Deadly Communion

54

ALTHOUGH RHEINHARDT AND LIEBERMANN had communicated by telephone, they had not seen each other in person for over a week. They began their evening’s music-making with some of Hugo Wolf’s Goethe settings, the highlight of which was a particularly boisterous rendition of Was in der Schenke waren heute — ‘What a commotion in the Inn.’ Liebermann attacked the keys of the Bösendorfer with furious, gleeful violence, while Rheinhardt sang the melody as loud as his vocal cords would allow. Such was their relief at reaching the end of the song without a single error that they both laughed. As the evening progressed, their choices became more subdued and they finished their programme with four introspective lieder by Brahms. The last of these, Die Mainacht — ‘May Night’ — was performed with great amplitude of feeling. For Liebermann, the words of Ludwig Hölty’s poetry seemed to find an uncanny echo in the testament that he was about to show his friend:

When, O smiling vision that shines through my soul

Like the red of dawn, shall I find you here on earth?

And the lonely tear

Quivers more ardently down my cheek.

They entered the smoking room and sat opposite the fireplace. Liebermann had positioned Sprenger’s notebook on the table between the two chairs.

‘Is this it?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Yes.’

Rheinhardt picked up the notebook and fanned through the pages.

‘He’s still not speaking,’ said Liebermann, ‘but over the last two weeks he has been complying with my request. He has been writing an account of his history and instalments have been arriving daily. Progress has been slow, probably because of the morphium he is given to relieve pain; however, it is just as likely that the medication has served to facilitate his disclosures — breaking down his internal resistances. Even though Sprenger refuses to engage in conversation, I have been treating him like any other patient. After he completes each new chapter, I then read it in his presence and reflect aloud on its content. What you have in your hands is a brief but extraordinary biography. It details Sprenger’s life, from his birth to the murder of Cäcilie Roster.’

‘Shall I read it now?’

‘Yes, it won’t take long.’

Liebermann poured some brandy and offered Rheinhardt a cigar. After turning only a few pages Rheinhardt exclaimed: ‘Griesser! His assumed identity is the name of his old schoolteacher!’

‘Indeed. Now read the next paragraph.’

Rheinhardt brought the notebook closer to his nose.

‘An amateur archaeologist …’

‘I visited the Natural History Museum and spoke to the archivist. He was able to find the schoolteacher’s original letter addressed to the Museum director.’

‘Remarkable. Where was it sent from?’

‘Kluneberg — a tiny mountain village in Styria’.

Rheinhardt continued reading, grumbling to himself, occasionally muttering a single word such as ‘madness’, ‘astonishing’ or ‘fiend’, while Liebermann swirled his brandy and smoked. The atmosphere in the room became pungent and hazy. When Rheinhardt had finished, he closed the notebook and turned to Liebermann. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped and filled his cheeks with air. Shaking his head, he said: ‘Insane. He is completely insane!’

‘I agree. But there is an underlying logic to his madness that makes it — in a sense — comprehensible.’

‘Can we believe everything that he has written here?’

‘He may have embellished certain episodes from his early childhood, but for the most part I think he has given a faithful account of his life. The existence of the schoolteacher’s letter gives us a strong indication that Sprenger is telling the truth.’

Rheinhardt took a cigar.

‘You were right — he’s a … what did you call him?’

‘A thanatophile,’ said Liebermann, relishing each syllable. ‘Yes, I was right, although I must confess my use of the term was little more than a naming exercise — yet another example of how we doctors create a strong impression of erudition by seasoning our German with Latin and Greek! I had no idea why or how Sprenger might have come to associate the instant of another’s death with sexual gratification.’

‘And you do now? I’m not sure I do — even after reading this …’ Rheinhardt tapped the cover of the notebook before adding ‘… bizarre deposition.’

‘You will remember our discussion of the Sophocles syndrome, in relation to Erstweiler?’

‘I do …’ Rheinhardt waved his cigar in the air ‘… vaguely.’

‘Then you will forgive me for repeating myself, because if you do not understand the Sophocles syndrome you will not understand Sprenger.’

‘But you mentioned it in relation to Erstweiler.’

‘Indeed, the syndrome elucidates the behaviour of both men. Professor Freud has posited a general phenomenon of early childhood, characterised by love of the mother and jealousy — perhaps even hate — of the father. Our two cases, Erstweiler and Sprenger, represent extreme examples of what can happen when Oedipal feelings are unresolved. In the case of Sprenger, the emphasis has fallen on love of the mother, whereas in the case of Erstweiler, the emphasis has fallen on hate of the father.’

‘I would not dispute the notion that all children love their mothers,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That is self-evident. Moreover, it is also self-evident that one must grow up, and that growing up involves becoming more independent. Therefore, the intense love that one feels for one’s mother during early childhood must go through certain changes: which is what I believe you are referring to when you talk of feelings being resolved. All of this I am happy to accept; however, I have a strong suspicion that when you refer to love of the mother, you don’t mean that kind of love. Your allusion to Sophocles’ Oedipus suggests something altogether less innocent, less natural.’

‘Natural? Perhaps it is natural for the human infant to have a presentiment of adult feelings. Perhaps this first great attachment to the mother is a form of rehearsal for future intimacies.’

‘If so, then it is a rehearsal relevant to only half the population! How does Oedipus’s situation translate with respect to the female child? As a father of two daughters I would be most interested to know.’

‘I am not sure that Professor Freud has given that question much consideration.’

Rheinhardt harrumphed and drew on his cigar, producing a flotilla of smoke clouds.

Liebermann ignored Rheinhardt’s disapproval and continued with his explanation: ‘Sprenger’s mother died in childbirth and absence — as we know — increases yearning. So it was that Sprenger’s love for his mother was intensified and his overestimation of her beauty — encouraged by his father’s insistence that she was an angel — was never tested against a fallible reality of flesh and blood. His longing knew no bounds. Idealisation was transformed into idolatry. In his childish mind, his father’s encomium became a psychological truth. She was not like an angel, she was an angel — with wings — the undeniable fact of their existence being supported by photographic evidence! Any young boy, bereft of his mother, would pine for her, want her back again. But Sprenger, knowing that he had been the cause of her death, desired her return with a depth of feeling that is difficult for us to appreciate. The notion of reunion offered the prospect of absolution: freedom from the guilt associated with his first — and most terrible — sin.’

The young doctor paused to take a sip of his brandy.

‘Sprenger mentions communing with his mother’s image,’ Liebermann continued. ‘It is worth noting that in our culture the idea of communing arises mostly in two contexts: the mystical and the carnal. We commune with God and we commune with lovers. Thus we can conclude that, even when Sprenger was very young, thanatos and eros were drawing closer together in his unconscious. I would also direct your attention to the fact that Sprenger’s father seems to have been jealous of his son’s communing. On discovering his son holding his wife’s photograph, we learn that he snatched the picture away. For young Sprenger, it must have been like being found in flagrante delicto.’

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.

Liebermann was unperturbed: ‘Sprenger’s precocious interest in death — as evinced by his desire to see the mummies in Vienna’s Natural History Museum — was merely symptomatic of his desire to be reunited with his mother. I also wonder if oblivion held some attraction for him, because it suggests a corresponding state — or non-state — before birth, the oblivion of the womb in which the unborn child is not only close to its mother but symbiotically joined.’

Liebermann lit himself another cigar.

‘I will summarise: firstly, all male infants experience feelings towards their mothers which presage the sensual longings of maturity; secondly, in Sprenger, these feelings were magnified by his peculiar circumstances; thirdly, Sprenger wished to be reunited with his mother; and, finally, Sprenger’s mother became “idealised” as an angelic being. These four factors — taken together — represent the cornerstones of Sprenger’s psychopathology.’

Satisfied with the first part of his exposition, Liebermann allowed himself a brief pause during which he enjoyed the woody flavours of his cigar. Rheinhardt waited patiently.

‘It is not difficult,’ said Liebermann, stirring, ‘to see how Sprenger learned to find corpses desirable. His nocturnal auto-erotic activities were undertaken while holding his breath and keeping very still — something he did initially to avoid waking his father. In due course, stillness became eroticised and incorporated into exploratory play with the village girls. When he saw Netti and Gerda in their caskets — perfectly still — he became acquainted with a level of arousal more intense than anything that he had experienced before. Thus Sprenger’s sexual interest was diverted by small degrees from its natural course to a most irregular destination. If Sprenger’s sexual development had progressed in the context of an otherwise normal life, he would have been no different to any of Krafft-Ebing’s necrophiliacs. But this was not the case. His sexual development occurred against the remarkable background I have already described. This combination raised him above the ranks of common deviancy. With the strengthening of his libido, his desire for communion with his mother gained urgency; however, even in Sprenger’s disturbed mind the universal taboo against incest necessitated a defensive transformation. To make such an ambition acceptable, his mother — already equipped with wings — became the Angel of Death. It was a metamorphosis that required little effort, and his fevered imagination supplied him with appropriate hallucinations: subtle intimations, auras of violet light, and the winged figure herself …’

Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar.

‘Are you proposing,’ said Rheinhardt, his cheeks aglow with indignation, ‘that Sprenger killed women to satisfy an infantile wish to have intercourse with his mother?’

‘Ultimately — yes.’

‘I’m sorry, Max, this time …’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘This time you have followed your mentor into a quagmire. I have the greatest respect for Professor Freud, but—’

‘Oskar, how can you doubt it!’ Liebermann cried. ‘When Sprenger writes of his visit to the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris he mentions the portal reliefs. His attention was captured by Mary depicted not as Mother of God but as the bride of Christ. Do you not see? That was the turning point. Soon after, he resolved to summon the Angel of Death by commiting a murder. The portal inspired him to summon his bride. Mother and bride become one in his unconscious.’ Liebermann reached over and impudently snatched the notebook from Rheinhardt’s lap. ‘And what about this?’ He flicked through the pages with quick, impatient movements. ‘Oh, to be sheltered — once again — in the sanctuary of those great wings, which close around the soul with the tenderness of a mother suckling her newborn child? That is how Sprenger describes communing with the Angel of Death! Does that not strike you as odd? That he chooses to compare one of the most terrifying personifications in mythology to a mother suckling her newborn child!’

Rheinhardt offered a concessionary tilt of the head.

‘Yes, I must admit: that is a most peculiar sentiment to express — given the nature of the being he is describing.’

A lengthy silence ensued, during which Liebermann continued turning pages, intermittently pausing to reread certain passages. Rheinhardt observed his friend, the intensity of his expression and the stubborn set of his jaw.

‘This is interesting,’ said Liebermann, his voice sounding distant and absorbed. ‘Sprenger says that he was fond of Fräulein Babel. There was something about her that moved him to pity. Do you remember when we were at Fräulein Babel’s apartment? And I suggested that the perpetrator might have left the door open because he wanted to be caught. I think this passage confirms my hypothesis. Some residue of conscience was rebelling against his psychopathology and the effects of the toxin in his brain.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Rheinhardt, his full baritone suddenly sounding abnormally loud. ‘I wanted to ask you about that. You have hitherto given me the impression that the lead oxide was very significant. Yet now you seem to be placing much greater stress on Sprenger’s Oedipal inclinations and his early sexual development.’

‘Both are important,’ Liebermann replied. ‘Sprenger’s longing for his mother, his auto-erotic behaviour, his exploratory games with the village girls, his exposure to the caskets, and his necrophilia in adulthood all contributed to his illness. But his wish to commune with the Angel of Death might have remained a wish, and only a wish, had it not been for the lead oxide. It is possible that the poison, over many years, accumulated in those parts of the brain that mediate inhibition. Without inhibitory functioning there was nothing to stop him — and fantasy became reality.’

The two men fell silent and a significant interval of time passed. Somewhere in the building a cello was playing. The notes teased at the limits of audition, suggesting — but never quite becoming — a recognisable melody. Eventually, Liebermann turned towards his friend and said: ‘I think we should consider one other factor that has contributed to Sprenger’s unique presentation.’

‘Oh?’ said Rheinhardt, blinking as he emerged from the closed world of his private cogitations.

‘Us,’ said Liebermann.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Us: me — you — all of us — we Viennese. We are utterly preoccupied with sex and death. The signs of this preoccupation are everywhere: in our theatres, art galleries, opera houses, and concert halls. Consider Klimt’s seductresses, or the funeral marches that director Mahler puts in his symphonies. The good people of Vienna are flocking to the opera house in order to see the new production of Tristan and Isolde: a story in which — tellingly — the potions of love and death are confused. Young rakes are always having affairs which end with a demand for satisfaction. What begins in the bedroom progresses inexorably to the grave: prostitutes on the Graben and suicides reported daily in the newspapers — Professor Freud, who has shown us that even a dream of flying is libidinous — Krafft-Ebing — Schnitzler’s promiscuous shop girls — the overblown pomp and macabre ceremony of our funerals — and syphilis, our national disease — always there to remind us of our dual obsession: sex and death. Sick bodies produce symptoms — and the sick body of our society has produced Sprenger!’

Rheinhardt grunted into his brandy glass.

‘You seem to be making an appeal for clemency on Sprenger’s behalf. Let us not forget those poor women: Fräuleins Zeiler, Babel, Wirth and Roster.’ Rheinhardt put down his brandy glass and pulled at his lower lip. ‘Just a moment …’ His eyes widened. ‘Sprenger doesn’t mention Fräulein Wirth.’

‘I was wondering how long it would take you to realise that.’

Two furrows appeared on Rheinhardt’s forehead.

‘Why doesn’t he mention Selma Wirth?’

‘He doesn’t mention Selma Wirth — because he has no idea who she is.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t kill her.’

‘How can you say that?’

Liebermann lifted the notebook and held it up in the air like a fervent preacher wielding his Bible: ‘What Sprenger has written in here is entirely coherent. One couldn’t fabricate such a history. A fabricated history would be full of anomalies and wouldn’t make sense psychologically. He has not baulked at admitting the murders of Fräuleins Zeiler, Babel and Roster, so why should he baulk at admitting to the murder of Fräulein Wirth?’

‘Could the omission of Fräulein Wirth be a failure of memory? You said he is being given morphium.’

‘No, Oskar. Sprenger never knew her. She was killed with a dagger, not a hatpin. We should have given this inconsistency more thought, afforded it greater significance.’ Liebermann allowed his words to register and waited for the alarm to show in Rheinhardt’s eyes, before adding: ‘Fräulein Wirth’s murderer is still at large.’

‘Dear God,’ said Rheinhardt, picking up his glass again. Liebermann poured him another brandy. The inspector swung his head back and dispensed with the contents like a shot of schnapps. He coughed and repeated: ‘Dear God.’ Rheinhardt turned the empty glass in his hand: ‘What now? Where do we begin?’

‘Frau Vogl?’ Liebermann ventured.

‘Yes, and Fräulein Wirth’s neighbour, Frau Lachkovics. Perhaps they will be able to remember some new detail. The neighbour’s daughter — Jana — was a simple child. I doubt that she will be able to help us more than she already has.’

‘When we questioned Frau Vogl she mentioned seeing a man wearing a bowler hat waiting in the courtyard outside Fräulein Wirth’s apartment.’

‘She did indeed.’

‘And Frau Vogl believed that Frau Wirth was seeing someone — a lover.’

‘It was only a suspicion and if the gentleman wearing the bowler hat was Frau Wirth’s lover why would he have been loitering in the courtyard?’

‘A good question: to which the answer might be that he was waiting in the courtyard in order to observe the arrival of Frau Vogl.’

‘To what end?’

Liebermann shrugged.

‘I don’t know.’

It was obvious to Rheinhardt that his friend had had an idea but was not eager to share it. The inspector, slightly irritated by Liebermann’s evasiveness, voiced his own train of thought.

‘There was also the landlord’s agent,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Shevchenko. I’ll talk to him again. Fräulein Wirth had fallen behind with her rent. Frau Lachkovics said that her neighbour was in debt because she was always spending money on doctors.’

‘Doctors …’ Liebermann repeated. Then, playing a five-finger exercise on Sprenger’s notebook, he added: ‘Fräulein Wirth had a consultation with Doctor Vogl.’ The word ‘consultation’ sagged under a weight of innuendo.

Rheinhardt spoke sofly: ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘When we left the Vogls’ house I couldn’t help feeling that there was something—’

‘Wrong,’ Rheinhardt cut in. ‘I know, Max. But you didn’t succeed in winning me over to that view.’

‘What if there had been some impropriety?’

‘Between Vogl and Wirth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, Vogl wouldn’t have killed Wirth to ensure her silence — if that’s what you’re thinking — even if exposure would have meant the end of his marriage. A man in Vogl’s position wouldn’t take such a risk. Besides, Frau Vogl is a striking, handsome woman — is she not? It seems unlikely that Vogl would have chosen to pursue his wife’s lame friend. What are we to suppose — that while Vogl was examining her wasted leg he was overcome with passion?’

‘She could have seduced him. She could have offered him particular favours — to which men are partial and for which women commonly express distaste.’

‘And why would she have done that?’

‘To spite Frau Vogl.’

‘Frau Vogl was Frau Wirth’s friend.’

‘A beautiful, healthy, talented, successful friend — feted by society and loved by her husband. One could grow to resent such a friend if one was a lame laundry worker.’

Rheinhardt considered Liebermann’s proposal and shook his head.

‘No … you are wrong.’

Liebermann smiled.

‘I might be wrong — but not very wrong.’

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

‘Actually, I’m having the day off.’

‘Then I hope,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you haven’t arranged to do anything important.’