Frank Tallis - Deadly Communion

‘May I introduce my husband,’ said Kristina. ‘Doctor Heinz Vogl. My dear, these gentlemen are Detective Inspector Rheinhardt and his colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann.’

Heinz Vogl bowed: ‘ Doctor Liebermann?’

‘I am a psychiatrist.’

‘And you work for the security office?’

‘Doctor Liebermann is a psychological consultant,’ interjected Rheinhardt.

‘I see,’ said the older man. ‘Then I sincerely hope, Herr Doctor Liebermann, that your branch of medicine — controversial though it is — can provide such insights as lead to the swift apprehension of this …’ his features screwed up in distaste ‘… monster!’

He inclined his head in modest deference and went to his wife, who reached out to him as he approached. Taking her hand, Vogl sat down on the bed beside her.

‘Are you all right, my darling?’ Kristina responded with a faint smile and then coughed. Her husband addressed the visitors: ‘A chest infection. She needs to rest.’

‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘We will not disturb you for very much longer.’

Heinz Vogl picked up one of his wife’s sketchbooks.

‘You have been working, my dear.’ The tone of his voice carried a gentle censure.

‘I was bored,’ Kristina replied.

The physician shook his head and sighed.

‘Were you acquainted with Fraulein Wirth, Herr doctor?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘Yes, I met her once. Kristina wanted me to examine her — to give an opinion. I’m not really a leg man, so I arranged for her to see a colleague, Alvintzi. I met her briefly at the hospital.’

‘What was wrong with Fraulein Wirth?’

‘It was difficult to establish. Alvintzi wasn’t sure whether it was a muscular or orthopaedic problem.’

‘Frau Vogl must take great care,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘The man she saw outside Fraulein Wirth’s-’

‘What man?’ Vogl cut in. He looked from Rheinhardt to his wife. ‘You saw a man?’

‘Hush now,’ said Kristina.

‘You didn’t say.’

‘It was nothing.’ She made an appeasing gesture. ‘Really, Heinz …’

‘With the greatest respect, Frau Vogl’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I would not describe the observation of a man waiting outside Fraulein Wirth’s apartment on the evening of her murder as nothing — particularly since he also saw you. If he was the murderer, then you may be in great danger.’

‘My dear,’ said Heinz Vogl, brushing a strand of hair from his wife’s face. ‘What did you see?’

‘A man … in the courtyard. I thought nothing of it. He could have been anybody.’

‘Frau Vogl,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You cannot be complacent about such things.’

‘It’s just as well you haven’t been out,’ said Vogl to his wife.

‘I intend to be at the salon tomorrow morning,’ she replied tartly.

‘But you are unwell.’

‘I am feeling much better today.’ A trace of irritation had entered Kristina’s voice.

‘My wife,’ said Vogl, a little exasperated, ‘is a dress designer of some reputation.’

‘Indeed,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Frau Rheinhardt is a great admirer of Frau Vogl’s creations.’

‘Ashputtel,’ said Liebermann. All eyes fastened on the young doctor — the flow of conversation was halted by his exclamation. ‘These lithographs,’ he continued. ‘They tell the story of Ashputtel.’

‘Yes,’ said Kristina, her voice dipping and rising — uncertain.

‘They are very beautiful, and so apposite.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The dresses: dresses are so important in the story. And you — being a dress designer.’

Frau Vogl smiled.

‘I had not thought of that. I bought them only because I admired the artist’s style.’

‘Czeschka.’

‘Yes. He is young and very talented.’

Liebermann paused, then asked abruptly: ‘Have you always kept in touch with Fraulein Wirth, continuously — throughout your life?’

The effect was jarring.

‘No. We didn’t correspond for a while. We stopped when I was about fifteen, and I didn’t hear from her again until I was in my late twenties.’

A curious silence ensued. Kristina produced a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her kimono and pressed it against her mouth. She coughed, this time more forcefully.

‘Inspector,’ said Vogl. ‘My wife really should be resting.’

‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Forgive me. You have been most helpful.’

As they walked down the Linke Wienzeile the sphere of gilded laurel leaves that surmounted the Secession building came into view.

‘Odd,’ said Liebermann.

‘What was?’ Rheinhardt asked.

‘The whole thing.’

‘I didn’t think so.’

‘Her answers …’

‘What about them?’

‘They were too perfect.’ Liebermann frowned. ‘Contrived. Everything fitting neatly into place.’

‘You think she made it all up?’ Rheinhardt looked at his friend askance. ‘Why on earth would she do that?’ Liebermann shrugged. ‘Max, if anyone was acting oddly, it wasn’t her, it was you! Why did you ask that question at the end?’

Liebermann stopped walking.

‘Do you remember what she said: after you’d inquired about Fraulein Wirth and gentlemen friends? She said that Fraulein Wirth had had many, and that when she was younger Fraulein Wirth had been very striking. How would she have known that if they had lost touch as adolescents and not seen each other again in a decade or more?’

‘Frau Vogl obviously learned these things after they had resumed their acquaintance.’

‘But to say it in that way … she was very striking. She said it as though she could remember it.’

‘She may have seen a photograph.’

‘Were there any photographs found in Fraulein Wirth’s apartment?’

‘No. But that does not mean that such photographs have never existed.’

Liebermann shook his head.

‘And why hadn’t Frau Vogl told her husband that she had seen a man standing outside Fraulein Wirth’s apartment?’

‘She didn’t think it important — or she didn’t want to worry him. You saw his reaction. He is her senior by a considerable margin and probably prone to the anxieties more commonly observed in a parent than a spouse. I formed the impression that he was protective — perhaps over-protective.’

Liebermann walked a few steps further and stopped again.

‘And another thing.’ Rheinhardt’s expression showed that he was losing patience. ‘Didn’t it strike you as strange that Frau Vogl had made no connection between Ashputtel’s dresses in the lithographs and her occupation! She was genuinely surprised when I pointed it out. In which case, what was it about those pictures that appealed to her?’

‘She told you. She liked the artist’s style.’

‘That goes without saying. But what — in addition to the artist’s style — made her choose the story of Ashputtel?’

‘Max,’ said Rheinhardt, gripping his friend’s shoulder and giving him a firm shake. ‘Does it matter? She isn’t a suspect, for heaven’s sake!’

‘So why was she acting so … strangely?’

‘She wasn’t!’ Rheinhardt tapped the side of his friend’s head. ‘It was all in your mind! I am sure that Frau Vogl would make a very interesting case study; however, now is not the time and this street corner is not the place. Let’s go to Cafe Schwarzenberg. I could do with another coffee.’ Rheinhardt paused before adding, ‘And something else, perhaps.’

The photographs were spread across the top of Commissioner Brugel’s desk. He selected three full-length portraits and laid them out in a row: Adele Zeiler, lying on the lawn of the Volksgarten, Bathild Babel, sprawled naked on her bed, and Selma Wirth, the hilt of a dagger sticking out of her chest. Brugel’s gaze lingered on the central image. He sighed, opened a drawer and removed a ladies’ magazine. He held the cover up for Rheinhardt to see. It was a publication concerned almost exclusively with society news and gossip.