Deadly Communion

23

RHEINHARDT WAS SHOWN INTO the accountant’s office by a middle-aged woman wearing a high-collared blouse.

‘Herr Frece,’ she said: ‘Inspector Rheinhardt to see you.’

‘Ah, thank you, Anselma,’ said the accountant. He was balding, red-faced, and possessed a large stomach that pressed against his waistcoat. ‘Please, do sit down, inspector.’ Rheinhardt caught sight of a framed photograph on Frece’s desk, showing a matronly woman and two children. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘That will be all, Anselma.’ When the secretary had gone, Frece smiled and added: ‘How can I be of assistance?’

‘Herr Frece, I understand that you are acquainted with a young lady called Bathild Babel. Is that correct?’

Frece pursed his lips.

‘Fräulein Babel … Fräulein Babel …’ He muttered. ‘No. I’m afraid that name isn’t familiar to me.’

Rheinhardt sighed.

‘You are mentioned in her address book.’

‘Bathild?’ said Frece, cupping his ear and feigning deafness. ‘Did you say Bathild Babel?’ He stressed the syllables of ‘Bathild’ in a peculiar way.

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Bathild Babel.’

The accountant shifted in his chair.

‘Yes, yes … I do know someone of that name. I’m sorry, my hearing isn’t very good.’

‘And what is the nature of your relationship?’

‘She is a client.’

‘I see. Could I see her documents, please?’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible …’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ Frece searched the ceiling for a convincing answer, but the cornicing failed to supply one.

‘Herr Frece,’ said Rheinhardt firmly. ‘If you continue to be uncooperative, I am afraid we will have to continue this interview at the Schottenring station.’

‘Please — no,’ said the accountant. ‘I’m sorry. That won’t be necessary.’ He opened a cigarette box with trembling fingers and struck a match. After lighting the cigarette, he drew on its gold filter. His exhalation dissipated the cloud of smoke that hung in front of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, inspector … a man in my position. It was a mistake … I never should have …’ His voice trailed off.

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘With respect, inspector, why should my peccadilloes be of interest to the police? I don’t understand.’

Rheinhardt glared at the accountant.

‘Where did you meet her?’ he repeated.

‘In Frau Schuschnig’s hat shop, behind the Town Hall. I was buying a hat for my wife. Bathild was very forward.’ Rheinhardt listened as Frece spoke of his illicit meetings with Bathild Babel, in private dining rooms and cheap hotels. At its conclusion, Frece pleaded: ‘Inspector, if my wife were to find out she would be mortified. She hasn’t any idea. My marriage would be over.’ The accountant reached out and turned the family photograph towards Rheinhardt. ‘I have two children. Richarda and Friedo. I beg you to be discreet — if not for my sake, then for theirs.’

Rheinhardt chewed the end of his pencil.

‘Did she ever speak of her other …’ Rheinhardt thought clients was too strong a word and chose a less offensive substitute ‘… admirers?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Her other gentleman friends,’ said Rheinhardt.

The accountant looked indignant.

‘I was her only …’ Frece was unable to finish his sentence, given Rheinhardt’s world-weary expression. He might as well have said out loud: You can’t possibly be that naive! Frece’s shoulders fell. ‘No,’ the accountant continued. ‘She didn’t mention anyone else.’

Rheinhardt made a few notes and when he looked up again Frece was staring into space.

‘What is it?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘I remember, I went to the hat shop a few weeks ago, and Bathild was talking to a man. They seemed very familiar. After he had left, I asked her who he was. She was evasive and tried to make a joke of her flirtation. She said she flirted with all the men who came into the shop — it was good for business, according to Frau Schuschnig.’ Frece scratched his nose. ‘He was educated and wearing an expensive frock coat.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Quite tall — dark hair.’

‘How old?’

‘Twenty-nine, thirty — perhaps.’

‘What colour were his eyes?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Think, Herr Frece. What colour were his eyes?’

‘Blue … or grey … I can’t be sure. A light colour anyway. He was buying a hat pin. And he smelt rather strange. A sort of hospital smell.’

‘Could he have been a doctor?’

‘Possibly.’ Frece observed the tightening of Rheinhardt’s facial muscles, the sudden intensifying of his expression. ‘Inspector, why are you asking me all of these questions?’

‘She’s dead,’ said Rheinhardt bluntly. ‘Murdered — on Saturday.’

The accountant said something inaudible, and the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks. His hands shook so much that when he tried to light a second cigarette Rheinhardt was obliged to give him some assistance.