Deadly Communion

6

Rheinhardt looked across his desk at Arno Zeiler. Everything about him suggested deflation: lank hair, crumpled clothes and sunken cheeks. His eyes were dark and empty.

‘Cigarette?’ asked Rheinhardt.

The man turned and nodded.

Rheinhardt lit the cigarette and passed it to Zeiler, who took it awkwardly between his thumb and second finger. He drew on it once, coughed, and continued to stare blankly into space.

Zeiler had been brought to the Schottenring station directly from the Pathological Institute, where he had been taken to identify the body of his daughter, Adele.

‘Herr Zeiler — forgive me,’ said Rheinhardt softly. ‘But may I ask: why didn’t you report Adele missing last night?’

Zeiler shook his head.

‘She often stays out.’

‘All night?’

‘Yes,’ Zeiler rubbed one of his eyes with the heel of his palm. ‘It wasn’t until this afternoon that we started to worry. My wife said I should go to the police. Adele is usually back by midday.’

‘Where did she go?’ Rheinhardt pursed his lips before adding, ‘All night.’

‘I don’t know.’

The inspector tapped his pen on the desk top.

‘Forgive me, but am I to believe, Herr Zeiler, that your daughter was in the habit of staying out all night, and you never troubled to ask her where she’d been?’

‘Do you have a daughter, inspector?’

‘I have two.’

‘Do you? Well, I have three.’ Zeiler suddenly corrected himself. ‘No, I have only two now. Adele is dead. The two I have left — Trude and Inna. Trude is sixteen and has bronchial problems. She’s never been very strong — terrible phlegm that sits on her chest. Inna is thirteen and can’t walk properly. It’s something to do with her joints. Nothing can be done for her. I used to work in a timber yard in Favoriten, but I lost my job when the proprietor went bankrupt and I haven’t been able to get another since. My wife gets occasional work at the laundry, but not very often. Life hasn’t been easy, inspector. Adele was a sweet girl. She did what she could …’ Zeiler bit his lower lip. ‘She did what she could for all of us. We didn’t like it but what could we do? We either accepted Adele’s help, or we starved. What could we do?’

‘Are you saying that she became a …’ Rheinhardt’s sensitivity did not permit him to complete the sentence.

‘A prostitute? No. She wasn’t a prostitute. But she knew how to get a man’s attention and gentlemen gave her gifts — never money, you understand — just gifts, and sometimes she didn’t come home. Adele would take the gifts to the pawnshop. We needed the money. Inspector, I hope that you are never put in my position. No father should have to go through what I’ve gone through. That’s why I didn’t ask, you understand? I didn’t need to ask — and in truth I didn’t want to know.’ Zeiler sucked on the cigarette and, looking towards the window, continued: ‘She was stabbed. They said she’d been stabbed?’

‘Yes.’ Rheinhardt replied. He was reluctant to disclose the details of Adele’s murder and moved the conversation on: ‘When was the last time you saw Adele?’

‘Yesterday afternoon.’

‘Where did she say she was going?’

‘To see Rainmayr.’

‘Who?’

‘Herr Rainmayr — he’s an artist. She modelled for him.’ As Rheinhardt was writing the name down, Zeiler added: ‘But it wouldn’t have been him, inspector. Not Herr Rainmayr.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She’s been going to see him for years. Besides, he’s a decent man. He once paid for a specialist to see Trude when she was very ill.’

Rheinhardt grimaced.

‘I know this is difficult, Herr Zeiler, but …’

‘You want to know if he had relations with her, if that was part of their arrangement?’ Zeiler flicked some ash onto the floor. ‘I don’t know, inspector. Like I said, I didn’t ask.’

‘Did you suspect …’ Rheinhardt’s sentence trailed off. Zeiler was not going to share his thoughts on the matter. ‘Do you know where Herr Rainmayr lives?’

‘Yes. He has a studio somewhere in Lange Gasse.’