Frank Tallis - Deadly Communion

‘Sir.’

‘What is it, Haussmann?’

‘Another one, sir.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Spittelberg.’

Liebermann was halfway through volume one of Bach’s Forty-Eight Preludes and Fugues when a messenger rapped on the door of his apartment. Rheinhardt’s brief dispatch had been scrawled on a page torn from his notebook. The ragged edge of the paper added an extra dimension of urgency to the words — a request for Liebermann to leave immediately for an address in Spittelberg. Taking his astrakhan coat from the hallstand, Liebermann ran down the stairs, past the concierge and out onto the street, just in time to stop a cab.

The gently flowing left-hand figure of the E minor Prelude repeated itself in Liebermann’s head. This musical fragment, consisting of only the first four bars, would not fade. As images of Vienna flashed by, the mellifluous semiquavers continued, a peculiarly incongruent accompaniment to the busy life of the city.

Soon after entering Spittelberg, the carriage began to slow down. Liebermann opened the window and leaned out. The road ahead ran between eighteenth-century buildings that had fallen into a woeful state of disrepair. All of the facades were dilapidated, the stucco covered in patches of mould and the decorative window hoods blackened with grime. A constable was standing outside one of the entrances.

‘All right, you can stop here,’ Liebermann called.

The carriage halted and Liebermann stepped out.

‘What’s going on down there?’ asked the driver.

‘I don’t know,’ Liebermann said and shrugged, handing the driver some coins. Liebermann made his way up the road to the waiting constable and introduced himself.

‘This way, Herr doctor,’ said the young man, opening a large wooden door. On the other side was a vaulted tunnel which led to a spacious courtyard. It was surrounded by two-storey dwellings with plain walls and rectangular windows. Lower apartments were set back behind an arched arcade, beneath which several old carts with tarpaulin covers had been left. A balcony — supported by the arcade — provided those residing on the upper level with a railing on which to dry their laundry. Liebermann noticed that a horses’ drinking trough had been filled with earth and planted with trees; however, this attempt to beautify the courtyard had not been successful. The trees had died and their leafless, twisted branches were afflicted by a leprous dark green moss. A pool of brown water had collected beneath the mouth of a drainpipe and a swarm of tiny flies hovered above its surface.

The balcony was reached by a staircase that occupied one of the corners of the square. It was built against the wall of the building to the left and ascended to the first floor of the building facing Liebermann. At the foot of the staircase were a group of women and Inspector Rheinhardt’s assistant, Haussmann. It seemed to Liebermann that the women were questioning Haussmann, not the other way round. Their chattering was shrill and excited.

Haussmann saw Liebermann and beckoned him over.

‘Who’s he?’ Liebermann heard one of the women ask.

‘That is no concern of yours,’ replied Haussmann. ‘Please stand aside.’

Haussmann herded the women away from the foot of the stairs, allowing Liebermann to pass. Liebermann thanked Haussmann and began to climb. At the top of the stairs was an open door. He entered the apartment and found himself in a dark, cramped kitchen. Pots and a ladle were suspended from a wooden beam that spanned the width of the low ceiling.

‘Oskar?’

‘I’m in here, Max.’

Liebermann pushed open a second door and saw Rheinhardt seated on a chair. The inspector’s expression was glum. The flesh on his face seemed to sag and only the upturned points of his moustache contradicted the general impression of descent.

A young woman, entirely naked, was lying on a single bed. Her legs were spread apart and one hung casually off the side. The delicate foot at its end was tilted downwards so that the toes were just touching the floorboards. Her sex was exposed, the vertical lips folded back, offering the observer a disconcertingly frank view of her shadowy interior. She was very thin and her hip bones jutted out below an equally distinct ribcage. Her breasts were of such little substance that gravity had deprived her entirely of a bust, giving her torso a masculine appearance. She possessed a pretty face: harmonious, regular features marred only — perhaps — by overly thick eyebrows. Her hair was blonde and framed her face like a saintly aura. Although the fingers of her left hand were spread out, those of her right were contracted and clawlike. Liebermann also noticed something odd about the position of the woman’s head. It seemed to be bent forward and slightly raised.

‘The same method?’ He spoke without looking at Rheinhardt.

‘Not only that,’ said the inspector. ‘But the same hatpin. On Friday I learned from Herr Jaufenthaler, the jeweller on the Hoher Markt, that he had sold not one silver-acorn hatpin to the gentleman who visited his shop, but two. I knew immediately that it would only be a matter of days before …’ Rheinhardt shook his head. ‘But I never thought he would strike again quite so soon.’

‘May I?’

Liebermann indicated that he wished to examine the body.

‘Of course.’

The young doctor crouched by the bed and felt beneath the woman’s neck. His fingers found the cold metal of the hatpin. He stood up and considered his surroundings: drab wallpaper and curtains, some mildewed and sentimental prints of animals, a wash table with a tilting mirror, a heap of discarded clothes.

‘You will notice,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that her dress is at the bottom of the pile, then her corset, then her drawers, and finally her stockings. It appears that she removed her garments in a leisurely fashion — casually dropping each item onto the floor.’

Liebermann opened a small wardrobe in which he found a coat and some more dresses. Above the horizontal rail was a shelf on which the woman kept her hat, underwear and gloves.

‘Who is she?’

‘Bathild Babel, a shop girl, aged eighteen. She came to Vienna six months ago from Styria.’ Liebermann threw a quizzical glance at his friend. ‘I’ve just finished interviewing Fraulein Babel’s neighbour, Frau Prodoprigora.’

‘How was Fraulein Babel discovered?’

‘Frau Prodoprigora noticed that the front door had been left open and came in to investigate.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, the door must have been left open by the perpetrator.’

‘So?’

‘An open door is conspicuous and could only serve to hasten police involvement.’

‘Which means?’

‘A vestige of conscience still survives. Some part of him wants to be stopped.’

Rheinhardt sighed: ‘Perhaps he simply departed in a hurry and neglected to pull the door hard enough to ensure its closure.’

‘No action, however trivial it may seem, is truly accidental.’

‘I don’t know, Max,’ said Rheinhardt wearily. ‘If he wanted to be caught surely he would simply present himself at a police station and confess.’

‘The human mind is not a unified whole,’ Liebermann responded, ‘but rather a community of parts, each with different requirements and objectives, and each possessed of varying amounts of knowledge concerning its accessories. Professor Freud has demonstrated that contradictory beliefs and desires are an essential feature of the human condition. In a sense, he has rendered the Greek aphorism know thyself utterly meaningless. There is no self — as we imagine it — to know. While one part of the mind attempts to execute an action another part resists. I have no doubt that the perpetrator intended to close the door; however, a remnant of his conscience exerted sufficient influence to arrest the action before it was completed.’