Frank Tallis - Deadly Communion

‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’

Liebermann — who had drunk more temperately — was nevertheless able to answer with sincerity: ‘Yes, it is very good indeed.’

‘Expensive. But you get what you pay for, eh?’

‘Quite so,’ Liebermann agreed, sampling again the woody, aromatic beer. He then added casually: ‘Herr Erstweiler told me he never comes here on Wednesday evenings.’

‘That’s right. Usually he doesn’t.’

‘But he did once.’

‘Yes.’

‘And would you say he acted out of character that evening?’

‘I should say so!’

‘In what way?’

‘Norbert isn’t a great drinker. He comes in, has a few, and then leaves. But on this occasion, this one Wednesday night, he got well drunk! Not horribly drunk, you understand, but drunk enough to say things he didn’t mean to. And when I saw him next, he acted as if nothing had happened. I don’t know whether he was just embarrassed, or whether he’d really forgotten everything. It happens sometimes — although, thinking about it, he didn’t drink that much. Still, if you’re not used to it, eh? You should see the state some get into. God in heaven! I have to pick them up off the floor and leave them outside in the gutter!’

‘What did Herr Erstweiler say — that Wednesday evening?’ The landlord looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Will you have another one?’ said Liebermann, nonchalantly pointing to the small barrel of Bavarian beer.

Herr Polster’s troubled expression was erased by a wide, foolish grin.

‘You’re a gentleman, sir, a true gentleman.’ Liebermann produced some more coins while Polster thrust his stein under the tap. ‘And will you be wanting another one for yourself, Herr doctor?’

‘Not just yet. You were saying …’

‘Oh yes, that Wednesay evening …’ Herr Polster raised the stein and poured half the contents down his throat. ‘Well, he said a lot of things — but he spoke mostly about his landlord’s wife. He went on about how beautiful she was and how she wasn’t appreciated by her old husband. And then he got more drunk and said other things. And these other things became more earthy, if you know what I mean? At the time we had a good laugh. When I saw him again — the next time — I reminded him of some of the things he’d said, and he reacted very strangely. And then he got quite annoyed … I suppose he was just embarrassed. I felt sorry for him. He doesn’t strike me as the type to have had very much luck with women. He’s a shy man. And he wouldn’t consider going to a …’ The publican winked in lieu of supplying a euphemism for brothel. ‘It must be difficult for him. Naturally. Living in a house with an attractive young woman. He’s only human.’

Liebermann finished his beer.

‘Herr Polster, I have one more question, which at first you might think odd, but I would be most grateful if you would give it your most careful and serious consideration. My question is this: are you absolutely sure that the man who came here that Wednesday night was — without question — Herr Erstweiler?’

The publican frowned.

‘I don’t understand? What do you mean? Are you asking if it could have been an impostor?’

‘Let us say someone who strongly resembled Herr Erstweiler.’

Herr Polster shook his head.

‘No, it was Norbert! No doubt about it.’

‘Herr Rainmayr,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘When we spoke last, you said that Fraulein Zeiler became petulant when you couldn’t offer her work. But would it be more accurate to say that you argued and that subsequently she threatened you in some way?’

‘Threatened me?’ Rainmayr replied. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

The artist was seated on a chair while Rheinhardt walked around the studio.

‘She never mentioned that she might go to the police?’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘To accuse you of improper conduct: seduction of a minor, to be precise.’

‘That is absurd, inspector.’

Rheinhardt turned to examine the artist’s face. It showed no emotion.

‘I recognise, Herr Rainmayr, that you are not fearful of the law. But I doubt whether your patrons or associates — whoever they are — would be able to give you an absolute guarantee of protection. Had Fraulein Zeiler made such an allegation, you would have been detained for questioning, tried, and the outcome — regardless of petitions and intercession — might have been a prison sentence lasting months, if not years.’

Rainmayr sighed.

‘You’ve been talking to that stupid bitch Pryska, haven’t you? Pryska Sykora?’

‘I am afraid I cannot disclose my sources.’

‘You don’t have to. I know exactly what’s happened here.’ The artist shook his head and smiled, baring his teeth without good humour. ‘It’s like this: Pryska has got herself involved with Kirchmann — a local coffee shop owner. He’s an ugly fellow and she’s been trying to get out of his clutches for some time. Herr Kirchmann’s charity is not without conditions, you understand? Now, a couple of months ago Pryska started coming here with her friends — models — and then she started coming on her own. It was obvious what she was up to. Needless to say, I didn’t respond to her clumsy attempts at playing the temptress and she became very angry. In fact, she threw the most ridiculous tantrum. She actually put her foot through a commission I was working on. It took me days to repair the damage. Clearly, she’s still smarting from the rejection. And now she’s decided to make trouble for me by telling you a pack of lies. Did you pay her for them, inspector? I hope not.’

Rheinhardt twisted his moustache and considered the unfinished canvas on Rainmayr’s easel. It showed a young woman lying on a divan. She was nude and her knees were spaced just far enough apart to expose a hectic stripe. Her skin was mottled and transparent, to the extent that the portrait was as much a study of the human skeleton as the naked body. Her ribcage was clearly visible and her breasts were shaded a putrescent green. It was a deeply troubling portrait, which managed to situate eroticism close to — if not in — the grave.

The artist observed Rheinhardt’s expression change from curiosity to disgust. He sighed and continued in a more conciliatory tone: ‘Look, inspector, I’m no angel — I’d be the first to admit it. But I do care about the girls who model for me. And when they’re in trouble, I try to help them. I’m an artist. My way of life might not meet with your approval but I can assure you I have standards — moral standards. Different from yours, but standards nevertheless. I don’t think I’ve been responsible for corrupting or harming any of the models I’ve sketched or painted. I’m not a child molester and I’m certainly not a murderer. Adele Zeiler was moody and we sometimes argued. But she never threatened to go to the police. That is completely false.’

‘Did you have relations with Adele Zeiler?’

The artist paused before saying: ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And how old was she?’

‘I don’t know. I thought she was seventeen. She might have been younger. It’s possible that her father lied about her age when we first met.’

Rheinhardt continued to question Rainmayr but he was already satisfied that the purpose of his visit had been accomplished. Fraulein Sykora’s evidence was — as he had suspected — quite worthless. In due course, Rheinhardt crossed the floor and opened the door.

‘Are you going already, inspector?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve told you the truth.’

As Rheinhardt departed there were no formal exchanges — only a heavy silence.

The inspector walked between the squat cottages, negotiating debris that had been strewn across the path. Above the vaulted tunnel that led to Lange Gasse he could see the upper storeys of apartment buildings. When he stepped out onto the main thoroughfare he was surprised to see his assistant waiting on the other side of the road. The young man hurried over.