Deadly Communion

21

Rheinhardt entered Cafe Museum clutching Bathild Babel’s address book. He did not find the ambience of the new coffee house very welcoming. It felt rather cold and the plain decor appeared unfinished. Shortly after Cafe Museum opened, Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann what he thought of it. The young doctor had insisted that the architect — Adolf Loos — was a genius, and spoke enthusiastically about the virtue of clear lines and simplicity. The inspector had not been persuaded by Liebermann’s arguments and remained completely unmoved by the stark functional interior. He could not see beauty in emptiness, only a lack of invention. He hoped, as he sat at a table, that the cakes would not be as bland as the coffee house’s design.

He ordered a Turkische coffee and a piece of Dobostorte. When the cake arrived — a baroque creation festooned with complex embellishments — he was grateful that the chef had not succumbed to the culinary equivalent of modernity. The pressure of his fork forced generous applications of chocolate cream to bulge out between the layers of sponge, and when he took the first mouthful of the Dobostorte the sweetness and intensity of the flavour produced in him a feeling of deep satisfaction.

When he had finished the cake, Rheinhardt asked to see the head waiter. The man who arrived was not unlike himself. A portly gentleman with a well-waxed moustache.

His name was Herr Heregger.

‘I trust the Dobostorte was to your satisfaction, sir?’

‘It was excellent. The consistency of the chocolate cream was particularly good.’

Rheinhardt showed the waiter his identification.

‘Security office?’ asked Herr Heregger, surprised.

‘Yes — please take a seat.’ The waiter lowered his large haunches onto a spindly chair, and Rheinhardt opened Bathild Babel’s address book. ‘I’m looking for a man called Griesser. He gave Cafe Museum as his address. Do you know him?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s a customer.’

‘How long has he been coming here?’

‘Actually, he’s only been a few times.’

‘Recently?’

‘Yes, last week and the week before. He told me that he’d just moved to Vienna and was living in temporary accommodation. He asked if it would be possible for us to collect his mail, as it was his intention to breakfast at Cafe Museum when he was settled. I said that I had no objection.’

‘Did any letters arrive?’

‘Just one.’

‘And did he collect it?’

‘On his second visit.’

‘And he’s had no more since?’

‘No.’

Rheinhardt offered Herr Heregger a cigar, but the man refused.

‘Did Herr Griesser tell you what his profession was?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think he did for a living?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Can you describe him to me?’

The head waiter scratched his chin.

‘Tallish. Black hair.’ His tone was cautious — as though he lacked confidence in the accuracy of his memory.

‘Eye colour?’ Rheinhardt prompted.

‘Oh, I can’t remember that, inspector.’

‘Age?’

‘Quite young.’

‘What? Early twenties? Mid-twenties?’

‘Yes. Mid- to late twenties, I should think.’

‘Educated?’

‘He spoke well.’

‘Anything else you remember?’ The head waiter looked across the floor towards the two billiard tables. His vacant expression changed suddenly, a glimmer of light appearing in his eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, now that you mention it …’

‘What?’

‘I can remember something else about him.’ Heregger smiled and a second chin appeared beneath the first. ‘His smell.’

‘His cologne?’

‘No. It was something else. A sweet, tarry smell. Like carbolic.’