Deadly Communion

Neither Rheinhardt nor Liebermann responded to her outburst. Kristina sighed, wiped away her tears, and nodded — as if she had suddenly been supplied with a very important piece of information.

‘I see,’ she said softly, continuing the agitated head movement. ‘You think that I paid someone? Do you really think I would risk being blackmailed again? Do you really think I would risk being blackmailed over a murder? I would have to be insane!’

‘I do not think you paid someone,’ said Liebermann

‘Then what do you think?’ Kristina straightened her back and pushed her bust forward. The movement seemed calculated to emphasise her gender. It gave Liebermann even more confidence.

‘I could not help noticing,’ said Liebermann, ‘that you and your husband sleep in separate rooms. A very practical arrangement favoured by many doctors and their spouses. Your husband must often arrive home late, and on returning he can attend to his toilet before retiring without disturbing your sleep. However, this choice also reveals a logistical feature of your conjugal relations. You must go to your husband or he must come to you.’

‘Inspector!’ cried Kristina. ‘This is not proper. These are private matters. I will not sit here and be insulted. You cannot allow this man to—’

‘Please,’ said Rheinhardt firmly. ‘Allow Doctor Liebermann to continue.’

‘On the evening of the sixteenth of April,’ said Liebermann, ‘you visited Fraulein Wirth. She showed you some postcards and sketches — just like the ones Inspector Rheinhardt showed you today. We must suppose that they were a recent acquisition, otherwise you would have known of their existence somewhat earlier. I fancy she came across them by chance in one of the junk shops on Wiebliger Strasse. You arranged to return much later the same evening in order to buy the images from her — for what I imagine must have been a substantial sum.’ Liebermann sat back in his chair and pulled at his chin. ‘I do not know whether you hatched your plan on the way home or whether an opportunity arose for intimacy with your husband — an opportunity that served as inspiration. You did, however, make love to him, and subsequently went back to your bedroom taking that part of his being essential to your purpose. You expelled his vital fluid and poured it into a syringe taken from your husband’s study. I cannot say exactly how events transpired on your return to Fraulein Wirth’s apartment. Here I must speculate. Did you stab Fraulein Wirth directly? I don’t think so: the knife was too well placed. Perhaps you arrived with some chloral hydrate — also taken from your husband’s study — which you poured into a drink? Once she was unconscious, it would have been considerably easier for you to insert the knife between Fraulein Wirth’s ribs and inject your husband’s semen into her person. Of course, you had no idea that there were more images. No idea that Fraulein Wirth had intended to extort even more money from your purse.’

Kristina Vogl stared at Liebermann. The handkerchief fell from her hands and she clasped her stomach as if suddenly afficted by gastric pain.

‘You do not know how I have suffered … to get all this … you do not know what this means to me.’ The couturiere looked around the reception room, her eyes glistening. ‘You do not know what a woman like me must do.’ She bent over as if the pain in her stomach was becoming more intense. ‘And now you’re going to take it all away.’ Turning to Rheinhardt she smiled — a peculiar smile that made her look innocent and girlish. When she spoke again, her voice was equally juvenile: she sounded like a lost child. ‘Will I be hanged, inspector?’

Rheinhardt stood up and walked to the vitrine. His step was ponderous and he was breathing heavily — a series of linked sighs. He looked through the tilted glass at the colourful jewellery, the semiprecious stones and salamander bracelet, but he did not reply.

62

LIEBERMANN WAS SEATED IN a box just to the right of the opera-house stage. The stalls were almost full and he glanced anxiously at his wristwatch.

Where was Rheinhardt?

An extraordinarily large chandelier hung down from the ornate ceiling. It consisted of two rings of light (a smaller circle floating above a much larger one) from which thousands of adamantine crystals were suspended. The Emperor’s box was dark, but beneath it the standing enclosure was crowded: military personnel and civilians kept apart by a bronze pole. Directly below, the finely dressed patrons were making more noise than usual, excited by the promise of a revolutionary production. A strikingly beautiful young woman dressed in blue velvet and pearls was gliding down the central aisle, accompanied on either side by Hussars. In the middle of the front row, two gentlemen dressed in the uniform of Court officials were taking their places next to a gentleman who was possibly the German Ambassador.

Liebermann heard the door opening and turned to see Rheinhardt making an awkward entrance — struggling to part the red drapes. He was clutching a bag of pralines. The inspector blustered into the box and sat down next to his friend.

‘I’m so sorry. I got rather delayed … something I had to sort out for tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh?’

Rheinhardt dismissed the inquiry with a hand gesture.

‘I have some news.’

‘Concerning?’

‘Frau Milena. The Czech police have arrested her.’

‘When did that happen?’

‘Last night. She had adopted a false identity and was living in a village close to the Bavarian border.’

‘How did they find her?’

‘They didn’t — she found them.’

‘She gave herself up?’

‘Yes: made a full confession.’ Rheinhardt opened the bag and invited Liebermann to take a praline. The young doctor chose a white crenellated sphere dusted with cocoa the colour of ochre. He bit the chocolate in half and examined the interior, which was black and pitted with tiny pieces of crushed almond. The chocolate melted in his mouth, releasing a delicate blend of coffee and oranges. ‘Good?’ continued Rheinhardt. ‘They should be — I got them from the shop downstairs and they were prohibitively expensive.’ The inspector selected a praline covered in toasted coconut. He began chewing, closed his eyes and produced a groan of deep satisfaction. After which he added: ‘She’s being brought back to Vienna in the morning.’

‘Guilt — I suppose.’

‘What?’

‘That is why she gave herself up. Guilt. Like Erstweiler, her mental constitution was not strong enough to survive the emotional consequences of her own crime. When she and Erstweiler killed Bozidar Kolinsky, in a way they also killed themselves.’

Rheinhardt nodded in agreement. He took a second praline, the sweetness of which seemed to render him incapable of speech: an almost idiotic smile played around his lips. In due course he came to his senses and said: ‘So — Tristan ana holac — thank you so much for getting tickets.’

‘Well, a celebration was in order, surely — and I thought the themes apposite.’

‘The reviews have been stupendous! The dawn of a new epoch in the history of opera — so they say.’

‘I am most eager to see Roller’s sets. Apparently, his work is richly symbolic. Everything he incorporates has meaning — even the colours and small decorative details. In this respect he’s a little like a psychoanalyst …’

They continued talking about the production’s excellent reviews until the orchestra finished tuning up, the lights dimmed, and the wiry frame of director Mahler appeared on the podium.

The prelude was exquisite, emerging naturally from the preceding moment of silence and repeatedly dissolving into mute lacunae before rising in a great wave of sound which — when it broke — created an indefinable yearning, the physicality of which united the audience in a collective and audible sigh. Mahler’s genius made the score entirely transparent, a slow tempo encouraging the ear to savour every melodic line and nuance. He was like some great anatomist, wielding his baton like a scalpel, revealing mysteries that had hitherto remained beyond the