‘May I smoke, professor?’ Rheinhardt asked.
‘Yes, inspector, of course.’
Rheinhardt took the box of cigars he had purchased on the way to the morgue from his pocket.
‘Trabuco, Haussmann?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
His assistant’s stare was fixed on the woman’s exposed sex.
Rheinhardt lit his cigar. The familiar aroma was comforting, a timely reminder that he also had another, more agreeable life, one that awaited his return. He was already looking forward to his armchair and the sound of his eldest daughter Therese picking out the notes of a Mozart piano sonata.
Professor Mathias selected a magnifying glass and circled the table, inspecting the woman’s skin.
‘There are no rashes around the neck or abdomen, no signs of cynosis and no punctures.’ He raised his head. ‘Young man, could you help me to turn her over?’
The woman was heavier than Haussmann had expected and he grunted as he heaved her onto her side. He tried to complete the manoeuvre by rolling her forward slowly, but he lost control and her breasts made an unpleasant smack as they fell heavily onto the polished granite.
‘Now,’ said Professor Mathias, ‘let’s straighten her up.’
Haussmann released a trapped arm while Professor Mathias parted the woman’s legs. The pathologist continued to examine the woman’s skin, occasionally pausing to press and probe with his fingers. When he had finished he drew back.
‘Once again, nothing abnormal.’
‘Then how did she die?’ Rheinhardt asked.
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to open her up. We can already exclude strangulation, stabbing, shooting, injection, and the ingestion of some — but not all — poisons.’
‘What about suffocation?’
‘She would have struggled.’
‘Perhaps she did.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’
‘Look how well manicured her fingernails are, not one of them broken. A woman thrashing around — doing her utmost to escape suffocation — wouldn’t have nails in such excellent condition, inspector.’
‘Do you think she died naturally?’
‘It is certainly a possibility and, at this early stage, quite a strong one. You look doubtful, inspector.’
Rheinhardt flicked the ash from his cigar into an empty bucket and wrinkled his nose.
‘Odd way to die, don’t you think? In such very peculiar circumstances.’
‘She looks healthy but you never can tell and she wouldn’t be the first to die in such an undignified position. As for her lover — or client, more like — perhaps a married man with children, responsibilities and reputation — such a man would be reluctant to report the matter to the police. As soon as he realised his predicament, he would have made a swift — er — withdrawal.’ Mathias looked to Haussmann. ‘Young man, we must turn the body again.’
Haussmann reached over the table, choosing to haul the dead woman over from the opposite side. He had barely completed the movement when he suddenly pulled back, startled, and uttered a cry of disgust. The body remained face down.
‘Come now,’ said the professor. ‘Don’t be squeamish.’
Haussmann stared at the corpse, his eyes wide with alarm.
‘I felt something.’
‘What do you mean?’ said the professor, slightly irritated. ‘Felt something?’
‘I felt something hard, sticking out of the back of her head. Underneath her hair.’
Mathias put the magnifying glass down on the table and pulled the woman’s tangled tresses aside. His actions revealed a metallic object that gleamed brightly under the fierce electric light. Rheinhardt dropped his cigar in the bucket and moved closer to the table.
It was a silver acorn, nestled neatly into the arched indentation where the skull and the back of the neck joined. Professor Mathias reached out and plucked at the object.
‘It’s stuck.’
He repositioned the woman’s head and tried again. Eventually the silver acorn came away. It was attached to a needle — bent near the top — about twice the length of man’s finger. Mathias held it up. The metal was coated with a film of pinkish residue.
‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.
‘I believe it is a hatpin,’ Mathias replied. ‘How resourceful!’
‘Resourceful?’ Rheinhardt responded. ‘How is stabbing someone in the neck with a hat pin resourceful?’
‘No, inspector — you misunderstand. This woman wasn’t stabbed in the neck. It was her brain that was stabbed.’
‘I still don’t see what’s clever about that.’
‘Think, Rheinhardt, think!’
Mathias rapped his own head with his knuckles.
Rheinhardt frowned: ‘I would appreciate a straightforward answer, Herr professor.’
‘The brain is encased in the skull, inspector. It is the most well protected organ in the body.’
‘Making ingress difficult?’
‘Almost impossible.’
‘However?’
‘In the floor of the skull is an aperture — in the occipital bone to be precise — called the foramen magnum. It’s about this big.’ Mathias made a circle with his thumb and forefinger ‘When the head is tilted forward, the foramen magnum is aligned with a relatively small opening above the uppermost vertebra. By taking advantage of this chink in the human anatomical armour, a sharp object, such as a hatpin, can be inserted directly into the medulla oblongata — a brain structure which very likely sustains the most basic bodily functions: breathing and heart rate. It is an extremely efficient and tidy way of killing someone. The pin itself destroys the critical brain centres and the head of the pin serves as a plug to stop leakage of blood and cerebrospinal fluid!’
Mathias handed the hatpin to Rheinhardt. The workmanship was not accomplished. It was made from cheap silver.
‘Well, Haussmann,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Where do you think a person might purchase one of these?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Then perhaps you would be so good as to find out?’
He handed the hatpin to his assistant.
‘Now, sir?’
‘Yes, Haussmann. Now.’
5
The sign outside the salon was simple and discreet.
A glazed tile, set into the wall; straight black capitals: HOUSE VOGL.
Beneath, in a small, cursive script, was the word couturiere.
Kristina Vogl and her secretary, Wanda Wolnik, stood in the circular vestibule, looking expectantly out of the window. A servant had been posted by the door. The proprietor of the fashion house was an attractive woman, with dark hair and striking blue eyes. She was tall and wore a plain black dress; however, the pendant that hung from her neck was colourful — a silver rose surrounded by semi-precious stones of different sizes. Wanda was shorter than her mistress and was also dressed in black. She was pretty, with blonde hair and flawless skin, but there was something about the roundness of her features and her awkward posture that revealed a lack of sophistication. She had not yet acquired the air of arrogant detachment cultivated by most of her peers in the world of haute couture.
‘Oh, do stand up straight, Wanda,’ said Kristina.
‘Yes, madame,’ said the secretary. She inhaled and raised her bosom.
‘Frau Schmollinger is a very important person. We must make a good impression.’
Kristina glanced anxiously at the wall clock.
Two minutes late …
What if Frau Schmollinger didn’t come? A note must be sent, obviously. A few lines expressing regret and concern: I am so sorry you were unable to keep your appointment and trust you are in good health. No, too presumptuous. It would be better, perhaps, to send a plain card with a new appointment time and eschew over-familiarity.