Deadly Communion

the year. ‘Actually, inspector, a proposal of that nature was made at that time. But it wasn’t me who made it.’

The music stopped abruptly, mid-phrase.

‘Would you care to elaborate?’

‘I am not a man to sully the reputation of the dead. The poor woman is in her grave.’

‘Herr Shevchenko, am I understanding you correctly? Fraulein Wirth offered you sexual favours in exchange for financial assistance?’

The Ruthenian placed his hand in his frock coat and took out a leather wallet that opened up like a book. He held it out so that Rheinhardt and Liebermann could see inside. It contained a photograph of a woman and an image of Jesus Christ ascending up to heaven in a cone of light. ‘Frau Shevchenko,’ said the rent collector. ‘We were married for twenty-five years. God didn’t choose to bless us with children — we only had each other. I never so much as looked at another woman my whole life — and haven’t since Frau Shevchenko died.’ The opening chords of the Pathetique sounded again. ‘She died about a year ago: a terrible illness, a wasting disease. Pain, vomiting, blood in the bedpan — and lots of it. I would work all day and be up all night nursing her. Sometimes the priest or one of the nuns would come and I’d get a couple of hours’ sleep, but no more. The doctors couldn’t do anything for her.’

At that moment the pianist below began an airy waltz, in which a repeated discordant semitone was employed to humorous effect. The change in mood was jarring.

‘Do you really think that under those circumstances,’ Shevchenko continued, ‘I would be seeking an arrangement — of the kind you suggest — with Fraulein Wirth?’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were silent. The waltz petered out.

Shevchenko looked at the image of his wife for a moment before putting it back in his pocket. His knuckle went to his right eye and his attempt to collect the tear that was waiting to fall did not succeed.

Liebermann felt a pang of regret. He had judged Shevchenko unkindly. The man’s lack of self-care had an obvious cause: profound grief. He was simply biding his time, waiting for death and a much longed-for reunion with his wife.

‘I am sorry to have troubled you, Herr Shevchenko,’ said Rheinhardt very softly, rising from his chair.

The Ruthenian nodded.

Rheinhardt and Liebermann crossed the floor, their footsteps coinciding uncomfortably with the beat of a jolly German dance tune.

57

FRAU LACHKOVICS’S APARTMENT WAS empty. Liebermann and Rheinhardt waited for her to return, smoking in the courtyard, and when Rheinhardt’s stomach began to emit gurgling sounds it was decided that they should repair to a local beer cellar. They found a welcoming establishment and spent the next hour enjoying well-cooked tafelspitz — boiled beef — served with fried potatoes, apple horseradish and chive sauce. The meal was washed down with several steins of Edelweiss. Fortified by the wholesome fare and the cordial properties of the liquor, they marched back to Frau Lachkovics’s apartment and were relieved to find the windows brightly illuminated.

The two men were admitted into a humble parlour where Jana, Frau Lachkovics’s daughter, sat silently on a wicker chair in the corner. Rheinhardt introduced Liebermann and was surprised by Frau Lachkovics’s response. She became agitated — her gaze oscillating anxiously between Jana and Liebermann. It appeared to Rheinhardt that Frau Lachkovics had jumped to an erroneous conclusion: that he had brought a doctor with him to examine Jana, with the intention of getting her admitted into a hospital. Rheinhardt was moved by a wave of pity.

‘Frau Lachkovics,’ said the inspector, reaching out and gently touching the woman’s sleeve. ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is my colleague. He is not here to act in a medical capacity.’

The woman sighed: a release of tension.

She motioned as if to speak — but an idea seemed to rise up in her mind which robbed her of confidence.

‘Frau Lachkovics?’ Rheinhardt inquired.

She shook her head: ‘Please sit.’

Rheinhardt and Liebermann were obliged to share the narrow space between the arms of a small sofa. They found themselves squeezed together, and no amount of shifting, wriggling or turning eased their compression.

‘You were out earlier,’ said Rheinhardt to Frau Lachkovics, withdrawing his elbow from beneath Liebermann’s arm.

‘Yes,’ replied Frau Lachkovics, drawing up a stool. ‘I’m sorry, we were in Ottakring. My mother … you remember — I told you I have an elderly mother?’

‘Indeed.’

Frau Lachkovics adjusted the drop of her skirt as she sat down.

‘The tram was late — I don’t know why. Did you send a message? If I had known then—’

Rheinhardt cut in: ‘Please do not fret on our account, Frau Lachkovics, your late return afforded us an opportunity to enjoy the splendid tafelspitz served at the Trinklied.’ He gestured vaguely towards the street. ‘Frau Lachkovics, I have some more questions I would like to ask you in connection with Fraulein Wirth.’ Frau Lachkovics did not raise any objection.

The arrest of Markus Sprenger had been discussed interminably at the laundry; however, knowledge of his arrest did not embolden her to ask Rheinhardt why he had come back again to ask more questions. She passively accepted the policeman’s authority.

‘Frau Lachkovics,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘are you quite certain that Fraulein Wirth did not have any gentlemen friends?’

‘I cannot be absolutely sure. But I think it very unlikely. You see, we saw a great deal of each other. We would walk to the laundry together in the morning and return together at the end of the day. And I always knew when Selma had visitors. You can hear people knocking on her door from here. The walls are thin. I never saw any gentlemen arriving, apart from Herr Shevchenko, the landlord’s agent. I saw Selma’s friend Frau Vogl and some other girls from the laundry, Christa and Steffi — but never any men. Besides, if she had met someone, I’m sure she would have said something. It was in her nature to share personal things. She was never reticent.’

‘About the time when Fraulein Wirth …’ Rheinhardt glanced at the girl in the corner and searched for a diplomatic turn of phrase. ‘About the time when Fraulein Wirth met with her sad end, do you recall ever seeing any strangers loitering in the courtyard?’

‘No.’

‘A man wearing a bowler hat and a long coat?’

‘I do not recall seeing any strangers.’

‘But what about any gentlemen answering to that particular description?’

‘A bowler hat and long coat? There are many men who dress like that.’

‘Indeed,’ Rheinhardt altered his position: ‘You mentioned Herr Shevchenko …’

Frau Lachkovics frowned.

‘Yes?’

‘Has he always behaved … correctly?’

‘I don’t understand …’

‘Always shown you the proper respect that a lady is entitled to expect from a gentleman?’ The woman looked at Rheinhardt blankly. ‘I am sorry,’ Rheinhardt continued, ‘but I must ask you an indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko ever proposition you? Did he ever make an unwelcome amorous advance?’

‘Herr Shevchenko! Good heavens, no!’

Frau Lachkovics’s cheeks became luminous and a hectic flush travelled down her neck.

‘I am sorry, madam, but I am obliged to ask you yet another indelicate question. Did Herr Shevchenko — to