Death And The Maiden

18

Listening to constable Drasche on the telephone, Rheinhardt had been overcome by a sense of unreality. The familiar things around him, his desk, pen and bowler hat, had appeared alien, as if they belonged to someone else. The extent of his dissociation had only became apparent when a lengthy, crackling silence was broken by Drasche’s anxious inquiry: ‘Are you still there, sir?’

‘Yes,’ he had replied. ‘I think I’d better come and interview him myself.’

Rheinhardt had not seen Drasche since the morning when Ida Rosenkrantz’s body was discovered. He was waiting with the duty officer at the front desk of the Dommayergasse police station and looked younger than Rheinhardt remembered. After the exchange of some preliminary civilities, Rheinhardt asked, ‘Where is he?’

‘In our interview room.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘About two hours.’

The inspector turned one of the horns of his moustache.

‘Tell me Drasche, why did he wish to speak to you?’

‘He knows me. I’m always running into him on my beat. I used to think he was a thief — out on the streets, late at night, looking at the villas. But I was mistaken.’

‘And you consider him trustworthy?’

Drasche’s expression was artless. ‘I don’t see why he would have made it up, sir.’

Rheinhardt nodded, hoping that the constable wasn’t as naive as he appeared. Drasche led Rheinhardt to a small, simply furnished room, where a thin, hungry-looking man was nursing a cup of tea.

The inspector took out his notebook. ‘Thank you for waiting, Herr …’

‘Geisler. Achim Geisler.’

He was probably in his early middle years, but looked much older. His hair was prematurely streaked with grey and his face was deeply lined. The coat he wore had been patched at the elbows and a tangle of black thread marked the location of a missing button.

‘Where do you live, Herr Geisler?’

‘I rent a sleeping berth at the men’s hostel.’

‘And how much does that cost you?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘One krone for the week.’

‘Have you found work?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What is your occupation?’

‘I’m a gardener. I thought it’d be easy to get a job up here. You know, what with all the big houses …’

‘But no one has been willing to employ you.’

Geisler’s mouth curved downwards. ‘No.’

Rheinhardt made some notes. Before he had finished writing he spoke again. ‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s death was reported almost a week ago.’ The inspector looked up. ‘Why did you wait so long before coming forward?’

‘I didn’t know she was dead until today,’ said Geisler, his voice rising slightly. ‘Last Thursday I picked up a newspaper and stuffed it into the lining of my coat. It helps with the cold. This afternoon my coat got wet and I took the paper out. The headline caught my attention.’

‘Are you a devotee of the opera?’ said Rheinhardt, narrowing his eyes.

‘No. I’ve never been to the opera. But I knew who Ida Rosenkrantz was and I knew where she lived.’

‘How did you come by this information?’

‘Timo, her gardener. I used to see him weeding. One day I was passing and asked him if he needed an assistant. He didn’t, but we got talking. Decent man, Timo. He said that if he heard about any positions becoming available he’d let me know.’

Rheinhardt nodded. ‘Why were you walking the streets on such a night? It was freezing. The fog was impenetrable.’

‘Have you ever slept in a men’s hostel, Inspector? Each cubicle has just enough room for a bed, a small table, a clothes rack and a mirror. A bath costs fifteen hellers, so most of the men don’t wash. The walls are thin and there are arguments. Austrians, Czechs, Hungarians, Poles. They don’t get on. This election — you’d think they were all running for office … so many opinions.’ Geisler placed his hands over his ears and rocked his head from side to side. ‘It drives you mad.’

‘Why not sit in a coffee house?’

‘You can’t sit in a coffee house without buying a coffee. It’s not a lot, I know, but it all adds up.’

Rheinhardt studied the impecunious gardener. He seemed genuine.

‘You’re quite sure it was on Monday the seventh. That night?’

‘How could I be mistaken? You said it yourself, the fog was impenetrable. I wouldn’t forget weather like that.’

‘What time was it?’

‘I can’t say exactly. When I’m walking around out there I lose track of time. But it might have been nine or ten o’ clock, no later than eleven — I’m always back at the hostel by eleven.’

‘What did you see?’

‘A carriage. It was parked right outside. As I approached, the door opened and I saw a gentleman get out. He turned around and I recognised him immediately.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Well, if it wasn’t him he must have a double.’

‘Did he see you?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Did he react?’

‘No. He just hurried through the garden gate and went to the door. The article I read didn’t mention him paying a visit. I thought it was something the police might want to know about — and I hoped that,’ Geisler grimaced, ‘given my circumstances …’

Rheinhardt pushed some coins across the table.

‘That should see you through the next fortnight.’

‘Thank you,’ said Geisler, scooping the money up and dropping it into his coat pocket. ‘It was definitely him, inspector. It was the mayor: Mayor Lueger.’