The Quiet Twin (35 page)

‘But anyway, I’d better be off. There’s another lady waiting for my visit. Not a word, you. Your uncle is an influential man, connected. But nobody’s out of reach.’

The detective’s hand snapped forward as he said this, grabbed her by the wrist, finger and thumb connecting across her bones.

‘These are volatile times.’

It surprised him that she did not flinch from his grasp. Instead she bent closer, so that he would be able to see her face. Up close she struck him as near hysterical, her mouth twitching, her cow eyes filling up with tears. Something gave inside her. All at once she was speaking, shouting, shaking head to toe.

‘You are going to see Eva, aren’t you?’ she shouted. ‘Did you know that my uncle raped her? She was only a child. Her name was Evelyn then. Evelyn Wenger. It was all in the papers. And tonight, I thought that Otto would –’ She raised her free hand and rolled it in a fist in a gesture meant to denote punishment, or revenge. ‘In his performance, you see. But all he did was chase a fly. Everybody laughed.’

She opened her mouth and let out a giggle. Her breathing was laboured, whistled in the depths of her. Puzzled, Teuben let go of her wrist.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘He killed Uncle’s dog.’

‘Who?’

‘Otto. Because of his sister. Because of what he did to her.’

Teuben heard it and laughed, his thin lips parting around teeth and gums.

‘You’ve been writing a novel, I see. Cute. But Eva’s always been Eva, and I’d bet good money that Speckstein’s never seen her in his life. As for the dog, I have the killer in a cell at the police station. He has all but signed his confession.’

He shrugged, dismissed her with a wave of his arm.

‘What you are,’ he said, ‘is a little cuckoo. But that’s all for the better. Just go on crying wolf.’

He left a moment later, having watched the disappointment spread across her face. His boy looked like that, when he got a present he didn’t like: flushed and sulky, anger giving way to tears. Zuzka threw herself on to her pillow. From the back, legs spread, the skirt riding up to the top of her knees, her hips awriggle with her sobs, she didn’t look half bad. Teuben left without bothering to close the door.

Chapter 8

The clock struck ten-thirty. It was a six-foot grandfather clock of Danish origin, in white lacquered wood with gold-leaf trimmings around the face, and stood, somewhat awkwardly, between two of Speckstein’s bookshelves where it was in danger of getting lost amongst their bulk. On another occasion Beer might have gone up to it and studied it more closely; opened up its case and watched the pendulum in its rhythmic movements and the near imperceptible descent of its twin weights. As a boy he had owned a John Alker longcase that had been bequeathed to him by a paternal uncle and had spent many happy hours taking it apart, cleaning it, and then reassembling it with infinite care. Now he listened to the tall clock’s chime with a mixture of trepidation and hope. Teuben had disappeared. He did not dare hope he had left the house altogether; nor did he wish to assume that by some policeman’s trick he had let himself into the doctor’s flat without waiting for permission. It would have been easy enough for Beer to run up and see if such worries were misplaced, but the doctor did not stir. All he had done was shift from the chair in Speckstein’s living room to one in his study, where there had been fewer people at the time. Beer’s mouth was dry and he thought he should get up and find a drink of something, but the lethargy that had taken hold of him was impossible to shift.

The clock struck ten-thirty and he looked around. Beer was surprised to find himself alone in the room. Through the open door he could see that the living room, too, had begun to empty out. The men had eaten and drunk their fill, and many seemed to have left in search of new entertainments. In another half-hour or so, only the dead-drunks would be left, passed out in some corner and impossible to shift.

Speckstein entered. He had been sitting in his armchair in the living room ever since Beer had arrived at the party, but now Beer watched him get up rather heavily and walk into his study. He, too, it seemed, had had too much to drink, and was swaying on his short march between the doorway and his desk. When he reached it he seemed to have forgotten why he’d come; looked up lost and puzzled and found Beer sitting with his back against the wall. The Professor was wearing an old-fashioned dinner jacket and a beautiful white ruffled shirt. Only the pin he had threaded through his lapel announced his membership of the Party that many of his guests had literally worn upon their sleeves. When he saw Beer, he nodded to himself and began to stagger towards him. Halfway there, his eyes began to water and he stopped to dig a handkerchief from out his pocket; blew his nose, then wiped the corners of his eyes. Even in his inebriated state there was a certain gentlemanly elegance to his movements. Beer stood up to greet him. The leather upholstery of the chair he had been sitting in creaked as he lifted out his weight, a sound so animate and plaintive that both men involuntarily turned to stare at the chair, as though expecting it to move. It took an act of will for them to shift their eyes from chair to one another.

‘Herr Professor,’ Beer said in greeting, then found himself at a loss as to how to continue. ‘My congratulations on your party.’

Speckstein waved away his words with his handkerchief, then raised it once more to his teary eyes. A slight shiver seemed to shake his figure.

‘Are you unwell?’

‘It’s nothing, Dr Beer. I was just thinking about Walter. My dog. I miss him tonight.’

‘Why yes,’ Beer answered, embarrassed, mentally sifting through the conventional remarks one made to those who were recently bereaved. But none of them would seem to fit.

‘I am very sorry for you,’ he said at last.

‘The Chief of Police tells me Detective Teuben is holding a suspect.’

‘So I understand.’

‘He killed my dog?’

‘I suppose.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘I am assisting purely on the medical side of things. Though even there I’m out of my depth.’

‘Nonsense, Beer. You are a luminary in your field. And this Teuben fellow – he’s nothing but trash. A vile, coarse, brutish piece of trash. You know what he did to me? He –

‘But here he is himself,’ he finished, embarrassed, becoming aware of Teuben’s arrival a fraction too late. ‘We were discussing the case, Detective.’

Teuben smiled, gave the ghost of a bow.

‘I’ve just come from the washroom, Herr
Zellenwart
. Some of the lads have made rather a mess of things, I’m afraid. You might do well to tell your housekeeper.’

The two men stood looking at each other for a moment, Speckstein erect, weepy, drunk; the detective slovenly and brazen.

‘I will see to it,’ the Professor said stiffly.

‘Good. It will give the doctor and me a chance to catch up on the case.’

They walked a few steps behind Speckstein, the detective holding on first to Beer’s elbow, then to his wrist. When their host swung left towards the kitchen, Teuben manoeuvred them onwards, to the front door. The SS man was still standing in the doorway on his self-appointed vigil, and let them pass without a word. Halfway up the stairs, a cold draught blew into the building where somebody had ripped a window off its hinges. It lay, shattered, on the steps. A young man lay not far from it, the same flaxen-haired youth who had previously held his head and been comforted by the soothing whispers of his friend. He was alone now, passed out amongst the shards; a splinter of glass had evidently cut the side of his nose, which bled lightly past his mouth and cheek. They stepped over him without comment and continued on their way to Beer’s door. Once they had arrived, Teuben watched Beer struggle with the lock and reached out at one point to steady the doctor’s hand. Inside, Beer took two quick steps and tried to usher Teuben into his kitchen.

‘I have the new autopsy report,’ he said hastily. ‘Perhaps we should go over it together, see whether it’s what you had in mind.’ His hand went to the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew some carefully folded typed sheets of paper. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’

‘Later,’ Teuben laughed, amused, looking past the doctor’s shoulder to the bottles of beer standing on the kitchen table.

‘Were you planning on getting drunk, Herr Doktor? Keep some for me. Afterwards, we can sit down and have a beer together.’

Even as he spoke, he seemed to change his mind and reached past the doctor to grab one of the bottles, sunk it in his jacket pocket.

‘In case I get thirsty.’

He turned around, started walking down the corridor, the doctor running after him, hard at his heels.

‘About that, Detective. The infection, it is bad today. I had to reapply some maggots. Maybe if you wait just a few days –’

Teuben stopped dead in his tracks, seemed to enjoy the fact that Beer ran into him, bumping his chin on the detective’s shoulder.

‘And if she were crawling with them.’ Teuben laughed. ‘You know, I think I’m in love.’

Again he started walking, and again Beer ran alongside, talking at him, giddy now with agitation.

‘There’s something else. I’m . . . an invert. That is to say, I sleep with men. It’s why my wife left me.’

He succeeded in bringing Teuben to another halt.

‘Oh my,’ he answered, still grinning, then spat. ‘Is this true?’

‘Yes.’

‘I had no idea.’ He looked the doctor up and down as though he saw him for the first time. No disgust or irritation showed on his face, just wonder mixed with calculation.

‘You must stop it at once, of course. Until after the trial. I need a credible expert witness.’

He took another step towards the bedroom door; laid a hand upon the handle, opened it, then turned around.

‘But why are you telling me this now? Surely you are not planning anything stupid. Look here’ – he leaned into the doctor, placed a big hand on his neck and cheek – ‘this is not the time for games. There’s no point punishing yourself, Dr Beer, if that’s what’s going through your head. And don’t think for a moment that what is about to happen is the worst there can be. If she ends up in a hospital, it will happen a hundredfold and worse. I just want this once. And then your statement, sworn in court. That’s all. You can live with that, I assure you. If you couldn’t, why, you would have moved her by now and put a bullet through your brain.’

He studied Beer another second, then dropped his arm, turned and stepped through the door.

‘But enough talk.’

Shaking, his eyes on the bottle of beer sticking out of Teuben’s jacket pocket, Beer followed him into the bedroom. Eva lay as he had left her, her eyelids closed, the bed-sheet neatly folded underneath her chin. She looked pristine, calm, composed. Teuben kneeled down at her bedside, a smile splitting his features, and began to peel back the sheet.

‘Good God, but she’s pretty,’ he muttered, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. ‘Ghastly gown you put on her.’

Beer wanted to leave but was rooted to the spot. The detective reached for her neck with both hands as though he was planning on strangling her.

The moment he touched her – at neck, cheek and collarbone, squeezing her skin with fingers that were as greedy as they were tender, his bluff face still split by a smile – Eva started sweating, unaccountably sweating, soaking her linen nightdress in a matter of moments until her body emerged as though from under yards of water, ivory pale, her ribs showing like the bones of a corset. Alarmed, Teuben withdrew his hands and stared in fury and wonder at the outline of the breasts that had emerged beneath the damp cloth.

‘It’s the fever,’ Beer muttered and started forward.

With sudden violence, Teuben jumped up and pushed him back and out the room.

‘Leave us!’ he shouted, slammed the door in Beer’s face.

The doctor took five steps, fell to the floor, and clapped his hands over his ears so he would not have to hear a thing.

Chapter 9

Zuzka did not cry for long. Soon after Detective Teuben had left her room, the sobs lost some of their intensity and she made an effort to wipe the tears and snot from her face. When she tried to stand up, she noticed that she had lost sensation in one of her legs. She sat down again, and began massaging her calf and ankle. Very gradually the numbness was replaced by the pain of pins and needles running through her skin. Her breathing was ragged; she seemed to have to gasp for air. Even so, she hobbled out into the corridor and on towards the front door, where she searched frantically to locate her coat. She found it at last, locked away in a cupboard, along with her uncle’s hat and umbrella and Vesalius’s thirty-year-old
Loden
coat. In her haste to search its pockets she lost her balance and fell into the cupboard, then had to pull herself out by the strength of her arms; her legs were giving way under her.

At length she located what she had been looking for, took a step towards the front door (a man in a black uniform was standing there, watching all her movements with close interest but making no move to help her), then decided otherwise and headed into the living room instead. There were very few people left there now: a drunk sitting in an armchair, mouth wide open and sleeping with a dirty china plate cradled in his lap; and a group of four men who were talking to Otto in one corner of the room, while the latter was spooning custard out of a dessert bowl with his fingers, then licking them off with childish glee. He had taken off most of his make-up, though some paint still clung to the creases of his face. Drawing closer she realised that the men were complimenting Otto on his performance and making suggestions for future acts. One of them – a muscular man in his forties, with a messy fencing scar beneath one eye – seemed to be a senior figure in the Party’s youth movement, and was painting a picture of an open-air performance in the Augarten, in front of an audience of ‘five thousand German lads’, and was offering his help in putting together material with a ‘suitable, pedagogic content’. Otto smiled, licked his fingers, and nodded his thanks when one of the others held out a bottle of schnapps.