hands and tapping his fingertips against his pursed lips. ‘How did you learn about poor Adele?’

‘From my friends … and it was them who told me about you.’

‘And who might your friends be?’

‘They were at Rainmayr’s when you went to ask him questions.’

‘Ah yes — Lissi and Toni?’

‘Yes, that’s them.’

Fräulein Sykora fell silent and she looked around the room. She then said: ‘Do you pay for it?’

Surprised, Rheinhardt drew back a little.

‘Pay for what, exactly?’

‘Information.’

‘Well, that depends.’

‘You do pay, though, don’t you? How much?’

‘When citizens provide us with serviceable information, it is our practice in the security office to reward them — sometimes — with a small gratuity.’

‘We used to talk,’ said Fräulein Sykora. ‘Adele and me — we were good friends.’

‘And what did you used to talk about?’

‘Things … Rainmayr.’

Pryska Sykora pursed her lips and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

Rheinhardt found two kronen in his pocket and placed them on his desk.

‘Let us assume that I am interested in what you have to tell me,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But you will have to be a little more forthcoming.’

Fräulein Sykora nodded.

‘Adele was angry with Rainmayr. She wanted more work and he wouldn’t give it to her. She used to curse him. She even threatened him.’

‘How did she threaten him?’

‘He’s an artist. You know what artists are like with their models.’

‘Fräulein Sykora, are you implying that Herr Rainmayr was intimate with Adele Zeiler?’

‘He had his way with her, yes. When she was younger. And she told him she’d go to the police if he didn’t give her more work.’

‘Do you have any proof of this?’

‘It’s what she said to me.’

‘When?’

‘She was always saying it — I can’t remember when.’

Fräulein Sykora leaned forward and picked up the coins. She examined them in her open palm.

‘This isn’t very much, inspector.’

‘When did you last see Adele?’

‘Friday night.’

‘Where?’

‘We bumped into each other on Lange Gasse.’

‘Had she been to see — or was she going to see — Rainmayr?’

‘She was going to see someone else. A gentleman friend.’

‘Where?’

‘A private dining room.’

‘Which one?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she mention the name of this gentleman friend — or say anything about him?’

‘No. She just said she was meeting him and that he’d promised to give her a gift.’

‘What kind of gift?’

Pryska Sykora shrugged.

Rheinhardt picked up his pen and made some notes.

‘I know other things … about Adele.’

The girl rattled the coins in her clenched fist.

‘Where do you live, Fräulein Sykora?’

‘Above Kirchmann’s Coffee House.’

‘With your family?’

‘No.’

‘May I ask … how do you pay for your lodgings?’

‘I don’t. Herr Kirchmann said I could stay in the attic room if I …’ she paused and diverted her gaze before adding ‘… helped out in the kitchen.’

Rheinhardt doubted that the arrangement between landlord and lodger consisted of such an uncomplicated exchange of alms for labour.

‘Tell me,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘How long had you been acquainted with Adele Zeiler?’

‘About a year.’

‘And how did you get to know her?’

‘She used to come into Kirchmann’s with some of the other Rainmayr girls. When it wasn’t busy I’d join them.’ Fräulein Sykora put the coins in her dress pocket and said: ‘I really thought I’d get more than this.’

Rheinhardt scrutinised his guest.

‘How old were you when Herr Kirchmann first offered you somewhere to live?’

Fräulein Sykora frowned.

‘Look, I came here to tell you about Adele and Rainmayr.’

‘If you’ve been living at Kirchmann’s for at least a year you must have been rather young when you moved in.’

‘Not that young.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty.’

Rheinhardt smiled.

‘Well, Fräulein,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you must be a favourite of the gods of youthfulness. Twenty, indeed. Where do your family live?’

‘I came here to talk about Adele and Rainmayr!’ Pryska Sykora shouted, stamping her foot on the floor. ‘Not about me! But if you’re not interested …’ She got up abruptly and turned to leave.

‘Fräulein Sykora?’

Rheinhardt placed another coin on the desk. Pryska Sykora snatched it up and went to get her coat from the stand. Then she opened the door and barked at Haussmann: ‘Take me down, I’m leaving.’

Haussmann craned his head around the door jamb and sought permission from his superior.

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The interview is over.’ Then he called out, ‘Good afternoon, Fräulein Sykora. You have been most helpful.’