bookcase. His lower lip trembled.
'Less what?' Rheinhardt pressed.
'Alone,' said Uberhorst. His eyes filled with tears.
'How much did Fräulein Löwenstein charge for these readings, Herr Uberhorst?'
'Nothing, but I was happy to make a voluntary contribution.'
'Which was how much?'
'Two krone.'
'You could have gone to the Court Opera for less.'
'But then I would never have benefited from her extraordinary powers.'
Uberhorst wiped his forearm across his cheek, attempting to conceal his tears. It was a pathetic gesture, like the pitiful attempt of a hurt child to maintain its dignity.
'Why did you say she was kind? And brave?'
'She had a difficult life, Inspector. Only a courageous soul could overcome such terrible adversity.'
'Oh? In what way was her life difficult?'
'Her mother and father died when she was very young – she was about ten or eleven, I think. She was sent to live with her uncle, her father's brother. He lived alone and Lotte had to cook and care for him. She did her best, but he was never satisfied. He would often beat her . . . and when she was older – when she was turning into a woman – he . . . He was a cruel man and . . .'
Uberhorst shuddered.
'What, Herr Uberhorst?'
'I believe he may have . . .'
'Taken advantage of her?'
Uberhorst nodded and adjusted his pince-nez, mutely confirming the Inspector's speculation.
'Why do you think Fräulein Löwenstein told you these things? They are very personal, are they not?'
'Perhaps she was lonely too.'
Rheinhardt considered this statement. Was it possible? That the beautiful Löwenstein and the diminutive Uberhorst were equally alienated? That an intimate friendship had developed between them? Rheinhardt pencilled the words 'loneliness' and 'disclosure' in his notebook, followed by three question marks.
'What happened then? After she went to live with her uncle?'
'She ran away . . .'
'To where?'
'I don't know.'
'And how did she live?'
'She found menial jobs – cleaning, running errands – and then I think she may have worked in the theatre. Inspector?'
'Yes?'
'What I just said – about her uncle? She told me these things in confidence.'
'Obviously.'
'The others – Bruckmüller, Záborszky, the Hölderlins – I would be grateful if you did not discuss these matters with them.'
'You have my word. Herr Uberhorst, when did Fräulein Löwenstein become a medium?'
'She was always sensitive – she always saw things.'
'Spirits?'
'Yes.'
'All right – when, then, did she become a professional medium?'
'I don't know. But she accepted her vocation after a vision.'
'What kind of vision?'
'She said that it could not be described – how can one describe communion with the infinite?'
'You think that she was instructed by a higher power?'
'Certainly.'
'I see.' Without pause or preparation Rheinhardt added: 'Do you remember what you were doing on Wednesday evening, Herr Uberhorst?'
'Yes.' There was a slight wavering in Uberhorst's voice.
'Where were you?'
'Please, I don't wish to be discourteous, Inspector, but I did tell your assistant who . . .'
Rheinhardt's brow furrowed, prompting Uberhorst to answer the question without further hesitation.
'I was here. I live upstairs.'
'And is there anyone who can confirm your story?'
'It isn't a story, Inspector. I was here – and no, I have no alibi. I rarely have visitors.'
Rheinhardt walked to the lathe, his shoes crunching on a carpet of metal shavings. Above it hung a framed mezzotint. It appeared to have little artistic merit, being only a diagrammatic representation of a mechanism, the parts of which were labelled with the letters of the alphabet.
'What is this?' asked Rheinhardt.
'It is a drawing of the detector lock designed by Jeremiah Chubb. It was patented in 1818. A masterpiece, I believe.'
Rheinhardt took a few steps and examined the titles that filled the bookcase. They were mostly bound journals and technical histories.
'You seem to be something of a connoisseur,' he said.
'I enjoy my work.'
Uberhorst joined
'Less what?' Rheinhardt pressed.
'Alone,' said Uberhorst. His eyes filled with tears.
'How much did Fräulein Löwenstein charge for these readings, Herr Uberhorst?'
'Nothing, but I was happy to make a voluntary contribution.'
'Which was how much?'
'Two krone.'
'You could have gone to the Court Opera for less.'
'But then I would never have benefited from her extraordinary powers.'
Uberhorst wiped his forearm across his cheek, attempting to conceal his tears. It was a pathetic gesture, like the pitiful attempt of a hurt child to maintain its dignity.
'Why did you say she was kind? And brave?'
'She had a difficult life, Inspector. Only a courageous soul could overcome such terrible adversity.'
'Oh? In what way was her life difficult?'
'Her mother and father died when she was very young – she was about ten or eleven, I think. She was sent to live with her uncle, her father's brother. He lived alone and Lotte had to cook and care for him. She did her best, but he was never satisfied. He would often beat her . . . and when she was older – when she was turning into a woman – he . . . He was a cruel man and . . .'
Uberhorst shuddered.
'What, Herr Uberhorst?'
'I believe he may have . . .'
'Taken advantage of her?'
Uberhorst nodded and adjusted his pince-nez, mutely confirming the Inspector's speculation.
'Why do you think Fräulein Löwenstein told you these things? They are very personal, are they not?'
'Perhaps she was lonely too.'
Rheinhardt considered this statement. Was it possible? That the beautiful Löwenstein and the diminutive Uberhorst were equally alienated? That an intimate friendship had developed between them? Rheinhardt pencilled the words 'loneliness' and 'disclosure' in his notebook, followed by three question marks.
'What happened then? After she went to live with her uncle?'
'She ran away . . .'
'To where?'
'I don't know.'
'And how did she live?'
'She found menial jobs – cleaning, running errands – and then I think she may have worked in the theatre. Inspector?'
'Yes?'
'What I just said – about her uncle? She told me these things in confidence.'
'Obviously.'
'The others – Bruckmüller, Záborszky, the Hölderlins – I would be grateful if you did not discuss these matters with them.'
'You have my word. Herr Uberhorst, when did Fräulein Löwenstein become a medium?'
'She was always sensitive – she always saw things.'
'Spirits?'
'Yes.'
'All right – when, then, did she become a professional medium?'
'I don't know. But she accepted her vocation after a vision.'
'What kind of vision?'
'She said that it could not be described – how can one describe communion with the infinite?'
'You think that she was instructed by a higher power?'
'Certainly.'
'I see.' Without pause or preparation Rheinhardt added: 'Do you remember what you were doing on Wednesday evening, Herr Uberhorst?'
'Yes.' There was a slight wavering in Uberhorst's voice.
'Where were you?'
'Please, I don't wish to be discourteous, Inspector, but I did tell your assistant who . . .'
Rheinhardt's brow furrowed, prompting Uberhorst to answer the question without further hesitation.
'I was here. I live upstairs.'
'And is there anyone who can confirm your story?'
'It isn't a story, Inspector. I was here – and no, I have no alibi. I rarely have visitors.'
Rheinhardt walked to the lathe, his shoes crunching on a carpet of metal shavings. Above it hung a framed mezzotint. It appeared to have little artistic merit, being only a diagrammatic representation of a mechanism, the parts of which were labelled with the letters of the alphabet.
'What is this?' asked Rheinhardt.
'It is a drawing of the detector lock designed by Jeremiah Chubb. It was patented in 1818. A masterpiece, I believe.'
Rheinhardt took a few steps and examined the titles that filled the bookcase. They were mostly bound journals and technical histories.
'You seem to be something of a connoisseur,' he said.
'I enjoy my work.'
Uberhorst joined
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