Deadly Communion (13 page)

‘There were trams and large buildings and a man with a cow, who I spoke to — he might have sold me the beans — and suddenly I was the boy in the story and the beans had grown into a huge beanstalk which rose up into the sky. I climbed the beanstalk and found myself on a cloud, and on the cloud was a huge castle. I entered the castle but was frightened by the sound of an ogre, stomping around and crying out that he could smell the blood of an intruder —
my
blood. In one of the rooms I discovered mountains of treasure and a goose laying golden eggs. Not eggs the colour of gold, you understand, but eggs
made
from gold. I picked the goose up and ran from the castle, pursued by the ogre. I slid down the beanstalk and the ogre followed, but he wasn’t as quick as me. When I got to the bottom I chopped the beanstalk down with an axe—’ Erstweiler suddenly broke off, his forehead glistening with perspiration.

‘Yes?’ Liebermann prompted.

‘And the ogre tumbled to the ground.’

‘Did he die?’

‘Yes, he …’ Erstweiler paused before completing his sentence with a stutter ‘… d-d-died.’

‘You escaped, then,’ said Liebermann. ‘And with the goose.’

Erstweiler showed no signs of relief.

‘Herr doctor, why are we talking about a ridiculous childish dream? Surely there are more important things to discuss. I had hoped you would be applying yourself to the task of convincing me that the appearance of my doppelgänger was nothing more than a hallucination. At least then I might allow myself a glimmer of hope, the prospect of peace.’

‘The two may be connected — the dream and the hallucination.’

‘Impossible!’ Erstweiler cried.

The anger invested in this explosive denial was sufficient to convince Liebermann that he was correct. After an extended hiatus Liebermann said: ‘I went to see Herr Polster, at The Chimney Sweep.’

‘Did you?’

Erstweiler twisted awkwardly on the rest bed in order to make eye contact with Liebermann.

‘Yes,’ said the young doctor. ‘He remembered the conversation you referred to. But he didn’t think he had spoken to your doppelgänger. He was confident that he had spoken to
you.’

‘That’s hardly surprising, is it?’ said Erstweiler, sighing. ‘What did you think he would say?’

R
HEINHARDT WAS SHOWN INTO
the accountant’s office by a middle-aged woman wearing a high-collared blouse.

‘Herr Frece,’ she said: ‘Inspector Rheinhardt to see you.’

‘Ah, thank you, Anselma,’ said the accountant. He was balding, red-faced, and possessed a large stomach that pressed against his waistcoat. ‘Please, do sit down, inspector.’ Rheinhardt caught sight of a framed photograph on Frece’s desk, showing a matronly woman and two children. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘That will be all, Anselma.’ When the secretary had gone, Frece smiled and added: ‘How can I be of assistance?’

‘Herr Frece, I understand that you are acquainted with a young lady called Bathild Babel. Is that correct?’

Frece pursed his lips.

‘Fräulein Babel … Fräulein Babel …’ He muttered. ‘No. I’m afraid that name isn’t familiar to me.’

Rheinhardt sighed.

‘You are mentioned in her address book.’

‘Bathild?’ said Frece, cupping his ear and feigning deafness. ‘Did you say
Bathild
Babel?’ He stressed the syllables of ‘Bathild’ in a peculiar way.

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Bathild Babel.’

The accountant shifted in his chair.

‘Yes, yes … I do know someone of that name. I’m sorry, my hearing isn’t very good.’

‘And what is the nature of your relationship?’

‘She is a client.’

‘I see. Could I see her documents, please?’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible …’

‘Why not?’

‘Because …’ Frece searched the ceiling for a convincing answer, but the cornicing failed to supply one.

‘Herr Frece,’ said Rheinhardt firmly. ‘If you continue to be uncooperative, I am afraid we will have to continue this interview at the Schottenring station.’

‘Please — no,’ said the accountant. ‘I’m sorry. That won’t be necessary.’ He opened a cigarette box with trembling fingers and struck a match. After lighting the cigarette, he drew on its gold filter. His exhalation dissipated the cloud of smoke that hung in front of his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, inspector … a man in my position. It was a mistake … I never should have …’ His voice trailed off.

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘With respect, inspector, why should my peccadilloes be of interest to the police? I don’t understand.’

Rheinhardt glared at the accountant.

‘Where did you meet her?’ he repeated.

‘In Frau Schuschnig’s hat shop, behind the Town Hall. I was buying a hat for my wife. Bathild was very forward.’ Rheinhardt listened as Frece spoke of his illicit meetings with Bathild Babel, in private dining rooms and cheap hotels. At its conclusion, Frece pleaded: ‘Inspector, if my wife were to find out she would be mortified. She hasn’t any idea. My marriage would be over.’ The accountant reached out and turned the family photograph towards Rheinhardt. ‘I have two children. Richarda and Friedo. I beg you to be discreet — if not for my sake, then for theirs.’

Rheinhardt chewed the end of his pencil.

‘Did she ever speak of her other …’ Rheinhardt thought
clients
was too strong a word and chose a less offensive substitute ‘… admirers?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Her other gentleman friends,’ said Rheinhardt.

The accountant looked indignant.

‘I was her only …’ Frece was unable to finish his sentence, given Rheinhardt’s world-weary expression. He might as well have said out loud:
You can’t possibly be that naive!
Frece’s shoulders fell. ‘No,’ the accountant continued. ‘She didn’t mention anyone else.’

Rheinhardt made a few notes and when he looked up again Frece was staring into space.

‘What is it?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘I remember, I went to the hat shop a few weeks ago, and Bathild was talking to a man. They seemed very familiar. After he had left, I asked her who he was. She was evasive and tried to make a joke of her flirtation. She said she flirted with all the men who came into the shop — it was good for business, according to Frau Schuschnig.’ Frece scratched his nose. ‘He was educated and wearing an expensive frock coat.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Quite tall — dark hair.’

‘How old?’

‘Twenty-nine, thirty — perhaps.’

‘What colour were his eyes?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Think, Herr Frece. What colour were his eyes?’

‘Blue … or grey … I can’t be sure. A light colour anyway. He was buying a hat pin. And he smelt rather strange. A sort of hospital smell.’

‘Could he have been a doctor?’

‘Possibly.’ Frece observed the tightening of Rheinhardt’s facial muscles, the sudden intensifying of his expression. ‘Inspector, why are you asking me all of these questions?’

‘She’s dead,’ said Rheinhardt bluntly. ‘Murdered — on Saturday.’

The accountant said something inaudible, and the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks. His hands shook so much that when he tried to light a second cigarette Rheinhardt was obliged to give him some assistance.

P
ROFESSOR
F
REUD TAPPED THE
ash from his cigar and consulted the pages of a manuscript. The writing was his own: regular and leaning forward, showing, perhaps, a certain impatience to proceed, ideas arriving more swiftly than his hand could comfortably transcribe. He opened his mouth, releasing a cloud of smoke that tarried in the air before losing definition in the already opaque atmosphere.

They had been discussing the professor’s unpublished and unfinished work on sexuality, and Liebermann had — by means of subtle questioning — moved the conversation from more general considerations to the specific problem of deviance.

‘The sexual instinct is, I believe, infinitely pliable with respect to its aims,’ said Freud. ‘Indeed, I am of the belief that all human beings are born with what might be described as a
polymorphously perverse
disposition: that is to say, a disposition that can be diverted into all possible kinds of sexual irregularity.’ He was in full spate, glancing down at the text to remind himself of his conclusions. ‘If one defines healthy sexual behaviour as that which is necessary for human reproduction, namely, heterosexual congress, it follows that all
other
forms of arousal-seeking behaviour are surplus, and therefore, in a literal sense, perverse. Their introduction into marital relations does little to further the primary reproductive purpose of the union between man and woman. Yet …’ Freud sucked on his cigar. ‘The human sexual instinct is so plastic that we find evidence of its Protean
character everywhere — even in the most ordinary couplings. Take, for example, fetishism. The point of contact with the normal is provided by the psychologically essential overvaluation of the sexual object, which invariably extends to everything that is associated with it. A certain degree of fetishism is thus usually present in normal love, especially in those stages of it in which the normal sexual aim seems unattainable or its fulfilment prevented. May I remind you of Goethe’s
Faust
, Part One, Scene Seven.’ He looked at Liebermann expectantly.

The young doctor shook his head, indicating that he could not recall so precise a reference.

‘G
et me a kerchief from her breast,’
Freud intoned. ‘
A garter that her knee has pressed.’

The professor nodded, impressed by his own apposite example.

‘When, then,’ asked Liebermann, ‘does the situation become pathological?’

‘When the longing for the fetish passes beyond the point of being merely a necessary condition attached to the sexual object and actually
takes the place
of the normal aim, and, further, when the fetish becomes detached from a particular individual and becomes the
sole
sexual object.’

‘Do you believe the polymorphous disposition has limits? Or do you believe that anything can become sexually arousing?’

‘If you harbour any doubts,’ said Freud, pushing the cigar box towards his guest, ‘then you need look no further than the pages of Krafft-Ebing’s
Psychopathia Sexualis.’
Freud stubbed out his own cigar, lit Liebermanns, and then took another for himself. ‘Moreover,’ he continued, touching the end of his cigar to the flame and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I am not so sure that Krafft-Ebing’s cases — however disturbing — exhibit behaviours that are qualitatively different from those which might be observed also in the bedroom of a respectable household.’ Freud glanced again at his manuscript:
‘The most common and the most significant of all perversions — the desire to inflict pain upon the sexual object and its reverse — received from Krafft-Ebing the names
sadism
and
masochism.
As regards to sadism, the roots are easy to detect in the normal. The sexuality of most male human beings contains an element of aggressiveness — a desire to subjugate; the biological significance of it seems to lie in the need for overcoming the resistance of the sexual object by means other than the process of wooing. Thus, sadism would correspond to an aggressive component of the sexual instinct which has become independent and exaggerated and, by displacement, has usurped the leading position.’

‘What you suggest implies that — given the right constellation of influences — any of us might have become one of Krafft-Ebing’s monsters.’

‘Indeed.’ Freud toyed with one of the statuettes that stood next to the cigar box — a vulture with a worn, featureless head, perched on a pedestal. ‘Binet was the first to maintain that the choice of a fetish is an after-effect of some sexual impression, received as a rule in early childhood …’ He spoke these words dreamily, and Liebermann sensed they were more like a private afterthought than a conclusion. The tone of Freud’s voice conveyed two rather contradictory meanings. On the one hand, he seemed glad that he was not the only person to entertain such ideas, but on the other, he appeared slightly resentful of the fact that he must concede intellectual priority to another theorist.

A silence prevailed, during which time the smoke haze intensified to such an extent that everything in the room acquired the flat colour-tones of a sepia photograph.

Liebermann had learned enough to give him confidence in his speculative diagnosis of
thanatophilia.
Freud’s new ideas on deviance seemed to legitimise all possibilities. With respect to the erotic instinct,
anything was possible. Wishing to make the most of his time with the great man, Liebermann resolved to test his views on another topic.

‘I have an interesting patient,’ the young doctor ventured, changing position to disturb Freud’s reverie.

The professor looked up: ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I have an interesting patient,’ Liebermann repeated. ‘At the hospital: a gentleman who thinks he’s seen his doppelgänger — and now must die.’

Freud waved his cigar, indicating that he wished to hear more. Liebermann adopted the telegraphic style of medical men when summarising a case history: ‘Herr E. Born in Tulln: worked as secretary to a councillor in the Town Hall: lost his job when his employer died: came to Vienna — and is currently employed as an importer’s administrator.’ After sketching Erstweiler’s background, Liebermann recounted his patient’s descriptions of seeing his double.

Freud puffed repeatedly on his cigar until the smoke which he was producing became so abundant that he all but vanished behind it. Liebermann sensed that the great man was deep in thought and waited respectfully. Eventually, Freud cleared his throat.

‘The idea that we possess a double most probably originates from our earliest experience of reflections. In a mirror, we see ourselves as something separate, removed; however, this illusion must have preceded the invention of the looking-glass. Our primitive ancestors would have viewed their “doubles” in the surface of still water — or even as a tiny homunculus in the eyes of others. Thus, as soon as human beings could form the concept of self, experience of reflections would have suggested the existence of
another self.
We must conclude, therefore, that the idea of the double is deeply rooted in the human psyche.’