The Quiet Twin (17 page)

‘So what is it, Doctor?’ he asked after repeated prods, each of them answered by a low and almost comical groan. ‘Is it very bad?’

Beer asked a few routine questions, then gave his verdict. ‘You have nothing to worry about. It’s just wind. It can be very painful.’

‘Farts,’ laughed the man, though his eyes took on no lustre. ‘And here I was expecting a death sentence.’

He swung around, sat with his legs dangling from the examination table and listened to Beer’s dietary advice, his hands busy with his shirt buttons. When he was done, he stood up, put on his jacket, then neither pulled out his insurance papers nor made any movement towards the door but simply stood there, looking about the examination room, and especially at the shelf of books that Beer had moved there, feeling that the presence of some volumes was expected by his patients. He passed a hairy hand over the names embossed on the spines, and even took the liberty of fetching down a volume of basic pharmacology. Beer was about to object, but the man cut him off with a question.

‘You used to work as a neurologist, didn’t you? Or a psychiatrist, I never quite understood the difference. You have read Dr Freud, I suppose? The Jewish doctor.’

The black eyes took a hold of Beer.

‘His books are forbidden.’

‘Yes, but you’ve read them. They are in your field, wouldn’t you say? An interesting fellow. You are familiar with his theory of repression? He is speaking about people who keep everything welled up inside. It’s like a cork they’ve stuffed into their souls. In a strong man, one might call it stoicism.’

‘Repression,’ said Beer, feeling that the man was laughing at him somehow, and experiencing an urge to show him up. ‘It’s a mechanism, not a personality type. We all have it. It keeps ourselves hidden from ourselves, for our own good. Otherwise it might be hard to carry on.’

‘Ah, so you
have
read him.’

The man picked up a pencil and a piece of paper from Beer’s writing desk, and, with remarkable self-assurance – as though he were standing in his own office, helping himself to his own stationery – scribbled a note, put a date next to it.

‘Force of habit,’ he smiled, folding the paper into his jacket. ‘I’m sure you don’t mind.’

Beer watched the gesture with a sinking heart.

‘You are the detective,’ he complained. ‘You should have said.’

‘Let’s sit down somewhere,’ said the man. ‘Professor Speckstein assures me you are a font of wisdom when it comes to murder. Perhaps you could ask your maid to put on some coffee. But I forgot. I am told you don’t have a maid. Nor a receptionist. Somewhat peculiar, wouldn’t you say? I suppose you will have to put it on yourself.’

Beer led the man into his study, then had no choice but to leave him while he put on the kettle. When he returned, the man was standing at his bookshelves, taking down some titles on the same piece of paper on which he had recorded Beer’s cognizance of Freud. They were all of them books that ‘violated the precepts of National Socialist science’, or however the phrase ran. Beer watched him do it, until the hiss of the kettle called him back into the kitchen. He brought the coffee in upon a tray. The two men sat down, stared at each other across the file-littered desk. For a moment Beer thought of Lieschen holding the picture of dead Walter, and almost smiled. He wondered what would happen to Eva if the man should choose to arrest him. His name was Teuben, Franz Teuben; not half an hour ago Beer had taken down his details on an index card. An address in the fifth district: too far away for an ordinary patient. The man took up his coffee cup, tasted the brew without adding milk or sugar, gave a nod of approval.

‘You’re here about the dog,’ Beer said quietly. ‘I expected a Boltzmann.’

‘Boltzmann is sick,’ answered the man, then smiled. ‘So, Dr Beer. Here I am: investigating a dog killing and imposing on your hospitality. And all because of a
Zellenwart
who used to be a professor, of all things. Before he was caught with his hand up a girl’s cookie jar, that is. And here
you
are, some kind of expert.’

He retrieved a number of loose pages from his jacket pocket, unfolded them.

‘Anton Beer, thirty-four. Denomination: Catholic. Six semesters of law, before switching to medicine.
Summa cum laude
. Three years in Germany, it says here, before we became Germany, that is. Hannover and Düsseldorf, a stint in Berlin. In-depth studies of the Haarmann and Denken cases – you had to go north to find a murder you liked, it seems; our own were too boring for you. A paper on Kürten and dog slaughter. Ground-breaking, in the Professor’s words. Wife in Switzerland, taking the waters. Either she or you were screwing someone else, I suppose. Voluntary resignation at the hospital. A lot of praise there, though your political outlook is described as “backward”; a humanist, I am told, even somewhat to the left. The words of a jealous colleague, perhaps – short man, cheeks like a pig, the sort of man that’s always sweating. What else? The Chief of Police calls me personally last night, tells me to involve you, no holds barred, and can I kiss his ring while I’m at it? You know’ – he stopped himself, took a sip of the coffee, his thin lips looking very red against the china – ‘if I wrote all this up in a report, you’d make a lovely suspect.’

Beer sat quietly throughout the man’s speech, observed his impertinence, the lack of movement while he spoke. The man did not shift in his chair, nor move his arms; did not gesture or rush his words but simply sat, with his flat little eyes, the papers spread out on the desk before him. When he raised the coffee cup, the liquid inside barely quivered; he returned it to the saucer without a sound.

‘Well, Dr Beer, I see you’ve studied the files. What’s the verdict?’

Beer sighed, shook his head. ‘I’m hardly competent to comment on police matters.’

‘Yes,’ said the detective, and a smile broke on his drawn-on mouth. ‘The Professor warned me that you were a coward. Circumspect. That was his word. “
He must be pushed to get involved
.” A fair assessment, would you say?’

‘What else did he say?’

‘He passed on his notes; writing as a
Zellenwart
, that is. He even has a little file. “Anton and Gudrun Beer.” Nothing much in it, I’m sad to say.’

He picked through the papers in front of him, located a torn-off sheet on which he had scribbled three or four comments.

‘ “
Humanist in internal emigration. No suspicious activities. Receives visitors all times of day and night. Not unusual for a doctor. Works in self-imposed obscurity
.” A little vague, don’t you think? What sort of visitors, of what sex, how many, when? I mean if we are going to spy on you, we should do it properly. The problem with a man like Speckstein is that he’s a creature of the Empire. He’s in the Party, of course – since ’37, or so he claims – but not of the times. Even the name,
Speckstein
. Sounds Jewish, don’t you think? It can’t be, of course, not for five generations, but then again, you never know. And that niece of his! A neurotic, I understand. Father a country lawyer, married a Czech girl, beneath himself. A romantic. That may explain it. The neurosis, I mean. Slavic blood and too much poetry. Or don’t you hold with race science, Dr Beer?’

Beer sat through all this, wondering how much more it would take to push him from irritation to rage. He was not a man much prone to anger, but here he was, something dreadful rising in his chest. He drank some coffee, held it in his mouth as long as he could, then launched into a summary of the files.

‘Four murders, Herr Teuben. The first victim male, twenty-two, member of the SS and recently arrived from Linz. Found leaning against an oak tree in Josefstadt, stabbed through the eye with an oblong, pointy object such as a fencing sword or bayonet. Right-handed assailant, a single clean thrust, and a very shoddy autopsy report. The blade penetrated deep into the frontal lobe and left a mark on the interior wall of the left parietal bone. No other signs of trauma. No wife, no enemies, though a witness mentions gambling debts.

‘Second victim, electrical engineer, forty-one, active in the Labour Front. Suspected homosexual. Blunt-force trauma to head, torso and lower body. One arm broken, heavy bruising down one shin. Also an irregular stab wound just above the pubic bone, some glass splinters found during autopsy. The body was found in some bushes near the hospital gardens, probably dragged there from a nearby location. Had his wallet in his pocket, twenty marks and change, and a folded picture postcard of a parakeet.

‘Third victim, a young woman, subject to sexual assault, found naked in a factory yard near the Jörgerbad swimming baths. Death by asphyxiation with some sort of strap. Several abdominal wounds, caused by a small knife, post-mortem. The girl was sixteen, wore a BDM uniform; father apolitical, a drug-store clerk, mother a housewife with an older brother who’s been a Party member since 1931.

‘Fourth victim, a university student of law, twenty-four years of age. Found stabbed in an alley near the Gürtel, not half a kilometre from here. Six wounds, in the chest and neck, a four-inch blade, swung from below and from the side. Punctured carotid artery. Additional facial wounds caused by a blunt object, probably a boot. Member of the Teutonia fraternity prior to
Gleichschaltung
; Party application pending. A
Hernals
boy, upwardly mobile; the father an engine mechanic, deceased; the mother rents to lodgers.

‘And the dog, of course. Cut up pretty bad, no known political affiliation. If you want my professional opinion, Detective Teuben, I think these are all totally unconnected. A spree of violence at the start of the war.’

He did not mention the curious pattern in which the girl’s clothes had been distributed, nor the white stain visible on the law student’s sleeve; did not dwell on the details of the dog’s wounds; crossed his arms instead to gesture he was done with it all, then pulled out his watch and checked the time.

Teuben studied him, smiled, drank coffee, sat still.

‘An excellent summary,’ he said at last, the eyes as flat as when he had called Beer a coward. ‘It has the merit of being accurate. I am not sure it will please the Professor, however. Nor the Chief of Police.’

Beer stood up, spilling coffee as he did so, walked to the window. ‘I heard there has been a more recent murder. Another woman found dead. Perhaps there is a connection there, I don’t know. Speckstein hasn’t given me the file. I will have to ask you to leave now, I’m afraid. I have another patient coming in a few minutes.’

‘Ah, yes, Frau Langenkopf. Afraid of open water. Can’t tell whether you’re screwing her or just robbing her blind, but she’ll have to wait. No point interrupting a conversation among men.’

Chapter 7

Teuben refused to leave. There was to him a self-assurance that Beer had never before encountered: he took the liberty of always speaking the truth. For ten minutes or so he was content to sit in silence, then asked the doctor to see whether he had some beer in his larder, and some rolls left over from breakfast. Beer tried to ignore the request, remained standing at the window, staring out into the yard. Through the branches of the chestnut tree he saw Anneliese, playing alone in the rain, her hair and face wet, and showing no sign of going in out of the cold. Frau Langenkopf arrived, and was displeased when Beer announced they would have to reschedule.

‘I had a setback,’ she complained, and begged the doctor to admit her.

‘I cannot,’ he found himself saying. ‘I have the police in the house.’

The phrase chased her away without further ado.

When he returned to the study, Teuben was standing at the window in the same position Beer had recently abandoned and had lit himself a cigarette. A piece of notepaper was in his hands. He did not mention Anneliese in the yard, but simply repeated his request for ‘a bite to eat, if you please, and something to wash it down’.

‘What more do you want from me?’ Beer flared up, but Teuben ignored him, went out into the corridor, made use of the doctor’s telephone.

‘A man will be over with the missing file,’ he told Beer once he had hung up. ‘The second dead girl. Did I mention we have a suspect in custody? He has a pretty good alibi for some of the dates in question. Might be difficult to make all the murders stick.’ He shrugged, reclaimed his seat in Beer’s study. ‘I really am starving, you know.’

Beer relented and went into the kitchen to butter some rolls. His hands were shaking and twice he dropped the knife.

When he returned to the room this time around, carrying a tray with beer, cold cuts and Kaiser rolls, Teuben was gone. He hastened back out into the corridor, still holding the tray, and saw at once that the door to the bedroom was open. Running now, one of the bottles overturning and spilling across the rolls and ham, he entered the room. Teuben was standing at its centre. The curtains were drawn, Eva lying in the semi-dark, eyes closed, her shoulders turned to them, the wounds hidden at her back. Her bare arms looked very thin jutting out from the white fabric of her nightgown, her head sunk deep into the pillow and disclosed only by its brush of hair. The dark fabric of the blanket, its lip sitting just above her waist, set off the pallor of silk and skin. Teuben was about to step closer, but Beer got in his way, and used the tray to push him backwards, towards the door. To his relief, the detective allowed himself to be steered out, and even closed the door.