Deadly Communion (21 page)

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?’

‘Cäcilie 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 Löiberger’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 — Cäcilie 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Löiberger.’

B
LACK 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.

In due course, Liebermann arrived at his destination — a two-storey house with four windows. The simplicity of the building reminded him of a child’s drawing. The curtains on the ground floor were drawn and Liebermann could not see anything through the upper windows. He crossed the road to get a better view but gained no benefit from the change of vantage. Liebermann became conscious that he was standing under a gas lamp — presumably the very same gas lamp under which Erstweiler had seen his doppelgänger. The young doctor touched the cast-iron post as if to confirm the reality of its existence.

Liebermann returned to the other side of the road and knocked
on the house’s front door. He waited. No reply. He knocked again, knowing that there would be no answer.

A cart loaded with barrels passed by.

The young doctor stepped backwards and glanced at the upstairs windows one last time before deciding on which of the neighbouring houses he would try. The presence of a window box made him veer to the right.

As soon as he had struck the knocker, a dog started barking. He heard the sound of a woman’s voice: ‘Quiet. Be quiet, Prinz.’

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who was accompanied by a lively Dobermann pinscher.

‘Yes?’

‘Forgive me for disturbing you. I am a doctor and need to speak with Herr Kolinsky, who I believe lives next door. He is not at home. Do you have any idea when he will be back?’

‘I haven’t seen him or his wife for weeks. I think they must have gone away.’

‘Do you know them?’

‘Not really. He’s not very friendly … and
her:
she has a very high opinion of herself.’ Liebermann nodded sympathetically. The woman was encouraged: ‘I’m glad they’re away. They make a lot of noise — arguments — and it upsets the dog.’ She extended her hand and stroked the pinscher’s head. ‘Good boy, Prinz.’ The dog licked her fingers.

‘They have a lodger — is that right?’

‘Yes. Herr Erstweiler. A very pleasant gentleman.’

‘You are acquainted with him?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. We met a few times when I was walking Prinz. I haven’t seen him recently, either. He may have found somewhere else to live. It wouldn’t surprise me. They can’t expect to keep lodgers if they’re going to carry on like they do.’

Liebermann smiled.

‘Thank you for you assistance.’

‘Shall I tell them that you called — if I see them?’

‘Yes. If you see them.’

‘And your name is?’

‘Herr Doctor Liebermann.’

The woman nodded and closed the door. The dog started barking again.

Liebermann gazed at the street lamp on the other side of the road.

His conversation with Freud came back to him. It was possible for material offensive to the ego to be projected outwards onto something foreign. But such material could not be completely disowned.

The object into which this undesirable material is incorporated might take the form of another self …

But what was the nature of that undesirable material?

Liebermann knew the answer. Herr Erstweiler’s dream of the English fairy tale had been so very revealing.

A
MELIA
L
YDGATE HAD MADE
an informal arrangement with Professor Mathias, the terms of which were dictated by Mathias’s neurotic illness and satisfied by the peculiarity of Amelia’s character. In return for tidying his instruments Professor Mathias was happy for Amelia to sit in the morgue and observe him at work. It was an arrangement that had been negotiated, for the most part, without the use of language. The Englishwoman and the old professor enjoyed a curious and unexpected rapport. Indeed, the understanding that they had reached could not have been achieved using words alone, with their hard edges and explicit meanings. The indelicacy of such a conversation would have required Professor Mathias to admit the severity of his condition, which was something he was not prepared to do.

When she entered the morgue Amelia found the professor sitting on a stool, contemplating the body of a young woman: too young, she thought immediately, to have died naturally.

‘Another victim?’ she asked.

The professor nodded and without taking his gaze from the corpse, said: ‘Cäcilie Roster. A singer. Inspector Rheinhardt found her this morning in the gardens of the Belvedere palace. This …’ he picked up a retort containing a metal object ‘… had been inserted into her brain.’

‘Another hatpin?’

‘Yes. Although of a different design to those used by the perpetrator to kill Adele Zeiler and Bathild Babel.’

Amelia took off her coat, hung it up, and crossed the floor. The woman’s body was covered with sheets but her head was still exposed. It was as if she was in bed, sleeping. The woman possessed an attractive face with well-proportioned features and a mane of yellow curls.

‘When will it end?’ said Amelia pitifully.

The professor sighed and presented her with a few sheets of paper. ‘Here is my report. Read it if you are interested.’

Amelia sat down next to the professor and studied his findings. When she had finished, she discreetly rearranged the instruments on his trolley before positioning herself at the head of the autopsy table. Mathias joined her and lifted the dead woman’s chin with a crooked finger.

‘I liked that gay young wench, Her two cheeks so red, Her mouth and her handsome brow, Her hair, so blonde and curly …’

‘A poem?’

‘“Early Love” — by Ludwig Heinrich Christoph Hölty.’

‘I am afraid, Herr professor, I am not familiar with his work.’

‘He was the most gifted lyric poet of the Göttingen circle. You are English. I would not expect you to be conversant with our great poets.’ Overcome with sentiment, the professor took a comb from his pocket and began to run it through the dead woman’s hair. ‘Hölty also wrote a rather lovely “Dirge to the Moon”. The last verse is very affecting:
Soon, dearest friend, Oh, soon will beam, Your silvery sheen, Over the tombstone mine …’

If Amelia was impressed by the lyric genius of Hölty, she did not show it.

Mathias finished styling the dead woman’s curls but before returning the comb to his pocket he noticed that a few strands had become caught in its teeth. He began to pick them out. The routine
ease of his movements came to a halt when he discovered a darker hair. He held it beneath the electric light.

‘Black,’ he said, flatly.

The professor and the Englishwoman looked at each other.

‘Someone else’s?’

Mathias pulled the extremities of the black hair to make it taut. Then, turning to Amelia, he made her party to his thinking by means of an impromptu lecture: ‘The shaft of a hair is covered with a close-set layer of transparent scales — the cuticle — and beneath these are the differentiated cells of the cortex and medulla. The structure of a hair shaft resembles that of a pencil. The paint or varnish corresponds with the cuticle, the wood of the pencil corresponds with the cortex, and the central column of lead corresponds with the medulla. Hair pigment, which gives the hair its colour, is distributed through the medulla and cortex.’ The professor paused and his eyes appeared to expand behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘A head of hair is not always uniform with respect to colour. Take your own, for example. It is quite clearly comprised of many shades of red.’

‘But a black hair among blonde?’

‘It happens’

‘Are there tests to determine whether two different-coloured hairs belong to the same person?’

‘Indeed there are. Two hairs from the same head might be different in colour, but they will show marked morphological similarities — for example, breadth, scale pattern, or shape of tip. Further, one can observe the contours of transverse sections, together with the character and proportions of the various layers.’