Deadly Communion

45

THE CARRIAGE DEPOSITED THEM outside the Schottenring police station. Rheinhardt and Liebermann entered the building and without exchanging words or glances ascended the stairs to the inspector’s office. Rheinhardt sat behind his desk and removed a stack of forms from one of the drawers. He picked up his pen and prepared to take a statement from his friend, but was distracted by the sweet fragrance of his wife’s baking. Reaching to the back of the drawer, he found the box of Linzer biscotten, which he took out and pushed towards Liebermann.

‘Else made them.’

‘In which case …’

Liebermann bit through the thick, brittle crust of icing. The shortbread crumbled and he had to perform some complex manoeuvres to stop jam from dropping onto his trousers.

‘She makes them in the shape of hearts. Do you think that says anything about her character?’

Liebermann drew back a little.

‘Are you really asking me to analyse your wife’s choice of pastry cutter?’

‘I was just wondering — that’s all.’ Rheinhardt acknowledged his friend’s censorious look and, pushing the final quarter of his own biscuit into his already crowded mouth, picked up the pen again. ‘Let us begin. However, I trust that when expressing the ideas that guided your thinking — the ideas that we discussed earlier — you will make allowances for the layman.’

‘Of course.’

‘Moreover, I think that it would be preferable if you avoided the use of certain technical terms. Such as …’ Rheinhardt’s tired eyes made a tacit but eloquent plea ‘… infant sexuality?’

‘Rest assured, I will do my best to eschew language that might cause offence.’

‘Thank you.’

Liebermann loosened his necktie.

‘Herr Norbert Erstweiler is currently a psychiatric inpatient at the General Hospital. He was referred to the department by his general practitioner, Doctor Vitzhum, after reporting insomnia, agitation, and feelings of dread.’

‘A little slower, please.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

Rheinhardt looked up from his writing.

‘Go on …’

‘I saw him for the first time during a ward round with Professor Pallenberg on Friday the fourth of April and undertook my own assessment on Sunday the sixth of April.’

Liebermann continued, but was obliged to stop when Haussmann appeared. The young man’s head craned around the edge of the door.

‘Sir?’

Rheinhardt produced a prodigious sigh.

‘What is it?’

‘Herr Löiberger’s downstairs — just arrived. He wants to see you. He says it is a matter of the utmost importance.’

‘Herr Löiberger?’

‘The gentleman who—’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Rheinhardt. ‘I know who he is!’ After a pause of considerable length, during which the pouches of loose skin beneath Rheinhardt’s eyes seemed to sink yet further down his cheeks, the inspector said: ‘Oh, very well. Go and get him.’ Turning to address Liebermann, he added: ‘You might as well stay here.’ He offered his friend another biscuit in order to justify taking another one himself. ‘When Löiberger arrives, take a good look at him. He bears a striking resemblance to Franz Schubert.’

After the biscuits had been consumed a silence ensued, which Liebermann relieved by humming.

‘Not that,’ said Rheinhardt, brushing some crumbs into a bin. ‘If Herr Löiberger hears, he’ll think you’re mocking him.’

Liebermann suddenly realised he had been humming the introductory theme of Schubert’s B minor ‘Unfinished’ Symphony.

‘I’m sorry, Oskar’ said Liebermann. ‘The melody just came into my head. It was quite unconscious.’

Rheinhardt moved the biscuits out of view as soon as he detected the steady beat of approaching footsteps. The door opened and Haussmann ushered Löiberger into the office. Rheinhardt stood to greet the coffee-house proprietor.

‘Herr Löiberger. Haussmann, please get Herr Schu— do get Herr Löiberger a chair.’ The inspector covered his mouth in an effort to convince everyone present that his slip was nothing more than a cough. ‘Please take a seat,’ he added, clearing his throat, and anxious to carry the conversation forward. ‘Permit me to introduce a colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann.’

Löiberger bowed and lowered himself into the chair that Haussmann had provided.

After the exchange of pleasantries, Rheinhardt made a steeple with his hands, peered over the pinnacle created by his touching forefingers, and waited for Herr Löiberger to speak.

‘Inspector. Forgive me for this intrusion — but …’ Herr Löiberger suddenly looked less confident. ‘I think I am in possession of information that could possibly be of some use to you.’

‘Please proceed.’

‘My wife’s cousin died yesterday.’

‘Did she? I am very sorry.’

‘There is no need to be. The familial bond was not particularly strong. Indeed, I must confess that my wife didn’t really like her cousin.’

‘I see.’

‘She was a valetudinarian, completely preoccupied by imaginary illnesses.’

‘That is a very peculiar thing to say of someone who has just died, Herr Löiberger.’

‘None of us are immortal, inspector. Even valetudinarians must die of something … eventually.’

‘You were saying: your wife and her cousin were not close.’

‘Quite so. Be that as it may, the responsibility of arranging the funeral has fallen upon my wife. My wife’s cousin’s estranged sister lives in England and the cousin’s brother — I regret to say — is something of a ne’er-do-well. He lost all his fortune at the gaming table and escaped his debtors by going to America. He is still in America, but God only knows where.’

‘I am sorry, but how — may I ask — is this information useful to me?’

‘When you came to my coffee house you were asking questions about the man whom I had seen with Cäcilie Roster. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, I remember our conversation very well.’

‘Today, I accompanied my wife to Schopp and Sons — the undertakers. They are situated near the old Town Hall. Our meeting with Herr Schopp was rather protracted on account of my wife’s cousin having left behind rather elaborate instructions for the church service and her interment. I have no idea why, because she was an atheist. It was as we were leaving that I saw him. He emerged from a door at the back of the reception area and immediately made his exit through another door.’

‘Him — being the man?’

‘Indeed.’

‘You are quite sure,’ said Rheinhardt slowly, ‘that it was the same man — the man with black hair and blue eyes — whom you saw with Cäcilie Roster on Sunday night?’

‘Quite sure.’

Rheinhardt leaned forward.

‘Could he have recognised you?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He didn’t look over.’

‘And when did this happen?’

‘About an hour ago. I came here directly.’

‘Thank you, Herr Löiberger,’ said Rheinhardt. Then, calling over to his assistant, he added: ‘Haussmann. Would you be so kind as to organise a carriage?’