Frank Tallis - Deadly Communion

‘But it seems likely.’

‘Indeed. The combination of blue eyes and black hair is rather unusual.’ Rheinhardt dropped the envelope into his bag. ‘If the hair does belong to Griesser, I wonder why he does it — dyeing? He isn’t assuming a disguise to avoid recognition. Vanity, perhaps?’

‘Nothing so mundane,’ said Liebermann. ‘By dyeing his hair black he is associating himself with darkness, oblivion. It is a psychological phenomenon that Professor Freud calls identification.’

Rheinhardt considered his friend’s comment and frowned. He did not ask Liebermann to elaborate. He had already heard enough of Liebermann’s psychoanalytic theories at the start of their journey.

‘Haussmann is going back to Ronacher’s today,’ said Rheinhardt, returning the conversation to routine police work. ‘I’ve asked him to interview some of the performers, people who were acquainted with Roster.’

Liebermann nodded and turned to look out of the carriage window.

‘You should probably be there too.’

‘Well, not necessarily. If you are correct …’

‘Yes, if I am correct, then you will be able to justify deserting Haussmann. But I can see that you are far from convinced that my speculations have a legitimate basis. Moreover, I appreciate that, given how matters stand with you and Commissioner Brugel, I cannot make excessive demands on your patience.’

‘Forgive me, Max, but all your talk of doppelgangers, dreams, and Sophocles was a little confusing. How was Herr Erstweiler this morning?’

‘His condition is unchanged. I’ve told my colleague Kanner to medicate him if he becomes agitated.’ Still looking out of the window, Liebermann asked: ‘What was Miss Lydgate doing at the morgue?’

‘Professor Mathias and Miss Lydgate seem to have developed some form of …’ Rheinhardt’s hand revolved in the air as he searched for the right words, ‘… serviceable relationship. He refers to her as if she is his protegee. I would never have predicted it. Would you?’

The streets outside were beginning to look shabby. Liebermann recognised the factory chimney, belching its black smoke into the sky, the railings, and the pile of rubble in the road. On this occasion there were no children scrambling up its sides. The carriage turned sharply into the adjoining avenue and came to a halt outside Erstweiler’s residence.

They disembarked and Liebermann noticed that the house looked exactly as it did before: ground-floor curtains drawn, upper-floor curtains set apart. It was just as he had expected.

Liebermann crossed the pavement and grasped the knocker. His three strikes were comfortably absorbed by a yawning silence.

‘Are you going to try again?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘There’s nobody in.’

The inspector smiled and, taking the knocker, reproduced the insistent rhythms of Rossini’s overture to The Barber of Seville.

‘Just in case, eh?’

Rheinhardt waited for a few moments before searching his pockets. He withdrew a bunch of skeleton keys and began to insert them, one by one, into the keyhole. His efforts were rewarded by the noise of the lock-cylinder turning. Rheinhardt pushed the door and watched it swing open. ‘There.’

The two men stepped inside.

‘Hello?’ Rheinhardt called out.

Tilting his head to one side, he listened for sounds of occupation.

Nothing stirred.

To their right was a parlour, and to their left a kitchen through which access could be gained to a walled garden. A staircase of uneven stone sank into the ground and terminated at a cellar entrance.

They returned to the kitchen and Rheinhardt began opening the cupboards.

‘No bread, no cheese, no meat or vegetables. Only grains and pulses …’

When he had finished, Rheinhardt pointed at the ceiling.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’

Liebermann consented with a curt nod.

The first room they entered contained a double bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and a chest of drawers. Liebermann opened the wardrobe. Inside, he found a gentleman’s winter coat and a brightly coloured kimono. He lifted the garment from its hanger and held it up for Rheinhardt to see. Golden dragons flashed against a crimson background.

‘Isn’t that-?’

‘The same kimono that Frau Vogl was wearing? Yes, it is.’

‘What a coincidence.’

‘Erstweiler works for a businessman called Herr Winkler who imports objets d’art from Japan. He told me that he stole it for Frau Kolinsky. Herr Winkler must also supply Frau Vogl with kimonos for sale in her salon.’

Liebermann put the garment back in the wardrobe and turned his attention to the chest of drawers. The top drawer was filled with men’s clothing: socks, undergarments, shirts and trousers. The two lower drawers were empty.

‘Herr Kolinsky’s clothes are still here,’ said Liebermann. ‘But Frau Kolinsky’s are gone. It is interesting that she took all her clothes except the kimono.’

‘Why? What does that mean?’

‘She didn’t want to be reminded.’

Liebermann closed the empty drawers, stood up, and stepped out onto the landing. Rheinhardt followed.

‘Erstweiler’s room?’

‘It must be.’

Liebermann turned the handle and entered. Whereas the Kolinskys’ bedroom was cramped, Erstweiler’s was more spacious. The single bed and narrow wardrobe took up less floor space. A table and chair were positioned by the window and a large white bowl and razor showed where Erstweiler conducted his ablutions. On a stool beside the bed was a small pile of books. Liebermann examined the spines. The first was an anthology of fantastic literature, and the other two were slim volumes of romantic poetry.

Rheinhardt placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room.

‘Something’s going on — I grant you. But, clearly, it isn’t what you’ve been thinking. I would suggest that Frau Kolinsky packed her bags, departed, and, shortly after, a distraught Herr Kolinsky ran after her.’

‘Without his coat?’

‘Perhaps he has two coats.’

‘Stopping — as he rushed out the door — to clear the kitchen of perishable foodstuffs?’

Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his moustache. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he sighed.

‘Yes, it is very peculiar. But the fact remains …’

Liebermann shook his head.

‘The fact remains that Erstweiler’s symptoms, his peculiar dream, and Freud’s notion of a universal Oedipal syndrome, suggest — very strongly — that something bad has happened here.’

‘But look around you.’ Rheinhardt began to turn. ‘Where’s the evidence?’

Clicking his fingers, Liebermann said: ‘The cellar. We haven’t looked in the cellar yet. Come, Oskar.’

Liebermann launched himself out of the room and hurried down the stairs, dashing through the kitchen and out into the garden. Rheinhardt caught up with the young doctor as he was about to open the cellar door. Liebermann took a deep breath and lifted the catch. As the rusty hinges groaned, Rheinhardt saw Liebermann’s shoulders sag. The interior was empty.

Rheinhardt slapped his hand against Liebermann’s back.

‘Never mind, eh?’

‘But I was so sure.’ Liebermann ducked beneath the low lintel and stepped into the vault. ‘I’m sorry, Oskar.’ His voice sounded particularly dejected in the closed space. ‘It appears I’ve wasted your time.’

‘The disappearance of the Kolinskys is indeed suspicious. It will merit a report.’

Liebermann bit his lower lip.

‘There’s always the attic. Was there one? I wasn’t looking.’

‘Max — we would have smelt something!’

‘Yes, of course.’

Rheinhardt threw his head back, looked at the curved ceiling, then stared down at the space between his feet. He circled Liebermann, keeping his eyes down, before squatting to inspect the surface of the tiles. He ran a finger across the glaze.