Deadly Communion (5 page)

How could he be expected to find all the distributors of hatpins in Vienna? Milliners, jewellers, stallholders, street vendors, junk shops — there were simply too many possibilities. Further, there was no evidence to suggest that the murderer had purchased the acorn hatpin recently. It might have been in his possession for years, a family heirloom belonging to his great-grandmother!

Haussmann crossed the Hoher Markt — an open square dominated by a massive fountain which commemorated the marriage of Mary and Joseph. The holy couple were protected by angels and a bronze baldachin resting on four lofty Corinthian columns. The entire edifice was finished with a radiant gilded sun, the upper spokes of which glinted with rays emanating from the sinking original.

In due course, Haussmann arrived at his destination:
Tassilo Jaufenthaler — jeweller.

It was a modest establishment. A small shop space, some dusty
display cabinets filled with unimpressive paste jewellery, moth-eaten drapes, and a counter behind which sat a diminutive balding man with unremarkable features and steel-rimmed spectacles. He stood as Haussmann entered.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘Herr Jaufenthaler?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good afternoon.’ Weary of trading pleasantries, Haussmann asked bluntly: ‘Do you sell hatpins like this one?’

He placed the silver-acorn hatpin on the counter.

Herr Jaufenthaler picked it up and replied: ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t got any more of these, sir. Sold out. But I have something very similar about the same price. If you’d care to look in the cabinet by the door?’

Haussmann — disbelieving — repeated his question.

‘You’re quite sure?’ Haussmann pointed across the counter. ‘The hatpins you sold were just like that?’

‘Identical.’ The jeweller looked at Haussmann suspiciously.

Haussmann showed his identification.

‘Security office?’ said Herr Jaufenthaler. ‘I don’t understand. I can assure you, the hatpins that I sold weren’t stolen. I got them from Krawczyk, my Polish supplier. He’s a devout Catholic — he wouldn’t have accepted stolen goods.’

Haussmann raised his hand.

‘I’m not accusing you of anything, Herr Jaufenthaler. I’d just like to ask you a few questions. Now, can you remember which customers purchased your acorn hatpins?’

Herr Jaufenthaler thought for a few moments before replying.

‘I took five off Krawczyk. I didn’t take
that
many because they’re rather unusual. The pin is quite thick — see? They’re really for very large hats, and I wasn’t sure that there would be much demand
But they did sell — and faster than I’d expected. A few young ladies — oh yes, and Frau Felbiger — she’s a regular — and a gentleman.’

‘A gentleman?’

‘Yes. A gentleman.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Tall. Dark hair. Well-mannered.’

‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘When did he buy the hatpin?’

‘About three weeks ago. I can check my books if you want?’

‘Have you seen him since?’

‘No.’

‘Did Krawczyk supply these pins to any other shops?’

‘Well, you’d have to ask him.’

‘Herr Jaufenthaler,’ said Haussmann. ‘I am afraid I must ask you to come with me to the Schottenring station in order to make a statement.’

‘Statement!’ Herr Jaufenthaler cried. ‘You’re acting as if someone’s been murdered!’

‘They have,’ said Haussmann.

‘What?’ Jaufenthaler laughed. ‘With a hatpin?’

‘Yes,’ replied Haussmann. ‘The one you are holding.’

The smile vanished from Herr Jaufenthaler’s face as he dropped the hatpin onto the counter, his face crumpling in disgust.

‘S
O,’ SAID
L
IEBERMANN.
‘H
AS
anyone else seen your doppelgänger?’

‘You think I imagined it all, don’t you?’ said Erstweiler. ‘You think I am insane!’

Liebermann was still considering how he might respond when Herr Erstweiler added: ‘Forgive my impertinence, Herr doctor, but you are evidently trying to formulate a diplomatic answer. Please don’t tax your brain on my account — it really isn’t necessary. I am fully aware of how ridiculous everything I have said sounds. Indeed, I would think you a peculiar representative of your profession if you didn’t think my doppelgänger anything but a figment of my imagination. As I’ve already said, I would be relieved to discover that I am mad. Oh, how comforting, to be assured that this creature, this devil in my own shape was nothing but a hallucination, and that this terrible sense of foreboding was a piece of harmless self-deception.’

‘Then why respond to my question with a rebuke?’

‘Because I cannot give you the answer you expect, the answer that would confirm your medical prejudices and give me hope. Has anyone else seen my doppelgänger? The answer regretfully is yes. Herr Polster.’

‘Who?’

‘Herr Polster. He’s the publican of a beer cellar in Simmering. A place called The Chimney Sweep.’ Erstweiler paused, glanced at the door, took a deep breath and continued: ‘On my way back home from
work, I occasionally stop off at The Chimney Sweep for some light refreshment; however, I never go there on Wednesday nights — the reason being that it is on this day that we take deliveries at the warehouse and I must must stay late to check the stock, prepare an inventory, and write letters if everything is not in order. About two weeks ago, I was in The Chimney Sweep and Herr Polster came to my table and said something like: Back
again, so soon?
I thought nothing of it. But during the course of our conversation he kept on referring to things that I had no recollection of ever having said. I took this to be some kind of joke and did not react. However, Herr Polster persisted and eventually I became quite annoyed. I demanded: When,
when did
I
say that?
And he replied, Last
night, of course!
Which was, as I am sure you have already guessed, a Wednesday. I lost my temper and to my surprise Herr Polster responded with no small amount of embarrassment and confusion. He then made light of my reaction, reminded me that I had drunk rather more than usual and promised he would be discreet. It became clear to me then that Herr Polster wasn’t joking at all. As far as he was concerned, I really
had
been to The Chimney Sweep the night before. Which I realised could mean but one thing.’

‘Your doppelgänger?’

‘Indeed.’

‘From your conversation with Herr Polster, were you able to ascertain what the double said?’

‘I was left with the impression of a person considerably more ill-mannered than myself — a lewd individual.’

Erstweiler’s face reddened.

‘In what way?’

‘Is it really necessary that I tell you everything, Herr doctor?’ Liebermann allowed the silence to build. ‘Oh, very well,’ Erstweiler
muttered. ‘From Herr Polster’s comments, I realised that my doppelgänger had made remarks about the desirability of Frau Milena, the wife of my landlord, Kolinsky.’

Liebermann leaned forward.

‘What is she like? Frau Milena?’

‘She is a very attr—’ Erstweiler stopped himself from saying ‘attractive’ and continued,
‘sweet-natured
person. Kolinsky really doesn’t appreciate her. Indeed, I have to say the man is something of a brute. He comes home drunk and shouts at her … and sometimes I hear noises — as if she’s being pushed around.’

‘What do you do when that happens?’

‘I go downstairs to ask if everything is all right. And Frau Milena says, Yes, Herr Erstweiler,
everything is well,
I
am sorry about the noise.
Or
Bozidar isn’t feeling well,
or I tripped
and fell,
or some such nonsense. And old Kolinsky just sits there, grunting and waving his hand in the air. At least it settles down after I make such an appearance, which must be appreciated by Frau Milena. But I’ve often asked myself What’s the
point of intervening?
— it only starts up again a few days later. They say it’s unwise to get involved in domestic arguments and I can see why. Besides, marriage is supposed to be holy. We are advised not to come between a man and woman who have been joined together by God.’

Liebermann made a note: Resists admitting Frau
Milena attractive?
Why?

‘Do you believe that?’ asked Liebermann. ‘That marriage reflects the will of God?’

‘I don’t know. It’s what we’re told. Or perhaps I’m just making excuses. Perhaps I should do more for Frau Milena? Perhaps I should have words with old Kolinsky.’

‘Threaten him?’

Erstweiler sat up, his gaze suddenly fixed on the door. His hands were trembling.

‘There’s someone standing outside!’

Liebermann rose swiftly and approached the door.

‘For God’s sake, man,’ cried Erstweiler. ‘Don’t let him in!’

The young doctor depressed the handle and pulled the door open, revealing a vacant corridor.

‘You see? Nothing to be frightened of.’

Slumping back onto the rest bed, Erstweiler sighed: ‘I could have sworn …’

‘What?’

‘I thought I saw a shadow, through the glass.’

Liebermann sat down again and picked up his notes. He immediately wrote: Thought
of threatening Herr Kolinsky
triggers
hallucination.
He wondered: Why
would that happen?
Struggling to understand the underlying psychodynamics, Liebermann turned over in his mind the facts of the case. Here was a man who desired his landlord’s wife but disowned such feelings. Perhaps the notion of coming between man and wife had become associated with divine retribution. Did the hallucination represent a punishment for failing to respect God’s sacrament of marriage? Liebermann glanced down at Erstweiler. The poor fellow certainly believed in God, but he was not devout or fanatical.

‘Herr Erstweiler?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you object to me speaking to Herr Polster?’

Erstweiler was still looking uneasily at the panel of glass.

‘Do you think I made it all up?’

‘No.’

‘Then why do you want to speak to Herr Polster?’

‘I think it will be …’ Liebermann hesitated before selecting a suitably anodyne word ‘… instructive.’

Rolling his head to the side, Erstweiler closed his eyes and whispered: ‘Do as you please, Herr doctor.’

He was evidently too exhausted to continue the session.

R
HEINHARDT STRODE DOWN
L
ANGE
Gasse, hopping off the pavement to allow a perambulator to pass and hopping back on again to avoid a carriage. He was humming the
Andante con moto
from Schubert’s B-flat Piano Trio, allowing his baritone voice to take on the expressive sonorities of a cello. The melody reflected his mood: subdued yet purposeful. In due course he came to his destination, a pair of tall wooden doors. He touched the peeling paintwork, pressed lightly, and entered a vaulted tunnel.

The inspector stepped over a rusting bicycle frame and an obstacle course of discarded items: a box of coat hangers, numerous empty wine bottles, and the statue of an angel (with weather-worn features and broken wings) lying on its side.

Beyond the tunnel was a narrow path which ran between two rows of identical terraced cottages. They had plain whitewashed exteriors and flat roofs. Someone, somewhere, was playing a Chopin prelude on an out-of-tune piano; however, Rheinhardt was impressed by the technical proficiency of the pianist. Raising his eyes, the inspector saw that he had entered a cul-de-sac. The path was truncated by a brick wall on which two large urns were precariously balanced. Behind the wall he could see the tops of trees and, some distance beyond these, the fenestrated rear of a high residential block.

Rheinhardt came to an open door and called out: ‘Hello?’

A scruffy-looking young man appeared. He wasn’t wearing a collar and his untucked shirt hung over a pair of dirty corduroy trousers.

‘Yes?’ His accent was almost aristocratic.

‘I’m looking for Herr Rainmayr.’

‘Ludo Rainmayr? Last cottage on the right; be that as it may, I feel obliged to inform you that he is presently engaged by his muse and he can’t abide interruptions. It puts him in a foul temper. I assume you have come to settle a debt?’ Rheinhardt did not answer. ‘Well, if so,’ the young man continued, ‘you will — I am sorry to say — be disappointed. Ludo hasn’t a heller left. He spent all his money last night. We went to see a troupe of comedy acrobats — The Dorfmeisters — at Ronachers.’

Rheinhardt was confident that he was speaking to an impoverished actor.

‘Thank you for your assistance,’ he said, raising his hat. ‘Please accept my apologies for interrupting your busy day.’

‘Not at all,’ said the young man — oblivious of the inspector’s irony. ‘My pleasure.’

Rheinhardt ventured further down the path. A scrawny cat jumped down from a window ledge and ran on ahead like a herald. When the inspector reached the final cottage on the right he rapped his knuckles on the door.

A voice from inside shouted: ‘Come in!’

The room that Rheinhardt entered was gloomy for an artist’s studio; however, the absence of natural light was compensated for by several oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. There was an iron stove, some chairs stacked in the corner, an easel, and a table cluttered with rags, brushes, bottles, bowls and paint pots. Next to the easel stood a man in his late fifties. He was wearing a blue kaftan with yellow flowers embroidered into the fabric. His grey hair was exceptionally thick and long, as was his beard.

In front of the artist was a mattress covered with a white sheet on which two naked women were positioned. They were both very young and extraordinarily thin. One was lying on her front, the other on her back. The latter had underdeveloped breasts which barely rose from her chest. Her legs were slightly parted. She did not move or seek to cover herself when Rheinhardt entered. Indeed, her expression communicated only intense boredom. The other woman twisted her neck and glanced back over her shoulder but, like her companion, she seemed unperturbed by the arrival of a stranger.

‘Yes?’ said the artist.