raucous laughter, shrieks, whistles, a peculiar rasping noise, and snatches of popular songs issuing from the throats of brassy untrained contraltos. Rheinhardt advanced across a flagstone floor covered in shallow puddles. All around he could see soap bars, packets of soda and jars of bleach. He discovered an office, little more than a cubicle, created by the erection of flimsy partition walls. Peering through the tiny window, Rheinhardt caught sight of a woman sitting behind a desk piled high with ledgers. He rapped on the glass and the woman looked up from her paperwork. She had grey hair, tied back in a bun, and wore small half-moon spectacles. Indicating by a sign that she would come out, she rose from her chair and, emerging from a side door, introduced herself as the manageress, Frau Aehrenthal.
‘Detective Inspector Rheinhardt: security office,’ said Rheinhardt, bowing respectfully. ‘I am looking for a laundry worker called Lachkovics.’
‘That would be Viki Lachkovics? Not Jana, her daughter?’
‘They both work here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I may need to speak to both of them, actually.’
Frau Aehrenthal gave Rheinhardt a curious, doubtful look, the meaning of which escaped him.
‘This way, inspector.’
The interior of the building was like an enormous shed, with cast-iron pillars supporting exposed beams that ran across the ceiling. Rheinhardt could not see very far ahead because of a white mist that seemed to become more opaque as they progressed. Droplets of water fell from above like gentle rain, and the dank air contained a chemical sharpness that made his eyes prickle. The din that had first greeted him was now very loud.
Quite suddenly the fog lifted, and Rheinhardt found himself walking between two rows of washboards and washtubs. Each bay was occupied by a laundry worker. They were all female: sleeves rolled up, skirts hitched high enough to reveal coloured stockings and big thick-soled boots. Scrubbing, sloshing, shouting — the racket they were making was quite extraordinary. Yet Rheinhardt could still hear the unremitting cough of the waste pipe on the roof.
Halting at one of the bays, the manageress introduced Frau Lachkovics and left. She was evidently not interested in discovering the purpose of Rheinhardt’s visit. Frau Lachkovics — a mousy woman whose hair was concealed by a waterproof bonnet — looked up at Rheinhardt nervously. He was considering how to proceed when a plump pink-faced woman with the collar of her dress pulled down to create a shockingly low decollete plunged her hands into a tub, splashing everyone and everything around her.
‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said Rheinhardt, wiping the suds from his eyes and attending to the limp horns of his moustache, ‘is there somewhere we can talk, somewhere private, perhaps?’
‘Only the alley that runs round the back.’
‘Very well,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That will have to do.’
Frau Lachkovics left her bay and a young woman, no more than sixteen years of age and also wearing a waterproof bonnet, vacated the next position and fell into step behind them.
‘My daughter,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘Jana.’
The girl had a peculiar shuffling gait. She walked with her right hand clasping her left wrist, which made her shoulder twist forward.
In the milky distance, a group of women armed with wicker implements shaped like tennis racquets were beating sheets that had been thrown over brass lines.
A door in a windowless wall led out into a narrow alley that separated the laundry from a warehouse.
‘That’s better,’ said Rheinhardt, relieved to put the noise behind him. ‘At least we can hear ourselves speak now.’ He smiled at Frau Lachkovics and then at her daughter. The mother returned his smile but Jana’s expression remained blank. ‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt began, ‘may I ask why it was that you did not return to your apartment last night?’
‘I was at my mother’s,’ she said with surprise.
‘And where does your mother live?’
‘Ottakring. She’s old. Almost eighty now. I go to see her every Friday to wash her hair and cut her toenails. She wasn’t very well last night. I was worried and stayed later than usual. I didn’t want to walk home: not in the dark.’
‘Of course,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Very wise. Did Jana visit her grandmother with you?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled approvingly at the girl, but again her expression communicated nothing but vacancy.
‘Tell me, Frau Lachkovics, how long have you lived in Neubau?’
‘A year or so. I used to live out in Ottakring with my mother but her apartment got too small for us.’ Frau Lachkovics glanced at her daughter. ‘Jana needed a room of her own. It’s only right.’
‘Forgive me — but is there a … a Herr Lachkovics?’
Frau Lachkovics blushed: ‘My husband deserted us soon after Jana was born.’
She cowered slightly, as if the shame of her unsuccessful marriage was like a yoke bearing down on her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘That must have been very difficult for you.’ The woman blinked at her interlocutor, more confused than relieved by his sympathy. ‘Were you acquainted with your neighbour, Fraulein Wirth, before you moved to Neubau?’
‘No.’
‘You are good friends?’
‘Yes. It was Fraulein Wirth who got me my job here at the laundry.’ She paused and added. ‘She isn’t in today. Is she all right?’
Rheinhardt looked upwards. Steam from the waste pipe drifted across the thin strip of sky.
‘Could I ask: when was the last time you saw Fraulein Wirth?’
‘Thursday night.’
‘The night before last …’
‘Yes.’
‘And how was she?’ Frau Lachkovics appeared mystified by his question. ‘Was Fraulein Wirth the same as she usually is? Or did you notice anything different about her?’
‘She didn’t look unwell, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Did she have any visitors on Thursday?’
Frau Lachkovics thought for a moment then said: ‘Yes — she did. A friend.’
‘Who?’
‘A lady. Frau Vogl.’
‘Frau Vogl,’ Rheinhardt repeated.
The name sounded vaguely familiar. He had an odd feeling that he had heard it only recently during a conversation with his wife.
‘Yes,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘An old friend. They go back a long way. She’s quite a well-to-do woman. I met her once, a very fine lady … and such clothes.’
She shook her head and looked down at her shabby dress.
‘Do you remember what time it was when Frau Vogl visited Fraulein Wirth?’
‘It must have been early evening. I looked out the window and saw her leaving. Her carriage came into the yard.’
‘Tell me … did anything unusual happen on Thursday night?’
‘No,’ said Frau Lachkovics. ‘Nothing unusual happened.’
Jana, who had been very still — almost absent — pulled at her mother’s skirt. It was a peculiar thing for a girl of her age to do. Rheinhardt looked at Jana’s face and realised that her void expression was probably the result of some defect of the brain. He thought of his own bright daughters and felt a stab of pity for Frau Lachkovics.
‘What is it, Jana?’ said Frau Lachkovics.
‘I heard someone,’ the girl answered. ‘You’d gone to bed — but I was still up looking at one of Selma’s books. I heard someone walking. I went out onto the landing and called: “Is anyone there?”’ She cupped her hands around her mouth to demonstrate.
Frau Lachkovics’s surprise rapidly turned to anxiety.
