Death And The Maiden

29

Rheinhardt stood in FRAULEIn Rosenkrantz’s parlour, humming the introductory melody of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor. He found it particularly conducive to thought.

An upright Bosendorfer piano stood between two windows. There were several sofas and numerous chairs, enough seating to accommodate an audience of at least twenty guests. A large canvas showed an eighteenth-century ship with blood-red sails, listing precariously in the steep funnel of a whirlpool. High above the masts and rigging, in the roiling storm clouds, he detected the features of a satanic face. As far as Rheinhardt could judge, it was not an accomplished work of art. The paint had been applied too thickly.

Lifting the picture off its hook, Rheinhardt scrutinised the wall, but saw nothing irregular. He then turned the picture over. A title had been scrawled across the stiff backing paper: ‘The Dutchman rounds the Cape of Good Hope.’ The artist’s name was almost illegible but might have been ‘Schreiber’ or ‘Schreiner’.

There was a loud knock, a single, decisive strike.

Rheinhardt balanced the painting on a chair and went to admit his assistant.

‘Ah, Haussmann. Thank you for coming.’ The young man stepped into the hallway, wiping his feet on the floor mat and offering his superior a pinched smile. ‘We’re going to conduct a search.’

‘But the villa has already been searched, sir.’

‘We are going to look for places of concealment.’

‘Secret compartments?’

‘Yes.’

Haussmann produced a visiting card and handed it to Rheinhardt. The inspector held it up and read: Orsola Salak, psychic. ‘An imaginative suggestion, Haussmann, but I think we can manage without this woman’s services.’

‘No, that’s not what I meant, sir,’ Haussmann responded. ‘A gentleman was looking for you earlier today. Herr Schneider?’

‘Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s dresser.’

‘Yes, sir. He said that when you interviewed him he had been unable to give you Salak’s address.’

‘Orsola! Of course. Rosenkrantz’s psychic.’

‘Herr Schneider found her card in Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s dressing room.’

Rheinhardt looked at the address.

‘Ybbs Strasse 23. That’s close to the Prater, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. Near the Nordbahnhof.’

‘Thank you, Haussmann.’ Rheinhardt dropped the card into his jacket pocket and led his assistant into the parlour. When he saw the painting of the Dutchman’s vessel again he wondered whether the artist’s signature, which looked like ‘Schreiber’ or ‘Schreiner’, was, in fact, ‘Schneider’.

‘Obvious places first,’ continued Rheinhardt. ‘Beneath paintings and under rugs, then drawers and chests. Books should also be studied very closely. A hollow is often made in the pages of larger volumes. If our initial efforts are unsuccessful, we’ll take up some floorboards. Come.’ Rheinhardt clapped his hands together. ‘Let us begin.’

They set about their task with determined energy. After completing their search of all the rooms on the ground floor they ascended the stairs and entered Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s bedroom. The rummaging continued with renewed vigour, but without result.

‘Help me with this, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt.

He was stripping the four-poster bed. Once the counterpane and eiderdown were removed, the two men lifted the heavy mattress. There was nothing underneath. Rheinhardt then began tapping the bedposts, which proved to be disappointingly solid. When they had finished, Rosenkrantz’s exotic chamber looked as if it had been ransacked and Rheinhardt was feeling a creeping sense of frustration.

The adjacent room was small and seemed to have no specific purpose. It contained a cupboard full of linen, two wooden chairs, a table and an enamel stove. A pile of old songbooks were stacked in the corner. Rheinhardt slumped down on one of the chairs and removed a cigar from his pocket. After lighting it, he opened the stove door in order to dispose of the extinguished match. He leaned forward — and froze.

‘Sir?’ his assistant ventured.

‘Haussmann, when we were here last, the day we found Fraulein Rosenkrantz’s body, I asked you to prepare a floor plan of Rosenkrantz’s bedroom and check the other rooms. Do you remember looking in this stove?’

‘No, sir.’ Haussmann squatted next to Rheinhardt and discovered that his superior was staring at some blackened papers. The young man turned to face Rheinhardt, his expression perplexed, puzzled.

‘It’s always a good idea to check stoves and grates, Haussmann.’

The young man struggled to understand the insinuation. ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘These papers, Haussmann.’

‘They’re completely burned, sir.’ He reached out to touch the crumbling remains. ‘What use could-’

‘Stop!’ Rheinhardt cried, grabbing his assistant’s wrist. Rheinhardt closed the stove door gently with his foot. Then, releasing Haussmann, the inspector rose from his chair and examined the polished metal pipe which connected the stove to the chimney. He took from his pocket a pair of pliers, which he then used to loosen the bolts which kept the pipe and stove joined together. ‘Be a good fellow and fetch me some linen from the cupboard.’

The pipe came away from the stove and Rheinhardt, taking the material from Haussmann, plugged the circular hole. ‘At least we don’t have to worry about the wind now.’ Rheinhardt opened the window and flicked some ash from his cigar. ‘One big gust and there would be nothing left, just a pile of ashes. Now, run to the post office and telephone Schottenring. I need a few items.’ Rheinhardt scribbled in his notebook, tore out the page and handed it to his bewildered assistant.