I hailed a cab, its driver and horse both looking drowsy, the former probably looking forward to his bed, the latter to its hay-strewn stall.
I started to call out my address.
Then I had a thought.
“Never mind,” I said, and handed the driver more than the usual fare. “How fast can you get me to Wilhelmstrasse Number 17?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Within moments of my arrival at Number 17 Wilhelmstrasse I had slipped by the dozing night porter, bounded up three flights of stairs, and come, somewhat out of breath, to a door at the far end of a narrow dark hallway. A thin yellowish strip of light leaked under the doorway from within the apartment. Good, I said to myself, he’s home. Not wanting to disturb adjacent residents, I knocked gently. No response. A second knock, a bit firmer. Still no response. A third; same result. To Hell with it, I murmured, and my knuckles came down hard on the thickly panelled door.
A muffled voice filtered through the door, the tone suspicious, unwelcoming. “Who’s there? Who is it?”
“It’s me, Hermann Preiss.”
I heard a key working in the lock, followed by a door chain being unlatched, both steps seeming to take forever. Finally, slowly, the door opened.
Henryk Schramm stood aside by the open door. He was silent which I took as tacit consent to enter. The first thing that caught my eye was the yellowish glow throughout the place created by a half-dozen votive candles, an effect not unlike the chancel of a church, but more romantic. I thought I detected a hint of perfume which, despite the prevailing smell of burning candles, threaded its way through the thick air. I turned to Schramm. “I apologize for the intrusion,” I said. “Fact is, I happened to find myself in the neighbourhood and — ” I pointed to a bottle of brandy and a collection of drinking glasses on Schramm’s small dining table. “Ah, what luck! You must be a mind reader, Schramm. Mind if I sit? It’s been a very long day.”
“By all means, Inspector, make yourself at home,” Schramm said, his voice flat. “Let me get you a chair.” With little enthusiasm he dragged a wooden chair across the room to the table, all four legs screeching against the floor in protest. Seizing the bottle, he poured out a glassful of brandy. In his haste to hand it to me he spilled half the contents on the tabletop. “I beg your pardon, Inspector,” he said, rushing to sop up the spill with his handkerchief.
“What’s the old saying, Schramm? The glass isn’t half empty, it’s half full? Anyway, it is I who should be begging your pardon.” I lowered myself into the chair and accepted the drink. “Will you join me?”
“Thank you, no. I find it has a tendency to keep me awake at this hour.”
“Well, it’s thoughtful of you to keep it on hand in case company drops in.” I leaned forward and said in a low tone of confidentiality, “Liquor is quicker, n’est ce pas?”
Schramm pretended not to understand my little jest. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you something more substantial, Inspector.”
“At this hour? No need, really. A good cigar would go well with this brandy, though.”
“I don’t smoke, unfortunately.”
“Fortunately, I happen to have a cigar on me. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Make yourself at home, as I said before.”
From a leather case I extracted a cigar and clipped the end. With perfect timing Schramm produced an ashtray, which he thrust in front of me. “Oh, so you do smoke?” I said. “You know, Schramm, I’ve always considered a good cigar to be the second greatest pleasure a man can experience.” I gave him a wink. “I leave it to you to guess the first greatest pleasure.” This jest, too, fell on deaf ears. “I take it you must have matches, then.”
Schramm reached inside a chest, produced a box of matches, struck one, and held the flame to the tip of my cigar, his hand trembling. I edged forward and placed a reinforcing hand over Schramm’s to steady the match, finally succeeding in drawing some fire into the tobacco.
I sat back, took a few long puffs, my arms and legs stretched comfortably, taking my time, but watching my increasingly uncomfortable host. I sensed that Schramm was counting the seconds until my departure. “You seem a little distracted,” I said. “I suppose working with Wagner on one hand, and constantly bearing in mind this string of murders on the other, the strain must be overwhelming.”
“Yes and no,” Schramm said. “I’m managing to carry on.”
“Very good. You’ve probably heard rumours … I mean that we have a suspect?”
“Yes.”
“What have you heard, Schramm?”
Schramm forced a smile. “Rumours, that’s all. You know what rumours are worth, I’m sure.”
“For instance?”
“Really, Inspector, I’d rather not say. You of all people must know how silly such talk can be. If idle hands are a source of evil, idle gossip is worse, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. There’s much wisdom in what you say, my friend. But let’s put wisdom aside for one moment. Tell me, just one man to another, forgetting that I’m a policeman … what have you heard, Schramm? It’s something about a woman, isn’t it?”
Schramm gave an unconvincing laugh. “It’s always about a woman, I suppose. Adam and Eve, and all that biblical nonsense. I couldn’t take this business about a woman seriously.”
“You couldn’t? That makes it sound as though you may have changed your mind.”
“I meant, I can’t take it seriously.”
I kept my eyes on Schramm, as he kept his eyes on me, while I finished off the brandy.
There was a pause. Then I stood and nodded in the direction of Schramm’s bedroom.
“She’s in there, isn’t she?” I said.
“Who?”
Without replying, I walked with firm steps to the closed door of the bedroom and opened it.
A woman lay on the floor, her head resting against the wrought iron railing at the foot of Schramm’s bed. A large hat with generous floral decoration lay on the floor beside her. Her eyes were open, but there was no need to kneel and search for a pulse. I had seen enough of death’s postures to know Cornelia Vanderhoute was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Six
"Cornelia Vanderhoute? But she introduced herself to me as Celeste Vlanders. I don’t understand, Preiss. Why would she lie about her name?”
I bent to shut the young woman’s eyes. I was close enough to detect a whiff of a very heady perfume with which she must have doused herself, its fragrance as potent as a siren song. In death she resembled a lush flower that had suddenly lost its bloom, and yet I had not the slightest difficulty imagining what men like Franz Brunner, and others more discriminating, like Wagner and Rotfogel, saw in her. Schramm too, for that matter.
Schramm repeated his question. “Why would she deceive me by giving a false name?”
“It’s despicable, isn’t it?” I said. “Makes you feel as though you’ve been made a fool of. But the worst thing is, people who make a practice of veiling their true identity turn out almost invariably to be involved in some kind of nefarious activity. At least, that’s been my experience, Schramm. Now tell me, how did this happen?”
“Must we stay here like this? Can we not discuss this in the other room? I can’t bear to look — ”
“I’m sorry” I replied, “but I need you to tell me the exact details of what took place on this very spot. Obviously she was quite persuasive because I understand you were originally planning to have a late supper with Helena Becker and somehow you were enticed away and ended up here. You produced the bottle of brandy and glasses, a drink or two followed, one thing led to another, then the two of you found yourselves in your bedroom. Am I correct thus far?”