Deadly Communion (7 page)

Liebermann, now evidently irritated by his own inability to solve the mystery, glared at his friend: ‘Well?’

Rheinhardt took a leisurely sip of brandy.

‘The pin,’ he said — before pausing to delay his disclosure a few
seconds more — ‘was pushed through the gap between the uppermost vertebra of the spinal column and the skull, through the hole at the base of the skull — the foramen magnum, I believe it is called — and into the brain.’

Liebermann banged the side of his head with the palm of his hand.

‘Of course, how stupid of me: and how very
interesting.’
He said the word ‘interesting’ in such a way as to suggest sudden illumination.

‘Why interesting?’

It was now Liebermann’s turn to be coy.

‘Please continue.’

Rheinhardt knew that there would be little point in pressing his friend for an answer.

‘Fräulein Zeiler was reported missing by her father who subsequently identified the body. She lived with her family — father, mother, and two sisters — in the sixteenth district. The two sisters are infirm; one suffers from a chest disease and the other is crippled. The Zeilers had become increasingly dependent on Adele for support, particularly after Herr Zeiler lost his job. She was able to provide subsistence for herself and her family by selling the gifts she received from gentlemen: gentlemen whose
friendship
she cultivated specifically for that purpose. Her father was insistent that Adele never accepted money, but most people would probably judge her to be not very different from a prostitute. She also supplemented her income by modelling for an artist called Rainmayr — a most unsavoury fellow whom I visited yesterday. I say unsavoury, largely on account of the work he produces. His oeuvre — if we can distinguish it by such a term — must appeal mostly to the kind of man one sees in Café Central, exchanging coins under the table for lewd postcards. He specialises in portraits of young women. Very young women.’ Rheinhardt’s expression darkened.
‘Rainmayr claims to have patrons in exalted circles, a boast which I fear might very well be true. Fräulein Zeiler went to see Rainmayr on Sunday afternoon. She wanted more modelling work, which he says he was unable to provide. I suspect they might have argued. She then left the artist’s studio for a small coffee house called Honniger’s where Rainmayr believes she intended to meet one of her admirers. I went to Honniger’s and one of the waiters recognised Fräulein Zeiler from a photograph. He was able to confirm that she had been there on Sunday night with a male companion. He provided a description broadly consistent with that of Herr Jaufen thaler: dark hair, tallish, thin, pale — but with the notable addition of blue eyes. The waiter supposed him to be some kind of professional.’

Liebermann picked up the hatpin and studied it again. He seemed particularly absorbed by the bend — the small kink — close to the silver acorn. Once again, he ran his finger along its length.

A small shower of sparks erupted among the flames of the fire.

‘It is tempting to assume,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that Fräulein Zeiler’s dark-haired companion is the perpetrator; however, the evidence is circumstantial. He might have purchased the hatpin as a gift, given it to Fräulein Zeiler, and then they could have parted. We should also remember that a woman like Fräulein Zeiler might easily arouse jealous passions. She was obviously unattached to her gentlemen friends, but who knows what they felt about her? Did she mislead them? And what if one of their number had learned that Fräulein Zeiler had been trifling with his affections? Could such a besotted admirer have stumbled upon Fräulein Zeiler in Honniger’s — flirting outrageously with the dark-haired stranger — and become enraged? Could he have lain in wait, pretending, when the opportunity arose, that a chance meeting had occurred?
And finally, could he have then persuaded Fräulein Zeiler to walk with him to the Volksgarten in order to enjoy her sexual favours one last time, before—’

‘No, no, no,’ cried Liebermann, waving his hand in the air impatiently. ‘That is quite wrong! This murder isn’t related to some cheap
demi-monde
melodrama. It has nothing to do with broken promises, dashed hopes and wounded pride!’

Rheinhardt — somewhat startled — raised an eyebrow.

‘Jealousy,’ Liebermann continued, ‘especially in men, is indeed a common cause of retributive sexual violence; however, the individual who murdered Fräulein Zeiler is, I believe, quite different from the common herd of infatuated, intemperate, and vengeful lovers. His motives are as strange as the air of another planet. Indeed, I would go as far as to say that this man is unique in the annals of psychopathology.’ The young doctor became feverish. ‘Even the
Psychopathia Sexualis
with its exhaustive bestiary of lust murderers, necrophiliacs, fetishists, and sadomasochists, vampires and coprophiliacs, hermaphrodites and exhibitionists, does not include a comparable case.’

Rheinhardt’s expression became increasingly sceptical as Liebermann’s excitement mounted.

‘Really, Max! This man
is
very interesting — I grant you that — insofar as he has recognised and exploited the murderous possibilities of the seemingly innocuous hatpin. But beyond this irregularity I see nothing singular or remarkable about his crime. If he is not a jealous lover then he is, at worst, a lust murderer. He availed himself of Fräulein Zeiler’s favours and then he killed her.’

‘I beg to differ.’

‘I would have thought that much was indisputable!’

‘Allow me to make some clinically relevant observations. In cases of lust murder, the pervert kills to ensure compliance. A dead woman
cannot reject sexual advances. The same is true — only even more so — of a necrophile. We know from Professor Mathias’s evidence that Fräulein Zeiler gave herself willingly. Her murderer, therefore, did not need to render her insensible. He did not need to
take
her because what would otherwise need to be
taken
was already being freely offered!’

Rheinhardt looked confused.

‘I’m not really following your argument … and I still don’t understand your objection to my initial remark.’

‘You suggested that intercourse occurred and then the perpetrator killed Fräulein Zeiler. This gives a false impression of what I believe actually happened. The perpetrator did not kill Fräulein Zeiler
after
sexual intercourse — he killed her
during
intercourse!’

Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. He motioned as if to speak, but immediately fell silent again.

‘To drive a hatpin,’ Liebermann continued, ‘through the foramen magnum and into the brain is not an easy task. The head would have to be bent forward, widening the aperture between the final vertebra and the skull; however, sexual intercourse would have afforded the perpetrator ample opportunity to conduct such manipulations. He might have lifted Fräulein Zeiler’s head — to kiss her, perhaps — while he positioned the hatpin in readiness for his … ultimate pleasure.’

‘What do you mean by that?
Ultimate pleasure?’

‘I mean,’ Liebermann replied, ‘that he very probably
culminated
as he drove the hatpin home. You see, if I am correct he is in actual fact nothing like Krafft-Ebing’s lust murderers and necrophiliacs, who find the dead arousing. He doesn’t find the dead arousing — he finds
death
arousing, death itself! He is a thanatophiliac!’

Rheinhardt poured himself an extra-large brandy and gulped it down with uncharacteristic speed.

‘You said that it wouldn’t be easy to insert a hatpin directly into the brain.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Yet he seems to have had no trouble doing so.’

‘In which case,’ said Liebermann, ‘he has had plenty of practice.’

‘I’
M SORRY TO DISTURB
you, sir,’ said Haussmann, standing in the doorway. ‘But there’s a young woman downstairs who wants to see you. She’s a bit agitated and she’s very’ — the young man assumed a woeful expression — ‘insistent.’

‘Why does she want to see me?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘She says she has information that will be of interest to you.’

‘What information?’

‘I have no idea, sir. She wouldn’t say.’

‘Did you try to find out?’

‘I did, sir, but my powers of persuasion proved insufficient.’

‘Well, I take it, Haussmann, you persuaded her to divulge her name — that much at least, eh?’

‘Pryska Sykora, sir.’

‘I’ve never heard of her. Even so, I suppose you’d better bring her up.’

Haussmann stepped back into the corridor but suddenly froze.

‘Yes?’ said Rheinhardt: ‘What now?’

Haussmann’s cheeks darkened. ‘This isn’t
very
relevant, sir, but I think you should know. It says something about Fräulein Sykora’s character. In addition to insisting that she should be allowed to talk to you, sir, she also suggested that I might want to consider taking her to the theatre one evening this week.’

‘I see. And did you?’

‘What, sir?’

‘Consider it.’

‘If I am to be perfectly honest, sir, I did. She is quite pretty; however, I was quick to point out that if I acted on her proposal this would very likely provoke your displeasure.’

‘Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you are wise beyond your years.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Not at all. Now, if you would be so kind as to fetch this
femme fatale
I would be most grateful. The day is already advanced and I regret to say I have done very little.’

After Haussmann’s departure Rheinhardt opened one of the drawers in his desk and removed a cardboard box. It was full of his wife’s
Linzer biscotten.
She had made them in the shape of hearts.

Rheinhardt was particularly fond of his wife’s
Linzerbiscotten
because she always coated them with a thick crust of sugary icing and cemented the shortbread together with a superabundant quantity of raspberry jam. The inspector wondered if his wife’s baking (never stinting and conspicuously bountiful) betrayed something of her innermost nature. According to Liebermann, those things which were usually considered insignificant (for example, a person’s choice of pastry cutter) often supplied the richest seams for psychoanalytic inquiry. The inspector picked up one of the biscuits and contemplated its dimensions, its telling shape and the extravagant applications of icing and jam.
Surely,
he thought,
all indisputable signs of a generous spirit.
He was overcome with sentiment but then laughed out loud. Professor Freud’s The
Interpretation of Dreams
had received mixed reviews. What would the world make of The
Interpretation of Biscuits?
Perhaps it was better to leave the psychoanalysis to Liebermann.

Rheinhardt ate one of the
Linzer biscotten
and was contemplating eating a second when Haussmann returned with Fräulein Sykora. She was very young, perhaps no more than seventeen, small, and almost
beautiful. Her face was flawed by a quality that Rheinhardt could only think of as ‘hardness’.

‘Fräulein Sykora,’ said Rheinhardt, rising from his chair. ‘Please, do come in.’ He observed some crumbs on his blotter and discreetly brushed them aside. ‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt.’

Haussmann took Fräulein Sykora’s coat and offered her the chair in front of Rheinhardt’s desk. She did not make eye contact with the assistant detective and did not say ‘Thank you.’ Haussmann withdrew, hung her coat on the stand, and maintained a safe distance.

‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt, sitting down again. ‘I understand you are in possession of some information which you believe may be of interest to me.’

‘Yes,’ Fräulein Sykora said. ‘I am.’ Her accent was rough, unrefined — but the timbre of her voice was pleasantly husky. ‘You’re the detective who’s investigating Adele Zeiler’s murder, aren’t you?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I heard all about it yesterday.’

Rheinhardt registered that she had
heard
about the murder — and not
read
about it in the newspapers.

‘From whom?’

Pryska Sykora swung around and glanced at Haussmann: ‘I won’t say anything while he’s here.’

‘Haussmann is my assistant,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Everything I know, he must know too.’

‘What I’ve got to say … it’s
personal.’

Rheinhardt sighed, then looked over at his assistant and said: ‘Haussmann — would you mind waiting outside?’

‘Not at all, sir.’

Haussmann bowed and left the office, closing the door with just enough surplus force to declare his wounded pride.

‘So,’ said Rheinhardt, steepling his hands and tapping his fingertips against his pursed lips. ‘How did you learn about poor Adele?’

‘From my friends … and it was them who told me about you.’

‘And who might your friends be?’

‘They were at Rainmayr’s when you went to ask him questions.’

‘Ah yes — Lissi and Toni?’

‘Yes, that’s them.’

Fräulein Sykora fell silent and she looked around the room. She then said: ‘Do you pay for it?’

Surprised, Rheinhardt drew back a little.

‘Pay for what, exactly?’

‘Information.’

‘Well, that depends.’

‘You do pay, though, don’t you? How much?’

‘When citizens provide us with serviceable information, it is our practice in the security office to reward them — sometimes — with a small gratuity.’

‘We used to talk,’ said Fräulein Sykora. ‘Adele and me — we were good friends.’

‘And what did you used to talk about?’

‘Things … Rainmayr.’

Pryska Sykora pursed her lips and rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.

Rheinhardt found two kronen in his pocket and placed them on his desk.

‘Let us assume that I am interested in what you have to tell me,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘But you will have to be a little more forthcoming.’

Fräulein Sykora nodded.

‘Adele was angry with Rainmayr. She wanted more work and he wouldn’t give it to her. She used to curse him. She even threatened him.’

‘How did she threaten him?’

‘He’s an artist. You know what artists are like with their models.’