Death And The Maiden

46

Rheinhardt had closed his eyes, meaning to rest for only a few minutes, but the gentle rocking of the carriage had lulled him to sleep. He had dreamed of visiting Orsola Salak. His slumbering brain had created a very realistic approximation of the old witch’s apartment. It was identical in almost every detail — except for one: the presence of Fraulein Rosenkrantz. The opera singer had been sitting next to Salak, eating a piece of Sachertorte. She had suddenly stopped chewing. It was evident that she had discovered something hard and inedible in her mouth. Pushing the object forward with her tongue, she plucked one of Orsola Salak’s fortune-telling bones from between her lips. Rosenkrantz had offered the tiny phalanx to Rheinhardt, saying: ‘Go on, take it. I think this one might be very useful.’ He had replied: ‘I couldn’t. We hardly know each other.’

The atmosphere of the dream had been difficult to dispel. It had left Rheinhardt feeling strangely dislocated. Indeed, on waking he hadn’t been sure where he was. He had nervously pulled the curtain aside, the light hurting his eyes: a wide road, grand villas. As soon as he had realised that he was in Hietzing it all came flooding back — the telephone call and the duty officer’s voice.

Rheinhardt lit a cigar. Each inhalation helped to restore his mental equilibrium. Outside, the splendid residences had disappeared and in their place were the skeletal frameworks of buildings under construction. A few facades were nearing completion. The absence of ornament did not appeal to Rheinhardt. He found their economic lines uninviting and without warmth. A constable was standing by the roadside, waving his hand in the air. It was Drasche.

The carriage came to a halt and Rheinhardt stepped down onto the cobbles. Drasche bowed and clicked his heels.

‘Inspector Rheinhardt.’

‘Constable Drasche.’

‘Well, sir. I didn’t think we’d be meeting again — not so soon, anyway.’

‘Indeed, Drasche. The good people of Hietzing seem to have become remarkably accident-prone of late.’

Drasche pointed across an open field. ‘The lake’s beyond those trees, sir.’

‘Then you had better show me the way.’

‘Of course, sir.’ They began walking. ‘I’d say he’s a professional gentleman by the look of his clothes, sir.’

‘Where did you find them?’

‘In the cabin, sir. It’s where the bathers get changed.’

‘Did you search the pockets?

‘Empty, sir.’

‘And presumably you found a bicycle?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Drasche, surprised. ‘How did you know that?’ Rheinhardt pointed to the rather obvious and prominent single track that had flattened the grass. ‘Well, I never,’ said the constable.

They fell silent for a short time. Eventually Drasche said, ‘With respect, sir, did you pursue,’ he searched for a euphemism and came up with two, ‘that matter — that business — after you spoke to Herr Geisler?’

‘I took Herr Geisler’s testimony very seriously,’ Rheinhardt replied, giving Drasche a look that he knew would discourage further inquiry. On seeing the young man’s brow furrow, Rheinhardt felt a pang of regret. He did not want to discuss the mayor with Drasche but neither did he wish to intimidate the poor fellow. Rheinhardt adopted a heartier tone and smiled. ‘Have you seen Herr Geisler recently?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s still at the hostel.’

‘And has he found a job yet?’

‘Not that I know of, sir.’

‘Well, let’s hope his luck improves — eh, Drasche?’

‘Yes, sir.’

They passed through a line of beech trees beyond which was a small circular lake. It was perfectly still and mirrored a canopy of unbroken white cloud. Set back from the water was a small wooden hut. Beside it stood another constable and a man whose stooping posture betrayed his advanced age. At their feet lay an inert figure dressed in a blue and white swimming costume. Rheinhardt and Drasche walked around the water’s edge. It was preternaturally quiet. Even the birds were silent.

As they drew closer, Rheinhardt increased his speed. Something instinctual — a frisson of anticipatory excitement — sharpened his senses. He became aware of the stagnant smell rising from the rushes, the sound of his shoes grinding the gravel beneath his feet. He could feel his heart in his chest, palpitating, unnaturally enlarged, denying his lungs the extent of their full expansion.

‘God in heaven …’ he muttered under his effortful breath.

He broke into a trot and soon found himself standing over the body, staring into the bleached, lifeless face. The damp material of the bathing suit clung to the man’s torso and exposed the vulnerable contours of his shrunken genitalia. It was Professor Saminsky.

The elderly man came forward. ‘I found him out there.’ He gestured across the lake. ‘He was floating, face down.’

‘What is your name?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘Herr Ebersbacher. Arnim Ebersbacher.’

‘And what time did you discover the body?’

‘Six-thirty.’

‘That is a very early hour.’

‘I get up early.’

‘In order to swim?’

‘I do so every morning. It keeps me in good health. I’m seventy-five, you know.’ The old man pushed his chest out to emphasise his fitness. ‘He’s usually here at about the same time.’

‘You’ve seen this gentleman before?’

‘Yes, many times. I don’t understand how he drowned. He was such a good swimmer.’