‘It’s stuck.’
He repositioned the woman’s head and tried again. Eventually the silver acorn came away. It was attached to a needle — bent near the top — about twice the length of man’s finger. Mathias held it up. The metal was coated with a film of pinkish residue.
‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘I believe it is a hatpin,’ Mathias replied. ‘How resourceful!’
‘Resourceful?’ Rheinhardt responded. ‘How is stabbing someone in the neck with a hat pin resourceful?’
‘No, inspector — you misunderstand. This woman wasn’t stabbed in the neck. It was her brain that was stabbed.’
‘I still don’t see what’s clever about
‘Think, Rheinhardt, think!’
Mathias rapped his own head with his knuckles.
Rheinhardt frowned: ‘I would appreciate a straightforward answer, Herr professor.’
‘The brain is encased in the skull, inspector. It is the most well protected organ in the body.’
‘Making ingress difficult?’
‘Almost impossible.’
‘However?’
‘In the floor of the skull is an aperture — in the occipital bone to be precise — called the foramen magnum. It’s about this big.’ Mathias made a circle with his thumb and forefinger ‘When the head is tilted forward, the foramen magnum is aligned with a relatively small opening above the uppermost vertebra. By taking advantage of this chink in the human anatomical armour, a sharp object, such as a hatpin, can be inserted directly into the medulla oblongata — a brain structure which very likely sustains the most basic bodily functions: breathing and heart rate. It is an extremely efficient and tidy way of killing someone. The pin itself destroys the critical brain centres and the head of the pin serves as a plug to stop leakage of blood and cerebrospinal fluid!’
Mathias handed the hatpin to Rheinhardt. The workmanship was not accomplished. It was made from cheap silver.
‘Well, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Where do you think a person might purchase one of these?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Then perhaps you would be so good as to find out?’
He handed the hatpin to his assistant.
‘Now, sir?’
‘Yes, Haussmann. Now.’
5
THE SIGN OUTSIDE THE salon was simple and discreet.
A glazed tile, set into the wall; straight black capitals: HOUSE VOGL.
Beneath, in a small, cursive script, was the word
Kristina Vogl and her secretary, Wanda Wolnik, stood in the circular vestibule, looking expectantly out of the window. A servant had been posted by the door. The proprietor of the fashion house was an attractive woman, with dark hair and striking blue eyes. She was tall and wore a plain black dress; however, the pendant that hung from her neck was colourful — a silver rose surrounded by semi-precious stones of different sizes. Wanda was shorter than her mistress and was also dressed in black. She was pretty, with blonde hair and flawless skin, but there was something about the roundness of her features and her awkward posture that revealed a lack of sophistication. She had not yet acquired the air of arrogant detachment cultivated by most of her peers in the world of haute couture.
‘Oh,
‘Yes, madame,’ said the secretary. She inhaled and raised her bosom.
‘Frau Schmollinger is a very important person. We must make a good impression.’
Kristina glanced anxiously at the wall clock.
What if Frau Schmollinger didn’t come? A note must be sent, obviously. A few lines expressing regret and concern: I am so sorry you were unable to keep your appointment and trust you are in good health. No,
Kristina’s misgivings were needless. The sound of clattering hoofs preceded the arrival of an impressive coach pulled by four horses.
‘Is it her, madame?’ asked Wanda.
‘Of course it is. Now, for heaven’s sake, remember not to slouch.’
Through the net curtains they watched the driver jump down from his box and help Frau Schmollinger out of the carriage. She was in her mid-fifties, wore a wide-brimmed hat festooned with exotic plumages, and a long sable coat.
Kristina called out to the servant: ‘Karoline. Open the door. Slowly.’ Then she glanced at her secretary, removed an errant gold hair from the girl’s sleeve, and stood erect, assuming an expression of tranquil indifference.
Frau Schmollinger glided through the open door.
Kristina inclined her head and Wanda — overawed by this vision of fur and feathers — produced something closer to genuflexion than to a curtsy.
‘Frau Schmollinger,’ said Kristina, adopting a languorous, refined accent. ‘Welcome. We are honoured. This way, please.’
No introductions were necessary. It was assumed that Frau Vogl herself would receive such a distinguished client.
Kristina ushered Frau Schmollinger into the reception room, where Wanda took her hat and coat.
‘Would you like some tea?’ Kristina asked.
‘No, thank you,’ said Frau Schmollinger, looking around the room. Her expression was one of curiosity and surprise. The walls were lacquered white and decorated with mirrors, and from the ceiling lamps composed of hammered copper with glass spheres hung down on delicately wrought chains. Frau Schmollinger’s attention was captured by a smart vitrine with metal fittings. Through the tilted glass she saw jewellery displayed on a bed of blue velvet: tourmaline brooches, agate earrings and a coral bracelet made in the likeness of linked salamanders.
‘Please,’ said Kristina. ‘Do take a seat.’
Frau Schmollinger lowered herself onto a wooden chair, the high back of which was made up of rectangular ‘hoops’, the smaller being nested within the larger. The oak had been stained black and flecks of chalk had been rubbed into the grain. On the table — just a cube with a square panel on top — were catalogues and magazines:
‘You come highly recommended, Frau Vogl. I am a close friend of Countess Oberndorf.’
‘The countess is one of our most valued clients.’
‘You made an exquisite summer dress for her last year.’
‘Indeed. A white and yellow smock with lace sleeves.’
‘Yes, that’s the one! She wore it when my husband and I were guests at Schloss Oberndorf. Sensational.’
‘You are too kind.’
Frau Schmollinger raised her hand and performed an odd benediction in the air: ‘I was wondering — my husband and I will be returning to Schloss Oberndorf this summer …’
