Deadly Communion (12 page)

‘Miss Lydgate!’ said Professor Mathias. ‘I am not accustomed …’
He glanced at the trolley and his sentence trailed off. He looked back at Amelia — and then back at the trolley. This oscillation continued until he said: ‘How did you do that?’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Surely you couldn’t have memorised—’

‘I simply put the instruments in positions that I considered practical.’

Mathias examined the trolley more closely, his face screwed up with concentration. Quite suddenly, he laughed. It was a strained laugh, his disbelief introducing a note of hysteria into the outburst.

‘That is very …’ he said, returning his attention to Amelia. ‘Satisfactory. Very satisfactory.’ The professor continued staring at Amelia and by degrees his expression passed from bemusement, through curiosity, to something approximating respect. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘shall we begin?’

Liebermann and Rheinhardt exchanged glances and sighed with relief.

Professor Mathias pulled back the mortuary sheets, revealing the naked body of Bathild Babel.

‘She was discovered by her neighbour,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘In this state of undress?’ asked Mathias.

‘Yes. Lying on her bed — her clothes had been discarded on the floor. And she was killed in exactly the same way as Adele Zeiler.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Her name is Bathild Babel: a shop girl.’

Mathias stroked her forehead and said softly: ‘To
the quiet land.
Who
will guide us there?
Who
will guide us there with gentle hand: ah, across to the quiet land?’

The old man looked up at Rheinhardt, his eyes liquid and luminous behind the magnifying lenses of his spectacles.

‘Schiller?’ asked the inspector.

‘No,’ said Mathias. ‘How could it be? No — Johann Gaudenz-Freiherr von Salis-Seewis.’

Amelia looked quizzically at Liebermann, who shook his head as if to say: it’s
nothing
—
ignore them.

Mathias raised Bathild’s head and pulled the hair away from the nape of her neck.

‘Miss Lydgate …’ The professor invited the Englishwoman to take a look.

‘What is it?’

‘The ornamental end of a hatpin,’ said Professor Mathias. ‘The pin itself has been inserted between the first cervical vertebra and the skull. It has been pushed through the foramen magnum and into the brain, thus damaging the fundamental life-preserving structures.’ Professor Mathias pulled the hatpin out and held it aloft for all to see.

‘In the newspapers,’ said Amelia, ‘it was reported that Adele Zeiler had been stabbed to death. I had assumed that the instrument used was a knife.’

‘It is often necessary to withhold details of an inquiry for reasons of public safety,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It would be highly irresponsible to reveal ingenious and practicable methods of murder. Some readers might get ideas.’

Amelia nodded: ‘I will respect your confidence.’

Mathias was still staring at the pin.

‘You will notice,’ he said, ‘that there are two kinks: one close to the point, the other further down. The one near the point suggests that a first attempt at insertion failed. The point hit the base of the skull — instead of passing smoothly through the foramen magnum. This should not surprise us, as the manoeuvre is far from easy.’

Mathias dropped the hatpin into a glass retort, shuffled to the other
end of the autopsy table, parted the woman’s legs, and leaned forward. His nostrils flared.

‘She has been used — by a man.’ He glanced at Amelia. ‘The male reproductive fluid has a distinctive odour. It intensifies, becoming pungent over time. If you wish to …’ He gestured towards the woman’s sex.

Liebermann was surprised by Amelia’s response. She did not flinch or show any sign of disgust. Instead, she joined Professor Mathias, leaned forward, and inhaled.

‘Like rancid oysters,’ she said plainly.

‘You will notice,’ said Mathias, ‘that there are no signs to suggest that this woman resisted ingress. The genital region is unscathed. Moreover, there is no bruising around her throat or abrasions around her wrists. When a woman is coerced, it is common for the assailant to ensure compliance by the threat of strangulation, or by tightly gripping her wrists. Observe: her skin is unmarked.’

Amelia listened attentively.

‘You will also notice that her nails are unbroken,’ said Mathias.

‘May I inspect her hands?’ asked Amelia.

‘If you wish.’

Amelia lifted the woman’s left hand and then her right.

‘There is something under her nails.’

She reached up and pulled a hairpin out of her bun. Scraping the point beneath one of the corpse’s nails, she dislodged a few dark grains which fell into her palm. She thrust her hand under the bright electric light and the grains became rubiginous.

‘I think it’s blood,’ said Amelia.

Professor Mathias looked impressed. He nodded: ‘She may have scratched her assailant before losing consciousness.’

‘If this is the perpetrator’s blood, then it may prove very useful,’ said Amelia. ‘Professor Mathias — do you have an envelope?’

‘Useful?’ asked Mathias.

‘Landsteiner has demonstrated that human blood can be classified into three different types: A, B, and C. A fourth type — AB — was identified by Landsteiner’s associate, Herr Doctor Sturli, only last year. It is possible to ascertain blood type from dehydrated samples or even a stain. According to Richter, the accurate identification of blood type is possible even if stains are up to two weeks old. If we know the perpetrator’s blood type,’ she turned to face Rheinhardt, ‘you will be able to exclude certain suspects. Moreover, if when the perpetrator is apprehended he has the same blood type as this sample you will have a valuable piece of convergent evidence.’

Professor Mathias clapped his hands together.

‘Excellent!’ he cried. ‘A splendid idea!’

K
RISTINA CLIMBED THE STAIRS.
As she did so, her suspicions were aroused by the absence of any noise. The sewing machines were silent.

Her secretary, Wanda, had gone up to collect a garment some time ago but had not returned. Kristina had grown impatient.

The sound of voices …

Overcome with curiosity, Kristina tiptoed across the landing and placed her ear against the door.

‘My mother has forbidden me to go out alone — not since the second one got killed.’

‘There’s no danger: not for the likes of us.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘The two that got killed: one was an artist’s model, the other was a shop girl. She lived in
Spittelberg.
’

Now it was Wanda speaking: ‘You think they were both prostitutes?’

‘As good as.’

Another voice — rather low and ponderous: ‘I’m not going out on my own, whatever you say. I’m frightened.’

‘I’d get bored cooped up at home every night. It’d drive me mad.’

‘I saw this man on the tram.’ Again the low voice. ‘He was staring at me.’

‘I should be so lucky.’

Laughter.

‘Albertine, you shouldn’t joke about such things!’

Kristina opened the door and — miraculously — the seamstresses were all busy at work. The clatter of the machines and the girls’ intent expressions suggested prolonged, concentrated industry. Wanda was standing, the dress that she had originally gone to collect hanging over her arm.

‘I may not be as young as you girls,’ Kristina shouted. ‘But I can assure you, I am not going deaf!’

Guilty looks: burning cheeks. One or two machines slowed as the pretence of work was abandoned.

‘We were talking about the murders, madame.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s almost dark when we leave, madame. I don’t want to walk home in the dark …’

‘What are you talking about? Dark? It’s getting lighter every day.’

‘But, madame …’

Another girl, the one with the low voice, said: ‘In my magazine it said the streets are no longer safe for young women, especially at night.’

Kristina looked around the room, up and down the rows of expectant faces. The last machine slowed to a halt.

Silence.

‘All right,’ said Kristina. ‘You can leave a little earlier — but only if you promise to work harder. We won’t be able to deliver the new orders on time if you sit around gossiping all day.’

A chorus of thanks and promises.

Kristina beckoned Wanda.

‘Come on. And please don’t slouch so.’

‘Yes, madame,’ said the secretary, straightening her back and following her mistress.

R
HEINHARDT ENTERED
C
AFÉ
M
USEUM
clutching Bathild Babel’s address book. He did not find the ambience of the new coffee house very welcoming. It felt rather cold and the plain decor appeared unfinished. Shortly after Café Museum opened, Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann what he thought of it. The young doctor had insisted that the architect — Adolf Loos — was a genius, and spoke enthusiastically about the virtue of clear lines and simplicity. The inspector had not been persuaded by Liebermann’s arguments and remained completely unmoved by the stark functional interior. He could not see beauty in emptiness, only a lack of invention. He hoped, as he sat at a table, that the cakes would not be as bland as the coffee house’s design.

He ordered a Türkische coffee and a piece of Dobostorte. When the cake arrived — a baroque creation festooned with complex embellishments — he was grateful that the chef had not succumbed to the culinary equivalent of modernity. The pressure of his fork forced generous applications of chocolate cream to bulge out between the layers of sponge, and when he took the first mouthful of the Dobostorte the sweetness and intensity of the flavour produced in him a feeling of deep satisfaction.

When he had finished the cake, Rheinhardt asked to see the head waiter. The man who arrived was not unlike himself. A portly gentleman with a well-waxed moustache.

His name was Herr Heregger.

‘I trust the Dobostorte was to your satisfaction, sir?’

‘It was excellent. The consistency of the chocolate cream was particularly good.’

Rheinhardt showed the waiter his identification.

‘Security office?’ asked Herr Heregger, surprised.

‘Yes — please take a seat.’ The waiter lowered his large haunches onto a spindly chair, and Rheinhardt opened Bathild Babel’s address book. ‘I’m looking for a man called Griesser. He gave Café Museum as his address. Do you know him?’

‘Yes, I do. He’s a customer.’

‘How long has he been coming here?’

‘Actually, he’s only been a few times.’

‘Recently?’

‘Yes, last week and the week before. He told me that he’d just moved to Vienna and was living in temporary accommodation. He asked if it would be possible for us to collect his mail, as it was his intention to breakfast at Café Museum when he was settled. I said that I had no objection.’

‘Did any letters arrive?’

‘Just one.’

‘And did he collect it?’

‘On his second visit.’

‘And he’s had no more since?’

‘No.’

Rheinhardt offered Herr Heregger a cigar, but the man refused.

‘Did Herr Griesser tell you what his profession was?’

‘No.’

‘What do you
think
he did for a living?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Can you describe him to me?’

The head waiter scratched his chin.

‘Tallish. Black hair.’ His tone was cautious — as though he lacked confidence in the accuracy of his memory.

‘Eye colour?’ Rheinhardt prompted.

‘Oh, I can’t remember that, inspector.’

‘Age?’

‘Quite young.’

‘What? Early twenties? Mid-twenties?’

‘Yes. Mid- to late twenties, I should think.’

‘Educated?’

‘He spoke well.’

‘Anything else you remember?’ The head waiter looked across the floor towards the two billiard tables. His vacant expression changed suddenly, a glimmer of light appearing in his eyes. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, now that you mention it …’

‘What?’

‘I
can
remember something else about him.’ Heregger smiled and a second chin appeared beneath the first. ‘His smell.’

‘His cologne?’

‘No. It was something else. A sweet, tarry smell. Like carbolic.’

L
IEBERMANN LOOKED AT HIS
supine patient. For once, though, Erstweiler was not agitated. Liebermann made no assumptions about his mental state. Sometimes the apparent calm of anxious patients was actually exhaustion, and as soon as they had recovered their strength the agitation returned.

After a prolonged silence, Liebermann inquired: ‘Did you sleep well?’

Erstweiler rolled his head from side to side.

‘No. I woke up several times … one of the other patients on the ward became distressed. He was shouting something about the Hungarians coming. I managed to get to sleep after he was removed, but woke again from a bad dream.’

‘Oh?’

‘I say bad, but that’s only how it felt at the time. Now that I think about it, the dream was really rather silly.’

‘Were you frightened by the dream?’

‘Yes.’

‘What was it about?’

Erstweiler sighed.

‘When I was very young, my parents had an English friend, Frau Middleton, who used to tell my brother and me fairy stories. Some of them were already familiar to us, but others were unfamiliar. I suppose these latter stories must have been of English origin. One of
them concerned a boy without any money and some magic beans — have you come across it?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Well, the dream I had was very much like this English fairy story — except I was the boy. The dream was quite confused, though, especially the beginning.’

Liebermann remained silent, hoping that this would be sufficient to make Erstweiler continue. The strategy was unsuccessful. Erstweiler reverted to his earlier concern. ‘What was wrong with that patient? The one who was taken off the ward? What did he mean by
“the Hungarians are coming”?’

‘Your dream, Herr Erstweiler? What happened in your dream?’ Liebermann urged.

Erstweiler rotated his hand in the air for a few moments and then let it drop onto his chest.