Deadly Communion

was because she had only the faintest recollection of having claimed to have seen him. When you announced that Wirth’s killer was still at large, her reaction was most interesting: she was more concerned about how you had come to that conclusion than her own safety: and when you pressed her for more information concerning Fraulein Wirth’s circumstances, she seemed to pluck the Shevchenko incident out of the air. The way she was speaking sounded to me like … like an improvisation. Particularly when she pretended that she couldn’t remember his name. In fact, she has a very good memory for names.’ Liebermann picked up his fork but the utensil halted before reaching its destination. ‘Frau Vogl said that Wirth had told her about Shevchenko’s proposition almost a year ago — without the slightest hesitation. Most people, when recalling an event in the past, pause or slow down so that they can calculate the time that has elapsed. The absence of a pause suggests that no calculation was necessary.’

‘Which means?’

‘Contrary to appearances, she had already given the matter of Shevchenko’s indecent proposal much consideration, or …’

‘What?’

‘She was making it all up.’

Rheinhardt pushed the remains of his plum flan around the edge of his plate.

‘You know, Max, I am in danger of being persuaded.’

The inspector finished his cake and took some cigars from his pocket. He gave one to Liebermann, lit it, and then lit his own. Liebermann turned his head and gazed out of the window. Rheinhardt wanted to ask his friend what he was thinking but knew there would be little point. The young doctor had retreated into himself.

If Rheinhardt had asked the question and Liebermann had responded candidly, the answer would have taken Rheinhardt by surprise. Indeed, it would have shocked him. For at that precise moment Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lydgate inserting her fingers into Bathild Babel’s sex. This image — which had previously disturbed Liebermann — was suddenly no longer prurient, but expressive of certain possibilities …

They smoked their cigars in silence and passed the next hour in desultory conversation. The only topic which moved them to fluency was the music of Karl Goldmark — in particular, the early songs, and his opera Die Konigin von Saba. In due course the head waiter came to their table. He bowed low and said: ‘Inspector, your assistant is on the telephone.’

56

SHEVCHENKO’S OFFICE WAS IN a room above a piano shop which seemed to attract a very accomplished clientele. Bursts of Beethoven — played with great power and ferocity — rose up through the floorboards. The music created a curious tension in Liebermann’s fingers. They began to twitch sympathetically. It was as if the spirit of Beethoven’s violent genius had stormed his brain and taken possession of his nervous system. Liebermann locked his hands together, fearing that he might be compelled to shadow the presto agitato of the C sharp minor Sonata on an imaginary keyboard.

The remains of Shevchenko’s midday meal had not been cleared. An apple core had turned brown and the inedible skin of a sausage — crumpled and semi-transparent — resembled the sloughed-off hide of a snake. A smear of bright yellow mustard contributed an incongruous splash of colour to this otherwise moribund still life. Liebermann was overcome by a sense of bathos. The mundane trappings of Shevchenko’s routine — scraps on a plate — underscored the gulf that separated high art from the necessities of material existence. It seemed to the young doctor that the music which filled the air was arriving from another universe, a place entirely free from corruption, decay and corporeal imperfections.

They had been in Shevchenko’s office for approximately ten minutes.

After introducing Liebermann, Rheinhardt had explained the purpose of their visit. Shevchenko had listened impassively. Indeed, his expression had verged on indifference.

Liebermann found that he could not look at the Ruthenian without feeling slightly nauseous. The man’s hair was greasy, his beard untrimmed, and dirt had accumulated beneath his fingernails. He wore a frock coat, the material of which had become shiny in places through excessive wear. He also seemed to give off an unpleasant odour, similar to the sour smell that Liebermann associated with geriatric wards — an unpleasant blend of stale perspiration with ammonia.

‘Well, inspector,’ said Shevchenko. ‘I’m sorry to hear that the man who killed Fraulein Wirth is still free — naturally. But I’m afraid you’re wasting your time talking to me. I’ve already told you all that I know about Fraulein Wirth.’

Rheinhardt leaned forward.

‘When we last spoke, Herr Shevchenko, you said that Fraulein Wirth hadn’t paid her rent for months.’

‘Yes. She was always a bad payer. And she would give me such excuses.’ Shevchenko shook his head. ‘Such weak excuses.’

A few bars of the slow movement from the Waldstein Sonata wafted up from below.

‘It must be difficult for you to work up here,’ said Rheinhardt.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘The music! Don’t you find it distracting?’

Shevchenko shrugged.

‘It doesn’t bother me.’

Rheinhardt leaned back and his chair creaked loudly.

‘Tell me, Herr Shevchenko. How would you describe your relations with Fraulein Wirth?’

‘Relations? What do you mean by relations?’

‘Did you get on?’

‘It’s not my job to get on with tenants, Herr inspector. I collect rents. A rent collector is never very popular.’

‘But, within reason, would you describe your relations with Fraulein Wirth as good?’

Shevchenko paused to consider the question before answering: ‘As good as they could be, given my responsibilities.’

‘She was not an unattractive woman — Fraulein Wirth.’ Shevchenko shrugged again. ‘Did you find her attractive?’

The Ruthenian’s eyes narrowed. He grunted and said: ‘What are you getting at, inspector? I am a plain- speaking man and would prefer it if you came directly to the point.’

‘Did you offer Fraulein Wirth exemption from the payment of rental arrears in exchange for sexual favours?’

The Ruthenian’s right eyebrow rose by a fraction.

‘Who told you that?’

‘A friend of the deceased.’

‘The neighbour? What’s her name? Lenkiewicz? No — Lachkovics! That’s it — was it Frau Lachkovics?’

‘It was not Frau Lachkovics.’

‘Then who? I have a right to know.’ Shevchenko held Rheinhardt’s gaze for a few moments, then sighed and looked away. ‘You have been misinformed, inspector.’

‘You did not find Fraulein Wirth attractive?’

‘No, inspector. I didn’t.’ Shevchenko lifted his head and looked directly at Rheinhardt. ‘When was I supposed to have made this proposal?’

‘Some time ago. A year — perhaps …’

The opening bars of the Pathetique Sonata added melodrama to the exchange.

‘About a year ago,’ Shevchenko repeated. He paused and counted his fingers while whispering the months of