‘You would like something similar?’
‘Yes.’ She drew the syllable out. ‘Something interesting. Something
Frau Schmollinger’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t want something
‘I’m sure we will be able to find something suitable for you,’ said Kristina, ‘in this year’s summer collection.’
Frau Schmollinger smiled.
‘Excellent.’
‘Wanda,’ said Kristina. ‘Would you fetch my red book, please?’
The secretary crossed to a corner cupboard. She opened the doors, inlaid with sparkling tears of glass, and took out a big leather volume which she carried to her mistress. Kristina sat down beside Frau Schmollinger. The volume contained sketches and coloured lithographs gummed onto thick paper.
Most of the designs were loose-fitting and resembled kaftans. There were no furbelows and trimmings, but Kristina explained that the materials she used were of the highest quality —
‘The raised waist,’ Kristina said, pointing to a typical example, ‘renders the corset redundant, and affords the wearer unprecedented freedom of movement. My clients frequently describe House Vogl couture as’ — she raised an attractive plucked eyebrow — ‘liberating.’
There was something slightly subversive about Frau Vogl’s vocabulary. Her choice of words sounded strangely political: freedom and liberation. At one point she even spoke of ‘equality’. The older woman listened with keen interest. And as she did so, she became acutely aware of the tightness of the whalebone cage in which her torso was imprisoned. She remembered the previous summer, her breath labouring as she walked with the countess in the gardens of Schloss Oberndorf, and the copious bright fabric of the countess’s dress billowing in the gentle breeze.
When they had finished looking at the summer catalogue, Frau Vogl invited Frau Schmollinger to view some of the designs that had already been made up. She led her into a wide corridor lined on both sides with glass cabinets. In each was a dressed mannequin. Couturiere and client were followed at a respectful distance by Wanda. It was obvious from the tone of the conversation that Frau Schmollinger intended to order several garments.
About halfway along the corridor, Frau Schmollinger halted in order to study a gown that seemed to have been woven from spun gold. It might have been taken from the wardrobe of an angel.
‘What is this?’ she asked, her voice awed.
‘Remarkable, isn’t it?’ Kristina replied.
‘Made from gold?’
‘A metallic yarn called lame. It’s by the Callot sisters … in Paris.’
‘Would it be possible to have a summer dress made from …’
‘Lame? Yes, of course. It also comes in silver.’
Frau Schmollinger imagined herself stepping out onto the terrace of Schloss Oberndorf, the late sun catching the metallic weave, the men falling silent.
At the end of the corridor, double doors led into the changing room. It was a large space and included a chair — again, black, angular and simple — and a full-length adjustable mirror. The floor had been covered in grey felt so that wealthy customers could walk in comfort with their shoes off.
Above, the sound of industry could be heard: the rattle of sewing machines and the soft music of female voices. House Vogl employed a team of seamstresses and two cutters.
‘Well,’ said Kristina to Frau Schmollinger. ‘Shall we proceed?’
‘Yes,’ said Frau Schmollinger.
‘Wanda,’ said Kristina. ‘If you would get me a tape measure and my notebook?’
The secretary smiled and left the changing room. She was in a state of excitement. Frau Vogl always treated her to lunch at the Imperial when they secured a lucrative order from a new patron. Wanda was already contemplating what she would order: roast pork and dumplings followed by Topfenstrudel. Or should she have the Viennese Walnut-Apple Torte? She really couldn’t decide.
6
RHEINHARDT LOOKED ACROSS HIS desk at Arno Zeiler. Everything about him suggested deflation: lank hair, crumpled clothes and sunken cheeks. His eyes were dark and empty.
‘Cigarette?’ asked Rheinhardt.
The man turned and nodded.
Rheinhardt lit the cigarette and passed it to Zeiler, who took it awkwardly between his thumb and second finger. He drew on it once, coughed, and continued to stare blankly into space.
Zeiler had been brought to the Schottenring station directly from the Pathological Institute, where he had been taken to identify the body of his daughter, Adele.
‘Herr Zeiler — forgive me,’ said Rheinhardt softly. ‘But may I ask: why didn’t you report Adele missing last night?’
Zeiler shook his head.
‘She often stays out.’
‘All night?’
‘Yes,’ Zeiler rubbed one of his eyes with the heel of his palm. ‘It wasn’t until this afternoon that we started to worry. My wife said I should go to the police. Adele is usually back by midday.’
‘Where did she go?’ Rheinhardt pursed his lips before adding, ‘All night.’
‘I don’t know.’
The inspector tapped his pen on the desk top.
‘Forgive me, but am I to believe, Herr Zeiler, that your daughter was in the habit of staying out all night, and you never troubled to ask her where she’d been?’
‘Do you have a daughter, inspector?’
‘I have two.’
‘Do you? Well, I have three.’ Zeiler suddenly corrected himself. ‘No, I have only two now. Adele is dead. The two I have left — Trude and Inna. Trude is sixteen and has bronchial problems. She’s never been very strong — terrible phlegm that sits on her chest. Inna is thirteen and can’t walk properly. It’s something to do with her joints. Nothing can be done for her. I used to work in a timber yard in Favoriten, but I lost my job when the proprietor went bankrupt and I haven’t been able to get another since. My wife gets occasional work at the laundry, but not very often. Life hasn’t been easy, inspector. Adele was a sweet girl. She did what she could …’ Zeiler bit his lower lip. ‘She did what she could for all of us. We didn’t like it but what could we do? We either accepted Adele’s help, or we starved. What could we do?’
‘Are you saying that she became a …’ Rheinhardt’s sensitivity did not permit him to complete the sentence.
‘A prostitute? No. She wasn’t a prostitute. But she knew how to get a man’s attention and gentlemen gave her gifts — never money, you understand — just gifts, and sometimes she didn’t come home. Adele would take the gifts to the pawnshop. We needed the money. Inspector, I hope that you are never put in my position. No father should have to go through what I’ve gone through. That’s why I didn’t ask, you understand? I didn’t need to ask — and in truth I didn’t want to know.’ Zeiler sucked on the cigarette and, looking towards the window, continued: ‘She was stabbed. They said she’d been stabbed?’
‘Yes.’ Rheinhardt replied. He was reluctant to disclose the details of Adele’s murder and moved the conversation on: ‘When was the last time you saw Adele?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
