Frank Tallis - Deadly Communion

While Rheinhardt continued to engage Sprenger in conversation about his work, Liebermann edged closer to the bookcase. He scrutinised the titles: The Egyptian Book of the Dead, Roman Gods, Athens and Sparta, Greece and the Hellenistic World. Below these academic works were several collections of folk-tales, and among these, a copy of the Tristan of Gottfried von Strassburg.

Across the hallway, Liebermann spied an open door. Through it he saw a wardrobe and an iron bedstead. He signalled to Rheinhardt that he should keep Sprenger talking, and nudged Haussmann forward to create a diversion. Liebermann crept across the hallway and entered Sprenger’s bedroom. A frock coat had been thrown onto the eiderdown. The fabric emitted a smell with which Liebermann was very familiar: carbolic. On the washstand he found a porcelain bowl and next to it a collection of bottles. Liebermann crouched down and read the labels. They were mostly colognes; however, two of the bottles seemed out of place. One contained slaked lime and the other lead oxide. He might easily have failed to recognise their significance had he not also noticed as he stood up the dark, gritty streaks that ribbed the inner surface of the bowl.

Hair dye, thought Liebermann.

A second and more significant realisation followed immediately after.

‘Forgive me,’ Sprenger’s muffled voice floated across hallway. ‘But I am unclear as to why you are here, inspector. Am I to understand that you are conducting an investigation and that you believe I might be able to help?’

Liebermann re-entered the reading room and, catching Rheinhardt’s eye, nodded.

The inspector changed position, shifting his weight to the left.

‘Herr Sprenger, can you tell me what you were doing on Sunday night?’

‘I was out.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Well, if you must know …’ Sprenger raked his hand through his hair. ‘I fell into conversation with a Galician woman and she invited me back to her room in Spittelberg.’

Mention of the red-light district obviated further explanation.

‘I see,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Would you be able to identify the woman and the house?’

‘I don’t know about that. I regret to say that I’d been drinking.’

‘Really? That surprises me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Herr Kolowrat told us that when you returned on Sunday you were sober.’

‘You’ve spoken to him?’ Alertness turned to indifference. Sprenger shrugged. ‘Then he was mistaken.’

‘You may be wondering’, said Rheinhardt, ‘why it is that my assistant and I are accompanied by a doctor. The reason is quite straightforward. He is here to examine you.’

‘What?’

Liebermann stepped forward.

‘Only a superficial examination,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He needs to take a look at your torso.’

‘But why?’

‘Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann, employing the commanding tone of a medical professor, ‘Would you please stand and remove your shirt?’

The undertaker did not move.

‘I am obliged to inform you,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that failure to cooperate with the security office is a very serious offence.’

Sprenger produced a loud sigh, stood up, and deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt with one hand. Then he removed the garment and laid it over the back of his chair.

‘Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann, ‘your back is covered in scratches.’

‘I know. What of it?’

‘Some of them are very deep.’

Sprenger flashed an angry glance at Rheinhardt. ‘Look, inspector, what’s the purpose of this?’

Rheinhardt joined Liebermann.

‘How did you get these injuries, Herr Sprenger?’

‘It was the woman — the Galician woman on Sunday night. She went wild.’

‘These injuries were not sustained on Sunday,’ said Liebermann. ‘I’d say they were sustained earlier. About two weeks ago.’

‘Well, that’s easily explained. I often go to Spittelberg.’

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows: ‘Do all of the women you have relations with go wild, Herr Sprenger?’

‘It’s not uncommon, inspector. May I get dressed?’

Rheinhardt crossed to the window and drew the curtains aside to let more light in.

‘Does the name Bathild Babel mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘What about Adele Zeiler?’

Sprenger paused before answering: ‘Yes, I do know that name. She was murdered. I read about it in the newspapers.’

‘And what about Selma Wirth and Cacilie Roster — do those names mean anything to you?’

Sprenger picked up his shirt.

‘Cacilie Roster was a singer. She was murdered too.’

‘On Sunday night.’

‘Oh, I see. You suspect me?’ Sprenger laughed. ‘That’s ridiculous. You have the wrong man, inspector. I’m sorry.’

Sprenger fastened the buttons of his shirt.

Liebermann coughed to attract his attention: ‘Do you dye your hair, Herr Sprenger?’

Sprenger rolled his eyes.

‘As it happens — yes, I do.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think, Herr doctor? Why do most men dye their hair? I’m going grey.’

‘Would you be so kind as to open your mouth?’

The unexpected request made Rheinhardt turn around sharply.

‘What?’ asked Sprenger.

‘Open your mouth wide — and pull your lower lip down.’ Liebermann demonstrated by tugging at his own lip. ‘Like this.’

Sprenger copied him.

‘Thank you,’ said Liebermann. ‘You are not going grey, Herr Sprenger. You are a young man. Further, you have been dyeing your hair black for many years. You started long before greyness would have been an issue. No, Herr Sprenger, you do not dye your hair because you are going grey. You dye your hair for a quite different reason. The fact that you dye your hair black — the opposite of your natural blond — provides us, I believe, with some indication as to why you do it. By dyeing your hair black you distance yourself from the realm of day and associate yourself with the night. It is symbolic — is it not? Black is the colour of mourning, the colour of death. And death has special significance for you.’

Sprenger did not move. Although his stare was fixed on Liebermann’s his expression was oddly vacant, as though he, Sprenger, had retreated into himself. It was therefore something of a shock when Liebermann felt Sprenger’s fist slam into his stomach. The blow was powerful and lifted him off his feet. Liebermann was propelled backwards and landed awkwardly on Rheinhardt. The pain was excruciating and Liebermann was blinded by the tears which filled his eyes. The next thing he saw was Haussmann, curled up on the floor and with blood pouring through the fingers that covered his face. Sprenger was no longer there.

Liebermann pitched himself at the door. He felt a pang of guilt — the moral traction of his Hippocratic obligation — as he leapt past Haussmann’s writhing body. Yet he was not delayed by his conscience. The imperative of catching Sprenger was sufficiently powerful to negate all other considerations, including that of his own safety.

At the end of the hallway Sprenger was opening a small window.

‘Max, get down!’ Rheinhardt shouted, aiming his pistol.

Liebermann threw himself on the floor.

A shot rang out.

Sprenger was still moving and showed considerable athleticism as he slipped beneath the sash.

Liebermann scrambled to his feet and followed, but he found the window less easy to negotiate than he had expected. He was dimly aware of Rheinhardt’s approach and guessed that the inspector would have some difficulty squeezing through the narrow gap. Rolling over the windowsill, Liebermann landed on a cast-iron platform which formed part of a fire escape. The whole structure shook as Sprenger made his descent.