Deadly Communion (32 page)

‘You did not find Fräulein Wirth attractive?’

‘No, inspector. I didn’t.’ Shevchenko lifted his head and looked directly at Rheinhardt. ‘When was I supposed to have made this proposal?’

‘Some time ago. A year — perhaps …’

The opening bars of the
Pathetique Sonata
added melodrama to the exchange.

‘About a year ago,’ Shevchenko repeated. He paused and counted his fingers while whispering the months of the year. ‘Actually,
inspector, a proposal of that nature was made at that time. But it wasn’t me who made it.’

The music stopped abruptly, mid-phrase.

‘Would you care to elaborate?’

‘I am not a man to sully the reputation of the dead. The poor woman is in her grave.’

‘Herr Shevchenko, am I understanding you correctly? Fräulein Wirth offered
you
sexual favours in exchange for financial assistance?’

The Ruthenian placed his hand in his frock coat and took out a leather wallet that opened up like a book. He held it out so that Rheinhardt and Liebermann could see inside. It contained a photograph of a woman and an image of Jesus Christ ascending up to heaven in a cone of light. ‘Frau Shevchenko,’ said the rent collector. ‘We were married for twenty-five years. God didn’t choose to bless us with children — we only had each other. I never so much as looked at another woman my whole life — and haven’t since Frau Shevchenko died.’ The opening chords of the
Pathetique
sounded again. ‘She died about a year ago: a terrible illness, a wasting disease. Pain, vomiting, blood in the bedpan — and lots of it. I would work all day and be up all night nursing her. Sometimes the priest or one of the nuns would come and I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep, but no more. The doctors couldn’t do anything for her.’

At that moment the pianist below began an airy waltz, in which a repeated discordant semitone was employed to humorous effect. The change in mood was jarring.

‘Do you really think that under those circumstances,’ Shevchenko continued, ‘I would be seeking an arrangement — of the kind you suggest — with Fräulein Wirth?’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were silent. The waltz petered out.

Shevchenko looked at the image of his wife for a moment before putting it back in his pocket. His knuckle went to his right eye
and his attempt to collect the tear that was waiting to fall did not succeed.

Liebermann felt a pang of regret. He had judged Shevchenko unkindly. The man’s lack of self-care had an obvious cause: profound grief. He was simply biding his time, waiting for death and a much longed-for reunion with his wife.

‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Herr Shevchenko,’ said Rheinhardt very softly, rising from his chair.

The Ruthenian nodded.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann crossed the floor, their footsteps coinciding uncomfortably with the beat of a jolly German dance tune.

F
RAU
L
ACHKOVICS’S APARTMENT WAS
empty. Liebermann and Rheinhardt waited for her to return, smoking in the courtyard, and when Rheinhardt’s stomach began to emit gurgling sounds it was decided that they should repair to a local beer cellar. They found a welcoming establishment and spent the next hour enjoying well-cooked
tafelspitz
— boiled beef — served with fried potatoes, apple horseradish and chive sauce. The meal was washed down with several steins of
Edelweiss.
Fortified by the wholesome fare and the cordial properties of the liquor, they marched back to Frau Lachkovics’s apartment and were relieved to find the windows brightly illuminated.

The two men were admitted into a humble parlour where Jana, Frau Lachkovics’s daughter, sat silently on a wicker chair in the corner. Rheinhardt introduced Liebermann and was surprised by Frau Lachkovics’s response. She became agitated — her gaze oscillating anxiously between Jana and Liebermann. It appeared to Rheinhardt that Frau Lachkovics had jumped to an erroneous conclusion: that he had brought a doctor with him to examine Jana, with the intention of getting her admitted into a hospital. Rheinhardt was moved by a wave of pity.

‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said the inspector, reaching out and gently touching the woman’s sleeve. ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is my colleague. He is not here to act in a medical capacity.’

The woman sighed: a release of tension.

She motioned as if to speak — but an idea seemed to rise up in her mind which robbed her of confidence.

‘Frau Lachkovics?’ Rheinhardt inquired.

She shook her head: ‘Please sit.’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were obliged to share the narrow space between the arms of a small sofa. They found themselves squeezed together, and no amount of shifting, wriggling or turning eased their compression.

‘You were out earlier,’ said Rheinhardt to Frau Lachkovics, withdrawing his elbow from beneath Liebermann’s arm.

‘Yes,’ replied Frau Lachkovics, drawing up a stool. ‘I’m sorry, we were in Ottakring. My mother … you remember — I told you I have an elderly mother?’

‘Indeed.’

Frau Lachkovics adjusted the drop of her skirt as she sat down.

‘The tram was late — I don’t know why. Did you send a message? If I had known then—’

Rheinhardt cut in: ‘Please do not fret on our account, Frau Lachkovics, your late return afforded us an opportunity to enjoy the splendid tafelspitz served at the Trinklied.’ He gestured vaguely towards the street. ‘Frau Lachkovics, I have some more questions I would like to ask you in connection with Fräulein Wirth.’ Frau Lachkovics did not raise any objection.

The arrest of Markus Sprenger had been discussed interminably at the laundry; however, knowledge of his arrest did not embolden her to ask Rheinhardt why he had come back again to ask more questions. She passively accepted the policeman’s authority.

‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘are you quite certain that Fräulein Wirth did not have any gentlemen friends?’

‘I cannot be absolutely sure. But I think it very unlikely. You see, we saw a great deal of each other. We would walk to the laundry
together in the morning and return together at the end of the day. And I always knew when Selma had visitors. You can hear people knocking on her door from here. The walls are thin. I never saw any gentlemen arriving, apart from Herr Shevchenko, the landlord’s agent. I saw Selma’s friend Frau Vogl and some other girls from the laundry, Christa and Steffi — but never any men. Besides, if she
had
met someone, I’m sure she would have said something. It was in her nature to share personal things. She was never reticent.’

‘About the time when Fräulein Wirth …’ Rheinhardt glanced at the girl in the corner and searched for a diplomatic turn of phrase. ‘About the time when Fräulein Wirth met with her sad end, do you recall ever seeing any strangers loitering in the courtyard?’

‘No.’

‘A man wearing a bowler hat and a long coat?’

‘I do not recall seeing any strangers.’

‘But what about any gentlemen answering to that particular description?’

‘A bowler hat and long coat? There are many men who dress like that.’

‘Indeed,’ Rheinhardt altered his position: ‘You mentioned Herr Shevchenko …’

Frau Lachkovics frowned.

‘Yes?’

‘Has he always behaved … correctly?’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘Always shown you the proper respect that a lady is entitled to expect from a gentleman?’ The woman looked at Rheinhardt blankly. ‘I am sorry,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘but I must ask you an indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko ever proposition you? Did he ever make an unwelcome amorous advance?’

‘Herr Shevchenko! Good heavens, no!’

Frau Lachkovics’s cheeks became luminous and a hectic flush travelled down her neck.

‘I am sorry, madam, but I am obliged to ask you yet another indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko — to your knowledge — ever proposition Fräulein Wirth?’

The flush intensified.

‘No, no …’

‘Would Fräulein Wirth have told you — do you think — if he had?’

Frau Lachkovics paused before answering. Rheinhardt could see that she was giving his question serious consideration.

‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Yes, I think she would. Herr Shevchenko is not that sort of man. His only concern is collecting rents. He never makes small talk, never dallies. He just collects the rent and leaves. Most of the tenants around here don’t like him. It’s true: he never smiles and he can be abrupt and surly. But I do not think he is a bad man — rather someone who is sad and lonely.’

The wicker chair creaked as the girl in the corner stood up. She crossed the floor and stood behind her mother. Frau Lachkovics turned and smiled.

‘Jana?’

The girl did not respond. Instead, she fixed her stare on Rheinhardt. Her gaze was purposeful, yet her expression remained disconcertingly void. Her lineaments gave no clue as to the nature of her personality, her mood or what she might be thinking. She raised her arm. In her hand she was holding a book.

‘Can I keep this,’ she said in a dull monotone, ‘now that she is dead?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Jana!’ exclaimed Frau Lachkovics, tugging the girl’s skirt sharply to express her disapproval. The admonishment had no effect.

‘Now that Selma is dead,’ Jana continued, ‘can I keep her books?’

‘Selma gave you that?’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Yes.’

Rheinhardt extricated himself from the sofa and rose to take the volume from the girl’s hand. He examined the spine and discovered it was a collection of children’s stories.

‘There’s another one in the kitchen,’ said Jana.

Rheinhardt fanned through the pages. Some illustrations flashed out from the blur of text. Suddenly the fluttering came to a halt at a point where a little ticket had been inserted. Rheinhardt pulled it out, studied the print, and then said to Frau Lachkovics: ‘Is this yours?’

‘No.’

‘What is it?’ asked Liebermann.

‘A ticket for one of the luggage lockers at the Südbahnhof.’

The ensuing silence was broken by Jana.

‘Well — can I keep the books?’

‘You can keep the books,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘if I can keep this ticket.’

H
EINZ
V
OGL ENTERED HIS
wife’s bedroom. It was not very late and he was surprised to find that she had retired so early. Indeed, he felt a little indignant and persuaded himself that, if she was asleep, waking her could be justified.

‘My dear?’ he called. The eiderdown undulated as she turned to face him.

‘I’m still awake,’ she said, somewhat redundantly. Vogl advanced along the wedge of light that infiltrated Kristina’s room from his own. He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, blinking up at him.

‘Ten o’clock — or thereabouts.’

‘How was your meeting?’

‘It went well enough. Professor Raich was in favour of appointing Mitterwallner — but Professor Lischka and that fool Kinigader objected. Fortunately, I was able to persuade Salvenmoser to vote with us and in the end the outcome was satisfactory. But it was a tiring, frustrating process, and I fear that the discussion — which became quite heated — will leave an atmosphere of ill feeling in some quarters. The air will have to be cleared in due course.’

Vogl reached out and touched Kristina’s cheek.

‘What is it, my dear?’

‘Do you remember the police inspector — Rheinhardt — and his colleague Liebermann?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘They came to the salon today.’

‘Really? What did they want?’

‘They said that they have acquired some more evidence and that the man whom they caught — Sprenger — the man who was supposed to have killed Selma, well, now it seems he didn’t kill her after all.’

‘Oh, my dear, that is terrible news. You are still in danger.’ Vogl lifted his wife’s limp hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, each one in turn. ‘I hope you didn’t come home on your own.’ Kristina did not reply. ‘You did? Oh, my dear — you must be more careful. You cannot afford to take such risks. Not now.’

‘I cannot go on living like this,’ Kristina whispered. The tone of her voice was curious, almost strangulated. Her eyes became glassy as the tears welled up.

Vogl gathered her into his arms, and rocked her backwards and forwards.

‘My poor darling … do not cry. Inspector Rheinhardt managed to catch Sprenger — and I’m sure he’ll catch whoever was responsible for poor Selma’s murder, eventually. It’s only a matter of time.’

These words — intended to be comforting — seemed to have the very opposite effect. Vogl felt his wife’s body becoming tense in his arms as the tears washed down her face.

T
HE CAB CAME TO
a halt outside the Südbahnhof, joining a line of parked carriages. The two men stepped down onto the expansive forecourt. While Rheinhardt paid the driver, Liebermann admired the architecture. It was a perfect example of Viennese ostentation. He might have been looking up at the façade of any of the great European opera houses rather than at a train station. Its grandiosity made him smile and although he was a committed modernist the sheer bravado of the structure’s vaulting ambition made him quietly proud to call Vienna his home. The building boasted five entrance portals above which sat a tier of arched windows and a further row of oblong windows. A terracotta tympanum enlivened the massive pediment, each corner of which supported a majestic classical figure. Sphinxes could be seen on the roofs of the two wings which flanked the façade, and each of these wings possessed pediments of their own.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ said Rheinhardt, joining his friend. ‘But now isn’t the time …’

He slapped a hand on Liebermann’s back and the impact of the good-natured whack propelled the young doctor forward.

The interior of the Südbahnhof was as magnificent as the exterior. Rheinhardt and Liebermann entered a vast hallway dominated by a grand staircase that rose and divided below a balustraded gallery. The floor was illuminated by rows of spherical gas lamps mounted on tall posts of intricately worked iron and yet more flickering globes floated
beneath the ceiling, the detail of which was almost invisible on account of its lofty elevation.