Deadly Communion

37

RHEINHARDT HAD ARRANGED TO meet his assistant outside Ronacher’s variety theatre. He had given Haussmann an hour to discover Liebermann’s whereabouts. During that time, he had searched for — and found — a café, discreetly situated in a back street, where he could revive his spirits with a favourite prescription of strong Türkische coffee and a slice of poppy-seed cake. Emerging from the shadowy interior into the broad bountiful light of a crisp morning, he felt better prepared to face the day. When Haussmann finally appeared, however, it was clear from the young man’s expression and gait that his mission had been unsuccessful.

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is not at home, sir. I telephoned from the Post Office. And the hospital said he wasn’t expected until this afternoon. I even tried the little coffee house by the Anatomical Institute.’

‘And did you get something to eat while you were there?’

Haussmann’s eyes slid to the side.

‘Yes, sir. But I was only there for a few minutes.’

‘In which case, you made excellent use of your time. We have a busy day ahead of us and it is difficult to work on an empty stomach. Come now. Let us see if anyone is inside.’

They found the stage door, rang the bell, and were admitted by an attendant wearing a shabby uniform. Rheinhardt showed his identification and asked to see the manager.

‘You’re lucky,’ said the attendant. ‘He’s not normally in this early.’

They ascended several staircases until they came to a door. The attendant knocked and opened it without waiting for an invitation to enter.

‘Not now, Harri!’

‘It’s the police,’ the attendant called into the room.

‘What — for me?’

‘Yes, Ralf.’

Rheinhardt repositioned himself and saw a balding man in a colourful waistcoat and shirtsleeves sitting behind a desk. In front of him, on wooden chairs, were two gentlemen with long black hair and shaggy fur coats. Their shoulders were massive.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ The manager addressed his guests. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’

‘When shall we be returning?’ The voice was deep, rumbling, and strangely accented.

‘Later. I’ll have the new contracts ready for you by then. I promise.’

The two men stood, and as they did so their extraordinary height became apparent. They were immense: identical twins, with brown skin, black eyes, and wide features. The first stooped to get through the doorway and Rheinhardt was obliged to tilt his head back to greet him.

‘Good morning,’ said Rheinhardt, looking up into the round moonlike face.

‘Good morning, sir,’ the giant replied in stilted, grammatically compromised German. ‘I am very glad to be having seen you.’

His brother followed, but as the second giant ducked beneath the architrave he glowered back at the manager and uttered something in a strange tongue — so venomous and sibilant that it was clearly meant as an insult.

Rheinhardt and Haussmann entered the manager’s office. The balding man shooed the attendant away, rose from his chair, and bowed.

‘Ralf Grosskopf. At your service.’

‘Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt and my assistant, Haussmann.’

‘Please sit down, gentlemen. I’d offer you some tea, but my secretary hasn’t arrived yet. Forgive me.’

As Rheinhardt lowered himself into the chair, he could not stop himself from glancing back at the closing door.

‘Yes, they are a striking pair.’ Grosskopf’s hands travelled in opposite directions from a central point in the air, successfully conjuring an imaginary billboard headline: ‘The Two Darlings: the largest brothers ever seen.’

‘Where are they from?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Tibet. Well, that’s what they claim — but who knows, really.’ The manager laughed. ‘They were a real draw last year. They can lift seven men above their heads, break iron bars in two, and juggle with three-hundred-kilo weights.’

‘They didn’t look very happy,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Oh, they’ll come around — a little misunderstanding over the terms of their engagement, that’s all. It’s their agent’s fault. Nestroy. He’s an honest man but not very good on detail. Now, how can I help you?’

‘Cäcilie Roster … ’

‘Zilli? Dear Zilli? What about her?’

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘She performed here?’

‘Yes. She sang some songs between The Osmond Troupe and Bastian Biedermeier, the illusionist.’

‘Did she go home after the performance?’

‘No. I think she said she was going to Löiberger’s. He stays open late, you see. She often goes there after shows.’

‘Was she meeting someone?’

‘Probably.’

‘Do you know who?’

Grosskopf shook his head.

‘It’s hard to keep track of her admirers. She’s a popular girl.’ The manager winked before leaning forward and lowering his voice. ‘Last week I found her in The Two Darlings’ dressing room. They were throwing her across the table as if she was a ball. She said she was developing a new stage routine with them …’

Grosskopf raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

The thought of the young chanteuse abandoning herself to the eccentric pleasures of the two giants robbed Rheinhardt temporarily of the power of speech. He imagined the arc of her trajectory: hair in disarray, skirts billowing — Cäcilie Roster, manhandled into the air by arms capable of shearing iron. It was some time before the image receded, with its troubling erotic implications.

‘You are not painting a very ladylike picture of Fräulein Roster.’

‘True. But I haven’t said anything that would offend her. She abhors convention, its part of her charm.’ Grosskopf wiggled his fingers in the air. ‘She’s a fascinating woman.’

‘Does she have a following: gentlemen who always attend her performances?’

‘Not just gentlemen,’ said Grosskopf, producing a burst of suggestive eyebrow movements.

Rheinhardt produced a weary sigh.

‘Would you recognise any of these … supporters?’

‘Yes, some of them. There’s a fellow who wears a fur coat and carries a cane — and another who looks a little like the mayor.’ Grosskopf leaned back in his chair. ‘Has Zilli done something wrong? If so, I sincerely hope you don’t intend to arrest her. She’s still under contract.’

‘Tell me more about Fräulein Roster’s supporters.’

‘There’s not much more to say. They come to see her sing and then they leave. Sometimes they wait for her by the stage door.’

‘What do they want?’

‘We sell postcards of our artists in the foyer. They like to get them signed. And some of them give her small gifts: bunches of flowers, jewellery.’

‘Do you know if she was given a hatpin recently?’

Grosskopf shrugged.

‘Look, my friend, if you want to know what Zilli gets up to after shows, I’m not the person to ask. You should talk to Löiberger.’