Rheinhardt rolled his eyes at the ceiling, and turned to face Haussmann.
'I don't think we should waste any more time. It's a strong old door but we should be able to do it.' Haussmann removed his sopping cap and twisted it in his hands. Rainwater dripped to the floor, creating a small puddle between his feet. When he had finished wringing the cap he placed it back on his head.
'You'll catch a cold,' said Rheinhardt. Haussmann looked at his superior, unsure how to react. 'Why don't you take it off?'
Haussmann obediently removed his cap and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
They positioned themselves on the opposite side of the hallway.
'Ready?' asked Rheinhardt.
'Yes, sir.'
Running towards the door, they threw their shoulders against it. There was a dull thud, and the sound of air being forced from their lungs. Haussmann stepped back, grimaced, and rubbed his shoulder.
'That hurt.'
'You'll live,' said Rheinhardt. At the end of the hallway, the constable was holding the front door open for Rosa Sucher. For a brief moment she looked back before hurrying out, ducking beneath the policeman's arm.
'Now, let's try again,' said Rheinhardt.
They returned to their former positions and repeated the procedure. This time, however, when their shoulders made contact, the frame split and the door burst open with a loud crack . The two men struggled to keep their balance as they fell forward into the room beyond.
It took a few seconds for Rheinhardt's eyes to adjust. The curtains were drawn and the light was poor. Even so, the unpleasant smell was enough to confirm his worst fears.
'God in heaven . . .' The timbre of Haussmann's voice suggested a combination of reverence and horror.
The room was large, with a high bas-relief ceiling of garlands and floating cherubs; however, Rheinhardt's attention was drawn to a massive circular table, around which ten sturdy chairs were evenly spaced. In the middle of the table stood a gaudy silver candelabra. The candles had burned down, and long wax icicles hung from excessively elaborate arms.
Gradually more shapes began to emerge from the gloom, one of which was a chaise longue located on the other side of the room. The couch was not empty but was occupied by a shadowy form that swiftly resolved itself into a reclining female figure.
'Haussman,' said Rheinhardt. 'The curtains, please.'
His assistant did not respond but stood very still, staring.
Rheinhardt raised his voice: 'Haussman?'
'Sir?'
'The curtains, please,' he repeated.
'Yes, sir.'
Haussman walked around the table, keeping his gaze fixed on the body. He pulled one of the curtains aside, which filled the room with a weak light. As he reached for the second curtain Rheinhardt called out: 'No, that's enough.' It seemed improper, or disrespectful, to expose the body further.
Rheinhardt advanced, stepping carefully across the threadbare Persian rug, and stopped next to the chaise longue.
The woman was in her late twenties and very pretty. Long blonde tresses fell in ringlets to her slim shoulders. Her dress was of blue silk – its neckline tested the limits of decency – and a double string of pearls rested on an ample alabaster bosom. She might have looked asleep had it not been for the dark stain that had spread from her décolletage and the coagulated blood that had crusted around the jagged hole over her ruined heart.
There was something odd – almost affected – about her posture, like that of an artist's model. One arm lay by her side, while the other was placed neatly behind her head.
'Sir?'
Haussman was pointing at something.
On the table was a sheet of writing paper. Rheinhardt walked over and examined the note. It was written in a florid hand: God forgive me for what I have done. There is such a thing as forbidden knowledge. He will take me to hell – and there is no hope of redemption.
It appeared that the writer had been jolted, just as the final word was finished. A line of ink traced an arc that left the page just above the bottom
'I don't think we should waste any more time. It's a strong old door but we should be able to do it.' Haussmann removed his sopping cap and twisted it in his hands. Rainwater dripped to the floor, creating a small puddle between his feet. When he had finished wringing the cap he placed it back on his head.
'You'll catch a cold,' said Rheinhardt. Haussmann looked at his superior, unsure how to react. 'Why don't you take it off?'
Haussmann obediently removed his cap and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
They positioned themselves on the opposite side of the hallway.
'Ready?' asked Rheinhardt.
'Yes, sir.'
Running towards the door, they threw their shoulders against it. There was a dull thud, and the sound of air being forced from their lungs. Haussmann stepped back, grimaced, and rubbed his shoulder.
'That hurt.'
'You'll live,' said Rheinhardt. At the end of the hallway, the constable was holding the front door open for Rosa Sucher. For a brief moment she looked back before hurrying out, ducking beneath the policeman's arm.
'Now, let's try again,' said Rheinhardt.
They returned to their former positions and repeated the procedure. This time, however, when their shoulders made contact, the frame split and the door burst open with a loud crack . The two men struggled to keep their balance as they fell forward into the room beyond.
It took a few seconds for Rheinhardt's eyes to adjust. The curtains were drawn and the light was poor. Even so, the unpleasant smell was enough to confirm his worst fears.
'God in heaven . . .' The timbre of Haussmann's voice suggested a combination of reverence and horror.
The room was large, with a high bas-relief ceiling of garlands and floating cherubs; however, Rheinhardt's attention was drawn to a massive circular table, around which ten sturdy chairs were evenly spaced. In the middle of the table stood a gaudy silver candelabra. The candles had burned down, and long wax icicles hung from excessively elaborate arms.
Gradually more shapes began to emerge from the gloom, one of which was a chaise longue located on the other side of the room. The couch was not empty but was occupied by a shadowy form that swiftly resolved itself into a reclining female figure.
'Haussman,' said Rheinhardt. 'The curtains, please.'
His assistant did not respond but stood very still, staring.
Rheinhardt raised his voice: 'Haussman?'
'Sir?'
'The curtains, please,' he repeated.
'Yes, sir.'
Haussman walked around the table, keeping his gaze fixed on the body. He pulled one of the curtains aside, which filled the room with a weak light. As he reached for the second curtain Rheinhardt called out: 'No, that's enough.' It seemed improper, or disrespectful, to expose the body further.
Rheinhardt advanced, stepping carefully across the threadbare Persian rug, and stopped next to the chaise longue.
The woman was in her late twenties and very pretty. Long blonde tresses fell in ringlets to her slim shoulders. Her dress was of blue silk – its neckline tested the limits of decency – and a double string of pearls rested on an ample alabaster bosom. She might have looked asleep had it not been for the dark stain that had spread from her décolletage and the coagulated blood that had crusted around the jagged hole over her ruined heart.
There was something odd – almost affected – about her posture, like that of an artist's model. One arm lay by her side, while the other was placed neatly behind her head.
'Sir?'
Haussman was pointing at something.
On the table was a sheet of writing paper. Rheinhardt walked over and examined the note. It was written in a florid hand: God forgive me for what I have done. There is such a thing as forbidden knowledge. He will take me to hell – and there is no hope of redemption.
It appeared that the writer had been jolted, just as the final word was finished. A line of ink traced an arc that left the page just above the bottom