your knowledge — ever proposition Fraulein Wirth?’
The flush intensified.
‘No, no …’
‘Would Fraulein Wirth have told you — do you think — if he had?’
Frau Lachkovics paused before answering. Rheinhardt could see that she was giving his question serious consideration.
‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘Yes, I think she would. Herr Shevchenko is not that sort of man. His only concern is collecting rents. He never makes small talk, never dallies. He just collects the rent and leaves. Most of the tenants around here don’t like him. It’s true: he never smiles and he can be abrupt and surly. But I do not think he is a bad man — rather someone who is sad and lonely.’
The wicker chair creaked as the girl in the corner stood up. She crossed the floor and stood behind her mother. Frau Lachkovics turned and smiled.
‘Jana?’
The girl did not respond. Instead, she fixed her stare on Rheinhardt. Her gaze was purposeful, yet her expression remained disconcertingly void. Her lineaments gave no clue as to the nature of her personality, her mood or what she might be thinking. She raised her arm. In her hand she was holding a book.
‘Can I keep this,’ she said in a dull monotone, ‘now that she is dead?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Jana!’ exclaimed Frau Lachkovics, tugging the girl’s skirt sharply to express her disapproval. The admonishment had no effect.
‘Now that Selma is dead,’ Jana continued, ‘can I keep her books?’
‘Selma gave you that?’ said Rheinhardt.
‘Yes.’
Rheinhardt extricated himself from the sofa and rose to take the volume from the girl’s hand. He examined the spine and discovered it was a collection of children’s stories.
‘There’s another one in the kitchen,’ said Jana.
Rheinhardt fanned through the pages. Some illustrations flashed out from the blur of text. Suddenly the fluttering came to a halt at a point where a little ticket had been inserted. Rheinhardt pulled it out, studied the print, and then said to Frau Lachkovics: ‘Is this yours?’
‘No.’
‘What is it?’ asked Liebermann.
‘A ticket for one of the luggage lockers at the Sudbahnhof.’
The ensuing silence was broken by Jana.
‘Well — can I keep the books?’
‘You can keep the books,’ said Rheinhardt, ‘if I can keep this ticket.’
58
HEINZ VOGL ENTERED HIS wife’s bedroom. It was not very late and he was surprised to find that she had retired so early. Indeed, he felt a little indignant and persuaded himself that, if she was asleep, waking her could be justified.
‘My dear?’ he called. The eiderdown undulated as she turned to face him.
‘I’m still awake,’ she said, somewhat redundantly. Vogl advanced along the wedge of light that infiltrated Kristina’s room from his own. He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, blinking up at him.
‘Ten o’clock — or thereabouts.’
‘How was your meeting?’
‘It went well enough. Professor Raich was in favour of appointing Mitterwallner — but Professor Lischka and that fool Kinigader objected. Fortunately, I was able to persuade Salvenmoser to vote with us and in the end the outcome was satisfactory. But it was a tiring, frustrating process, and I fear that the discussion — which became quite heated — will leave an atmosphere of ill feeling in some quarters. The air will have to be cleared in due course.’
Vogl reached out and touched Kristina’s cheek.
‘What is it, my dear?’
‘Do you remember the police inspector — Rheinhardt — and his colleague Liebermann?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘They came to the salon today.’
‘Really? What did they want?’
‘They said that they have acquired some more evidence and that the man whom they caught — Sprenger — the man who was supposed to have killed Selma, well, now it seems he didn’t kill her after all.’
‘Oh, my dear, that is terrible news. You are still in danger.’ Vogl lifted his wife’s limp hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, each one in turn. ‘I hope you didn’t come home on your own.’ Kristina did not reply. ‘You did? Oh, my dear — you must be more careful. You cannot afford to take such risks. Not now.’
‘I cannot go on living like this,’ Kristina whispered. The tone of her voice was curious, almost strangulated. Her eyes became glassy as the tears welled up.
Vogl gathered her into his arms, and rocked her backwards and forwards.
‘My poor darling … do not cry. Inspector Rheinhardt managed to catch Sprenger — and I’m sure he’ll catch whoever was responsible for poor Selma’s murder, eventually. It’s only a matter of time.’
These words — intended to be comforting — seemed to have the very opposite effect. Vogl felt his wife’s body becoming tense in his arms as the tears washed down her face.
59
THE CAB CAME TO a halt outside the Sudbahnhof, joining a line of parked carriages. The two men stepped down onto the expansive forecourt. While Rheinhardt paid the driver, Liebermann admired the architecture. It was a perfect example of Viennese ostentation. He might have been looking up at the facade of any of the great European opera houses rather than at a train station. Its grandiosity made him smile and although he was a committed modernist the sheer bravado of the structure’s vaulting ambition made him quietly proud to call Vienna his home. The building boasted five entrance portals above which sat a tier of arched windows and a further row of oblong windows. A terracotta tympanum enlivened the massive pediment, each corner of which supported a majestic classical figure. Sphinxes could be seen on the roofs of the two wings which flanked the facade, and each of these wings possessed pediments of their own.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ said Rheinhardt, joining his friend. ‘But now isn’t the time …’
He slapped a hand on Liebermann’s back and the impact of the good-natured whack propelled the young doctor forward.
The interior of the Sudbahnhof was as magnificent as the exterior. Rheinhardt and Liebermann entered a vast hallway dominated by a grand staircase that rose and divided below a balustraded gallery. The floor was illuminated by rows of spherical gas lamps mounted on tall posts of intricately worked iron and yet more flickering globes floated beneath the ceiling, the detail of which was almost invisible on account of its lofty elevation.
Although it was almost eleven o’ clock the station was still very busy. The late train from Trieste had just arrived and a crowd of people were hurrying across the concourse. A dark-skinned gentleman wearing a djellaba, fez and soft yellow slippers passed, accompanied by a porter dragging a gilded chest on a trolley. Following close
