Deadly Communion (15 page)

The world was never the same thereafter. It seemed counterfeit — a hollow sham. When I recovered from my illness it was like waking up from a long sleep, in a foreign land. Everything had become flat — a crudely painted backdrop in a cheap theatre. Only things relating to Her were meaningful. The graveyard next to the church; the mummies of ancient Egypt; myths and legends of the underworld.

I remember little of that time. No, that is not quite true. What I mean to say is that I remember little of what was happening around me. My inner life I can remember very well. I reflected on my experiences. She had made herself known to me as I stood by the open caskets of Netti and Gerda. Then she had revealed herself to me — when I was close to death.

Why?

I was chosen.

There is nothing more to tell of my life in the village. I grew up. I left and came to Vienna. I lived in warming-up rooms and hostels — and tried to find work. I visited the Kunsthistorisches Museum and admired Canova’s
Theseus.
I went to the Natural History Museum and studied the mummies that I had longed to see as a child. I found Herr Griesser’s prehistoric axe-head displayed in a case with others from the Wachau.

Now, let me tell you something. Not about me — but about you.

You are obsessed with death.

You Viennese relish a good funeral: the pallbearers, with their splendid outfits; the liveries worn by the horses; the hearses; the sashes, lanterns and black flags. And where else in the world can one find a necropolis like the Zentralfriedhof? It is bigger than the entire Innere Stadt. Did you know that? Imagine, building a cemetery bigger than a town! It is a wonderful place.

I have fond memories of that first winter, in spite of the hardship, exploring the endless avenues of the Zentralfriedhof. I had never seen anything like it. Under the arcade I found the tomb of the miner, August Zang, with its fierce dwarves standing on roughly hewn pedestals, raising their torches, guarding the portal with sturdy shields. It was like a scene from the Norse legends. All of the statuary had been carved with such care. I remember a female figure — as large as life — with long slender arms and fingers of exquisite delicacy. The sculptor had worked a small miracle with his material, creating a gown for her that appeared to be semi-transparent. It was remarkable how a substance like marble could be made to suggest a garment that adhered to her curves like silk and collected in soft folds between her thighs. Sphinxes, lyres, urns and swans and, of course, pale imitations of Her — those great angelic wings open and ready for flight.

And did I feel her presence there, in the Zentralfriedhof?

I did — but only as a husband might feel closer to his wife when he contemplates a photograph. There was, however, one exception. Whenever I saw a funeral she seemed to come closer.

On rainy afternoons I would loiter by the open graves, in readiness. Then I would join the mourners as they arrived. No one noticed me or challenged me. I would close my eyes and be rewarded by a faint sense of her presence. And once or twice my heart leaped at a flicker of purple light.

It was after one of these funerals that I fell into conversation with an undertaker’s assistant. He was very sanguine about his profession. Business was good. The population of Vienna was growing and, with it, increasing demand for his services: he mentioned that there had been talk of building a high-speed pipeline, running from the Innere Stadt to the Zentralfriedhof, for the purpose of transporting the great number of corpses. I asked him if he could offer me a job. He gave me his card and said that I should visit the company premises the following morning as they had a vacancy for a junior member of staff. I went and was interviewed by the funeral director who said that I could start work there the following day.

H
EINZ
V
OGL ACCEPTED THAT
he could do nothing more for his patient. If there was a God, then the old general’s fate was very much in His hands now. The veteran soldier had coughed up blood and his lungs had made ominous noises that suggested their imminent collapse. Vogl remained at the man’s bedside for two long hours, waiting for the ‘attack’ to run its course. Eventually the coughing stopped and the old general sank back against his pillows. He showed no obvious signs of discomfort and his shallow breathing became stertorous.

As Vogl left the hospital a flash of lightning turned night into preternatural day. A rumble of thunder released a shower of unseasonal hailstones that landed on his hat with casual violence. Such inclemency, thought the doctor, was downright inconsiderate — although he had no idea who he was blaming. This vague sense that the weather was being manipulated with spiteful intent was reinforced when the arrival of a cab coincided with the sudden cessation of the storm.

The journey to his house in the seventeenth district was not a long one. He hoped that his wife would still be awake, but when he finally got to his bedroom there was no light showing under her door. The doctor performed his ablutions, put on his nightshirt and got into bed.

It was impossible for him to estimate how long he had been
asleep; however, he sensed that it had not been very long. He was awakened by Kristina, who had evidently risen from her own bed to join him.

‘My darling,’ he said sleepily.

She made herself comfortable, lying on her side with her head resting on her husband’s chest.

They remained in this position for some time — exchanging body heat and caresses. A clock ticked loudly in the darkness. Vogl was on the brink of falling asleep again when the gentle ministrations of his wife’s fingers on his upper thigh prevented him from descending further into oblivion. His subsequent engorgement attracted his wife’s interest, and she shifted down beneath the bedclothes until her lips closed around his rigid organ.

The doctor let out a cry that suggested pain as much as pleasure.

Vogl was a man of the world. He had enjoyed relations with women before his marriage. He was, therefore, highly appreciative of his wife’s readiness to give him such satisfaction. Most women — he had found — were repulsed by the idea.

How fortunate I am,
he thought, as he gently encouraged Kristina with the palm of his hand on the crown of her head.
I adore her.

Kristina dispensed with the eiderdown and mounted her husband with a swift, easy movement. She bore down hard and rotated her hips — maximising the extent of his penetration. Overcome with desire, Vogl reached up and grabbed her breasts. Kristina placed her hands over his and squeezed his fingers until her accommodating flesh was so compressed that it could yield no further. The hardness of her nipples proved too much for Vogl, who experienced the inevitable consequence of such intense excitement.

‘Oh my darling,’ he gasped. ‘My beautiful darling.’

Vogl’s buttocks rose from the bed, lifting his wife in the process. He felt himself pouring into her. Then, when his release was complete,
he slumped back down onto the mattress. Spent. Drained. Empty. He was dimly conscious of his wife changing position.

‘Thank you,’ Vogl whispered into the darkness.

Kristina rested a finger against his lips, admonishing him for his gratitude.

Vogl inhaled his wife’s perfume — a heavy, rich scent — that combined musk with subtle registers of lavender. Its soporific qualities ensured his delivery from the world. When he woke again it was the middle of the night, and he found that the bed was empty. Kristina had returned to her room. He turned his head into the pillow, inhaled the lingering perfume one last time, and slept soundly until morning.

L
IEBERMANN WAS ENGAGED IN
the preliminary examination of a woman suffering from abdominal pains which, according to her gynaecologist and gastroenterologist, had no obvious physical causation. He was approximately halfway through his assessment when a nurse knocked on the door, entered, and requested him to ‘step outside’ for a moment. Liebermann frowned and tilted his head, encouraging her to tell him more. The nurse’s eyes warned him that in the interests of his patient he should not press for an explanation. The young doctor stood and followed her outside, where she directed Liebermann’s gaze down the corridor towards the silhouette of a figure wearing a long coat and spiked helmet.

‘Thank you, nurse.’

‘Shall I wait with your patient?’

‘Yes. That would be most helpful.’

Liebermann advanced towards his visitor.

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann?’

‘Yes.’

The constable clicked his heels.

‘You are a difficult man to find, Herr doctor. I’ve been wandering around the hospital without success for some time — I got quite lost, in fact, ended up by the Fools’ Tower. There must be more passageways in here than in the Hofburg! You wouldn’t think so—’

‘Did Detective Inspector Rheinhardt send you?’ Liebermann interrupted.

The constable rolled back on his heels.

‘There has been another …’

‘Murder,’ said Liebermann, helpfully.

‘Yes,’ whispered the constable. ‘In Neubau.’

‘I am afraid I cannot come at once. I am with a patient.’

The constable took out a notebook, wrote down an address, and tore out the page. Handing it to Liebermann he said: ‘What shall I say to Inspector Rheinhardt?’

‘Tell him I’ll do my best to be there within the hour.’

The constable bowed, moved as if to depart, then stopped and asked: ‘I’m sorry, Herr doctor, but … how do I get out?’

‘Proceed down this corridor, turn left at the end, descend the first staircase, turn left again — then right — then left again.’

The constable repeated Liebermann’s instructions, bowed once again, then took his leave, attracting curious glances from two nurses pushing men in wheelchairs.

When Liebermann entered the shabby parlour he experienced a jolt of surprise. Firstly, he had wrongly assumed that he would discover the body in the bedroom and secondly, he had not expected to see any blood. The sight of so much made him hesitate.

Rheinhardt was standing by a chest of drawers. He had obviously been examining the contents, removing papers and documents that were now piled between two iron candelabra. The inspector gestured towards the dead woman, his hand moving uselessly in the air beside him.

The parlour was situated on the second floor of an eighteenth-century apartment building. It was not a large room and the few items it contained created an impression of restricted space. In addition to
the chest of drawers, there were two chintz sofas, several potted plants on three-legged stands, a glass-fronted cabinet, and a stove. The glass-fronted cabinet contained some chipped porcelain figures, tarnished silverwear, and an assortment of commemorative plates featuring images of the deceased Empress Elisabeth.

A distinctive rusty taint permeated the air and caught at the back of Liebermann’s throat.

Between the two sofas, lying on the floor, was a woman in her thirties. She was wearing a simple low-cut blue dress, the bodice of which was stained almost black. The hilt of a dagger indicated the location of her heart. No part of the blade was visible. It had been pushed in deep, between her ribs and angled beneath the protective plate of her sternum. The hem of her dress had risen above a pair of scuffed boots and her white legs were spread apart, crooked slightly at the knee. Discarded on the floor beside the body was an undergarment: red silk bloomers with a trim of black lace.

Liebermann crossed the floor to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked down into a tiny courtyard. The light was failing and the proximity of the opposite wall was claustrophobic. He noticed a walking stick resting against the windowsill.

‘Does this belong to her?’ asked Liebermann.

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘She had a bad leg.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Her name is Selma Wirth. She was discovered by the landlord’s agent — a Ruthenian gentleman called Shevchenko — around five o’clock. Fräulein Wirth owed three months’ rent and Shevchenko had come to collect it.’

‘Was the door open when he arrived?’

‘No. The door was closed; however, it had not been locked.’

Liebermann let go of the curtain and his attention was drawn back to the corpse.

‘What did she do for a living?’

‘She was a laundry worker.’ Rheinhardt lit a cigarette and dropped the blackened matchstick into a cracked glass ashtray. ‘The undergarment seems to have been removed before she lay on the floor.’

‘I wonder why she chose to
receive
her guest here, rather than in the bedroom? I presume there is a bedroom?’

‘Yes, it’s the next door along.’ Rheinhardt waved his cigarette towards the corridor. ‘One must suppose that Fräulein Wirth and her companion were so
overcome
that in the heat of the moment comfort was not a consideration.’

‘Are you sure she was … taken?’

‘It certainly looks like it.’

Liebermann knelt on the floor, lifted the woman’s skirt, and shook it to displace the trapped air. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and shook his head.

‘I can’t tell. I don’t possess Professor Mathias’s nose for such things.’

‘What do you make of the dagger? Was Fräulein Wirth killed by the same fiend who killed Adele Zeiler and Bathild Babel, or did someone else do this?’

Liebermann stood up.

‘My thoughts go back to something Professor Mathias said concerning the hatpin used to kill Bathild Babel. You will recall that he observed a kink — near the sharp end — which suggested a failed first attempt to breach the foramen magnum. This blunder might have given Fräulein Babel an opportunity to retaliate — hence the blood discovered beneath her fingernails. Encountering resistance might have caused the perpetrator to review his modus operandi. A dagger pressed into the heart is a less elegant but more efficient means of dispatch.’

Rheinhardt took some papers from the top of the chest of drawers and placed them in his pocket.

‘I haven’t been able to find an address book, which is a shame. Babel’s proved very useful. It included the name of a man — Griesser — who gave Café Museum as his mailing address. He collected only one letter and hasn’t been back since. The head waiter described him as educated and smelling of carbolic. One of Babel’s
admirers
— Frece, an accountant — can remember her flirting with a customer in Frau Schuschnig’s establishment …’