Deadly Communion

against the windowsill.

‘Does this belong to her?’ asked Liebermann.

‘Yes,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘She had a bad leg.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Her name is Selma Wirth. She was discovered by the landlord’s agent — a Ruthenian gentleman called Shevchenko — around five o’clock. Fraulein Wirth owed three months’ rent and Shevchenko had come to collect it.’

‘Was the door open when he arrived?’

‘No. The door was closed; however, it had not been locked.’

Liebermann let go of the curtain and his attention was drawn back to the corpse.

‘What did she do for a living?’

‘She was a laundry worker.’ Rheinhardt lit a cigarette and dropped the blackened matchstick into a cracked glass ashtray. ‘The undergarment seems to have been removed before she lay on the floor.’

‘I wonder why she chose to receive her guest here, rather than in the bedroom? I presume there is a bedroom?’

‘Yes, it’s the next door along.’ Rheinhardt waved his cigarette towards the corridor. ‘One must suppose that Fraulein Wirth and her companion were so overcome that in the heat of the moment comfort was not a consideration.’

‘Are you sure she was … taken?’

‘It certainly looks like it.’

Liebermann knelt on the floor, lifted the woman’s skirt, and shook it to displace the trapped air. He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and shook his head.

‘I can’t tell. I don’t possess Professor Mathias’s nose for such things.’

‘What do you make of the dagger? Was Fraulein Wirth killed by the same fiend who killed Adele Zeiler and Bathild Babel, or did someone else do this?’

Liebermann stood up.

‘My thoughts go back to something Professor Mathias said concerning the hatpin used to kill Bathild Babel. You will recall that he observed a kink — near the sharp end — which suggested a failed first attempt to breach the foramen magnum. This blunder might have given Fraulein Babel an opportunity to retaliate — hence the blood discovered beneath her fingernails. Encountering resistance might have caused the perpetrator to review his modus operandi. A dagger pressed into the heart is a less elegant but more efficient means of dispatch.’

Rheinhardt took some papers from the top of the chest of drawers and placed them in his pocket.

‘I haven’t been able to find an address book, which is a shame. Babel’s proved very useful. It included the name of a man — Griesser — who gave Cafe Museum as his mailing address. He collected only one letter and hasn’t been back since. The head waiter described him as educated and smelling of carbolic. One of Babel’s admirers — Frece, an accountant — can remember her flirting with a customer in Frau Schuschnig’s establishment …’

‘Frau Schuschnig?’

‘The proprietor of the hat shop where Babel worked. Frece gave a similar description, and also remarked on the man’s hospital smell. That cannot be a coincidence. One must assume that the man who called himself Griesser and the flirtatious customer were the same individual. Taken together with previous reports, a clear picture is emerging: a young gentleman, educated, well dressed, with black hair and blue or blue- grey eyes. A professional man with a knowledge of human anatomy …’

‘Frece saw this gentleman in Frau Schuschnig’s hat shop. What was he doing there?’

‘Buying a hatpin. He must have made the purchase before Fraulein Babel’s sharp fingernails forced him to reconsider his procedures.’

Liebermann acknowledged the point with a curt nod and sat down on one of the sofas. Selma Wirth’s face was deeply lined. Yet the height of her cheekbones and her well-defined chin suggested that she must have been beautiful once.

‘Did the landlord’s agent tell you anything about her history?’

‘No. He didn’t know her very well — and I haven’t been able to glean much from her documents. He advised me to speak to her neighbour, Frau Lachkovics. She lives downstairs with her daughter. Apparently Frau Lachkovics and Fraulein Wirth were good friends.’

‘She’s not in yet — Frau Lachkovics?’

Rheinhardt shook his head.

There was a knock and both men turned to see Haussmann’s head craning round the door.

‘Sir. The mortuary van has arrived.’

‘Very well — tell them to come up. Have we had a reply from Professor Mathias yet?’

‘We have, sir. He said he was going to dine at Cafe Landtmann but would be back at the Institute by eight o’ clock. He also said that he wasn’t feeling very well and might need an assistant. He requested Miss Lydgate.’

Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows and addressed Liebermann: ‘Do you think Miss Lydgate would be willing to join us at this late hour?’

‘Such is her nature,’ said Liebermann, sighing, ‘I suspect that nothing in the world would please her more.’

30

THE MORGUE WAS PARTICULARLY cold at night. Liebermann and Rheinhardt had kept their coats on, but Professor Mathias seemed comfortable in his shirtsleeves. The electric light suspended above the autopsy table shone down on the mortuary sheets, making them glow vividly. This artificial landscape of luminous hills and hollows was disturbed by a central peak, the summit of which was, by contrast, unnaturally sharp.

Liebermann was sitting on a stool, contemplating the mysterious contents of a jar filled with formalin. The preserved organ, which looked vaguely like a sea horse, was magnified by the curvature of the glass. It was pink with yellow pleats down one side, creating the illusion of a spine which curled to form a hooked tail. The young doctor thought it might be an unusually proportioned vermiform appendix.

Rheinhardt was pacing around the autopsy table and Professor Mathias, muttering softly to himself, was engrossed by the organisational possibilities of his trolley.

A knock roused the men from their respective states of self-absorption.

‘Enter!’ cried Professor Mathias.

The door opened and Amelia’s voice floated out of the darkness.

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

She emerged from the shadows, her pale face and hands preceding the rest of her body like a ghost at a seance.

‘Ah, Miss Lydgate,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘I would offer to take your coat, but the temperature in here is so low I would suggest you continue to take advantage of its benefit.’

Liebermann stood and inclined his head. As she approached, her hair drew the hard brilliance of the light and transmuted it into a ruddy haze. She glanced down at the mortuary sheets and a vertical crease appeared on her brow.

‘So, he has struck again.’

‘He has indeed,’ said Rheinhardt, coming forward. ‘This unfortunate lady,’ he swept his hand over the covered body with its conspicuous peak, ‘is his third victim.’ Amelia stared at the salient irregularity that destroyed the gentle geography of the sheets. ‘The hilt of a knife,’ Rheinhardt explained. The inspector was about to say more but was cut short by Professor Mathias, who was tutting loudly.

‘Miss Lydgate?’ The professor looked up and beckoned. ‘Would you be so kind as to arrange my instruments?’ His voice sounded nasal and he took a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘I have a head cold,’ he added, as if this