Deadly Communion Read Free

like an item of underwear.
    ‘She hasn’t been stabbed or shot,’ said Rheinhardt, opening her coat. He could not see any bloodstains on her plain white dress.
    ‘Strangled, sir?’ Haussmann inquired.
    Rheinhardt repositioned himself and looked at her neck.
    ‘No, I don’t think so. Smothered, perhaps …’
    The inspector stood, brushed his trousers, and went over to retrieve the discarded item of clothing. As it unfurled, his suspicions were confirmed. He was holding a pair of red cotton drawers.
    Haussmann frowned. ‘Was she … used?’
    ‘I imagine so.’
    The drawers fluttered in the slight breeze. Rheinhardt, feeling suddenly disrespectful, folded the garment gently and placed it back on the grass.
    ‘Inspector Rheinhardt?’
    A man wearing a homburg hat and spectacles was looking over the bushes. It was the photographer. The man’s companion — a teenage boy — appeared behind him, carrying a tripod.
    ‘Ah, Herr Seipel,’ said Rheinhardt. ‘Good morning.’
    ‘May we begin, inspector?’
    ‘Yes, indeed. You may begin.’
    Rheinhardt stood back from the corpse. Then he took out his notebook and recorded a few observations before addressing his assistant: ‘Come, Haussmann.’
    The two men set off in the directon of the Theseus Temple.
    On arriving at their destination, Rheinhardt and Haussmann ascended the wide steps.
    The inspector rubbed his hands together and surveyed his surroundings. Directly in front of him he saw the white stucco walls of the Court Theatre and the steeples of the Votivkirche. Turning his head to the left he registered the Gothic spires of the Town Hall and the classical splendour of the Parliament building, on top of which two winged charioteers, struggling to control their rearing horses, faced each other across a tympanum densely populated with marble figures.
    ‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked Rheinhardt.
    His assistant was surprised by the unexpected question, and replied cautiously: ‘No, sir. I haven’t.’
    ‘Neither have I. Given that we find ourselves so close to Café Landtmann, it occurs to me that we might get something to eat there before we proceed to the Pathological Institute.’
    ‘Yes, sir — as you wish.’
    ‘Just a few kaisersemmel rolls.’ The inspector paused, twisted his moustache and, finding the prospect of his imaginary repast inadequate, added: ‘And a pastry, perhaps. I had a rather good plum flan in Café Landtmann only last week.’
    They walked around the covered arcade that followed the featureless exterior of the Temple. Neither of them looked up to admire the new and delightful prospects revealed by their circumnavigation: the black and green domes, the baroque lanterns, the blooming flowers and ornamental hedge gardens. Instead, they kept their gazes fixed on the stone pavement, which had been worn by countless predecessors to a silvery sheen.
    Haussmann suddenly stepped ahead and squatted down.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Rheinhardt.
    ‘A button.’
    He handed it up to his superior.
    It was large, round, and made from wood.
    ‘Any footprints?’
    Supporting his body with his hands, Haussmann leaned forward and inspected the paving more closely. The position he had assumed — conveying a general impression of sharp corners and angularity — gave him a distinctly feral appearance. He looked like a rangy dog, sniffing the ground. His reply, when it finally came, was disappointing.
    ‘Nothing.’
    Rheinhardt held the button up and said: ‘It’s from her coat.’

3
    W HERE TO BEGIN, THEN ? With a birth or with a death? And there it is, you see — the two, always together. When does a life begin? At conception? That is a beginning, but it is not necessarily the only one. Nor is there any reason why we should privilege conception. The colour of my eyes, for example, which I inherited from my mother, preceded my nativity. In a sense, the traits that eventually combine to become an individual are already in the world before he or she