Deadly Communion

46

LIEBERMANN, RHEINHARDT AND HAUSSMANN said very little to each other as the carriage rattled past the Stock Exchange, up Wipplingerstrasse and towards the Old Town Hall. It was a short journey and completed in a matter of minutes. Before getting out, Rheinhardt reached into his coat pocket and produced a pistol — a gleaming Luger Po8. He made some final checks and indicated his readiness to proceed.

They stepped down from the carriage and walked to the entrance of Schopp and Sons.

‘Haussmann, you wait here. If he runs out — tackle him.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

‘Good man.’

Rheinhardt opened the door and entered, Liebermann following behind him. The vestibule of the funeral parlour was large and austere. Apart from a crucifix, the ubiquitous portrait of the Emperor, and a vase of fragrant flowers, there were no other decorative features. A roll of black carpet encouraged visitors to step forward to a walnut reception desk which was at that moment unattended. One of several doors located behind the desk suddenly opened, and a gaunt grey-haired man, dressed in a long old-fashioned frock coat and wearing half-moon glasses, advanced to greet them. He seemed to have mastered the skill of soundless locomotion and glided forward silently, like a ghost. His hands were clasped in front of his chest and his shoulders were slightly hunched.

‘Gentlemen. Herr Wiesner — at your service.’

He bowed and remained in this submissive attitude for longer than protocol required. When he straightened up again — or at least straightened up as much as his wilting spine would allow — Rheinhardt showed him his identification.

‘I would like to speak to the director,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘One moment, please,’ said Wiesner.

After a brief absence, he returned and guided them down a long windowless corridor lit by flickering gas lamps. On either side were pedestals supporting ornate cinerary urns and statues of sphinxes. The effect was rather dreamlike. They arrived at a door on which Wiesner tapped with the knuckle of a crooked finger, producing a knock so faint that it was barely audible. Then he opened the door and extended his arm, inviting Rheinhardt and Liebermann to enter.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said a man standing by a tall window. He was gazing up at the sky which sagged with the promise of imminent rain.

‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and this is my colleague, Doctor Liebermann.’

‘That will be all, Wiesner.’ Schopp was completely bald but for two tufts of white hair that fanned out from behind his ears. His beard and moustache were also white but jaundiced by cigar smoke. ‘Please sit.’ He left the window and sat down on an ostentatious chair with a high carved back. It created the illusion of two eagles perched on his shoulders.

‘I would like to interview one of your employees,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I do not know his name but I do have a description. He is a young man in his late twenties or early thirties. He has black hair and blue eyes.’

Schopp nodded.

Rheinhardt expected him to speak but a peculiarity of his manner delayed his response by a few uneasy seconds.

‘You must mean Herr Sprenger. Markus Sprenger.’

‘In what capacity does he work here?’

‘He is an undertaker. But he has also made himself very useful to Doctor Profanter — our embalmer.’

‘Useful?’

Again, the response was delayed.

‘He prepares Doctor Profanter’s instruments and assists him when he arrives.’

‘When did Herr Sprenger start working for Schopp and Sons?’

‘He commenced work here about a year ago. Before then, I believe he was employed by Concordia. He came to us with excellent references.’

Schopp’s delivery was disconcerting. It was as though his sense of time deviated from everyone else’s.

‘Where is he now?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘I don’t know exactly. I’ll call Wiesner.’

‘If it’s not too much trouble, Herr Schopp, I would be most grateful if it was you who helped us to find him.’

Schopp shrugged and rose from his chair.

‘Herr Wiesner is perfectly capable.’

‘With respect, Herr Schopp …’ Rheinhardt gestured towards the door.

‘Very well. This way, please.’

The corridor outside led past a series of offices, some of which were occupied by middle-aged men attending to paperwork. Herr Schopp asked them if they had seen Herr Sprenger, but none of them had. A larger room, filled with coffins and smelling of sawdust and varnish, was empty. The morgue was also deserted.

Herr Schopp consulted his pocket watch. He stared at its face for an inordinate period of time before saying: ‘I’m sorry, Inspector Rheinhardt. It is five minutes past five. He must have gone home.’

‘Do you have his address?’

‘Wiesner will get it for you.’

As they retraced their way down the corridor Rheinhardt was conscious of the sphinxes on their pedestals. They were close cousins of the sphinxes in the garden of the Belvedere Palace, with wings, braided hair and breastplates. He remembered the discovery of Cäcilie Roster’s body, and how, overcome with despair, he had begged one of the great stone beasts for assistance. It was absurd — and he knew it. But he could not quell the conviction that his entreaty had been heard.