Deadly Communion

‘You suggested that intercourse occurred and then the perpetrator killed Fraulein Zeiler. This gives a false impression of what I believe actually happened. The perpetrator did not kill Fraulein Zeiler after sexual intercourse — he killed her during intercourse!’

Rheinhardt blew out his cheeks and let the air escape slowly. He motioned as if to speak, but immediately fell silent again.

‘To drive a hatpin,’ Liebermann continued, ‘through the foramen magnum and into the brain is not an easy task. The head would have to be bent forward, widening the aperture between the final vertebra and the skull; however, sexual intercourse would have afforded the perpetrator ample opportunity to conduct such manipulations. He might have lifted Fraulein Zeiler’s head — to kiss her, perhaps — while he positioned the hatpin in readiness for his … ultimate pleasure.’

‘What do you mean by that? Ultimate pleasure?’

‘I mean,’ Liebermann replied, ‘that he very probably culminated as he drove the hatpin home. You see, if I am correct he is in actual fact nothing like Krafft-Ebing’s lust murderers and necrophiliacs, who find the dead arousing. He doesn’t find the dead arousing — he finds death arousing, death itself! He is a thanatophiliac!’

Rheinhardt poured himself an extra-large brandy and gulped it down with uncharacteristic speed.

‘You said that it wouldn’t be easy to insert a hatpin directly into the brain.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Yet he seems to have had no trouble doing so.’

‘In which case,’ said Liebermann, ‘he has had plenty of practice.’

11

‘I’M SORRY TO DISTURB you, sir,’ said Haussmann, standing in the doorway. ‘But there’s a young woman downstairs who wants to see you. She’s a bit agitated and she’s very’ — the young man assumed a woeful expression — ‘insistent.’

‘Why does she want to see me?’ asked Rheinhardt.

‘She says she has information that will be of interest to you.’

‘What information?’

‘I have no idea, sir. She wouldn’t say.’

‘Did you try to find out?’

‘I did, sir, but my powers of persuasion proved insufficient.’

‘Well, I take it, Haussmann, you persuaded her to divulge her name — that much at least, eh?’

‘Pryska Sykora, sir.’

‘I’ve never heard of her. Even so, I suppose you’d better bring her up.’

Haussmann stepped back into the corridor but suddenly froze.

‘Yes?’ said Rheinhardt: ‘What now?’

Haussmann’s cheeks darkened. ‘This isn’t very relevant, sir, but I think you should know. It says something about Fraulein Sykora’s character. In addition to insisting that she should be allowed to talk to you, sir, she also suggested that I might want to consider taking her to the theatre one evening this week.’

‘I see. And did you?’

‘What, sir?’

‘Consider it.’

‘If I am to be perfectly honest, sir, I did. She is quite pretty; however, I was quick to point out that if I acted on her proposal this would very likely provoke your displeasure.’

‘Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘you are wise beyond your years.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Not at all. Now, if you would be so kind as to fetch this femme fatale I would be most grateful. The day is already advanced and I regret to say I have done very little.’

After Haussmann’s departure Rheinhardt opened one of the drawers in his desk and removed a cardboard box. It was full of his wife’s Linzer biscotten. She had made them in the shape of hearts.

Rheinhardt was particularly fond of his wife’s Linzerbiscotten because she always coated them with a thick crust of sugary icing and cemented the shortbread together with a superabundant quantity of raspberry jam. The inspector wondered if his wife’s baking (never stinting and conspicuously bountiful) betrayed something of her innermost nature. According to Liebermann, those things which were usually considered insignificant (for example, a person’s choice of pastry cutter) often supplied the richest seams for psychoanalytic inquiry. The inspector picked up one of the biscuits and contemplated its dimensions, its telling shape and the extravagant applications of icing and jam. Surely, he thought, all indisputable signs of a generous spirit. He was overcome with sentiment but then laughed out loud. Professor Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams had received mixed reviews. What would the world make of The Interpretation of Biscuits? Perhaps it was better to leave the psychoanalysis to Liebermann.

Rheinhardt ate one of the Linzer biscotten and was contemplating eating a second when Haussmann returned with Fraulein Sykora. She was very young, perhaps no more than seventeen, small, and almost beautiful. Her face was flawed by a quality that Rheinhardt could only think of as ‘hardness’.

‘Fraulein Sykora,’ said Rheinhardt, rising from his chair. ‘Please, do come in.’ He observed some crumbs on his blotter and discreetly brushed them aside. ‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt.’

Haussmann took Fraulein Sykora’s coat and offered her the chair in front of Rheinhardt’s desk. She did not make eye contact with the assistant detective and did not say ‘Thank you.’ Haussmann withdrew, hung her coat on the stand, and maintained a safe distance.

‘Well,’ said Rheinhardt, sitting down again. ‘I understand you are in possession of some information which you believe may be of interest to me.’

‘Yes,’ Fraulein Sykora said. ‘I am.’ Her accent was rough, unrefined — but the timbre of her voice was pleasantly husky. ‘You’re the detective who’s investigating Adele Zeiler’s murder, aren’t you?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I heard all about it yesterday.’

Rheinhardt registered that she had heard about the murder — and not read about it in the newspapers.

‘From whom?’

Pryska Sykora swung around and glanced at Haussmann: ‘I won’t say anything while he’s here.’

‘Haussmann is my assistant,’ Rheinhardt replied. ‘Everything I know, he must know too.’

‘What I’ve got to say … it’s personal.’

Rheinhardt sighed, then looked over at his assistant and said: ‘Haussmann — would you mind waiting outside?’

‘Not at all, sir.’

Haussmann bowed and left the office, closing the door with just enough surplus force to declare his wounded pride.

‘So,’ said Rheinhardt, steepling his hands and tapping his fingertips against his pursed lips. ‘How did you learn about poor Adele?’

‘From my friends … and it was them who told me about you.’

‘And who might your friends be?’

‘They were at Rainmayr’s when you went to ask him questions.’