Frank Tallis: Deadly Communion

‘Oh, my dear, that is terrible news. You are still in danger.’ Vogl lifted his wife’s limp hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, each one in turn. ‘I hope you didn’t come home on your own.’ Kristina did not reply. ‘You did? Oh, my dear — you must be more careful. You cannot afford to take such risks. Not now.’

‘I cannot go on living like this,’ Kristina whispered. The tone of her voice was curious, almost strangulated. Her eyes became glassy as the tears welled up.

Vogl gathered her into his arms, and rocked her backwards and forwards.

‘My poor darling … do not cry. Inspector Rheinhardt managed to catch Sprenger — and I’m sure he’ll catch whoever was responsible for poor Selma’s murder, eventually. It’s only a matter of time.’

These words — intended to be comforting — seemed to have the very opposite effect. Vogl felt his wife’s body becoming tense in his arms as the tears washed down her face.

The cab came to a halt outside the Sudbahnhof, joining a line of parked carriages. The two men stepped down onto the expansive forecourt. While Rheinhardt paid the driver, Liebermann admired the architecture. It was a perfect example of Viennese ostentation. He might have been looking up at the facade of any of the great European opera houses rather than at a train station. Its grandiosity made him smile and although he was a committed modernist the sheer bravado of the structure’s vaulting ambition made him quietly proud to call Vienna his home. The building boasted five entrance portals above which sat a tier of arched windows and a further row of oblong windows. A terracotta tympanum enlivened the massive pediment, each corner of which supported a majestic classical figure. Sphinxes could be seen on the roofs of the two wings which flanked the facade, and each of these wings possessed pediments of their own.

‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ said Rheinhardt, joining his friend. ‘But now isn’t the time …’

He slapped a hand on Liebermann’s back and the impact of the good-natured whack propelled the young doctor forward.

The interior of the Sudbahnhof was as magnificent as the exterior. Rheinhardt and Liebermann entered a vast hallway dominated by a grand staircase that rose and divided below a balustraded gallery. The floor was illuminated by rows of spherical gas lamps mounted on tall posts of intricately worked iron and yet more flickering globes floated beneath the ceiling, the detail of which was almost invisible on account of its lofty elevation.

Although it was almost eleven o’ clock the station was still very busy. The late train from Trieste had just arrived and a crowd of people were hurrying across the concourse. A dark-skinned gentleman wearing a djellaba, fez and soft yellow slippers passed, accompanied by a porter dragging a gilded chest on a trolley. Following close behind him were a group of extraordinarily noisy Italian women, and some Austrian businessmen who clearly thought that ‘ladies’ should conduct themselves with greater decorum in a public place. A whistle sounded and somewhere a jet of steam was expelled. The air smelt of coal dust and oil.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann struggled through the stream of human traffic and made their way to the luggage lockers. They presented Fraulein Wirth’s ticket to the clerk and, after making an entry in his ledger, he gave them a key in return.

Each of the lockers was numbered, and they found number one hundred and six at the end of the first row. Rheinhardt crouched down. Before he turned the key he glanced up at his friend.

‘I am reluctant to open it up for fear of being disappointed.’ The bolt sounded and Rheinhardt eased the door open. ‘Yes, there’s something inside.’ The inspector reached in and took out a cylinder of rolled-up paper and some postcards. He rose and turned the first photographic image towards Liebermann.

It showed two young girls — naked. Their bodies were barely pubescent and they stood, rather awkwardly, in front of a floral backdrop. They affected interest in a horned figurine that had been placed on a stand. The second photographic image showed the same two girls sprawled on a rug, and the third showed them kissing.

Liebermann took the postcards and studied them closely. He picked out the first again and tilted it to capture more light.

‘This girl — the one with the birthmark on her stomach …’

Rheinhardt glanced at the naked model and then back at Liebermann.

‘She looks …’ He hesistated before adding: ‘Familiar.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking.’

‘It can’t be — surely not.’

‘I think it is … and I strongly suspect that her companion is Selma Wirth.’

Liebermann turned the card over to see if he could find out where it had been printed. But there was no information of that kind. Rheinhardt began unrolling the cylinder of paper. He discovered that he was holding a very accomplished but extremely distasteful pencil sketch: two girls — clearly the same girls — lying side by side, their legs spread apart. One of them was wearing black stockings while the other was entirely nude.

Rheinhardt recognised the style: the emaciated bodies, the mass of baroque detail where their young thighs met. The signature confirmed his initial suspicion.

‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked Liebermann, pointing to the cursive scrawl in the lower right-hand corner.

Rainmayr stood in the centre of his studio, admiring his own sketch.

‘Well, well,’ he said to Rheinhardt. ‘Wherever did you get this from?’ It’s not bad really. There are a few things I’d do differently today. The perspective is a little uninteresting and the faces are somewhat dull — but it’s perfectly acceptable. Of course, I could get the same effect with less effort these days.’

‘When did you make this sketch?’

Rainmayr shook his head: ‘Oh, I couldn’t say exactly. It must have been over twenty years ago.’ He made a knocking sound on the roof of his mouth with his tongue, before adding: ‘No, more than that, most probably: twenty-five, perhaps?’

‘Who did you sell it to?’

‘I can’t remember, inspector. I’ve done so many sketches like this. But you must tell me, where did you get it from?’

‘Herr Rainmayr, do you recall the names of these young models?’

‘No, it was too long ago.’

‘Do you remember anything about them?’

‘I do,’ said Rainmayr. Then, correcting himself, he added. ‘I mean, I don’t. No.’

Rheinhardt glanced at Liebermann. The inspector had become as sensitive as any analyst to the small and telling errors of speech described by Professor Freud. Liebermann nodded, confirming that the slip was significant.

Rainmayr noticed that something had passed between the two men and added nervously: ‘They were street girls. I don’t know how many street girls have worked for me over the years — hundreds. You can’t expect me to remember every single one of them.’

‘Herr Rainmayr,’ said Liebermann. ‘You know very well who these girls are.’

The artist laid the sketch down on his table and looked across the room at Liebermann: ‘No, I don’t. I honestly can’t remember.’

‘With respect,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I have found Doctor Liebermann to be very good at determining whether or not people are telling the truth.’

‘What? He can read minds?’

Liebermann shrugged, as if to say: as good as.

‘Then maybe he should do a turn at Ronacher’s,’ said the artist, smiling. ‘They’re looking for some new acts.’

Rheinhardt circled the easel and considered Rainmayr’s unfinished painting. It was typical of the artist’s work: a young woman with wasted limbs, small breasts, and exposed pudendum. Rheinhardt focused his attention on the girl’s eyes. He searched for the person within but found no evidence of occupation. It was as though her soul had departed. The emptiness was chilling.