Death And The Maiden

12

Felix Schneider was a diminutive clean-shaven man, with wavy dark brown hair that had begun to turn silver above his ears. He spoke with a lisp, gesticulated excessively, and his cigarettes produced a distinctive fruity aroma which blended with the floral registers of his cologne. His apartment, situated on the top floor of a building in the sixth district, was clean, tidy and tastefully decorated.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann had found Schneider entertaining a young man of dandyish appearance. Rather awkwardly, Schneider explained that his guest was about to leave and immediately hurried the youth to the door. When Rheinhardt had asked Schneider who the young man was, he had answered ‘just a friend.’ But it was obvious to Liebermann, from Schneider’s anxious demeanour, that the guest was an intimate acquaintance, and that the nature of this ‘intimacy’ was very probably the cause of Schneider’s discomfort. Rheinhardt had not wasted time probing Schneider’s private affairs and the subject of Ida Rosenkrantz’s death was raised without preamble.

After the customary declarations of horror and disbelief, Schneider talked spontaneously about his late ‘mistress’ with emotion. Indeed, while reminiscing about their years spent together in Prague he became distraught and began to cry.

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ said Rheinhardt, extending a hand and resting it on Schneider’s forearm. ‘Please accept my condolences.’

‘Thank you,’ said the dresser, pathetically grateful for the inspector’s sympathy.

Schneider looked drawn and tired, undernourished. He lit another cigarette, and after a short pause seemed to draw sustenance from the tobacco. Words flowed in an unbroken stream of fond recollections. He spoke of his great admiration for Rosenkrantz, the brightness of her smile, the magnitude of her talent, her beauty and good humour. He spoke of theatrical triumphs and the glowing reviews that had followed.

Although Schneider’s official title was relatively modest — personal dresser to court opera singer Fraulein Ida Rosenkrantz — it was apparent that, during the course of their association, he had been called upon to perform a variety of functions. He had managed her financial affairs (she was famously irresponsible with money), reminded her of coming appointments, smoothed the way for the repair of friendships spoiled by indiscretion, run errands, schooled her in the important matter of opera house politics, and supplied her with safety pins when the fastenings of her dresses broke (usually just before a key stage entrance). And in the privacy of the diva’s dressing room he was obliged to hear her confidences and offer her the consolation of a brotherly shoulder to shed tears on. All very unusual for a relationship between a singer and her wardrobe assistant.

‘I don’t think it was an accident, Inspector,’ said Schneider. ‘I think she took her own life.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She was not herself … unhappy.’

‘Doctor Engelberg, her general practitioner, told me that he saw Fraulein Rosenkrantz a few weeks ago and she was in excellent spirits.’

‘Doctors …’ said Schneider, shaking his head and demonstrating his low opinion of the profession with a grimace. Then, remembering that he was in the presence of a medical man, he glanced at Liebermann and added, ‘My apologies, Herr Doctor, I am upset, you understand.’

Liebermann excused him with a magnanimous gesture.

‘What did you mean by that?’ Rheinhardt imitated Schneider’s tone: ‘Doctors …’

‘She was unhappy about lots of things. I don’t think they were able to help her very much. ‘

Schneider had been voluble, talking with natural ease, but now, quite suddenly, he became reticent. He looked across the room at a circular table covered with a purple cloth. A candle flame flickered above three picture frames. The first contained a print of the Virgin Mary, the second a sepia image of an old woman, presumably Schneider’s deceased mother, and the third a photograph of Ida Rosenkrantz. The singer was dressed in a medieval costume and had been captured in a melodramatic pose.

‘Herr Schneider,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You were saying …’

The dresser came out of his reverie.

‘She was never right — in her mind. Well, at least not since this spring.’

‘We know that she saw a psychiatrist, a man called Professor Saminsky.’

‘She was a consummate actress. It was easy for her to convince her doctor and friends that she was in excellent spirits. But she wasn’t.’

‘Why? What happened?’ asked Liebermann.

Schneider sighed and stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Love did not make her happy. This was not necessarily the fault of the gentlemen. She could have made different choices.’

‘Forgive me, Herr Schneider,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘but I am finding it rather difficult to understand your meaning. Would you be kind enough to speak more directly?’

Schneider nodded, and lit another cigarette before resuming. ‘What I mean to say is, Fraulein Rosenkrantz was in the habit of becoming romantically attached to unsuitable men, more often than not older men … like Winkelmann.’

‘Hermann Winkelmann?’ asked Rheinhardt.

Schneider did not respond to the question and just carried on. ‘It was plain to me that such relationships would never amount to much. The gentlemen were usually married with families. They were never very serious about her. She, however, was always serious about them. She would have found happiness more readily in the arms of someone like Schmedes, or a young officer, someone looking for romance rather than a brief amorous adventure.’

‘Was she rejected then, in the spring? asked Liebermann.

Schneider turned towards Rheinhardt. ‘This is rather difficult for me, inspector. I feel as though I am betraying her.’

‘It is extremely important,’ Rheinhardt replied, ‘that we determine Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s state of mind at the time of her death. If you know anything at all that clarifies the issue, then you must say.’

Schneider shrugged. ‘I suppose whatever I disclose now cannot harm her.’ He sucked on his cigarette and blew the smoke out through his nostrils. ‘She got herself pregnant … and sought assistance to resolve the predicament.’

‘The pregnancy was terminated?’ asked Liebermann.

‘Yes.’

‘Who was the father?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘She never told me. But from that time onwards, as far as I’m concerned, she was never herself again. She became sad, preoccupied. She had some kind of throat problem, which got worse. Fortunately, it only became very bad when the opera house closed for the summer. I think she started seeing the psychiatrist about then, too. One must suppose he helped her a little, because she was ready to sing again before the new season started. Be that as it may, she wasn’t the same person. I don’t know how to describe it.’

‘When did she tell you about the termination of her pregnancy?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘About three weeks ago, after a performance of Fidelio. She burst into the dressing room and started crying as soon as she was through the door. She was beside herself and said all kinds of things about how she was going to hell, and that it was only right given the severity of her sin. I had to give her some slivovitz to bring her back to her senses and then I had to cancel her table at the Imperial.’ Schneider flicked a smut of ash from his trousers. ‘It was going to be impossible to get her out of the building without being seen and I was worried about what might happen if we encountered anyone important as we tried to leave. But I needn’t have worried. She acted her way out. No one would have suspected that only minutes earlier she had been weeping uncontrollably, digging her fingernails into her own flesh … horrible.’ Schneider shuddered. ‘You would never have guessed it. She smiled, accepted compliments, and even stopped to sign a few autographs before getting into her carriage. Remarkable.’

‘Was she a religious person?’ Liebermann asked.

‘Did she go to church? No. But she believed in God and the life everlasting. And she was very superstitious. Although, to be superstitious signifies little in the theatre — all performers are superstitious — but I think it would be fair to say that she was more prone than most. She used to consult a psychic every month. Regular appointments.’

‘Do you know the psychic’s name?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Or where we could find her?’

‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz referred to the woman only as Orsola. I’m afraid I have no idea where she lives. Somewhere near the Prater, I imagine.’

‘Who do you think made her pregnant?’ asked Rheinhardt. ‘Did you suspect anyone? You said that she once had an affair with Winkelmann.’

‘Winkelmann was last year, and that particular liaison didn’t last very long. But as for the spring …’ Schneider stroked his chin as he cast his mind back. ‘I can remember her mentioning the names of several men with whom I thought there was some involvement. Count Wilczek and a wealthy banker, I think his name was Bader. But as to the extent of their intimacy, whether or not these gentlemen …’ Schneider was evidently embarrassed. ‘I really couldn’t say.’ His arms wheeled in the air. ‘She was always mentioning suitors. Besides, what does it matter? How does such information advance your investigation, inspector? Surely, knowing whether it was this man or that man who made Fraulein Rosenkrantz pregnant is of little consequence now?’

Rheinhardt nodded.

Outside, an organ-grinder began to play, a skipping folk melody that floated up above the sound of the busy traffic. The atmosphere in the room had become intense, and the music, rustic and simple, came as something of a relief. Its naivety was refreshing, like a gust of clean air dissipating the stench rising from a stagnant pool.

‘Fraulein Amsel,’ said Rheinhardt, bluntly. ‘What can you tell us about her?’

Schneider’s expression soured. ‘One must always respect the achievement of anyone appointed to sing at the court opera, but she is someone for whom I harbour very little esteem or affection.’

‘We have been told,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that there was much bad feeling between Frauleins Amsel and Rosenkrantz.’

‘There was, indeed,’ Schneider replied. ‘But Fraulein Rosenkrantz was blameless, believe me. She did nothing wrong.’

Schneider recounted the history of Amsel and Rosenkrantz’s feud, beginning, as Director Mahler had, with Rosenkrantz’s eleventh-hour substitution as Senta in The Flying Dutchman. He tried to contain his bile, but in the end he was unable to maintain even a semblance of civility, and vented his true feelings in a colourful tirade.

‘She — Amsel — is puffed-up and arrogant — and how she overestimates her voice. In spite of her size, it lacks strength. You can hardly hear her over an orchestral tutti — it’s quite insufficient. Whereas Rosenkrantz …’ Again his hands conjured hoops in the air. ‘Even with the brass section playing fortissimo, and the timpani rolling like thunder, you could hear her, floating above — sublime — angelic — clear as a bell.’ Schneider’s mouth twisted. ‘Amsel despised Ida. She could not accept that she had been bettered and in the very role which had made her famous. She was eaten up with jealousy, and she couldn’t disguise it. You saw it on her face.’ Schneider drew on his cigarette, expelling the smoke as he continued to speak. ‘I remember … shortly after Ida’s triumph in The Flying Dutchman she was invited to sing for the mayor at his birthday celebrations. A few days later we were in the Imperial, and who should come in but Lueger himself with his entire entourage. They were all in their uniforms and wearing white carnations. The mayor caught sight of Ida and, brushing the head waiter aside, came straight to our table. He kissed her hand and thanked her for agreeing to sing. A real gentleman — the mayor — so well-mannered. Amsel was seated at a table close by. My God! Her eyes. Let me tell you, if she had picked up her pastry fork and stabbed Ida in the back I would not have been surprised!’