Deadly Communion

44

The carriage followed the Ringstrasse around the western edge of the Innere Stadt before turning into Rennweg and heading south towards Simmering. Rheinhardt opened his bag and handed Liebermann an envelope. The young doctor tipped the contents out onto his lap.

‘She was discovered in the gardens of the Belvedere Palace,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘in the early hours of Monday morning.’

Liebermann studied the first photograph: a long shot of a woman lying in the middle of a sunken lawn.

‘Who found her?’

‘The head gardener. He was out early collecting slugs and snails.’ Liebermann sifted through the photographs until he came across a close-up of the woman’s face. ‘She was stabbed with a hatpin,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘just like Frauleins Zeiler and Babel. In the relative isolation of the Belvedere gardens the fiend was once again emboldened to use his preferred technique. Remarkably, when Haussmann arrived he was able to identify the body.’

‘They were acquainted?’ said Liebermann, surprised.

‘No,’ said Rheinhardt, shaking his head. ‘He had seen her performing at Ronacher’s. She’s a variety singer. Cacilie Roster.’

Liebermann noticed the beauty spot under her eye and the dimple on her chin. He imagined the sound of her laughter — loud and life-affirming.

‘Haussmann and I went to interview the theatre manager, who suggested that Fraulein Roster was an inveterate flirt. He also directed us to one of her haunts, Loiberger’ s, a coffee house patronised mostly by actors and poets and which is situated a short distance from the theatre. Herr Loiberger remembered serving Fraulein Roster on Sunday night. She was in the company of a gentleman with black hair and blue eyes. It must have been Griesser.’

‘Did Herr Loiberger smell anything on the gentleman’s clothes?’

‘No.’ Liebermann slipped the photographs back into the envelope and handed it back to Rheinhardt. ‘Professor Mathias,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘with Miss Lydgate’s assistance made an interesting discovery. He found a black hair on Roster’s body. Under the microscope, it proved to be a blond hair that had been dyed. Of course, we don’t know that it belongs to Griesser …’

‘But it seems likely.’

‘Indeed. The combination of blue eyes and black hair is rather unusual.’ Rheinhardt dropped the envelope into his bag. ‘If the hair does belong to Griesser, I wonder why he does it — dyeing? He isn’t assuming a disguise to avoid recognition. Vanity, perhaps?’

‘Nothing so mundane,’ said Liebermann. ‘By dyeing his hair black he is associating himself with darkness, oblivion. It is a psychological phenomenon that Professor Freud calls identification.’

Rheinhardt considered his friend’s comment and frowned. He did not ask Liebermann to elaborate. He had already heard enough of Liebermann’s psychoanalytic theories at the start of their journey.

‘Haussmann is going back to Ronacher’s today,’ said Rheinhardt, returning the conversation to routine police work. ‘I’ve asked him to interview some of the performers, people who were acquainted with Roster.’

Liebermann nodded and turned to look out of the carriage window.

‘You should probably be there too.’

‘Well, not necessarily. If you are correct …’

‘Yes, if I am correct, then you will be able to justify deserting Haussmann. But I can see that you are far from convinced that my speculations have a legitimate basis. Moreover, I appreciate that, given how matters stand with you and Commissioner Brugel, I cannot make excessive demands on your patience.’

‘Forgive me, Max, but all your talk of doppelgangers, dreams, and Sophocles was a little confusing. How was Herr Erstweiler this morning?’

‘His condition is unchanged. I’ve told my colleague Kanner to medicate him if he becomes agitated.’ Still looking out of the window, Liebermann asked: ‘What was Miss Lydgate doing at the morgue?’

‘Professor Mathias and Miss Lydgate seem to have developed some form of …’ Rheinhardt’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right words, ‘… serviceable relationship. He refers to her as if she is his protegee. I would never have predicted it. Would you?’

The streets outside were beginning to look shabby. Liebermann recognised the factory chimney, belching its black smoke into the sky, the railings, and the pile of rubble in the road. On this occasion there were no children scrambling up its sides. The carriage turned sharply into the adjoining avenue and came to a halt outside Erstweiler’s residence.

They disembarked and Liebermann noticed that the house looked exactly as it did before: ground-floor curtains drawn, upper-floor curtains set apart. It was just as he had expected.

Liebermann crossed the pavement and grasped the knocker. His three strikes were comfortably absorbed by a yawning silence.

‘Are you going to try again?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘There’s nobody in.’

The inspector smiled and, taking the knocker, reproduced the insistent rhythms of Rossini’s overture to The Barber of Seville.

‘Just in case, eh?’

Rheinhardt waited for a few moments before searching his pockets. He withdrew a bunch of skeleton keys and began to insert them, one by one, into the keyhole. His efforts were rewarded by the noise of the lock-cylinder turning. Rheinhardt pushed the door and watched it swing open. ‘There.’

The two men stepped inside.

‘Hello?’ Rheinhardt called out.

Tilting his head to one side, he listened for sounds of occupation.

Nothing stirred.

To their right was a parlour, and to their left a kitchen through which access could be gained to a walled garden. A staircase of uneven stone sank into the ground and terminated at a cellar entrance.

They returned to the kitchen and Rheinhardt began opening the cupboards.

‘No bread, no cheese, no meat or vegetables. Only grains and pulses …’

When he had finished, Rheinhardt pointed at the ceiling.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’

Liebermann consented with a curt nod.

The first room they entered contained a double bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and a chest of drawers. Liebermann opened the wardrobe. Inside, he found a gentleman’s winter coat and a brightly coloured kimono. He lifted the garment from its hanger and held it up for Rheinhardt to see. Golden dragons flashed against a crimson background.

‘Isn’t that-?’

‘The same kimono that Frau Vogl was wearing? Yes, it is.’

‘What a coincidence.’

‘Erstweiler works for a businessman called Herr Winkler who imports objets d’art from Japan. He told me that he stole it for Frau Kolinsky. Herr Winkler must also supply Frau Vogl with kimonos for sale in her salon.’

Liebermann put the garment back in the wardrobe and turned his attention to the chest of drawers. The top drawer was filled with men’s clothing: socks, undergarments, shirts and trousers. The two lower drawers were empty.

‘Herr Kolinsky’s clothes are still here,’ said Liebermann. ‘But Frau Kolinsky’s are gone. It is interesting that she took all her clothes except the kimono.’

‘Why? What does that mean?’

‘She didn’t want to be reminded.’

Liebermann closed the empty drawers, stood up, and stepped out onto the landing. Rheinhardt followed.

‘Erstweiler’s room?’

‘It must be.’

Liebermann turned the handle and entered. Whereas the Kolinskys’ bedroom was cramped, Erstweiler’s was more spacious. The single bed and narrow wardrobe took up less floor space. A table and chair were positioned by the window and a large white bowl and razor showed where Erstweiler conducted his ablutions. On a stool beside the bed was a small pile of books. Liebermann examined the spines. The first was an anthology of fantastic literature, and the other two were slim volumes of romantic poetry.

Rheinhardt placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room.

‘Something’s going on — I grant you. But, clearly, it isn’t what you’ve been thinking. I would suggest that Frau Kolinsky packed her bags, departed, and, shortly after, a distraught Herr Kolinsky ran after her.’

‘Without his coat?’

‘Perhaps he has two coats.’

‘Stopping — as he rushed out the door — to clear the kitchen of perishable foodstuffs?’

Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his moustache. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he sighed.

‘Yes, it is very peculiar. But the fact remains …’

Liebermann shook his head.

‘The fact remains that Erstweiler’s symptoms, his peculiar dream, and Freud’s notion of a universal Oedipal syndrome, suggest — very strongly — that something bad has happened here.’

‘But look around you.’ Rheinhardt began to turn. ‘Where’s the evidence?’

Clicking his fingers, Liebermann said: ‘The cellar. We haven’t looked in the cellar yet. Come, Oskar.’

Liebermann launched himself out of the room and hurried down the stairs, dashing through the kitchen and out into the garden. Rheinhardt caught up with the young doctor as he was about to open the cellar door. Liebermann took a deep breath and lifted the catch. As the rusty hinges groaned, Rheinhardt saw Liebermann’s shoulders sag. The interior was empty.

Rheinhardt slapped his hand against Liebermann’s back.

‘Never mind, eh?’

‘But I was so sure.’ Liebermann ducked beneath the low lintel and stepped into the vault. ‘I’m sorry, Oskar.’ His voice sounded particularly dejected in the closed space. ‘It appears I’ve wasted your time.’

‘The disappearance of the Kolinskys is indeed suspicious. It will merit a report.’

Liebermann bit his lower lip.

‘There’s always the attic. Was there one? I wasn’t looking.’

‘Max — we would have smelt something!’

‘Yes, of course.’

Rheinhardt threw his head back, looked at the curved ceiling, then stared down at the space between his feet. He circled Liebermann, keeping his eyes down, before squatting to inspect the surface of the tiles. He ran a finger across the glaze.

‘Mmmm …’

‘What?’

‘These tiles …’

‘What about them?’

‘They’re very clean.’

‘So?’

‘And there’s nothing in here. Nothing has been stored. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

‘I don’t see-’

‘Max,’ interrupted Rheinhardt. ‘Be a good fellow and get me a jug of water and a knife from the kitchen.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Rheinhardt was now on all fours, crawling towards the nearest wall, his nose alarmingly close to the floor.

‘A jug of water and a knife.’ Rheinhardt repeated. ‘I saw a striped green jug standing in the sink. The knife needn’t be sharp, but the blade should be strong.’

Liebermann left — somewhat bemused — to do Rheinhardt’s bidding. When he returned, the inspector was standing in the middle of the cellar, deep in thought.

‘Oskar?’

Rheinhardt took the knife from Liebermann, put it in his pocket, and then showed his readiness to receive the jug. It was heavy and some water swept over the rim, splashing his shoes.

‘If you would stand by the door, please?’ said Rheinardt.

Liebermann took a step back.

Rheinhardt tipped the jug and a thin braid of water twisted to the floor. When he had created a small puddle, he stopped and observed how under the influence of gravity the water sought the path of least resistance. A silver tendril thickened and flowed towards the groove between two adjacent tiles. Rheinhardt canted the jug again and watched as the rivulet accelerated down the channel, diverting abruptly into another as it obeyed the discipline of the floor’s gradient.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Liebermann. He sounded a little irritated.

‘Determining the lowest point in the cellar.’

‘To what end?’

Rheinhardt poured more water and smiled.

‘Have you heard, by any chance, of Gustav Mace?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Over thirty years ago a man called Desire Bodasse was murdered and dismembered. His body parts were discovered washed up on the banks of the river Seine. Gustav Mace — the detective involved in the case — suspected one of Bodasse’s friends, a man called Pierre Voirbo. Mace believed that if he was correct and Voirbo was the killer, then the villain had most probably committed the murder and dismemberment in his own private lodgings. When the great detective arrived he found no traces of blood. Everything was spotlessly clean. Too clean, Mace thought. He subsequently asked for some water, which he proceeded to pour onto the floor. If Bodasse had been dismembered in Voirbo’s lodgings, then his blood would have drained beneath the tiles, accumulating at the lowest point in the room.’

About half a metre from the wall, the rivulet had begun to feed a second puddle. The water collected, revealing the presence of a slight depression.

‘There it is,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The lowest point.’

Rheinhardt placed the jug on the floor and, kneeling by the second puddle, he brushed the water away with his hand and removed the knife from his pocket. He pushed the blade between two tiles and worked one of them loose. Turning it over, he inspected the underside. A layer of pale adhesive was caked with dried blood. He held it up to show Liebermann.

The young doctor came forward.

‘You were right, Max,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Something very bad did happen here. Something very bad indeed.’