Deadly Communion

16

‘Herr Rainmayr,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘When we spoke last, you said that Fraulein Zeiler became petulant when you couldn’t offer her work. But would it be more accurate to say that you argued and that subsequently she threatened you in some way?’

‘Threatened me?’ Rainmayr replied. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

The artist was seated on a chair while Rheinhardt walked around the studio.

‘She never mentioned that she might go to the police?’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘To accuse you of improper conduct: seduction of a minor, to be precise.’

‘That is absurd, inspector.’

Rheinhardt turned to examine the artist’s face. It showed no emotion.

‘I recognise, Herr Rainmayr, that you are not fearful of the law. But I doubt whether your patrons or associates — whoever they are — would be able to give you an absolute guarantee of protection. Had Fraulein Zeiler made such an allegation, you would have been detained for questioning, tried, and the outcome — regardless of petitions and intercession — might have been a prison sentence lasting months, if not years.’

Rainmayr sighed.

‘You’ve been talking to that stupid bitch Pryska, haven’t you? Pryska Sykora?’

‘I am afraid I cannot disclose my sources.’

‘You don’t have to. I know exactly what’s happened here.’ The artist shook his head and smiled, baring his teeth without good humour. ‘It’s like this: Pryska has got herself involved with Kirchmann — a local coffee shop owner. He’s an ugly fellow and she’s been trying to get out of his clutches for some time. Herr Kirchmann’s charity is not without conditions, you understand? Now, a couple of months ago Pryska started coming here with her friends — models — and then she started coming on her own. It was obvious what she was up to. Needless to say, I didn’t respond to her clumsy attempts at playing the temptress and she became very angry. In fact, she threw the most ridiculous tantrum. She actually put her foot through a commission I was working on. It took me days to repair the damage. Clearly, she’s still smarting from the rejection. And now she’s decided to make trouble for me by telling you a pack of lies. Did you pay her for them, inspector? I hope not.’

Rheinhardt twisted his moustache and considered the unfinished canvas on Rainmayr’s easel. It showed a young woman lying on a divan. She was nude and her knees were spaced just far enough apart to expose a hectic stripe. Her skin was mottled and transparent, to the extent that the portrait was as much a study of the human skeleton as the naked body. Her ribcage was clearly visible and her breasts were shaded a putrescent green. It was a deeply troubling portrait, which managed to situate eroticism close to — if not in — the grave.

The artist observed Rheinhardt’s expression change from curiosity to disgust. He sighed and continued in a more conciliatory tone: ‘Look, inspector, I’m no angel — I’d be the first to admit it. But I do care about the girls who model for me. And when they’re in trouble, I try to help them. I’m an artist. My way of life might not meet with your approval but I can assure you I have standards — moral standards. Different from yours, but standards nevertheless. I don’t think I’ve been responsible for corrupting or harming any of the models I’ve sketched or painted. I’m not a child molester and I’m certainly not a murderer. Adele Zeiler was moody and we sometimes argued. But she never threatened to go to the police. That is completely false.’

‘Did you have relations with Adele Zeiler?’

The artist paused before saying: ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And how old was she?’

‘I don’t know. I thought she was seventeen. She might have been younger. It’s possible that her father lied about her age when we first met.’

Rheinhardt continued to question Rainmayr but he was already satisfied that the purpose of his visit had been accomplished. Fraulein Sykora’s evidence was — as he had suspected — quite worthless. In due course, Rheinhardt crossed the floor and opened the door.

‘Are you going already, inspector?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve told you the truth.’

As Rheinhardt departed there were no formal exchanges — only a heavy silence.

The inspector walked between the squat cottages, negotiating debris that had been strewn across the path. Above the vaulted tunnel that led to Lange Gasse he could see the upper storeys of apartment buildings. When he stepped out onto the main thoroughfare he was surprised to see his assistant waiting on the other side of the road. The young man hurried over.

‘Sir.’

‘What is it, Haussmann?’

‘Another one, sir.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Spittelberg.’