Mortal Mischief Read Free Page A

just visible. 'The bed had not been slept in, so I—' She broke off, her face suddenly flushing with embarrassment.
'Naturally you assumed that your mistress had not spent the night at home.'
'Yes. That's right, sir.'
'And what did you do then?'
'Well, sir, I got on with my duties . . . but I found that I couldn't get into the sitting room. The door had been locked – and I didn't know what to do. So I carried on cleaning, thinking my mistress would eventually return . . . but she didn't. And today is Thursday. My mistress always sends me to the shops on Thursdays, to get things. Things for her guests. Pastries, flowers—'
'Guests?'
'Yes, sir. Fräulein Löwenstein is a famous medium.' The young woman said this with some pride. 'She has a meeting here, every Thursday at eight.'
Rheinhardt felt obliged to look impressed.
'Famous, you say?'
'Yes. Very famous. She was once consulted by a Russian prince who travelled all the way from St Petersburg.'
The downpour intensified and the unfastened shutter banged with even greater violence. Rosa Sucher looked towards the sitting-room door.
'Please, do go on,' said Rheinhardt.
'I waited until the afternoon – and still my mistress hadn't come home. I began to worry . . . finally I went to Café Zilbergeld.'
'On Haidgasse?'
'Yes. I know Herr Zilbergeld, I worked for him last summer. I told him that my mistress had not returned, and he asked me if this had ever happened before? I told him that it hadn't, and he said that I should call the police. So I ran around the corner, to the police station on Grosse Sperlgasse.'
The young woman pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. She was clearly about to start crying.
'Thank you, Rosa,' said Rheinhardt. 'You have been very helpful.'
The young woman curtsied and sat down, steadying herself by touching a small rosewood table.
Rheinhardt walked up the hallway, peering into the various rooms. The apartment was not very large: a bedroom, a drawing room, a bathroom and a kitchen – which also housed the closet. The maid watched him: a large man in a dark blue coat, apparently deep in thought. He paused, and twisted the right horn of his moustache into an even sharper point. Returning to the locked door, he crouched and looked through the keyhole.
He could see nothing. It had obviously been locked from the inside, suggesting that the room was still occupied. The occupant, however, had not moved, nor spoken a word since Rosa Sucher's arrival in the morning.
Rheinhardt could hear his assistant, Haussmann, and the constable from the Grosse Sperlgasse police station running up the stairs. Within seconds they appeared at the end of the hallway.
'Well?' Rheinhardt asked, slowly straightening up. He was a stout man, and pressed the palms of his hands down on his thighs to gain extra lift.
The two men marched towards him, leaving a trail of wet footprints in their wake.
'All the shutters are bolted,' said Haussman, 'except for one. It's difficult to see the window in the rain . . . but I think it's closed. The sitting room is completely inaccessible from outside.'
'Even with a ladder?'
'Well, a very long ladder would do it, sir.'
The two young men came to an abrupt halt in front of Rheinhardt. Even though they were thoroughly soaked, their expressions suggested a kind of canine enthusiasm – the controlled agitation of a retriever as a stick is about to be thrown. Beyond them, the pathetic figure of Rosa Sucher sat biting her nails.
'Constable,' said Rheinhardt, 'would you escort Fräulein Sucher downstairs?'
'Downstairs, sir?'
'Yes, to the foyer. I'll follow shortly.'
'Very good, sir,' said the constable, turning swiftly on his heels.
Rheinhardt clapped a restraining hand on the officer's shoulder before he could spring forward. 'Gently now,' said Rheinhardt close to his ear. 'The young woman is upset.'
Rheinhardt released his grip, allowing the constable to approach Rosa Sucher. He did so with the exaggerated slowness of an undertaker.