Deadly Communion

Liebermann stepped forward.

‘Herr Rainmayr, you are lying.’

The artist threw an evil look at the young doctor. ‘Not such a great mind-reader after all. You had me fooled for a minute.’

Rheinhardt raised his hand to stop Liebermann’s riposte and said: ‘Go on, Herr Rainmayr.’

‘Erika Hofler,’ Rainmayr continued. ‘A pretty one: I liked her a great deal. She was different from the others. She actually showed an interest in my work and asked questions about colour and form. When she wasn’t modelling she wouldn’t just lounge around being cheeky, she’d pick up one of my books. I’d catch her reading Vasari’s Lives or Cellini. She wanted to learn, so I gave her some lessons and she wasn’t at all bad. The other girls resented her, of course. They were jealous.’

The artist took a few more drags from his cigarette and stubbed it out on a plate.

‘She had it hard, young Erika. Her father was a brute. He drank heavily and flogged his wife and children with a strap. I can still remember the marks those beatings left.’ Rainmayr traced some lines in the air. ‘Once, I did a study of Erika’s wounds for a client.’ Rainmayr’s eyes glazed over as he recreated the image in his mind. ‘Hofler eventually drank himself to death, which was a good thing in some ways but not in others. Frau Hofler didn’t have much money when Hofler was alive, but after he was gone …’ Rainmayr showed his palms. ‘The money I paid Erika was all they had. There was a younger sister, too: Mona, a beautiful little girl, but always sickly. She couldn’t run without coughing up blood. One of the bad winters finished her off. The charity doctors did what they could. It wasn’t enough.’ Rainmayr shook his head. ‘She needed to see a specialist. Poor Erika was devastated. And Frau Hofler … well, what can one say. Something happened to her head.’ Rainmayr screwed his finger against his temple. ‘They put her away in one of the institutions.’

‘How did Erika survive?’

‘I supported her for a while, but eventually she stopped modelling and found other ways of making money —’

‘Prostitution?’ Rheinhardt cut in.

‘You know how it is, inspector.’ Rainmayr picked up one of his brushes and began to clean it with a rag. ‘Three years ago I was invited to an exhibition: and there she was — Erika Hofler. She was calling herself Kristina Feuerstein. She’d become a respected couturiere. She’d worked in the big fashion houses of Paris and on her return to Vienna mixed with the secessionists.’

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And she recognised you?’

‘Of course.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘We talked about art, inspector.’ Rainmayr dropped the clean paintbrush into the groove on his easel. ‘I don’t have to say any more, do I, inspector? I’m sure you know enough now for your purposes.’

‘Why do you feel obliged to protect Frau Vogl? We are speaking about Frau Vogl — aren’t we?’

‘I don’t feel obliged, inspector.’

‘All right: why do you want to then?’

‘She started off as a street girl and now she enjoys the society of countesses. I admire her. You think I’m some kind of monster, like Sprenger. You are quite wrong. I have my own code of conduct which might be different to yours — but it is a code of conduct nevertheless. Erika has managed to put her past behind her. Well, Good luck to her. She was my little favourite …’

As Rainmayr said the word favourite the cast of his countenance altered. There was something about his expression that made Rheinhardt think of the gentleman he had observed in the playground. He saw again the man’s hungry eyes locked on his daughter Mitzi as she ascended the climbing frame.

‘What happned to Frau Hofler?’ asked Liebermann.

The artist shrugged.

‘How should I know?’

61

KRISTINA DISMISSED HER ASSISTANT and offered Rheinhardt and Liebermann chairs. They were gathered, once again, in the modernist reception room of House Vogl. A sketchbook lay open on the cuboid table, showing a female figure in a shapeless ‘reform’ kaftan, her arms raised above her head and the wide, loose sleeves collapsed into generous folds around her narrow shoulders. Kristina remarked that she had not anticipated the pleasure of their company again so soon, and as she spoke Liebermann noticed how she brushed Rheinhardt’s hand — ever so gently — with her own. It was a quick and subtle manoeuvre that might easily have been missed had he not been studying the couturiere as closely as he would a patient.

‘Now, inspector’ she said, her facial muscles tensing to revive her wilting smile, ‘how may I help?’

Rheinhardt looked weary.

‘Some items have come into our possession which I would like you to examine.’

‘Items?’

‘Yes.’ Rheinhardt opened his holdall and took out the postcards. ‘Some images of young women: formerly the property of Fraulein Wirth. I am obliged to forewarn you that they represent examples of a low art produced for gentlemen of questionable character.’

He handed Kristina the postcards and she placed them on her lap. As soon as she registered the first tableau — the two girls standing awkwardly in front of the floral backdrop — she was clearly shaken. A pulse became visible on her long neck. She struggled to manufacture an impression of disinterested bewilderment.

‘Inspector.’ She made a supplicating gesture, showing her palms. ‘I don’t know what to say …’

‘Where do you think Fraulein Wirth got these from?’

‘They must have been left in her apartment by a gentleman.’

‘We did not find them in her apartment.’

The couturiere swallowed.

‘Where, then?’

‘In a luggage locker at the Sudbahnhof.’

Kristina repeated her gesture of supplication.

‘Perhaps she intended to sell them. Poor Selma had very little money.’

‘Frau Vogl, look closely — if you will — at that first image. Do you recognise those girls?’

Kristina ran her fingers along the edge of the uppermost card.

‘See how worn it is,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t it very old — this postcard? I’m afraid I don’t recognise them — no — how could I?’

Liebermann leaned forward.

‘Ashputtel.’

Kristina Vogl turned to face the young doctor. Her expression demonstrated that she welcomed his interjection, even though it was utterly incomprehensible.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Ashputtel — the story — as depicted in the lithographs hanging on your bedroom wall: last month, when Inspector Rheinhardt and I came to your house, I made some comments concerning the lithographs and your profession. How fitting — I said — that a couturiere should have a special liking for a story in which so many dresses appear. You said that this had never before occurred to you.’

Kristina smiled but the delivery of her response was mildly indignant.

‘I purchased those lithographs because I like the artist’s style, not because the story of Ashputtel has