As Rainmayr said the word favourite the cast of his countenance altered. There was something about his expression that made Rheinhardt think of the gentleman he had observed in the playground. He saw again the man’s hungry eyes locked on his daughter Mitzi as she ascended the climbing frame.
‘What happned to Frau Hofler?’ asked Liebermann.
The artist shrugged.
‘How should I know?’
61
Kristina dismissed her assistant and offered Rheinhardt and Liebermann chairs. They were gathered, once again, in the modernist reception room of House Vogl. A sketchbook lay open on the cuboid table, showing a female figure in a shapeless ‘reform’ kaftan, her arms raised above her head and the wide, loose sleeves collapsed into generous folds around her narrow shoulders. Kristina remarked that she had not anticipated the pleasure of their company again so soon, and as she spoke Liebermann noticed how she brushed Rheinhardt’s hand — ever so gently — with her own. It was a quick and subtle manoeuvre that might easily have been missed had he not been studying the couturiere as closely as he would a patient.
‘Now, inspector’ she said, her facial muscles tensing to revive her wilting smile, ‘how may I help?’
Rheinhardt looked weary.
‘Some items have come into our possession which I would like you to examine.’
‘Items?’
‘Yes.’ Rheinhardt opened his holdall and took out the postcards. ‘Some images of young women: formerly the property of Fraulein Wirth. I am obliged to forewarn you that they represent examples of a low art produced for gentlemen of questionable character.’
He handed Kristina the postcards and she placed them on her lap. As soon as she registered the first tableau — the two girls standing awkwardly in front of the floral backdrop — she was clearly shaken. A pulse became visible on her long neck. She struggled to manufacture an impression of disinterested bewilderment.
‘Inspector.’ She made a supplicating gesture, showing her palms. ‘I don’t know what to say …’
‘Where do you think Fraulein Wirth got these from?’
‘They must have been left in her apartment by a gentleman.’
‘We did not find them in her apartment.’
The couturiere swallowed.
‘Where, then?’
‘In a luggage locker at the Sudbahnhof.’
Kristina repeated her gesture of supplication.
‘Perhaps she intended to sell them. Poor Selma had very little money.’
‘Frau Vogl, look closely — if you will — at that first image. Do you recognise those girls?’
Kristina ran her fingers along the edge of the uppermost card.
‘See how worn it is,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t it very old — this postcard? I’m afraid I don’t recognise them — no — how could I?’
Liebermann leaned forward.
‘Ashputtel.’
Kristina Vogl turned to face the young doctor. Her expression demonstrated that she welcomed his interjection, even though it was utterly incomprehensible.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Ashputtel — the story — as depicted in the lithographs hanging on your bedroom walclass="underline" last month, when Inspector Rheinhardt and I came to your house, I made some comments concerning the lithographs and your profession. How fitting — I said — that a couturiere should have a special liking for a story in which so many dresses appear. You said that this had never before occurred to you.’
Kristina smiled but the delivery of her response was mildly indignant.
‘I purchased those lithographs because I like the artist’s style, not because the story of Ashputtel has dresses in it!’
‘Indeed. And we must also suppose that sometimes you are so impressed by the cut of a new dress out of Paris that you see only the inventive lines and nothing else — not even the fabric. Naturally, some things are attended to at the expense of others. But the issue here is what things and why?’
‘With respect, Herr doctor, I am finding it exceedingly difficult to grasp your meaning.’
‘Then let me speak more plainly. You did not fully appreciate that the story of Ashputtel features dresses, because there is another dimension to the Ashputtel narrative that — in your mind — is afforded priority of interest.’
‘Is there?’
‘Ashputtel tells the story of a girl who is despised by her stepsisters but who struggles against poverty and adversity and is finally rewarded with the hand of a prince.’
Kristina’s features hardened. She did not respond to the young doctor, but turned instead to Rheinhardt and held out the postcards: ‘Please — take these back. I am sorry I cannot help you.’
‘But you haven’t looked at all of them,’ said Rheinhardt.
‘I cannot help you,’ Kristina insisted.
‘Then perhaps you would be willing to consider another image?’ Rheinhardt removed Rainmayr’s sketch from his holdall. Pointing at the reclining figure of Erika Hofler, he added: ‘This girl … does she not seem familiar to you? Notice, she has a birthmark, just here.’ Rheinhardt touched his own stomach. ‘It would be very easy to identify her — even if she has now grown to adulthood.’
The room became very still.
Kristina stared at Rainmayr’s sketch. She did so for an inordinate amount of time and then, quite suddenly, jerked away as if wrenching her head out from between the plates of a vice. Rheinhardt was about to speak but Liebermann stopped him with an admonitory frown. Tears were imminent. He could feel them coming. As a consequence of sitting — year after year — with lachrymose patients, he had developed an uncanny sense of when people were about to cry.
The couturiere’s shoulders began to shake and when she looked up the tears were streaming down her cheeks.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘The girl. It’s me — but you know that already …’ Rheinhardt found a handkerchief in his pocket, a crisp square of linen, which he handed to the sobbing woman.
‘And the other girl is …’ He invited Kristina to complete the sentence.
‘Selma.’ Kristina blew her nose and dabbed the handkerchief against her skin. ‘There it is, then! You have discovered my secret. I am a fraud!’
‘You are not a fraud, Frau Vogl,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘You are a lady possessed of a very considerable talent.’
‘Talent!’ she repeated, spitting out the word as if it tasted of bile. ‘Yes, I may have talent but I am not, as you say, a lady. I am this girl.’ She flicked the sketch with her hand and the violence of her abrupt movement created a tear in the paper.
‘Erika Hofler,’ said Rheinhardt.
The sound of her real name made Kristina start.
‘How do you know?’ Her gaze fell on the cursive scrawl that occupied the bottom right-hand corner of the sketch. ‘Rainmayr. You’ve spoken to Rainmayr?’
‘Yes, we have.’
‘He gave his word! He promised never to betray me.’
‘Herr Rainmayr only revealed your true identity under duress,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘He would not have done so otherwise.’
Kristina raised her chin and, recovering her composure, asked: ‘What do you intend to do now that you have found me out? Tell the newspapers? My husband?’
Rheinhardt shook his head.
‘No. We intend to do neither of those things.’
The couturiere looked puzzled.
‘Frau Vogl,’ said Liebermann, ‘when we were here yesterday, you said that Herr Shevchenko — the landlord’s agent — made Fraulein Wirth an indecent proposal. That wasn’t quite true, was it?’
‘I told you what I could remember.’
‘Well, none of us have a perfect memory — although your powers of recollection in this instance are not really relevant. You see, I believe that what you told us yesterday was a wilful distortion of something that Fraulein Wirth told you.’
‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’