sense of them, you're a better pathologist than I am.' The old man paused before turning to face the corpse. Pointing at the gaping hole in Fräulein Löwenstein's chest, he continued: 'This woman has been shot. Here is the point where the bullet entered her body. The heart has been torn open, as one would expect.' He poked his finger into her chest and lifted a flap of skin. Rheinhardt felt a little sick. 'See here,' said the professor. 'This is where the bullet ripped through the left ventricle. Everything is consistent with a gunshot wound.'
'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'I can see that.'
'But,' said Mathias, 'there is no bullet.'
'I beg your pardon, Herr Professor?'
Mathias said again: 'There is no bullet.'
Rheinhardt nodded.
'It passed through her body?'
'No,' replied Mathias. 'The entry canal has a definite terminus. Nothing came out the other side of her body.'
'Then what are you saying?' asked Rheinhardt. 'That the bullet was . . . removed?'
'No. The bullet has not been removed.'
'You're absolutely sure?'
'Absolutely.'
'Then how can you explain . . .'
Rheinhardt's words trailed off into silence. The electric-light system began to buzz, and the lights blinked out again for a second or two.
'I can't explain this,' said Mathias, flicking the flap of skin back like the lid of a jewellery box. 'Rheinhardt, you have brought me a physical impossibility. That is why it is my belief that I – or perhaps both of us – are the victims of a tedious prank. Goodnight, Inspector.'
Mathias wiped his bloody fingers on a white towel. He then walked towards the door, his metal-tipped shoes sparking on the flagstones as he dragged his heavy heels.
8
H EINRICH AND JUNO HöLDERLIN were seated in the spacious breakfast room of their Hietzing villa. Two housemaids were clearing the plates – and as they did so they exchanged surreptitious, knowing glances: the master and mistress of the household were clearly not very hungry. A slab of gleaming yellow butter had been scraped no more than a few times and the breadbasket was still piled high with freshly baked rolls. The bacon and boiled eggs had hardly been touched.
Hölderlin rang the table bell to summon the steward, who swiftly materialised with the coffee. He was immaculately turned out in white gloves and a brick-red coat with a black velvet collar.
'Thank you, Klaus,' said Juno, as the decorous manservant deposited a large silver pot and tray on the table.
'Cook will be preparing suckling pig and artichokes for supper – and wanted to know whether sir would like pineapple mousse or ice cream to follow.'
Hölderlin looked briefly at his wife.
'The mousse?'
'Yes,' said Juno. 'The mousse.'
The steward bowed, clicked his heels, and marched out of the room, pursued by the heavily burdened housemaids. Hölderlin picked up his copy of the Wiener Zeitung and turned to the financial pages.
'What does it say?' asked Juno nervously.
The polished dome of her husband's pate rose above the newspaper's horizon like the dawn sun.
'About Fräulein Löwenstein?'
Juno nodded, eyelids flickering rapidly.
'Nothing, of course. It's too early.'
Juno poured a cup of coffee for her husband, and then for herself.
'Who would do such a thing? It's such a terrible business,' she said quietly.
'No one would disagree with you there,' said Hölderlin, turning a page.
'I couldn't sleep.'
'Nor me.'
Juno looked around the room and made an impromptu inspection of her house plants. She thought that the aspidistra was looking a little withered, and made a mental note that it should be given extra water. Next to the aspidistra was a framed picture of her beloved sister, Sieglinde.
Sieglinde had died (or, as Juno preferred to say, had 'departed') in the autumn of the previous year after a long and painful illness. The doctors had done little to ease her suffering, and it had been with mixed feelings that Juno had buried her sister in the Zentralfriedhof. Juno had known that she would feel her sister's absence like the loss of a
'Yes,' said Rheinhardt. 'I can see that.'
'But,' said Mathias, 'there is no bullet.'
'I beg your pardon, Herr Professor?'
Mathias said again: 'There is no bullet.'
Rheinhardt nodded.
'It passed through her body?'
'No,' replied Mathias. 'The entry canal has a definite terminus. Nothing came out the other side of her body.'
'Then what are you saying?' asked Rheinhardt. 'That the bullet was . . . removed?'
'No. The bullet has not been removed.'
'You're absolutely sure?'
'Absolutely.'
'Then how can you explain . . .'
Rheinhardt's words trailed off into silence. The electric-light system began to buzz, and the lights blinked out again for a second or two.
'I can't explain this,' said Mathias, flicking the flap of skin back like the lid of a jewellery box. 'Rheinhardt, you have brought me a physical impossibility. That is why it is my belief that I – or perhaps both of us – are the victims of a tedious prank. Goodnight, Inspector.'
Mathias wiped his bloody fingers on a white towel. He then walked towards the door, his metal-tipped shoes sparking on the flagstones as he dragged his heavy heels.
8
H EINRICH AND JUNO HöLDERLIN were seated in the spacious breakfast room of their Hietzing villa. Two housemaids were clearing the plates – and as they did so they exchanged surreptitious, knowing glances: the master and mistress of the household were clearly not very hungry. A slab of gleaming yellow butter had been scraped no more than a few times and the breadbasket was still piled high with freshly baked rolls. The bacon and boiled eggs had hardly been touched.
Hölderlin rang the table bell to summon the steward, who swiftly materialised with the coffee. He was immaculately turned out in white gloves and a brick-red coat with a black velvet collar.
'Thank you, Klaus,' said Juno, as the decorous manservant deposited a large silver pot and tray on the table.
'Cook will be preparing suckling pig and artichokes for supper – and wanted to know whether sir would like pineapple mousse or ice cream to follow.'
Hölderlin looked briefly at his wife.
'The mousse?'
'Yes,' said Juno. 'The mousse.'
The steward bowed, clicked his heels, and marched out of the room, pursued by the heavily burdened housemaids. Hölderlin picked up his copy of the Wiener Zeitung and turned to the financial pages.
'What does it say?' asked Juno nervously.
The polished dome of her husband's pate rose above the newspaper's horizon like the dawn sun.
'About Fräulein Löwenstein?'
Juno nodded, eyelids flickering rapidly.
'Nothing, of course. It's too early.'
Juno poured a cup of coffee for her husband, and then for herself.
'Who would do such a thing? It's such a terrible business,' she said quietly.
'No one would disagree with you there,' said Hölderlin, turning a page.
'I couldn't sleep.'
'Nor me.'
Juno looked around the room and made an impromptu inspection of her house plants. She thought that the aspidistra was looking a little withered, and made a mental note that it should be given extra water. Next to the aspidistra was a framed picture of her beloved sister, Sieglinde.
Sieglinde had died (or, as Juno preferred to say, had 'departed') in the autumn of the previous year after a long and painful illness. The doctors had done little to ease her suffering, and it had been with mixed feelings that Juno had buried her sister in the Zentralfriedhof. Juno had known that she would feel her sister's absence like the loss of a
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