Deadly Communion by Frank Tallis Read Free Book Online

accept my apologies for interrupting your busy day.’
    ‘Not at all,’ said the young man — oblivious of the inspector’s irony. ‘My pleasure.’
    Rheinhardt ventured further down the path. A scrawny cat jumped down from a window ledge and ran on ahead like a herald. When the inspector reached the final cottage on the right he rapped his knuckles on the door.
    A voice from inside shouted: ‘Come in!’
    The room that Rheinhardt entered was gloomy for an artist’s studio; however, the absence of natural light was compensated for by several oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. There was an iron stove, some chairs stacked in the corner, an easel, and a table cluttered with rags, brushes, bottles, bowls and paint pots. Next to the easel stood a man in his late fifties. He was wearing a blue kaftan with yellow flowers embroidered into the fabric. His grey hair was exceptionally thick and long, as was his beard.
    In front of the artist was a mattress covered with a white sheet on which two naked women were positioned. They were both very young and extraordinarily thin. One was lying on her front, the other on her back. The latter had underdeveloped breasts which barely rose from her chest. Her legs were slightly parted. She did not move or seek to cover herself when Rheinhardt entered. Indeed, her expression communicated only intense boredom. The other woman twisted her neck and glanced back over her shoulder but, like her companion, she seemed unperturbed by the arrival of a stranger.
    ‘Yes?’ said the artist.
    ‘Herr Rainmayr?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I am Inspector Rheinhardt — from the security office.’
    Rainmayr was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t bother to look up.
    ‘What’s it about?’ he said gruffly.
    ‘I am afraid I will need to speak to you in private.’
    Rainmayr sighed, made a swift head-to-toe assessment of Rheinhardt, then addressed the women: ‘All right, you two, get dressed. Go and have a coffee at Kirchmann’s. But make sure you get back within the hour.’
    The models stood up, exposing their bodies without a hint of self-consciousness, and stepped behind a screen over which their dresses and underwear had been thrown. A petticoat suddenly vanished.
    ‘Can I offer you something to drink, inspector?’
    ‘No, thank you.’
    ‘Schnapps?’
    ‘No, thank you,’ Rheinhardt repeated.
    ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’ Rainmayr began cleaning his brushes with a rag soaked in turpentine; a simple task, but one which seemedto require his complete and undivided attention. The sound of giggling and whispering came from behind the screen. Then a slap, the unmistakable whip-crack of an open palm landing squarely on buttocks, followed by a hiss and a curse so obscene that it might have made a stevedore blush.
    Rainmayr rolled his eyes and barked: ‘Lissi, Toni. That’s enough!’
    A number of unframed but completed canvases were lined up against the far wall. Rheinhardt moved closer to take a look. The floor was covered with charcoal dust. All the paintings were of young women in various states of undress who all shared the same emaciated physique. The largest and most arresting image showed an adolescent girl standing by a mirror, wearing only black stockings and a neck band. The stockings were not held up by garters and hung loosely off her legs. The girl’s right hand was held against her belly, the extended forefinger reaching towards the object of her attention (which Rainmayr had represented in the mirror with a vivid red daub amid the tangle of her pubic hair). She had large eyes, a full mouth, and her expression was provocative. It was a skilfully executed portrait, but Rheinhardt found the subject matter disturbing.
    ‘Are you interested in buying one, inspector?’ Rainmayr called out.
    ‘No.’
    The syllable was delivered with more vehemence than Rheinhardt had intended.
    Rainmayr shrugged.
    The two models came out from behind the screen. They were wearing calico dresses and