perched on his shoulders.
‘I would like to interview one of your employees,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I do not know his name but I do have a description. He is a young man in his late twenties or early thirties. He has black hair and blue eyes.’
Schopp nodded.
Rheinhardt expected him to speak but a peculiarity of his manner delayed his response by a few uneasy seconds.
‘You must mean Herr Sprenger. Markus Sprenger.’
‘In what capacity does he work here?’
‘He is an undertaker. But he has also made himself very useful to Doctor Profanter — our embalmer.’
‘Useful?’
Again, the response was delayed.
‘He prepares Doctor Profanter’s instruments and assists him when he arrives.’
‘When did Herr Sprenger start working for Schopp and Sons?’
‘He commenced work here about a year ago. Before then, I believe he was employed by Concordia. He came to us with excellent references.’
Schopp’s delivery was disconcerting. It was as though his sense of time deviated from everyone else’s.
‘Where is he now?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘I don’t know exactly. I’ll call Wiesner.’
‘If it’s not too much trouble, Herr Schopp, I would be most grateful if it was
Schopp shrugged and rose from his chair.
‘Herr Wiesner is perfectly capable.’
‘With respect, Herr Schopp …’ Rheinhardt gestured towards the door.
‘Very well. This way, please.’
The corridor outside led past a series of offices, some of which were occupied by middle-aged men attending to paperwork. Herr Schopp asked them if they had seen Herr Sprenger, but none of them had. A larger room, filled with coffins and smelling of sawdust and varnish, was empty. The morgue was also deserted.
Herr Schopp consulted his pocket watch. He stared at its face for an inordinate period of time before saying: ‘I’m sorry, Inspector Rheinhardt. It is five minutes past five. He must have gone home.’
‘Do you have his address?’
‘Wiesner will get it for you.’
As they retraced their way down the corridor Rheinhardt was conscious of the sphinxes on their pedestals. They were close cousins of the sphinxes in the garden of the Belvedere Palace, with wings, braided hair and breastplates. He remembered the discovery of Cacilie Roster’s body, and how, overcome with despair, he had begged one of the great stone beasts for assistance. It was absurd — and he knew it. But he could not quell the conviction that his entreaty had been heard.
47
SPRENGER’S APARTMENT BLOCK WAS located on one of the side roads between the Hoher Markt and the Danube canal. On entering the building Haussmann was about to ascend the stairs when Rheinhardt restrained him. His assistant looked puzzled.
‘The concierge,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘I want to talk to the concierge first. You wait here.’
Rheinhardt found the concierge’s quarters further down the hall. A nameplate read Herr
‘Herr Kolowrat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Inspector Rheinhardt. Security office. May we come in?’
The concierge led Rheinhardt and Liebermann into a shabby little parlour.
‘Please take a seat, inspector.’
Rheinhardt declined. ‘I would like to ask you some questions about one of your tenants: Herr Sprenger.’
‘Herr Sprenger? Yes. First floor.’
‘Do you know if he’s in?’
‘Yes. I passed him on the stairs a few minutes ago. He’s just back from work.’
Somewhere in the building a door slammed shut. Rheinhardt and Liebermann exchanged glances.
‘Herr Kolowrat, can you remember what time Herr Sprenger returned on Sunday night?’
The concierge looked uncomfortable. Most apartment blocks in Vienna were locked by ten o’clock, obliging latecomers to wake the concierge and pay an admittance fee — the Sperrgeld. Kolowrat exhaled, producing a cloud of dense smoke, the acrid fragrance of which was not unlike burning leaves. His response to Rheinhardt’s question was hesitant: ‘Herr Sprenger returned … very late.’
‘How late?’
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t check the time. I just let him in and then went back to bed.’
‘Was it after midnight?’
‘Very probably.’
‘How was he acting?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘His behaviour … was he, for example, agitated?’
Kolowrat bit the stem of his pipe, revealing his yellow teeth.
‘No. I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Did he look dishevelled?’
‘No. He looked perfectly respectable.’
‘Does Herr Sprenger often return late?’
‘He’s a young man,’ said Kolowrat, smiling indulgently and raising his hands. ‘Yes, he often comes back after I’ve locked up. But he never returns drunk — not like some. And he’s always very respectful,’ the concierge paused before adding, ‘and
Rheinhardt lowered his chin — a curt acknowledgement that he understood Kolowrat’s meaning.
‘Where do you think Herr Sprenger goes — when he returns late?’
The concierge glanced at Liebermann.
‘Where
Rheinhardt adopted a more severe expression. The concierge, responding to Rheinhardt’s disapproval, took the pipe from his mouth and corrected his posture.
‘Has he ever returned with a woman?’
‘No.’
‘Has he ever mentioned a woman by name?’
‘With respect, inspector, we do not talk of such things. I let him in, we discuss the weather, he gives me ten hellers — sometimes twelve — then I go back to bed and he goes upstairs.’
Rheinhardt thanked Herr Kolowrat for his assistance and as they were leaving pressed a one-krone coin into the concierge’s palm.
‘At last,’ Rheinhardt whispered to Liebermann. ‘We have him!’
‘Well,’ Liebermann cautioned. ‘The evidence is certainly mounting. But we cannot be sure — as yet.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Policeman’s intuition?’
Rheinhardt smiled.
‘Something like that.’ Rheinhardt was not inclined to mention his desperate appeal to the Belvedere sphinx or
