ascertain blood type from dehydrated samples or even a stain. According to Richter, the accurate identification of blood type is possible even if stains are up to two weeks old. If we know the perpetrator’s blood type,’ she turned to face Rheinhardt, ‘you will be able to exclude certain suspects. Moreover, if when the perpetrator is apprehended he has the same blood type as this sample you will have a valuable piece of convergent evidence.’
Professor Mathias clapped his hands together.
‘Excellent!’ he cried. ‘A splendid idea!’
20
KRISTINA CLIMBED THE STAIRS. As she did so, her suspicions were aroused by the absence of any noise. The sewing machines were silent.
Her secretary, Wanda, had gone up to collect a garment some time ago but had not returned. Kristina had grown impatient.
The sound of voices …
Overcome with curiosity, Kristina tiptoed across the landing and placed her ear against the door.
‘My mother has forbidden me to go out alone — not since the second one got killed.’
‘There’s no danger: not for the likes of us.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘The two that got killed: one was an artist’s model, the other was a shop girl. She lived in
Now it was Wanda speaking: ‘You think they were both prostitutes?’
‘As good as.’
Another voice — rather low and ponderous: ‘I’m not going out on my own, whatever you say. I’m frightened.’
‘I’d get bored cooped up at home every night. It’d drive me mad.’
‘I saw this man on the tram.’ Again the low voice. ‘He was staring at me.’
‘I should be so lucky.’
Laughter.
‘Albertine, you shouldn’t joke about such things!’
Kristina opened the door and — miraculously — the seamstresses were all busy at work. The clatter of the machines and the girls’ intent expressions suggested prolonged, concentrated industry. Wanda was standing, the dress that she had originally gone to collect hanging over her arm.
‘I may not be as young as you girls,’ Kristina shouted. ‘But I can assure you, I am not going deaf!’
Guilty looks: burning cheeks. One or two machines slowed as the pretence of work was abandoned.
‘We were talking about the murders, madame.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s almost dark when we leave, madame. I don’t want to walk home in the dark …’
‘What are you talking about? Dark? It’s getting lighter every day.’
‘But, madame …’
Another girl, the one with the low voice, said: ‘In my magazine it said the streets are no longer safe for young women, especially at night.’
Kristina looked around the room, up and down the rows of expectant faces. The last machine slowed to a halt.
Silence.
‘All right,’ said Kristina. ‘You can leave a little earlier — but only if you promise to work harder. We won’t be able to deliver the new orders on time if you sit around gossiping all day.’
A chorus of thanks and promises.
Kristina beckoned Wanda.
‘Come on. And please don’t slouch so.’
‘Yes, madame,’ said the secretary, straightening her back and following her mistress.
21
RHEINHARDT ENTERED CAFE MUSEUM clutching Bathild Babel’s address book. He did not find the ambience of the new coffee house very welcoming. It felt rather cold and the plain decor appeared unfinished. Shortly after Cafe Museum opened, Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann what he thought of it. The young doctor had insisted that the architect — Adolf Loos — was a genius, and spoke enthusiastically about the virtue of clear lines and simplicity. The inspector had not been persuaded by Liebermann’s arguments and remained completely unmoved by the stark functional interior. He could not see beauty in emptiness, only a lack of invention. He hoped, as he sat at a table, that the cakes would not be as bland as the coffee house’s design.
He ordered a Turkische coffee and a piece of Dobostorte. When the cake arrived — a baroque creation festooned with complex embellishments — he was grateful that the chef had not succumbed to the culinary equivalent of modernity. The pressure of his fork forced generous applications of chocolate cream to bulge out between the layers of sponge, and when he took the first mouthful of the Dobostorte the sweetness and intensity of the flavour produced in him a feeling of deep satisfaction.
When he had finished the cake, Rheinhardt asked to see the head waiter. The man who arrived was not unlike himself. A portly gentleman with a well-waxed moustache.
His name was Herr Heregger.
‘I trust the Dobostorte was to your satisfaction, sir?’
‘It was excellent. The consistency of the chocolate cream was particularly good.’
Rheinhardt showed the waiter his identification.
‘Security office?’ asked Herr Heregger, surprised.
‘Yes — please take a seat.’ The waiter lowered his large haunches onto a spindly chair, and Rheinhardt opened Bathild Babel’s address book. ‘I’m looking for a man called Griesser. He gave Cafe Museum as his address. Do you know him?’
‘Yes, I do. He’s a customer.’
‘How long has he been coming here?’
‘Actually, he’s only been a few times.’
‘Recently?’
‘Yes, last week and the week before. He told me that he’d just moved to Vienna and was living in temporary accommodation. He asked if it would be possible for us to collect his mail, as it was his intention to breakfast at Cafe Museum when he was settled. I said that I had no objection.’
‘Did any letters arrive?’
‘Just one.’
‘And did he collect it?’
‘On his second visit.’
‘And he’s had no more since?’
‘No.’
Rheinhardt offered Herr Heregger a cigar, but the man refused.
‘Did Herr Griesser tell you what his profession was?’
‘No.’
