his peculiar conviction that some nameless force was now working to their advantage. ‘You know,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘for weeks I have been eager to confront this monster. I have thought of little else. But now the time has arrived …’ Rheinhardt abandoned the sentence and shook his head. ‘I must confess to being more than a little apprehensive.’
‘You would be a very peculiar fellow if it were otherwise, Oskar.’
They joined Haussmann and walked up the stairs to the first floor. In a metal frame screwed below the knocker of a painted door was a card on which the name Herr Markus
‘Gentlemen: are you ready?’ whispered Rheinhardt.
Liebermann and Haussmann nodded.
Rheinhardt took a deep breath, lifted the knocker, and let it fall.
Time seemed to slow, intensifying expectation.
A bolt disengaged and the door swung open.
This was Liebermann’s first impression.
Eyes like stained glass — a dark, luminous blue. The blue of cathedral windows and lapis lazuli, made even more arresting by their appearance beneath a shock of jet-black hair. Sprenger was clean-shaven and strikingly handsome, with well-defined features that recapitulated the physical perfection of sculpture — an impression that was reinforced by the pallor of his unblemished marmoreal skin. He stood, studying his visitors with detached interest.
‘Herr Sprenger?’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Yes.’
‘I am Detective Inspector Rheinhardt.’ He produced his identification but Sprenger did not look at it. ‘This is my assistant, Haussmann, and my colleague, Herr Doctor Liebermann.’
‘You wish to speak with me?’ Sprenger sounded mildly surprised.
‘Yes.’
‘What about — may I ask?’
‘Perhaps, Herr Sprenger, it might be better if we continued this conversation in private?’
‘Yes, of course. This way, please.’
Rheinhardt and his two companions followed Sprenger down the hallway and he admitted them into a reading room. The shelves of a substantial bookcase sagged beneath the weight of a well-stocked library. Every available space in the bookcase had been used up — additional volumes had been inserted horizontally above the vertical spines of others. Some architectural prints hung on the walls and heavy half-drawn curtains created a sombre, shadowy atmosphere. There were only two places to sit.
‘Please …’ said Sprenger, gesturing towards an old chesterfield. He pulled a chair from beneath a table and offered it to Liebermann and Haussmann.
‘My associates are happy to stand,’ said Rheinhardt. Sprenger sat down in front of his portly guest. ‘We have just come from the premises of Schopp and Sons.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Where you have been employed for the past year?’
‘Indeed.’
‘You are an undertaker.’
‘That is correct.’
Rheinhardt smiled.
‘Herr Schopp speaks very highly of you.’
‘I always try to do my best.’
‘He told us that the references supplied by your previous employer were excellent.’
‘That would be Herr Hanl. He was very kind.’
‘You enjoyed working at Concordia?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Then why did you leave?’
‘The position that I took at Schopp and Sons — my present position — was a more senior post.’
‘And more remunerative, no doubt?’
‘Yes — although money was not my
While Rheinhardt continued to engage Sprenger in conversation about his work, Liebermann edged closer to the bookcase. He scrutinised the titles:
Across the hallway, Liebermann spied an open door. Through it he saw a wardrobe and an iron bedstead. He signalled to Rheinhardt that he should keep Sprenger talking, and nudged Haussmann forward to create a diversion. Liebermann crept across the hallway and entered Sprenger’s bedroom. A frock coat had been thrown onto the eiderdown. The fabric emitted a smell with which Liebermann was very familiar: carbolic. On the washstand he found a porcelain bowl and next to it a collection of bottles. Liebermann crouched down and read the labels. They were mostly colognes; however, two of the bottles seemed out of place. One contained slaked lime and the other lead oxide. He might easily have failed to recognise their significance had he not also noticed as he stood up the dark, gritty streaks that ribbed the inner surface of the bowl.
Hair
A second and more significant realisation followed immediately after.
‘Forgive me,’ Sprenger’s muffled voice floated across hallway. ‘But I am unclear as to why you are here, inspector. Am I to understand that you are conducting an investigation and that you believe I might be able to help?’
Liebermann re-entered the reading room and, catching Rheinhardt’s eye, nodded.
The inspector changed position, shifting his weight to the left.
‘Herr Sprenger, can you tell me what you were doing on Sunday night?’
‘I was out.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Well, if you must know …’ Sprenger raked his hand through his hair. ‘I fell into conversation with a Galician woman and she invited me back to her room in Spittelberg.’
Mention of the red-light district obviated further explanation.
‘I see,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Would you be able to identify the woman and the house?’
‘I don’t know about that. I regret to say that I’d been drinking.’
‘Really? That surprises me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Herr Kolowrat told us that when you returned on Sunday you were sober.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’ Alertness turned to indifference. Sprenger shrugged. ‘Then he was mistaken.’
‘You may be wondering’, said Rheinhardt, ‘why it is that my assistant and I are accompanied by a doctor. The reason is quite straightforward. He is here to examine you.’
‘What?’
Liebermann stepped forward.
‘Only a superficial examination,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He needs to take a look at your torso.’
‘But why?’
‘Herr Sprenger,’ said Liebermann, employing the commanding tone of a medical professor, ‘Would you please stand and remove your shirt?’
The undertaker did not move.
‘I am obliged to inform you,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘that failure to cooperate with the security office is a very serious offence.’
Sprenger produced a loud sigh, stood up, and deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt with one hand. Then he removed the garment and laid it over the back of his chair.
