Deadly Communion lp-5 Read online

  The broad staircase rising to the upper level of the gardens was inviting. Somehow the notion of ascent seemed to promise Rheinhardt the prospect of release from the despair that had suddenly seized him.

  Higher ground, clarity, a longer view …

  Rheinhardt climbed to the top, where he was confronted by one of the Belvedere’s famous sphinxes. There was just enough light to make out her crouching, winged presence. The inspector approached and halted directly in front of her. The expression that she wore was one of supreme indifference, a blend of ennui and scornful disregard. She was wearing a cuirass, the design of which emphasised the fullness of her perfectly rounded breasts. Rheinhardt sensed her sisters, out there in the darkness — infinitely patient — a pride of sphinxes, incubating secrets.

  ‘Give me the answer,’ he whispered.

  So, it’s come to this, Rheinhardt thought. Begging a statue for help!

  If the sphinx did possess supernatural powers, she showed no sign of willingness to employ them at Rheinhardt’s bidding. Her centuries of disinterest and stony constitution had inured her to human misery: what could be more inconsequential than four human lives to a beast whose seasons were epochs?

  ‘Sir?’ Kiesl’s voice floated up from below.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve found something … an undergarment.’

  ‘All right. I’m coming down.’

  Rheinhardt descended the steps and negotiated the little maze of hedges. He found the constable — a torch held aloft in one hand, a pair of yellow drawers in the other — looking like a strange parody of the goddess Libertas.

  ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘Just here — thrown over this bush.’

  Rheinhardt took the item from the constable.

  ‘Now see if you can find her hat.’

  Rheinhardt went back to the body. He patrolled the lawn, systematically searching the ground for anything that might have been dropped. While he was doing this he heard footsteps — the brisk, energetic stride of his assistant.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Haussmann.’

  ‘I came as fast as I could.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Rheinhardt gestured toward the dead woman.

  ‘Her initials are CR.’

  ‘Cacilie Roster,’ said Haussmann.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s her name. Cacilie Roster. I recognise her. She’s an entertainer. She does variety shows. I’ve seen her singing comic songs at Ronacher’s.’

  36

  In due course I worked for several undertakers; however, it wasn’t until I secured a position at the Erste Wiener Leichenbestattungs-Anstalt Enterprise des Pompes Funebres that I was permitted to assist Doctor Traugott Stohl — the embalmer. I had always been interested in embalming and considered myself fortunate to have this opportunity to study the procedures involved. Of course, I had seen embalmers at work before but, as you will appreciate, embalming is not common and observations conducted at a distance are no substitute for participation. I have no idea why embalming isn’t more popular in Vienna, a city which has always appreciated the beauty of a corpse in eternal repose. The aristocracy are fond of laying out their dead — as are certain members of the bourgeoisie, such as composers and politicians. But other than among these elements of society, embalming is largely restricted to instances in which the deceased must be transported over a long distance to a final resting place. Indeed, in such cases where the transfer will take a week or longer, embalming is compulsory, as decreed by the Minister of the Interior on the third of May 1875. You see? My enthusiasm knows no bounds. Even the legislation surrounding death has a peculiar fascination for me. But again, I digress.

  Herr Doctor Stohl — God rest his soul — was a remarkable man. He died some five years ago from a brain disease and is buried in the Zentralfriedhof. I often visit his grave — a modest peaked slab engraved with his name, dates, and a quotation from the Bible.

  Seek him that maketh the seven stars and Orion, and turneth the shadow of death into the morning, and maketh the day dark with night: that calleth for the waters of the sea, and poureth them out upon the face of the earth.

  Amos, 5:8

  Before he died, the good doctor was very insistent that this quotation — and no other — should be his epitaph. To this day, I am not entirely sure of its meaning.

  Doctor Stohl must have been in his sixties when we met. He was a sagacious old fellow who never troubled to open his mouth unless he had something to say. Private, guarded, and occasionally brusque, but never rude or uncivil, it was his habit to quote Ecclesiasticus: Let thy speech be short, comprehending much in few words; be as one that knoweth and yet holdeth his tongue. He earned my respect immediately and I flatter myself that he recognised something of his own character in me. Doctor Stohl was dedicated to the advancement of his discipline, which he approached with the earnest disposition of a scholar. He had studied the preservative methods employed by the Egyptians and knew much about the procedures favoured in the medieval world. (The Crusades, you see. The bodies of the Christian Knights had to be embalmed before they were carried home.) He once showed me a preservative ‘recipe’ consisting of honey, red wine, and a mixture of rare herbs that he had found in a book written by a thirteenth-century monk and subsequently sent me out to purchase a hare from the butcher’s shop in order to test the formula’s efficacy. It worked rather well.

  In passing, you might be interested to learn that the dye I use on my hair — a mixture of lead oxide and slaked lime — was first used in ancient Egypt. I discovered the method of preparation in one of the good doctor’s books.

  Stohl had a small laboratory in one of the outbuildings, where he experimented with various substances in order to discover a chemical compound capable of suspending the disintegration of human flesh indefinitely. The notion of perfect preservation had acquired for him some of the glamour that past generations have afforded the Philosopher’s Stone or the Sangrail.

  Herr Doctor Stohl was not a man whom one could get close to. He was always distant, monastic. Yet I know that we shared a certain affinity, a common bond. He had very particular views concerning education. If you have a question, he would say, do not ask me. Just watch — and learn. He taught by example, eschewing words in favour of demonstrations and surprisingly eloquent lacunae.

  I remember with what great care he went about his work. He took such pains to do things properly, making sure that every crevice and crease was cleaned with disinfectant — eyes, mouth, and all other orifices: the way he trimmed beards, or shaved off stubble, never leaving the tiniest nick. Did you know that eyeballs have a tendency to sink down into their sockets after death? Doctor Stohl devised invisible supports to ensure that this would not happen. He taught me to tilt the head slightly so that mourners could see more easily the face of their loved one. Under his benevolent tutelage I was even inspired to learn a little Latin and Greek.

  You have been wondering about my erotic life.

  Did the stillness of the bodies arouse me?

  I will be honest: Yes.

  And did I succumb to the obvious temptation of their proximity?

  The first time it happened was not long after I started my first job. The daughter of an American financier fell down some stairs and broke her neck. She was removed to the undertaker’s within a few hours of her death. As soon as I saw her I felt an electrical excitement that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Her body was aglow with a faint purplish light. My Angel was close by.

  I was supposed to lock up the premises after the others had left and then leave myself. I locked the door, but I did not leave, choosing instead to remain with the American heiress.

  What was it like?

  I must remind you that I am disadvantaged by language. There are no words that can express what I have experienced — and continue to experience. How can I expect you to understand? You, for whom this world is a sealed container, for whom the horizon and the sky are an a
bsolute boundary.

  Yes, there was satisfaction. But it was a communion once removed.

  How can I explain?

  It was like being intimate with a woman whom one does not love but who has recently brushed against the woman with whom one is infatuated. You detect a hint of the beloved’s perfume on her skin — and it is maddening.

  Are you familiar with Faust? Get me a kerchief from her breast, A garter that her knee has pressed.

  The poet’s words describe me well: a man discharging into a void while clutching a garter!

  Yet I could not stop myself. When opportunities arose, I took them. Such was my desire for Her.

  You cannot imagine how I suffered. The anguish and agony. Lying there upon the mortuary table: yearning, wanting, desiring. The inadequate comfort of a cold embrace — my virility reduced to a shrivelled nothing in a dry mouth. The fading violet of Her presence, teasing, tantalising.

  It was never going to be enough. I knew that even then.

  Two months ago I travelled to Paris. The western facade of the great Cathedral of Notre Dame has three portals, one of which depicts Mary as the Bride of Christ. The Virgin in Majesty is transformed from Mother to Empress.

  I don’t know why I have written this …

  You said that I should write down whatever came into my mind — without any attempt to censor thoughts and memories. Well, there it is. Notre Dame. What of it?

  No, there is a connection. I see it now.

  I was at my lowest ebb. I thought that I could not endure separation from Her a moment longer and resolved to end my suffering. It would be easy enough. A sleep followed by eternal, blissful consummation.

  On returning to Vienna I prepared a lethal tincture of opium. But I did not drink it.

  As I sat in my bedroom, glass in hand, I began to doubt the wisdom of my actions. To everything there is a season — a time to be born and a time to die. Perhaps I was being impatient. I might become the instrument of someone else’s fate, but I should not wrestle my own destiny from the gods. Such presumption reminded me of so many Greek heroes, whose over-reaching ambition was ill-judged. It occurred to me: I did not need to die in order to summon Her. Someone else’s death would do just as well.

  37

  Rheinhardt had arranged to meet his assistant outside Ronacher’s variety theatre. He had given Haussmann an hour to discover Liebermann’s whereabouts. During that time, he had searched for — and found — a cafe, discreetly situated in a back street, where he could revive his spirits with a favourite prescription of strong Turkische coffee and a slice of poppy-seed cake. Emerging from the shadowy interior into the broad bountiful light of a crisp morning, he felt better prepared to face the day. When Haussmann finally appeared, however, it was clear from the young man’s expression and gait that his mission had been unsuccessful.

  ‘Herr Doctor Liebermann is not at home, sir. I telephoned from the Post Office. And the hospital said he wasn’t expected until this afternoon. I even tried the little coffee house by the Anatomical Institute.’

  ‘And did you get something to eat while you were there?’

  Haussmann’s eyes slid to the side.

  ‘Yes, sir. But I was only there for a few minutes.’

  ‘In which case, you made excellent use of your time. We have a busy day ahead of us and it is difficult to work on an empty stomach. Come now. Let us see if anyone is inside.’

  They found the stage door, rang the bell, and were admitted by an attendant wearing a shabby uniform. Rheinhardt showed his identification and asked to see the manager.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ said the attendant. ‘He’s not normally in this early.’

  They ascended several staircases until they came to a door. The attendant knocked and opened it without waiting for an invitation to enter.

  ‘Not now, Harri!’

  ‘It’s the police,’ the attendant called into the room.

  ‘What — for me?’

  ‘Yes, Ralf.’

  Rheinhardt repositioned himself and saw a balding man in a colourful waistcoat and shirtsleeves sitting behind a desk. In front of him, on wooden chairs, were two gentlemen with long black hair and shaggy fur coats. Their shoulders were massive.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen.’ The manager addressed his guests. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’

  ‘When shall we be returning?’ The voice was deep, rumbling, and strangely accented.

  ‘Later. I’ll have the new contracts ready for you by then. I promise.’

  The two men stood, and as they did so their extraordinary height became apparent. They were immense: identical twins, with brown skin, black eyes, and wide features. The first stooped to get through the doorway and Rheinhardt was obliged to tilt his head back to greet him.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Rheinhardt, looking up into the round moonlike face.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ the giant replied in stilted, grammatically compromised German. ‘I am very glad to be having seen you.’

  His brother followed, but as the second giant ducked beneath the architrave he glowered back at the manager and uttered something in a strange tongue — so venomous and sibilant that it was clearly meant as an insult.

  Rheinhardt and Haussmann entered the manager’s office. The balding man shooed the attendant away, rose from his chair, and bowed.

  ‘Ralf Grosskopf. At your service.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt and my assistant, Haussmann.’

  ‘Please sit down, gentlemen. I’d offer you some tea, but my secretary hasn’t arrived yet. Forgive me.’

  As Rheinhardt lowered himself into the chair, he could not stop himself from glancing back at the closing door.

  ‘Yes, they are a striking pair.’ Grosskopf’s hands travelled in opposite directions from a central point in the air, successfully conjuring an imaginary billboard headline: ‘The Two Darlings: the largest brothers ever seen.’

  ‘Where are they from?’ asked Rheinhardt.

  ‘Tibet. Well, that’s what they claim — but who knows, really.’ The manager laughed. ‘They were a real draw last year. They can lift seven men above their heads, break iron bars in two, and juggle with three-hundred-kilo weights.’

  ‘They didn’t look very happy,’ said Rheinhardt.

  ‘Oh, they’ll come around — a little misunderstanding over the terms of their engagement, that’s all. It’s their agent’s fault. Nestroy. He’s an honest man but not very good on detail. Now, how can I help you?’

  ‘Cacilie Roster … ’

  ‘Zilli? Dear Zilli? What about her?’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘She performed here?’

  ‘Yes. She sang some songs between The Osmond Troupe and Bastian Biedermeier, the illusionist.’

  ‘Did she go home after the performance?’

  ‘No. I think she said she was going to Loiberger’s. He stays open late, you see. She often goes there after shows.’

  ‘Was she meeting someone?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  Grosskopf shook his head.

  ‘It’s hard to keep track of her admirers. She’s a popular girl.’ The manager winked before leaning forward and lowering his voice. ‘Last week I found her in The Two Darlings’ dressing room. They were throwing her across the table as if she was a ball. She said she was developing a new stage routine with them …’

  Grosskopf raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.

  The thought of the young chanteuse abandoning herself to the eccentric pleasures of the two giants robbed Rheinhardt temporarily of the power of speech. He imagined the arc of her trajectory: hair in disarray, skirts billowing — Cacilie Roster, manhandled into the air by arms capable of shearing iron. It was some time before the image receded, with its troubling erotic implications.

  ‘You are not painting a very ladylike picture of Fraulein Roster.’

  ‘True. But I haven’t
said anything that would offend her. She abhors convention, its part of her charm.’ Grosskopf wiggled his fingers in the air. ‘She’s a fascinating woman.’

  ‘Does she have a following: gentlemen who always attend her performances?’

  ‘Not just gentlemen,’ said Grosskopf, producing a burst of suggestive eyebrow movements.

  Rheinhardt produced a weary sigh.

  ‘Would you recognise any of these … supporters?’

  ‘Yes, some of them. There’s a fellow who wears a fur coat and carries a cane — and another who looks a little like the mayor.’ Grosskopf leaned back in his chair. ‘Has Zilli done something wrong? If so, I sincerely hope you don’t intend to arrest her. She’s still under contract.’

  ‘Tell me more about Fraulein Roster’s supporters.’

  ‘There’s not much more to say. They come to see her sing and then they leave. Sometimes they wait for her by the stage door.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘We sell postcards of our artists in the foyer. They like to get them signed. And some of them give her small gifts: bunches of flowers, jewellery.’

  ‘Do you know if she was given a hatpin recently?’

  Grosskopf shrugged.

  ‘Look, my friend, if you want to know what Zilli gets up to after shows, I’m not the person to ask. You should talk to Loiberger.’

  38

  Black smoke was rising from a factory chimney that towered over the roofs of a begrimed terrace. Further down the road and in front of some railings a group of children, barely out of infancy, were playing on a pile of rubble. One of the urchins noticed Liebermann’s approach and stood up, observing the stranger with earnest curiosity. Liebermann acknowledged the boy’s interest with a smile; however, this was not reciprocated. Instead, the boy’s expression became more intense. Liebermann turned a corner and found himself in an avenue of better-maintained larger properties. A few trees added a splash of colour to the prospect, but not enough to relieve the atmosphere of pervasive gloom. The trees swayed in a breeze redolent with the dank fetor of the Neustadter canal.