‘There’s nobody in.’
The inspector smiled and, taking the knocker, reproduced the insistent rhythms of Rossini’s overture to The Barber of Seville.
‘Just in case, eh?’
Rheinhardt waited for a few moments before searching his pockets. He withdrew a bunch of skeleton keys and began to insert them, one by one, into the keyhole. His efforts were rewarded by the noise of the lock-cylinder turning. Rheinhardt pushed the door and watched it swing open. ‘There.’
The two men stepped inside.
‘Hello?’ Rheinhardt called out.
Tilting his head to one side, he listened for sounds of occupation.
Nothing stirred.
To their right was a parlour, and to their left a kitchen through which access could be gained to a walled garden. A staircase of uneven stone sank into the ground and terminated at a cellar entrance.
They returned to the kitchen and Rheinhardt began opening the cupboards.
‘No bread, no cheese, no meat or vegetables. Only grains and pulses …’
When he had finished, Rheinhardt pointed at the ceiling.
‘Shall we go upstairs?’
Liebermann consented with a curt nod.
The first room they entered contained a double bed, a wardrobe, a washstand and a chest of drawers. Liebermann opened the wardrobe. Inside, he found a gentleman’s winter coat and a brightly coloured kimono. He lifted the garment from its hanger and held it up for Rheinhardt to see. Golden dragons flashed against a crimson background.
‘Isn’t that-?’
‘The same kimono that Frau Vogl was wearing? Yes, it is.’
‘What a coincidence.’
‘Erstweiler works for a businessman called Herr Winkler who imports objets d’art from Japan. He told me that he stole it for Frau Kolinsky. Herr Winkler must also supply Frau Vogl with kimonos for sale in her salon.’
Liebermann put the garment back in the wardrobe and turned his attention to the chest of drawers. The top drawer was filled with men’s clothing: socks, undergarments, shirts and trousers. The two lower drawers were empty.
‘Herr Kolinsky’s clothes are still here,’ said Liebermann. ‘But Frau Kolinsky’s are gone. It is interesting that she took all her clothes except the kimono.’
‘Why? What does that mean?’
‘She didn’t want to be reminded.’
Liebermann closed the empty drawers, stood up, and stepped out onto the landing. Rheinhardt followed.
‘Erstweiler’s room?’
‘It must be.’
Liebermann turned the handle and entered. Whereas the Kolinskys’ bedroom was cramped, Erstweiler’s was more spacious. The single bed and narrow wardrobe took up less floor space. A table and chair were positioned by the window and a large white bowl and razor showed where Erstweiler conducted his ablutions. On a stool beside the bed was a small pile of books. Liebermann examined the spines. The first was an anthology of fantastic literature, and the other two were slim volumes of romantic poetry.
Rheinhardt placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room.
‘Something’s going on — I grant you. But, clearly, it isn’t what you’ve been thinking. I would suggest that Frau Kolinsky packed her bags, departed, and, shortly after, a distraught Herr Kolinsky ran after her.’
‘Without his coat?’
‘Perhaps he has two coats.’
‘Stopping — as he rushed out the door — to clear the kitchen of perishable foodstuffs?’
Rheinhardt twisted one of the horns of his moustache. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he sighed.
‘Yes, it is very peculiar. But the fact remains …’
Liebermann shook his head.
‘The fact remains that Erstweiler’s symptoms, his peculiar dream, and Freud’s notion of a universal Oedipal syndrome, suggest — very strongly — that something bad has happened here.’
‘But look around you.’ Rheinhardt began to turn. ‘Where’s the evidence?’
Clicking his fingers, Liebermann said: ‘The cellar. We haven’t looked in the cellar yet. Come, Oskar.’
Liebermann launched himself out of the room and hurried down the stairs, dashing through the kitchen and out into the garden. Rheinhardt caught up with the young doctor as he was about to open the cellar door. Liebermann took a deep breath and lifted the catch. As the rusty hinges groaned, Rheinhardt saw Liebermann’s shoulders sag. The interior was empty.
Rheinhardt slapped his hand against Liebermann’s back.
‘Never mind, eh?’
‘But I was so sure.’ Liebermann ducked beneath the low lintel and stepped into the vault. ‘I’m sorry, Oskar.’ His voice sounded particularly dejected in the closed space. ‘It appears I’ve wasted your time.’
‘The disappearance of the Kolinskys is indeed suspicious. It will merit a report.’
Liebermann bit his lower lip.
‘There’s always the attic. Was there one? I wasn’t looking.’
‘Max — we would have smelt something!’
‘Yes, of course.’
Rheinhardt threw his head back, looked at the curved ceiling, then stared down at the space between his feet. He circled Liebermann, keeping his eyes down, before squatting to inspect the surface of the tiles. He ran a finger across the glaze.
‘Mmmm …’
‘What?’
‘These tiles …’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re very clean.’
‘So?’
‘And there’s nothing in here. Nothing has been stored. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘I don’t see-’
‘Max,’ interrupted Rheinhardt. ‘Be a good fellow and get me a jug of water and a knife from the kitchen.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Rheinhardt was now on all fours, crawling towards the nearest wall, his nose alarmingly close to the floor.
‘A jug of water and a knife.’ Rheinhardt repeated. ‘I saw a striped green jug standing in the sink. The knife needn’t be sharp, but the blade should be strong.’
Liebermann left — somewhat bemused — to do Rheinhardt’s bidding. When he returned, the inspector was standing in the middle of the cellar, deep in thought.
‘Oskar?’
Rheinhardt took the knife from Liebermann, put it in his pocket, and then showed his readiness to receive the jug. It was heavy and some water swept over the rim, splashing his shoes.
‘If you would stand by the door, please?’ said Rheinardt.
Liebermann took a step back.
Rheinhardt tipped the jug and a thin braid of water twisted to the floor. When he had created a small puddle, he stopped and observed how under the influence of gravity the water sought the path of least resistance. A silver tendril thickened and flowed towards the groove between two adjacent tiles. Rheinhardt canted the jug again and watched as the rivulet accelerated down the channel, diverting abruptly into another as it obeyed the discipline of the floor’s gradient.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Liebermann. He sounded a little irritated.
‘Determining the lowest point in the cellar.’
‘To what end?’
Rheinhardt poured more water and smiled.
‘Have you heard, by any chance, of Gustav Mace?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Over thirty years ago a man called Desire Bodasse was murdered and dismembered. His body parts were discovered washed up on the banks of the river Seine. Gustav Mace — the detective involved in the case — suspected one of Bodasse’s friends, a man called Pierre Voirbo. Mace believed that if he was correct and Voirbo was the killer, then the villain had most probably committed the murder and dismemberment in his own private lodgings. When the great detective arrived he found no traces of blood. Everything was spotlessly clean. Too clean, Mace thought. He subsequently asked for some water, which he proceeded to pour onto the floor. If Bodasse had been dismembered in Voirbo’s lodgings, then his blood would have drained beneath the tiles, accumulating at the lowest point in the room.’
About half a metre from the wall, the rivulet had begun to feed a second puddle. The water collected, revealing the presence of a slight depression.