Deadly Communion

49

RHEINHARDT WAS SITTING IN Liebermann’s office at the General Hospital feeling tired and extremely hungry. He took the Luger pistol from his pocket and studied its construction: the long barrel, the crescent trigger and elegant handgrip.

A perfect example of the gun manufacturer’s craft.

Yet even with such a finely balanced weapon he had missed Sprenger — twice.

Rheinhardt did not feel shame when he reflected on his inadequate marksmanship but rather a sense of relief, for he knew that if he had hit his mark he would — at that moment — be feeling quite different. He would not be looking forward to his bed, the warmth of his wife’s body, and a swift descent into untroubled, restorative sleep. Instead, he would be contemplating the night ahead with trepidation: a long night, sitting in the darkness, smoking and ruminating — wrestling with his conscience. Liebermann often spoke of unconscious motivation. Had some hidden part of his mind interfered with his aim? He was too weary to tackle such an esoteric question. His stomach was gurgling and for Rheinhardt hunger precluded thought. The feeling of emptiness, the nagging hollow at the very centre of his being, was too distracting. He put the Luger back into his pocket and wondered if he would be able to get to Café Eiles before it closed.

Rheinhardt opened one of Liebermann’s drawers and examined the contents: a formulary, a pen and a stethoscope.

But no biscuits …

The door opened and Liebermann entered.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for something to eat.’

‘Well, you won’t find anything in there. This may come as a surprise to you, Oskar, but not everyone keeps a store of Linzer biscotten among their work things.’

Rheinhardt closed the drawer and leaned back in his chair.

‘Well?’

‘His condition is stable.’

‘Will he live?’

‘Professor Bieler is very optimistic.’

‘I suppose that qualifies as good news.’ Rheinhardt folded his arms across his stomach. ‘The people of Vienna would have felt cheated if Sprenger had succeeded in his bid to evade justice.’

‘They might still be denied.’

‘You are thinking of the lead oxide …’

‘It is something the court must consider.’

‘Surely, Max, you cannot believe that Sprenger was driven to perform his atrocities by his hair dye! Not every individual unfortunate enough to suffer from lead poisoning then takes it upon himself to kill for sexual gratification!’

‘The brain is complex — and poisons may have effects that vary from individual to individual. It is not inconceivable.’

‘Are there any other cases similar to Sprenger’s that you know of?’

‘No. However, there are some historians who have posited a theory that the Roman Empire fell not because of the incursion of the barbarian hordes but because of a generalised insanity resulting from the widespread use of lead pipes and kitchenware. I suspect that the foundations of Sprenger’s thanatophilia were laid in his childhood and that the lead poisoning exacerbated his existing psychopathology.If so, then the poisoning might represent a mitigating factor. I would be more than happy to prepare a medical report.’

Rheinhardt narrowed his eyes.

‘I think you’re pleased to have him here.’

‘I wouldn’t say pleased, exactly.’

‘What, then? You are not displeased.’

‘I am grateful that I have been afforded an opportunity to satisfy my professional curiosity.’

‘Psychiatrists,’ said Rheinhardt, shaking his head. ‘At what point do you baulk at the study of perversity and madness? Do you never think that some things are so dreadful — so appalling — that they should simply be left alone?’

‘It is always better to understand than not.’

The inspector had heard Liebermann’s pithy dictum many times before.

‘Are you so sure?’ Rheinhardt looked troubled. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether some minds are so deranged that nothing useful can come out of their study. Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis has sold in thousands of copies and because it is a scientific work respectable gentlemen read it without scruple. Yet do they really read those cases — page after page of horror, sickness, and moral degeneracy — to improve their understanding of mental illness? I think not. They read the Psychopathia Sexualis because it is sensational and it arouses in them a dubious prurient excitement.’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Rheinhardt ventured an appeasing smile. He realised that he might have gone too far.

‘I’m sorry, Max: I am tired and hungry. You are a peculiar breed — you psychiatrists — but invaluable, nevertheless.’ Liebermann inclined his head.

‘What do you want to do about Erstweiler?’

The sentence was delivered with a certain frosty reserve.

‘Good heavens! Erstweiler! Our trip out to Simmering feels like ancient history!’

‘I’ll be seeing him again tomorrow morning. Perhaps you should be here.’

‘Ten-thirty? Would that be convenient?’

‘It would indeed.’

Rheinhardt stood up and slapped a heavy hand on Liebermann’s shoulder.

‘Well done, Max. You’re a courageous fellow.’ The young doctor shrugged. ‘Could I interest you in a late dinner at Café Eiles?’

Liebermann returned Rheinhardt’s smile.

‘I was about to suggest something very similar myself.’