Deadly Communion

56

SHEVCHENKO’S OFFICE WAS IN a room above a piano shop which seemed to attract a very accomplished clientele. Bursts of Beethoven — played with great power and ferocity — rose up through the floorboards. The music created a curious tension in Liebermann’s fingers. They began to twitch sympathetically. It was as if the spirit of Beethoven’s violent genius had stormed his brain and taken possession of his nervous system. Liebermann locked his hands together, fearing that he might be compelled to shadow the presto agitato of the C sharp minor Sonata on an imaginary keyboard.

The remains of Shevchenko’s midday meal had not been cleared. An apple core had turned brown and the inedible skin of a sausage — crumpled and semi-transparent — resembled the sloughed-off hide of a snake. A smear of bright yellow mustard contributed an incongruous splash of colour to this otherwise moribund still life. Liebermann was overcome by a sense of bathos. The mundane trappings of Shevchenko’s routine — scraps on a plate — underscored the gulf that separated high art from the necessities of material existence. It seemed to the young doctor that the music which filled the air was arriving from another universe, a place entirely free from corruption, decay and corporeal imperfections.

They had been in Shevchenko’s office for approximately ten minutes.

After introducing Liebermann, Rheinhardt had explained the purpose of their visit. Shevchenko had listened impassively. Indeed, his expression had verged on indifference.

Liebermann found that he could not look at the Ruthenian without feeling slightly nauseous. The man’s hair was greasy, his beard untrimmed, and dirt had accumulated beneath his fingernails. He wore a frock coat, the material of which had become shiny in places through excessive wear. He also seemed to give off an unpleasant odour, similar to the sour smell that Liebermann associated with geriatric wards — an unpleasant blend of stale perspiration with ammonia.

‘Well, inspector,’ said Shevchenko. ‘I’m sorry to hear that the man who killed Fräulein Wirth is still free — naturally. But I’m afraid you’re wasting your time talking to me. I’ve already told you all that I know about Fräulein Wirth.’

Rheinhardt leaned forward.

‘When we last spoke, Herr Shevchenko, you said that Fräulein Wirth hadn’t paid her rent for months.’

‘Yes. She was always a bad payer. And she would give me such excuses.’ Shevchenko shook his head. ‘Such weak excuses.’

A few bars of the slow movement from the Waldstein Sonata wafted up from below.

‘It must be difficult for you to work up here,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘The music! Don’t you find it distracting?’

Shevchenko shrugged.

‘It doesn’t bother me.’

Rheinhardt leaned back and his chair creaked loudly.

‘Tell me, Herr Shevchenko. How would you describe your relations with Fräulein Wirth?’

‘Relations? What do you mean by relations?’

‘Did you get on?’

‘It’s not my job to get on with tenants, Herr inspector. I collect rents. A rent collector is never very popular.’

‘But, within reason, would you describe your relations with Fräulein Wirth as good?’

Shevchenko paused to consider the question before answering: ‘As good as they could be, given my responsibilities.’

‘She was not an unattractive woman — Fräulein Wirth.’ Shevchenko shrugged again. ‘Did you find her attractive?’

The Ruthenian’s eyes narrowed. He grunted and said: ‘What are you getting at, inspector? I am a plain-speaking man and would prefer it if you came directly to the point.’

‘Did you offer Fräulein Wirth exemption from the payment of rental arrears in exchange for sexual favours?’

The Ruthenian’s right eyebrow rose by a fraction.

‘Who told you that?’

‘A friend of the deceased.’

‘The neighbour? What’s her name? Lenkiewicz? No — Lachkovics! That’s it — was it Frau Lachkovics?’

‘It was not Frau Lachkovics.’

‘Then who? I have a right to know.’ Shevchenko held Rheinhardt’s gaze for a few moments, then sighed and looked away. ‘You have been misinformed, inspector.’

‘You did not find Fräulein Wirth attractive?’

‘No, inspector. I didn’t.’ Shevchenko lifted his head and looked directly at Rheinhardt. ‘When was I supposed to have made this proposal?’

‘Some time ago. A year — perhaps …’

The opening bars of the Pathetique Sonata added melodrama to the exchange.

‘About a year ago,’ Shevchenko repeated. He paused and counted his fingers while whispering the months of the year. ‘Actually, inspector, a proposal of that nature was made at that time. But it wasn’t me who made it.’

The music stopped abruptly, mid-phrase.

‘Would you care to elaborate?’

‘I am not a man to sully the reputation of the dead. The poor woman is in her grave.’

‘Herr Shevchenko, am I understanding you correctly? Fräulein Wirth offered you sexual favours in exchange for financial assistance?’

The Ruthenian placed his hand in his frock coat and took out a leather wallet that opened up like a book. He held it out so that Rheinhardt and Liebermann could see inside. It contained a photograph of a woman and an image of Jesus Christ ascending up to heaven in a cone of light. ‘Frau Shevchenko,’ said the rent collector. ‘We were married for twenty-five years. God didn’t choose to bless us with children — we only had each other. I never so much as looked at another woman my whole life — and haven’t since Frau Shevchenko died.’ The opening chords of the Pathetique sounded again. ‘She died about a year ago: a terrible illness, a wasting disease. Pain, vomiting, blood in the bedpan — and lots of it. I would work all day and be up all night nursing her. Sometimes the priest or one of the nuns would come and I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep, but no more. The doctors couldn’t do anything for her.’

At that moment the pianist below began an airy waltz, in which a repeated discordant semitone was employed to humorous effect. The change in mood was jarring.

‘Do you really think that under those circumstances,’ Shevchenko continued, ‘I would be seeking an arrangement — of the kind you suggest — with Fräulein Wirth?’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were silent. The waltz petered out.

Shevchenko looked at the image of his wife for a moment before putting it back in his pocket. His knuckle went to his right eye and his attempt to collect the tear that was waiting to fall did not succeed.

Liebermann felt a pang of regret. He had judged Shevchenko unkindly. The man’s lack of self-care had an obvious cause: profound grief. He was simply biding his time, waiting for death and a much longed-for reunion with his wife.

‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Herr Shevchenko,’ said Rheinhardt very softly, rising from his chair.

The Ruthenian nodded.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann crossed the floor, their footsteps coinciding uncomfortably with the beat of a jolly German dance tune.