Rheinhardt raised his voice: 'Haussman?'
'Sir?'
'The curtains, please,' he repeated.
'Yes, sir.'
Haussman walked around the table, keeping his gaze fixed on the body. He pulled one of the curtains aside, which filled the room with a weak light. As he reached for the second curtain Rheinhardt called out: 'No, that's enough.' It seemed improper, or disrespectful, to expose the body further.
Rheinhardt advanced, stepping carefully across the threadbare Persian rug, and stopped next to the chaise longue.
The woman was in her late twenties and very pretty. Long blonde tresses fell in ringlets to her slim shoulders. Her dress was of blue silk – its neckline tested the limits of decency – and a double string of pearls rested on an ample alabaster bosom. She might have looked asleep had it not been for the dark stain that had spread from her decolletage and the coagulated blood that had crusted around the jagged hole over her ruined heart.
There was something odd – almost affected – about her posture, like that of an artist's model. One arm lay by her side, while the other was placed neatly behind her head.
'Sir?'
Haussman was pointing at something.
On the table was a sheet of writing paper. Rheinhardt walked over and examined the note. It was written in a florid hand:
It appeared that the writer had been jolted, just as the final word was finished. A line of ink traced an arc that left the page just above the bottom right-hand corner. On closer inspection, Rheinhardt also noted that the writer had made a mistake in the final sentence. A word that she'd obviously decided against had been crossed out – before the
'Suicide,' said Haussmann.
Rheinhardt said nothing in response. Haussmann shrugged and walked around the table to the chaise longue. 'She's very beautiful.'
'Indeed,' said Rheinhardt. 'Strikingly so.'
'Fraulein Lowenstein?'
'Very probably. I suppose we should get Rosa Sucher back up here to identify the body. Though she was so upset – perhaps that's not such a good idea.'
'It might save us some legwork, sir.'
'True. But being a good policeman isn't only about making expedient decisions, Haussman.' His assistant looked slightly hurt, forcing Rheinhardt to amend his reprimand with a conciliatory smile. 'Besides,' Rheinhardt added, 'Fraulein Lowenstein was expecting some guests tonight – perhaps there will be a gentleman among the company who may be willing to assist us.'
Although the room had at first appeared rather grand, closer inspection soon revealed that this was an illusion. The paintwork was chipped, the floorboards scuffed, and a brown stain under one of the windows suggested damp. At one end of the room was an austere marble fireplace, above which an ornate Venetian-style mirror had been hung. Rheinhardt suspected that it was a copy. Recesses on either side of the fireplace contained shelves on which an array of items had been placed: a cheap porcelain figure of a shepherdess, an empty bowl, two vases, and a ceramic hand (displaying the chief lines of the palm). The other end of the room was occupied by a large embroidered screen. The total effect of the room was somewhat depressing, moth-eaten and shabby.
'We're going to need a floor plan for the file – can you do that, Haussmann?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And an inventory of items?'
'Yes, sir.'
Rheinhardt continued to scan the room.
The rain lashed against the windows, running in streams down the casement. Outside, the shutter continued to bang against the wall. Rheinhardt unlocked the offending window, opened it, and peered out. A blast of cold air scoured his face and the curtains billowed inwards. The road had become a river in spate – a rushing, tumbling flood. Peering over the ledge, the Inspector looked downwards. It was a sheer drop.
Rheinhardt fixed the loose shutter and closed the window. He wiped the rain from his face with a handkerchief and examined his reflection, making some minor adjustments to his moustache. His satisfied exhalation fogged the glass.
'Sir?'
The young man's voice was slightly edgy – uncertain. The room trembled as the celestial cannonade continued.
'Yes?'
'You'd better take a look at this.'
Behind the screen was a large lacquered box, decorated with Japanese figures. Rheinhardt tried to lift the lid but discovered that it was locked.
'Shall we force it open?'
'That won't be necessary. You can ask Rosa Sucher where her mistress kept the key.'
'Shall I do that now, sir?'
'No. Not yet, Haussmann. Let's just think a little, eh?'
Haussmann nodded, and assumed what he hoped the Inspector would recognise as a contemplative expression.
Rheinhardt's attention was drawn again to the body. Slowly, he advanced towards the sofa and knelt to inspect the wound. As he did so, he accidentally brushed against the woman's delicate but unyielding fingers. Her frozen touch made him shudder. He instinctively wanted to apologise but managed to stop himself. Rheinhardt used the damp handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose. Close up, the smell of stale urine and the beginnings of decomposition became deeply unpleasant. There was a double flash of lightning, and the crystals of dried blood around the wound glowed like garnets.
'Impossible.' He whispered the word almost unconsciously.
'I'm sorry, sir?'
The thunder roared like a captive giant.
Rheinhardt stood up and looked around the room, unnerved by the evidence of his own senses.
'Sir?' Haussmann sounded anxious.
Rheinhardt walked over to the door and checked that the key was still in the lock. It was – a large black key. He wheeled around. Haussman was staring at him, his head tilted to one side.
'What do you think happened here?' asked Rheinhardt.
Haussman swallowed: 'The Fraulein has committed suicide, sir.'
'Very well. Reconstruct events – tell me how she did it.'
Haussmann looked confused.
'She shot herself, sir.'
'Clearly – but from the beginning.'
'The Fraulein must have come into this room last night – well, that's what I would assume, given the way she's dressed. She locked the door and then sat at this table, where she began to compose a suicide note. She was evidently in a distressed state of mind, and gave up on the task after completing only a few lines.'
'And what do you make of those lines?'
Haussmann took a step towards the table and looked down at the note before continuing: 'They're a confession of some kind. She felt that she had done something wrong and should therefore make reparation by taking her own life.'
'Go on.'
'Then, perhaps after further deliberation – who can say? – the Fraulein sat on the chaise longue, lay back, and shot herself in the heart.'
