to her?’
‘She told you. She liked the artist’s style.’
‘That goes without saying. But what — in addition to the artist’s style — made her choose the story of Ashputtel?’
‘Max,’ said Rheinhardt, gripping his friend’s shoulder and giving him a firm shake. ‘Does it matter? She isn’t a suspect, for heaven’s sake!’
‘So why was she acting so … strangely?’
‘She wasn’t!’ Rheinhardt tapped the side of his friend’s head. ‘It was all in your mind! I am sure that Frau Vogl would make a very interesting case study; however, now is not the time and this street corner is not the place. Let’s go to Cafe Schwarzenberg. I could do with another coffee.’ Rheinhardt paused before adding, ‘And something else, perhaps.’
34
THE PHOTOGRAPHS WERE SPREAD across the top of Commissioner Brugel’s desk. He selected three full- length portraits and laid them out in a row: Adele Zeiler, lying on the lawn of the Volksgarten, Bathild Babel, sprawled naked on her bed, and Selma Wirth, the hilt of a dagger sticking out of her chest. Brugel’s gaze lingered on the central image. He sighed, opened a drawer and removed a ladies’ magazine. He held the cover up for Rheinhardt to see. It was a publication concerned almost exclusively with society news and gossip.
‘Have you seen this, Rheinhardt?’
‘No. It is not a circular I subscribe to.’
The commissioner frowned, flicked through the pages and began reading: ‘“The dinner was given by Frau Kathi shortly before her departure for the Riviera. On this occasion, my fellow guests included Prince Liechtenstein; Marquis von Becquehem; the director of the Court Opera, Herr Gustav Mahler; Herr director Palmer; the court theatre actor Max Devrient and his wife. Frau Kathi was wearing the most beautiful pearls and was, as always, the perfect hostess. After dinner, she said that she wished all the women of Vienna could escape to the Riviera with her. Of course, our dear friend was alluding to the frightful spate of murders that have recently been the subject of so much speculation in the vulgar press.”’ Brugel closed the magazine and folded it over. ‘You must have guessed the identity of Frau Kathi.’
Rheinhardt’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He tried to swallow but found it difficult.
‘Katharina Schratt?’ the inspector croaked.
Brugel nodded. It was common knowledge that Schratt — a famous comic actress — was the Emperor’s mistress.
‘You know what this means, Rheinhardt? It’s only a matter of time before I get a telephone call from the Hofburg. His Highness’s aides will want to know what progress is being made. What shall I tell them?’
Rheinhardt motioned to speak, only to discover that when he opened his mouth he had no answer. He took a deep breath and tried again: ‘We have made
Brugel patted a bundle of witness statements and reports.
‘Have you, now? Permit me to precis what you have discovered so far. The perpetrator has dark hair, a pale complexion, and has knowledge of human anatomy. He smells of carbolic and once called himself Griesser. He owns an expensive frock coat and might wear a bowler hat.’ The commissioner picked up the bundle and held it out towards Rheinhardt. ‘You call
Rheinhardt winced as the commissioner raised his voice.
‘I am all too aware, sir, that the results of the investigation are disappointing.’
Brugel dropped the papers and they landed heavily.
‘One more week, Rheinhardt.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘After which I’m afraid responsibility for the case will have to be transferred to someone else. There’s a specialist based in Salzburg, a detective with an academic interest in lust murder. He studied with Professor Krafft-Ebing. If I inform the palace that we’re about to recruit an expert then that might pacify them, halt damaging talk.’
‘With respect, sir—’
The commissioner was not inclined to listen to Rheinhardt’s objection.
‘Once the palace get involved, accusations of incompetence soon follow. I’m sorry, Rheinhardt. You haven’t given me enough. I have the interests of the entire department to consider. One more week.’
Part Three
35
IN THE DREAM HE had been sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty room where an oriental woman wearing a familiar scarlet kimono served him tea. Through an open door he had observed large dragonflies with opalescent wings hovering above a koi pond. The atmosphere was peaceful, the air redolent with exotic fragrances. A breeze disturbed a carousel of wind chimes suspended in the branches of a kumquat tree. He had watched the metal tubes colliding, each contact producing a tone of beguiling purity. As the carousel turned he noticed something odd about the motion of the chimes. They were swinging slowly, too slowly, as if submerged beneath water. The soothing silvery music became more sonorous and plangent, until the effect was similar to a gamelan orchestra. A man with a bowler hat and long coat ran past the doorway.
It was at that point that Rheinhardt was awakened by the harsh reveille of his telephone.
The driver had chosen to weave through the deserted back streets, following a concentric course in parallel with the south-western quadrant of the Ringstrasse — Josefstadt, Neubau, Mariahilf, Wieden — and the dream had accompanied his thoughts all the way. When the carriage finally slowed, Rheinhardt made a concerted effort to dismiss the Japanese room from his mind. He opened the door, stepped out onto the cobbles, and paused to consider the view: the gatehouse of the Lower Belvedere Palace. A lamp was suspended beneath the tall archway and the windows on either side were illuminated from within by a soft yellow lambency. In daylight, Rheinhardt would have been able to see a path ascending in two stages to the western tower of the Upper Palace. Now all that he could see was the flaring of torches in the distance.
Inside the gatehouse Rheinhardt discovered a constable sitting at a table with a much older man who was wearing overalls. They had evidently been sharing the contents of a hip flask. The constable started and attempted to stand up. His sabre became trapped behind the chair leg and he muttered an apology before straightening his back and clicking his heels.
‘Inspector Rheinhardt?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Constable Reiter, sir. And this gentleman is Berthold Wilfing — the head gardener. It was Herr Wilfing who
