The Quiet Twin (38 page)

When the police finally arrived on his doorstep, he felt relieved. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. It was an old detective, fifty-five going on sixty, a short man with narrow shoulders who had the appearance of having recently lost a lot of weight. His cheeks hung pale and lifeless in his clean-shaven face, the balding head looked careworn and wrinkled. Only the eyes were sympathetic, blue, round and sleepy, embedded in a web of lines.

‘Detective Boltzmann,’ he introduced himself, reaching out a little hand in greeting. ‘Like the physicist. Could I have a minute of your time?’

Beer nodded and stepped aside to let the man into his flat, having checked first that the bedroom door was closed. But the detective made no move to come inside and motioned Beer into the hallway instead.

‘If you don’t mind, I would like to talk to you at the station.’

Beer agreed, fetched his hat and coat, and followed the man down the stairs. Outside, Detective Boltzmann opened the door of a Mercedes and closed it gently once Beer had settled himself in the passenger seat. There was no driver. Boltzmann took the wheel himself.

‘If you don’t mind, let’s not talk until we get there. I’m a terrible driver. Better keep my mind on the road.’

Despite this announcement, they made their way across the city quickly and efficiently. Inside the police station, the detective gestured for Beer to lead the way, occasionally offering a soft-spoken word of direction. Boltzmann’s office was three doors down from Teuben’s. It was a much smaller room, and much better appointed: held a desk, two upholstered chairs, several bookshelves and a large, hand-coloured map of Vienna. At the detective’s invitation, Beer took a seat. He was half inclined to make a clean breast of things. The thought of lying to this man exhausted him. In the end it was little but habit that stayed his tongue. Tired, thanking the man for his kindness, he accepted the detective’s offer of a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

The interview began. There was a frank directness to Boltzmann’s manner that Beer found pleasant. He answered all questions as simply and accurately as he thought safe.

‘You know, of course, that Detective Teuben is dead.’

‘Yes. I saw it from the window. This morning, I mean. Some policemen were carrying him off.’

‘But you did not feel you should go down and offer your services?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I hardly knew the man. And I supposed a doctor was no longer needed.’

‘He consulted you on a string of murders he was investigating, did he not? And he asked you to perform an autopsy for him, circumventing normal procedure. I found the report among his papers.’

‘Yes.’

The detective pursed his lips, perhaps to indicate that his was an unpleasant duty.

‘You were both at Herr Professor Speckstein’s party. I have two witnesses who saw you go up the stairs with him some time after ten o’clock.’

‘He asked me for a word. I took him to my surgery, so we could talk in peace. He said that he had solved the case.’

‘And?’

Beer paused, opted for the truth.

‘He wanted me to rewrite the autopsy report.’

‘To what purpose?’

‘To suggest that there were possibilities other than self-harm.’

Boltzmann nodded, as though this tallied with his assumptions.

‘And did you?’ he asked, then bent across the table to offer Beer a second cigarette.

‘I said I would take another look at my notes,’ Beer answered, colouring. ‘See whether I made a mistake.’

The detective waved his hand to indicate he understood the doctor’s predicament. ‘How long did he stay?’ he asked.

‘Not much more than ten minutes. I offered him some brandy. He knocked back two or three quick glasses.’

‘He was drunk.’

‘I suppose. Did he fall out that window or–?’

‘Or was he pushed? It seems you are a natural policeman, Dr Beer. Perhaps it is not so odd he consulted you after all.’

Boltzmann leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his back. Once again Beer was struck by how emaciated the man looked. It was clear that he was suffering – or had only very recently recovered – from a serious illness. His shirt collar looked two sizes too big.

‘I think we can dismiss foul play,’ the detective continued. ‘He was a big man, and there is no evidence of violence on the stairs. The window was shattered much earlier, and there was a drunken youth sleeping underneath who tells us he didn’t leave until dawn. Who’d be crazy enough to take the risk?’

He paused, shook his head again, settled forward in his chair.

‘No, he fell out while pissing, like an idiot. And I am left with all his notes.’

He reached into his desk and pulled out several thin folders.

‘They used to be my cases, you know. The dog, that is, and two of the other killings. But then I had to take a leave of absence. May I ask what you told him when he asked you for your opinion about the murders?’

‘I told him they were in all probability unrelated. That there was a chance that the women had been attacked by the same assailant, no more. That the rest was just rumour and coincidence caused by anxiety about the war.’

‘And what did he say to that?’

‘He told me he had a suspect who would clear all his files.’

Boltzmann nodded, scratched his throat. None of this seemed to surprise him, but he seemed glad about the corroboration Beer was providing.

‘Yes. He was cooking his own soup. Had a young man in custody downstairs, and a confession typed out for him ready to sign. I talked to the boy earlier today. Two broken fingers, happy to accuse himself of anything I suggested.’

He snorted, a hint of anger creeping into his sleepy blue eyes.

‘He picked him well, Teuben did. Semi-literate degenerate getting by on a menial job. Teuben even found some women who know the boy and are willing to testify that he’s been acting queer. Nothing concrete, of course, odd looks and phrases, but enough to spin a story in court. Groomed the boy, and got him ready for the stand. Teuben even told him that he’d become famous. Bigger than Kürten, Haarmann, the lot – that’s what he promised him.’

‘He is innocent then?’

Boltzmann shrugged, tugged at his tired cheek.

‘The funny thing about people is that, if you tell them they are intelligent, or beautiful, or important, they believe you. Not at once, of course. The first time you say it, they protest and tell you they are nothing of the sort, and that all these others who have spent years telling them they are stupid, and ugly, and inconsequential had it right all along. But if you repeat it long enough, the thought occurs to them that you are telling the truth, because in the depths of them, tucked away somewhere, they have always considered themselves intelligent, beautiful and so on. And conversely, if you tell a man he is a scoundrel, or better: a louse (it’s good to put a picture to this sort of thing), and keep telling him, all the while treating him just so (that is to say as a louse and nothing but a louse), well, he’ll soon discover in his heart that this is what he is and knew himself all along to be, precisely, a louse. Some people’ – here he made an expansive gesture, as though buttering a large slice of bread, first on one side, than on the other – ‘they are more easily moved in one direction, and some in the other, depending on how they are knit, but in the end’ – he finished the buttering and held up the invisible slice – ‘it comes to the same. And guilt, let me tell you, guilt is the easiest lie of all. After all, in his heart, who has not murdered?’

He finished, exhausted, pleased with himself. ‘But anyway, look who I am preaching to.’

He paused just long enough for Beer to misinterpret the phrase.

‘You are a psychiatrist. You have no need for my policeman’s theories.’

They sat in silence until a noise distracted them. It came from outside the room, a woman’s high-pitched shout. Boltzmann rose from his chair, rounded his desk, and opened the door. The shouts grew louder, but no more distinct. Whoever the woman was, she was clearly in a state of deep distress. Disturbed by the sound, thinking that his services might be required, Beer rose and stood behind Boltzmann in the half-open door. At the far end of the corridor – where it opened into the front reception area – there stood a woman dressed in black. Her son was by her side. The boy was anaemic-looking, nine, maybe ten years of age, had dark hair and rings around his eyes. The woman was shouting at two uniformed policemen who were holding her by the arms and trying to calm her down. She was clutching the boy’s wrist with obvious violence. The child did not complain but simply stood there, staring up at his mother.

‘Teuben’s wife,’ Boltzmann murmured over one narrow shoulder. ‘She has been three times already.’

The policemen were dragging her over to a chair, then leaned on her shoulders to force her to sit down. The boy staggered after her, dragged along by her white-knuckled grip. He was wearing a little velvet jacket. The collar was askew. Beer could not take his eyes off him.

‘It’s hard to make sense of,’ Boltzmann went on. ‘He was a real swine, Teuben was. And yet she loved him.’

Gently, as though not to startle anyone, the detective closed the door and returned to his chair. Beer remained where he was, standing in front of the closed door, though he turned around to face Boltzmann when the detective resumed their conversation.

‘Well I suppose that settles it, Dr Beer. All there remains to do is for me to call the Chief and tell him the good news. That we are stuck with five unsolved murders, and not a suspect to our name.’

Beer tried to focus on the detective, his mind still busy with the boy. ‘Won’t he be upset?’ he asked. ‘Teuben hinted that the people in charge would prefer a clean solution.’

The detective smiled – sadly, it seemed to Beer – straightened some papers on his desk.

‘I have cancer of the bowel, Dr Beer. It’s unpleasant, but it releases me of any need to be politic in my dealings with power.’

He stood, smoothed down his shirt, held a hand out to Beer. They shook across his desk.

‘Thank you for your time.’

Beer turned, drifted towards the door, then stopped himself short.

‘Morphine,’ he said quietly. ‘Find someone who will sell you morphine. Take lots of it. It won’t cure anything, but–’

‘Thank you, Dr Beer.’

On the way out, Beer was afraid he would run into the woman and her boy, but it seemed they had been ushered out of sight. From behind one of the many doors there issued the sound of her shouting, quieter now, her voice trembling under the strain. Beer fought the instinct to break into a run.

It wasn’t until he was back at the front of his own building and stood staring up at its familiar façade that a sense of relief began to displace the thought of Teuben’s son. The police had dismissed Teuben’s death as an accident. Otto’s brazen action was to have no consequence; Eva was safe. As he climbed the stairs and passed the first-floor landing he bumped into Yuu. The trumpeter was closing the door to Speckstein’s flat behind himself and looked flustered when he recognised Beer. The ground beneath their feet remained littered with cigarette butts and broken glass; it crunched when they moved.

‘I for-got my bow tie,’ said the Oriental in his high, lilting voice.

Beer shrugged, muttered a greeting, brushed quickly past. Upstairs in his room, he sat down in his armchair and poured himself a drink. All his problems were solved. All he needed to do now was to find a home for Lieschen. He took a sip and wondered whether his wife could be convinced to take an interest in the crippled girl.

Chapter 4

While Beer was speaking to Boltzmann at the police station, Zuzka went to see Otto. It was the middle of the afternoon. The police had quit the building some hours ago and a sense of Sunday quiet had settled in, despite the events of the morning; the smell of baking was spreading through the yard. Her uncle had been questioned extensively, of course, but had forestalled any interrogation of his niece. All day then, she had spent in bed, getting up on occasion to stand by the window and watch the scene down below. There was no doubt in her mind as to what had occurred. Her symptoms were better, though there remained an awkward limp.

When she walked over to Otto’s rooms, she did so in plain view, defying the gaze of Frau Berger, who was leaning out the window, staring at her. The mime opened his door at once, and asked her in. He seemed unchanged: laughter, anger, suspicion running through his features in constant succession. He flopped down on the bed and gestured for her to join him, but she remained standing, studying its dirty sheets. Otto shrugged, picked up a beer bottle, drank from it, then wedged it insolently between the tops of his thighs. Zuzka blushed and looked away. Her eyes found the sink and splattered mirror. It was easier to speak to him like this, looking only at herself.

‘You lied to me,’ she said. ‘The girl in the article. The medium, or whatever she was. She isn’t Eva.’

He gave her no answer, sat breathing behind her, quiet on his bed.

‘Why did you kill Uncle’s dog?’

‘Who says I did?’

His voice was mocking, playful. He had spoken like that when he’d told her to step out of her skirt. It had made her bashful then; aroused. It made her angry now.