‘Hephaestus?’
‘The god of fire and crafts, particularly those crafts which use fire — metalwork, for example.’
‘Is the statue still inside, sir?’ asked Haussmann, feigning interest.
‘No, it was moved to the
‘I’m not a great lover of art, sir.’
‘You’ve never been to the
‘No, sir. I find old paintings …’
‘Yes?’
‘Depressing.’
Rheinhardt shook his head and dismissed Haussmann’s remark with a wave of his hand.
‘It’s a fine statue,’ Rheinhardt continued, undeterred by his assistant’s philistinism. ‘The mighty hero, Theseus, his club raised, ready to strike.’ Rheinhardt suddenly looked anxious. ‘I take it you know who Theseus is?’
‘Yes, sir. I have a volume of the Greek legends at home. I won it in a poetry competition at school.’
Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows.
‘I didn’t know you wrote poetry.’
‘I don’t, sir. Not now. But at school I did.’
Their conversation was brought to a premature close when a constable, stout and with glowing cheeks, separated from his companions and came to greet them. He introduced himself as Constable Badem.
‘Ah yes, Badem,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘It was you who discovered the body.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The constable’s chest expanded and he stood erect, as if about to receive a medal. Rheinhardt, touched and amused by the young man’s pride, reached out and gripped his shoulder.
‘Well done! The security office is indebted.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Badem, his eyes glinting with emotion. Then, assuming a more detached attitude, the young man added: ‘She’s over there, inspector.’ He raised his hand and pointed towards a row of bushes where his colleagues had assembled.
Rheinhardt left the footpath to investigate.
The woman was lying flat on the grass. Her hair pins had fallen out and dark, abundant tresses framed her face. The disposition of her limbs — legs apart, arms thrown wide — suggested abandonment. Her dress had ridden up over her knees, revealing a pair of striped stockings. Rheinhardt noticed that the soles of her ankle boots were almost transparent and closer examination revealed the presence of a small hole. Her coat was correspondingly threadbare, with frayed cuffs and the tattered remnants of a lining that had long since been removed. She was young, perhaps no more than eighteen, and the whiteness of her pale skin emphasised, by contrast, the artificiality of the carmine powder on her cheeks.
It was an interesting face, sensuous and attractive, but not conventionally beautiful. Her expression in deathly repose suggested disdainful indifference — perhaps even cruelty. Her lips were slightly uneven, twisted, and her nose was too generously proportioned. Yet there was something about these flaws that combined to create an arresting totality.
Rheinhardt kneeled down beside her and searched her pockets for identification, but all he could find was some small change, a handkerchief and two keys. The woman’s hat was lying on the ground a short distance away, next to what looked to the inspector like an item of underwear.
‘She hasn’t been stabbed or shot,’ said Rheinhardt, opening her coat. He could not see any bloodstains on her plain white dress.
‘Strangled, sir?’ Haussmann inquired.
Rheinhardt repositioned himself and looked at her neck.
‘No, I don’t think so. Smothered, perhaps …’
The inspector stood, brushed his trousers, and went over to retrieve the discarded item of clothing. As it unfurled, his suspicions were confirmed. He was holding a pair of red cotton drawers.
Haussmann frowned. ‘Was she … used?’
‘I imagine so.’
The drawers fluttered in the slight breeze. Rheinhardt, feeling suddenly disrespectful, folded the garment gently and placed it back on the grass.
‘Inspector Rheinhardt?’
A man wearing a homburg hat and spectacles was looking over the bushes. It was the photographer. The man’s companion — a teenage boy — appeared behind him, carrying a tripod.
‘Ah, Herr Seipel,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Good morning.’
‘May we begin, inspector?’
‘Yes, indeed. You may begin.’
Rheinhardt stood back from the corpse. Then he took out his notebook and recorded a few observations before addressing his assistant: ‘Come, Haussmann.’
The two men set off in the directon of the Theseus Temple.
On arriving at their destination, Rheinhardt and Haussmann ascended the wide steps.
The inspector rubbed his hands together and surveyed his surroundings. Directly in front of him he saw the white stucco walls of the Court Theatre and the steeples of the Votivkirche. Turning his head to the left he registered the Gothic spires of the Town Hall and the classical splendour of the Parliament building, on top of which two winged charioteers, struggling to control their rearing horses, faced each other across a tympanum densely populated with marble figures.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked Rheinhardt.
His assistant was surprised by the unexpected question, and replied cautiously: ‘No, sir. I haven’t.’
‘Neither have I. Given that we find ourselves so close to Cafe Landtmann, it occurs to me that we might get something to eat there before we proceed to the Pathological Institute.’
‘Yes, sir — as you wish.’
‘Just a few kaisersemmel rolls.’ The inspector paused, twisted his moustache and, finding the prospect of his imaginary repast inadequate, added: ‘And a pastry, perhaps. I had a rather good plum flan in Cafe Landtmann only last week.’
They walked around the covered arcade that followed the featureless exterior of the Temple. Neither of them looked up to admire the new and delightful prospects revealed by their circumnavigation: the black and green domes, the baroque lanterns, the blooming flowers and ornamental hedge gardens. Instead, they kept their gazes fixed on the stone pavement, which had been worn by countless predecessors to a silvery sheen.
Haussmann suddenly stepped ahead and squatted down.
‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘A button.’
He handed it up to his superior.
It was large, round, and made from wood.
‘Any footprints?’
Supporting his body with his hands, Haussmann leaned forward and inspected the paving more closely. The position he had assumed — conveying a general impression of sharp corners and angularity — gave him a distinctly feral appearance. He looked like a rangy dog, sniffing the ground. His reply, when it finally came, was disappointing.
‘Nothing.’
Rheinhardt held the button up and said: ‘It’s from her coat.’
3
