something about his appearance that reminded Rheinhardt, in some vague way, of a tortoise. Uberhorst was probably in his thirties, yet his stoop and his conservative dress made him look much older.
Uberhorst was the second 'guest' to arrive. The first had been a young woman called Natalie Heck: an attractive girl, with large dark eyes. She was now sitting on the chair by the rosewood table – the one previously occupied by Rosa Sucher.
'The others will be here shortly,' said Uberhorst. 'They're usually very punctual.'
It was obvious that the little man was reluctant to view the body, but Rheinhardt could not justify a further delay. Looking towards Haussmann he said: 'Perhaps you should take Fraulein Heck into the drawing room?'
The young woman rose and adjusted her shawl – which had been beautifully embroidered. It looked, thought Rheinhardt, to be a more expensive item of clothing than a girl with her accent should have been able to afford. Her lustrous black hair had been arranged so as to reveal only one ear, from which a large glass earring dangled. She looked like a little gypsy.
'She's not in there – is she?' said the girl, pointing towards the drawing-room door, her voice quivering.
'No,' said Rheinhardt. 'The body is in the sitting room. Herr Uberhorst will make the identification.'
The woman sighed with relief.
Haussmann guided Fraulein Heck towards the drawing room and Rheinhardt observed – with some satisfaction – that his assistant had already taken out his notebook. He could be trusted to undertake the preliminary interview.
'This way, please,' said Rheinhardt to Uberhorst.
The light in the sitting room was no better than when the storm had been raging. It emanated from a single paraffin lamp that had been placed on the massive circular table. As they entered, the police photographer crouched next to his tripod and pulled a large black cloth over his head. The apprentice, a gangly, doleful-looking adolescent, struck a match and a moment later a strip of magnesium ribbon flared. Suddenly the body was illuminated by a harsh, petrifying light. Its cruel brilliance made the blue dress and bloodstains burn with a terrible intensity.
'Well?' asked Rheinhardt.
'Yes,' said Uberhorst. 'That is Fraulein Lowenstein.'
'Fraulein Charlotte Lowenstein?'
'Yes.'
'Thank you.'
The already fetid air thickened with smoke and chemical fumes from the burning metal ribbon.
Rheinhardt touched the little man's arm. He seemed mesmerised by the hellish vision.
'Herr Uberhorst?'
He shook his head and allowed the Inspector to guide him, like a sleepy child, through the broken door frame.
Once in the hallway, Uberhorst rushed towards the chair by the rosewood table. He collapsed on to it, placing his head in his hands. Within moments his whole body was convulsing. Rheinhardt waited patiently until the sobbing had begun to subside.
Uberhorst sat up, took a deep breath, and removed his pince-nez. Taking a neatly pressed handkerchief from his pocket, he unfolded it, dabbed at his eyes and finally blew his nose loudly.
'I'm sorry, Inspector.'
'I understand,' said Rheinhardt.
'I'm a locksmsith. I've never—' His sentence was interrupted by another sob. Uberhorst stuffed the soggy handkerchief back into his pocket and began to rock, ever so slightly, backwards and forwards. After some time, he said, 'I can't believe it,' and after another long pause he asked, 'What happened?'
'We don't know yet,' said Rheinhardt.
Uberhorst sniffed, and shook his head.
'It's unbelievable. Unbelievable . . .'
'Herr Uberhorst, who else is expected this evening?'
'The regular members of the circle.'
Rheinhardt produced a notebook and waited, his pencil poised.
Uberhorst suddenly realised that the Inspector had anticipated a more comprehensive answer.
'Oh, I see. You want names. We are also expecting Otto Braun, Heinrich Holderlin and his wife Juno. Hans Bruckmuller . . . and the Count.'
'The Count?'
'Zoltan Zaborszky – he's from Hungary.'
Another magnesium ribbon flared, spilling its merciless mineral light into the hallway.
'Herr Uberhorst, how long have you been attending Fraulein Lowenstein's meetings?'
'For about four months.'
'And how did you come to join her circle?'
'By chance. I met her one day on the Prater and she invited me.'
A constable appeared from behind the front door.
'Two more gentlemen, sir.'
'Let them through.'
The door opened fully, revealing a somewhat overweight man in a camel-hair coat. He removed his bowler hat and walked briskly down the hallway. His moustache was similar to Rheinhardt's, turned up at the ends – but perhaps less finely groomed. He was followed by another man, whose flamboyant but shabby dress gave him the appearance of a down-at-heel impresario.
The first man stopped beside Uberhorst.
'Karl? Is it true? Lotte?'
His voice was a rich bass – deep and resonant.
Uberhorst nodded and whined: 'Yes. It's true. She's dead.'
'My God!' the big man boomed. Then, looking towards Rheinhardt, he added: 'I beg your pardon . . . Inspector?'
'Rheinhardt.'
'Inspector Rheinhardt. My name is Bruckmuller. Hans Bruckmuller.' He removed a calfskin glove and extended his hand. Rheinhardt was surprised by the strength of his grip. 'The young constables downstairs said –' Bruckmuller made an unsuccessful attempt at lowering his voice, '– that Fraulein Lowenstein has been shot?'
'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'She has.'
'When? When did it happen?'
'Some time late last night, or in the early hours of the morning.'
'Extraordinary.'
Bruckmuller began walking down the hall.
'Herr Bruckmuller!' Uberhorst called out. The cry was loud and distraught.
Bruckmuller stopped and looked back
'Don't go in there,' said Uberhorst. 'It's terrible. The stuff of nightmares.'
Bruckmuller caught Rheinhardt's eye.
'I see,' said Bruckmuller. Then gesturing to the door he added. 'If it would help, Inspector . . . I would be willing to—'
'No,' said Rheinhardt. 'That won't be necessary. The body has already been identified.'
Bruckmuller walked over to Uberhorst and rested a fat hand on the little man's shoulder.
'Good fellow,' he said, and squeezed.
Uberhorst winced.
Rheinhardt turned towards the other man, the 'impresario', who had positioned himself by the bedroom door. He wore a moth-eaten fur coat over a tired pongee suit, his necktie was made of red silk, and a monocle – attached to a length of black ribbon – dangled from his waistcoat. In his hand he carried a walking cane. His features were broad, suggesting a trickle of Mongolian blood in his veins. This general impression of foreignness was exaggerated by an oriental moustache, which hung down to his chin, and a small goatee beard. He did not react but stood stock-still, impassively accepting Rheinhardt's scrutiny.
'Forgive me, Inspector' said Bruckmuller, his stentorian declaration filling the hallway. 'May I introduce Count
