Deadly Communion

57

FRAU LACHKOVICS’S APARTMENT WAS empty. Liebermann and Rheinhardt waited for her to return, smoking in the courtyard, and when Rheinhardt’s stomach began to emit gurgling sounds it was decided that they should repair to a local beer cellar. They found a welcoming establishment and spent the next hour enjoying well-cooked tafelspitz — boiled beef — served with fried potatoes, apple horseradish and chive sauce. The meal was washed down with several steins of Edelweiss. Fortified by the wholesome fare and the cordial properties of the liquor, they marched back to Frau Lachkovics’s apartment and were relieved to find the windows brightly illuminated.

The two men were admitted into a humble parlour where Jana, Frau Lachkovics’s daughter, sat silently on a wicker chair in the corner. Rheinhardt introduced Liebermann and was surprised by Frau Lachkovics’s response. She became agitated — her gaze oscillating anxiously between Jana and Liebermann. It appeared to Rheinhardt that Frau Lachkovics had jumped to an erroneous conclusion: that he had brought a doctor with him to examine Jana, with the intention of getting her admitted into a hospital. Rheinhardt was moved by a wave of pity.

‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said the inspector, reaching out and gently touching the woman’s sleeve. ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is my colleague. He is not here to act in a medical capacity.’

The woman sighed: a release of tension.

She motioned as if to speak — but an idea seemed to rise up in her mind which robbed her of confidence.

‘Frau Lachkovics?’ Rheinhardt inquired.

She shook her head: ‘Please sit.’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were obliged to share the narrow space between the arms of a small sofa. They found themselves squeezed together, and no amount of shifting, wriggling or turning eased their compression.

‘You were out earlier,’ said Rheinhardt to Frau Lachkovics, withdrawing his elbow from beneath Liebermann’s arm.

‘Yes,’ replied Frau Lachkovics, drawing up a stool. ‘I’m sorry, we were in Ottakring. My mother … you remember — I told you I have an elderly mother?’

‘Indeed.’

Frau Lachkovics adjusted the drop of her skirt as she sat down.

‘The tram was late — I don’t know why. Did you send a message? If I had known then—’

Rheinhardt cut in: ‘Please do not fret on our account, Frau Lachkovics, your late return afforded us an opportunity to enjoy the splendid tafelspitz served at the Trinklied.’ He gestured vaguely towards the street. ‘Frau Lachkovics, I have some more questions I would like to ask you in connection with Fräulein Wirth.’ Frau Lachkovics did not raise any objection.

The arrest of Markus Sprenger had been discussed interminably at the laundry; however, knowledge of his arrest did not embolden her to ask Rheinhardt why he had come back again to ask more questions. She passively accepted the policeman’s authority.

‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘are you quite certain that Fräulein Wirth did not have any gentlemen friends?’

‘I cannot be absolutely sure. But I think it very unlikely. You see, we saw a great deal of each other. We would walk to the laundry together in the morning and return together at the end of the day. And I always knew when Selma had visitors. You can hear people knocking on her door from here. The walls are thin. I never saw any gentlemen arriving, apart from Herr Shevchenko, the landlord’s agent. I saw Selma’s friend Frau Vogl and some other girls from the laundry, Christa and Steffi — but never any men. Besides, if she had met someone, I’m sure she would have said something. It was in her nature to share personal things. She was never reticent.’

‘About the time when Fräulein Wirth …’ Rheinhardt glanced at the girl in the corner and searched for a diplomatic turn of phrase. ‘About the time when Fräulein Wirth met with her sad end, do you recall ever seeing any strangers loitering in the courtyard?’

‘No.’

‘A man wearing a bowler hat and a long coat?’

‘I do not recall seeing any strangers.’

‘But what about any gentlemen answering to that particular description?’

‘A bowler hat and long coat? There are many men who dress like that.’

‘Indeed,’ Rheinhardt altered his position: ‘You mentioned Herr Shevchenko …’

Frau Lachkovics frowned.

‘Yes?’

‘Has he always behaved … correctly?’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘Always shown you the proper respect that a lady is entitled to expect from a gentleman?’ The woman looked at Rheinhardt blankly. ‘I am sorry,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘but I must ask you an indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko ever proposition you? Did he ever make an unwelcome amorous advance?’

‘Herr Shevchenko! Good heavens, no!’

Frau Lachkovics’s cheeks became luminous and a hectic flush travelled down her neck.

‘I am sorry, madam, but I am obliged to ask you yet another indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko — to your knowledge — ever proposition Fräulein Wirth?’

The flush intensified.

‘No, no …’

‘Would Fräulein Wirth have told you — do you think — if he had?’

Frau Lachkovics paused before answering. Rheinhardt could see that she was giving his question serious consideration.

‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Yes, I think she would. Herr Shevchenko is not that sort of man. His only concern is collecting rents. He never makes small talk, never dallies. He just collects the rent and leaves. Most of the tenants around here don’t like him. It’s true: he never smiles and he can be abrupt and surly. But I do not think he is a bad man — rather someone who is sad and lonely.’

The wicker chair creaked as the girl in the corner stood up. She crossed the floor and stood behind her mother. Frau Lachkovics turned and smiled.

‘Jana?’

The girl did not respond. Instead, she fixed her stare on Rheinhardt. Her gaze was purposeful, yet her expression remained disconcertingly void. Her lineaments gave no clue as to the nature of her personality, her mood or what she might be thinking. She raised her arm. In her hand she was holding a book.

‘Can I keep this,’ she said in a dull monotone, ‘now that she is dead?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Jana!’ exclaimed Frau Lachkovics, tugging the girl’s skirt sharply to express her disapproval. The admonishment had no effect.

‘Now that Selma is dead,’ Jana continued, ‘can I keep her books?’

‘Selma gave you that?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Yes.’

Rheinhardt extricated himself from the sofa and rose to take the volume from the girl’s hand. He examined the spine and discovered it was a collection of children’s stories.

‘There’s another one in the kitchen,’ said Jana.

Rheinhardt fanned through the pages. Some illustrations flashed out from the blur of text. Suddenly the fluttering came to a halt at a point where a little ticket had been inserted. Rheinhardt pulled it out, studied the print, and then said to Frau Lachkovics: ‘Is this yours?’

‘No.’

‘What is it?’ asked Liebermann.

‘A ticket for one of the luggage lockers at the Südbahnhof.’

The ensuing silence was broken by Jana.

‘Well — can I keep the books?’

‘You can keep the books,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘if I can keep this ticket.’