Authors: Marek Krajewski
Nor could he stifle his tears now. His wife muttered something in her sleep. Mock opened the window and turned his burning face to the rain.
Marietta von der Malten had been lame too and he had known her since she was a child.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME MAY 13TH, 1933
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
On Saturdays, Mock would arrive at the Police Praesidium at ten in the morning. The porters, couriers and detectives would glance meaningfully at each other as, faintly smiling and heavy with sleep, the Counsellor would reply to their greetings, leaving behind him a waft of expensive eau de cologne from Welzel. But this Saturday he did not remind anyone of that self-satisfied policeman, their mild and understanding superior. He came into the building as early as eight, slamming the door behind him. He snapped open his umbrella several times, spraying droplets of rain all around. Without replying either to the porter’s or to the sleepy courier’s “Good morning, sir”, he took the stairs at the double, caught the tip of his shoe and all but fell. Porter Handke could not believe his ears – for the first time in his experience, he heard a ripe curse from Mock’s lips.
“Oh, the Counsellor’s ill-disposed today,” he smiled to Bender, the courier.
Mock, meantime, had entered his office, sat behind his desk, and lit a cigar. His unseeing eyes fixed on a glazed brick wall. Although aware that he was still wearing his coat and hat, he did not move. After some minutes, a knock echoed on the door and Forstner came in.
“Everybody’s to be here in an hour.”
“They are here already.”
The Counsellor looked at his assistant with cool kindliness for the first time.
“Forstner, please arrange for me to talk to Professor Andreae from the
university over the telephone. And please phone Baron Olivier von der Malten’s residence and ask what time the Baron would be willing to see me. Briefing here in five minutes.”
It seemed to Mock that Forstner clicked his heels as he left.
The Detectives and Inspectors, titled Assistants, Secretaries and Criminal Sergeants, looked at their unshaven boss and the pale Forstner with no surprise. They knew that the latter’s stomach upset was in no way due to over-indulging in his favorite dish of black pudding and onions.
“Gentlemen, you’re to put aside all other cases currently in hand.” Mock spoke loudly and clearly. “We are to use all means, lawful and unlawful, to find the murderer or murderers. You may use violence and you may use blackmail. I shall try to make all secret files accessible to you. Do not skimp on informers.
“Now to hard facts. Hanslik and Burck, you are to question all animal handlers, starting with suppliers of the Zoological Gardens and ending with those selling parrots and goldfish. I expect a report on Tuesday morning. Smolorz, you’ll draw up a list of all private menageries in Breslau and the neighbouring regions, also a list of eccentrics who sleep with anacondas. Then you will question them all. Forstner will help you. Report on Tuesday. Helm and Friedrich, you will look through the files of all perverts and rapists in our records since the end of the war. Pay close attention to animal lovers and those who have so much as dabbled in Eastern languages. Report Monday evening. Reinhardt, you will pick twenty men, visit every brothel and question as many whores as you can. You are to ask them about any sadistic clients and those who, during orgasm, quote the Kama Sutra. Report Tuesday. Kleinfeld and Krank, your task is not easy. You are to find out who was the last to see these unfortunate victims alive. Partial reports daily at three. Gentlemen, tomorrow, Sunday, is not a day of rest.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME MAY 13TH, 1933
ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Professor Andreae was stubborn. He stated categorically that he could only decipher the original text on the wallpaper itself; he did not want to hear about photographs or even the most perfect hand-written copies. Mock, who because of his – admittedly uncompleted – philological studies had great respect for manuscripts, conceded. He replaced the receiver and sent Forstner to bring the roll of fabric with mysterious verses on it from the evidence storeroom while he made his way to the Chief of the Criminal Department, Doctor Heinrich Mühlhaus, and presented him with his plan of action. The Criminal Director did not comment, did not praise, did not criticize, made no suggestion of his own. He gave the impression of a grandfather listening with an indulgent smile to the fantastical imaginings of his grandson. He smoothed his long, greyish beard, adjusted his pince-nez, puffed at his pipe and frequently closed his eyes. Mock tried to preserve this interesting image of his superior in his memory.
“Don’t go to sleep on me, please, young man,” Mühlhaus barked at him. “I know you’re tired.”
He drummed his yellow fingers on the desk: the grandfather reprimanding his grandson.
“You have to find the murderer, Eberhard. Do you know what will happen if you don’t? I’m retiring in a month. And you? Instead of taking my place, which might well happen, you will be made commander of the Railway Protection Office in Silesian Manure, for example, or be sent to guard the fishponds near Lubin, Commander of the local Fisheries Police. You know von der Malten. If you don’t find the murderer, he’ll take his revenge. And he’s got a great deal of influence still. Oh, I nearly forgot … watch Forstner. Thanks to him the Gestapo knows every step we take.”
Mock thanked him for the counsel and went to his office. He glanced
at the town moat bordered by old chestnut trees and the sun-drenched Schlossplatz where the military orchestra was marching in rehearsal for tomorrow’s Spring Celebrations. The sunlight encircled Mock’s head with an amber halo. He closed his eyes and again saw the shunned, crippled girl beside the river. He also saw the steward’s wife approaching from afar – the object of his youthful desires.
The ringing of the phone brought him back to the Police Praesidium. He ran his fingers through his slightly greasy hair and picked up the receiver. It was Kleinfeld.
“Sir, the last person to see the victims alive was the waiter Moses Hirschberg. We’ve questioned him. He brought coffee to the ladies in the saloon car at midnight.”
“Where was the train at the time?”
“Between Liegnitz and Breslau, past Maltsch.”
“Did the train stop anywhere between Maltsch and Breslau?”
“No. It would only have waited for the green light in Breslau, just before the station.”
“Thank you, Kleinfeld. Check this Hirschberg most carefully – see whether we’ve got anything on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
The telephone rang a second time.
“Counsellor, sir,” Forstner’s baritone resounded, “Professor Andreae recognized the alphabet as being ancient Syrian. We’ll have the translation on Tuesday.”
The telephone rang for the third time.
“Baron von der Malten’s residence. The Baron expects you as soon as possible.”
Mock discarded his first instinct – which was to give the impudent major-domo a dressing down – and assured him that he would be there shortly. He told Forstner, who had just returned from the university, to
drive him to Eichen-Allee 13, where the Baron lived. The residence was besieged by journalists who, recognizing the Adler, ran towards the policemen. They avoided them without a word and, let in by the guard, entered von der Malten’s domain. They were greeted in the hall by the butler Matthias.
“The Baron wishes to see only the Counsellor.”
Forstner could not conceal his disappointment; Mock smiled to himself.
The Baron’s study was adorned with prints full of occult symbolism. Esoteric knowledge was also the subject of numerous volumes identically bound in maroon leather. The sun, barely seeping in through the thick, green curtains, illuminated four porcelain elephants carrying a globe on their backs. In the semi-darkness shone a silver model of celestial bodies with Earth at their centre. Olivier von der Malten’s voice, coming from the games room next to the library, distracted Mock from geocentric matters.
“You have no children, Eberhard, so spare yourself the condolences. Forgive this form of conversing – through the door. I don’t wish you to look at me. You knew Marietta since she was a child …”
He broke off, and Mock thought he heard suppressed sobs. A moment later, the Baron’s somewhat altered voice made itself heard again.
“Light yourself a cigar and listen carefully. First and foremost, get rid of those scribblers outside my door. Second, send for Doctor Georg Maass from Königsberg. He is as excellent a specialist on matters occult as he is on Eastern languages. He will help you find the perpetrators of this ritualistic murder … Yes, ritualistic. Your ears do not deceive you, Eberhard. Third, if you do find the murderer, hand him over to me. Such is my advice, my request or, if you prefer, my ultimatum. That is all. Smoke your cigar in peace. Goodbye.”
The Counsellor did not say a word. He had known von der Malten
since his student days and knew that any attempt at a discussion would be futile. The Baron listened only to himself; to others he issued instructions. Counsellor Eberhard Mock had long lost the habit of listening to orders because, after all, it was hard to describe the kind-hearted grumpiness of his chief, Mühlhaus, as such. Besides, Mock was not in a position to refuse – if it were not for Olivier von der Malten, he would not have earned the title of Criminal Counsellor.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME MAY 13TH, 1933
ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Mock gave Forstner instructions regarding the journalists and Doctor Maass, while he himself summoned Kleinfeld.
“Do we have anything on this Hirschberg?”
“Nothing.”
“Bring him to me for questioning. At two.”
He felt himself losing the self-control for which he was renowned. It seemed to him that he had sand in his eyes; his swollen tongue was covered with a sour coating of nicotine; his breathing was loud and his shirt clung to him with sweat. He waved down a taxicab and ordered to be taken to the university.
Professor Andreae had just finished his lecture on the history of the Near East. Mock walked up to him and introduced himself. The professor peered at the unshaven policeman suspiciously and invited him into his office.
“Professor, you’ve been lecturing at our university for thirty years now. I myself had the pleasure of listening to you when I studied classical philology years ago … But among your students there were also some who dedicated themselves entirely to Oriental Studies. Can you, perhaps, remember any who may have behaved strangely, revealed any aberrations, perversions …?”
Andreae was a short, shrivelled old man with short legs and a long torso. He sat now in his enormous armchair, circling his feet in their little laced shoes. Mock half-closed his eyes and smiled to himself. He had already built a simple caricature of the professor in his mind: two vertical lines, the nose and goatee; three horizontal lines, the eyes and lips.
“The sex lives of my Oriental Studies students,” – the line of Andreae’s lips became even thinner – “because, as you so aptly put it, ‘there were also some’, don’t interest me any more than does your own …”
The Criminal Counsellor imagined the bell on the fire-engine going down Ursulinenstrasse just then, swung within his chest. He rose and approached the professor’s desk. Pressing his wrists hard against the back of the armchair he drew his face closer to the goatee.
“Listen here, you old goat, maybe you’re the one who killed the girl. Did you chase her in your turban, as is your pleasure, you grotesque dwarf? Did you slash her velvet stomach with a double-edged dagger?” He moved away from the professor and sat down in his chair again. He ran his fingers through his damp hair.
“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to give this text to someone else for their expert opinion. On the other hand, what
were
you doing on Friday night between eleven and one? Please – don’t tell me. I know. But do you want the Dean of the Philology Department or your students to find out? There are, after all, ‘also some’ so inclined.”
Andreae smiled.
“Fortunately there are. Counsellor, I’ll translate this text as best I can. Besides, I have just remembered one student who exhibited – as you described it – certain aberrations. Baron Wilhelm von Köpperlingk.”
“I don’t thank you.” Mock donned his hat.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME MAY 13TH, 1933
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Kleinfeld was waiting for him in the Police Praesidium with Moses Hirschberg, a not so tall, hunched, dark-haired man of about forty. He repeated what the Counsellor already knew from Kleinfeld’s report.
“Tell me, Hirschberg, where did you work before your present employment?”
The waiter had suffered from some inflammation in his childhood which had left him with a tic: when he spoke, the right corner of his mouth was pulled a little upwards which made it look as if he were smiling idiotically or scornfully. Reciting a dozen or so moth-eaten establishments, Hirschberg did not stop smirking. The bell began to swing in Mock’s chest again. He approached the questioned man and struck him with his open palm.
“Happy are you, Jew? Maybe it’s you who wrote that drivel in your vile language?”
Hirschberg hid his face in his hands. The Criminal Secretary, Heinz Kleinfeld, one of the best policemen in the Criminal Department, had a father who was a rabbi. He stood, now, staring at the floor. Mock swallowed and gestured “take him away”. His palm was sore. He had hit the man a little too hard.
He found his men in the briefing room. Looking at them, he gathered that he would not be hearing any valuable revelation from any of them. Hanslik and Burck had questioned twelve dealers in animals and none of them had heard of scorpions being sold. Smolorz had not come across a trace of a private menagerie, but he had acquired some interesting information. The owner of a shop selling rodents and snakes had vouchsafed that one of his regular clients, a stout, bearded man, bought poisonous reptiles and lizards. Unfortunately, the shopkeeper could not say any more about the man. Reinhardt and his men had questioned at least fifty
brothel residents. One of them had stated that she knew a professor who liked to pretend he was quartering her with a sword while shouting in some foreign language. The policemen were surprised that this information seemed to make no impression on their Chief. Thanks to statements made by Detective Reinhardt’s prostitutes, they drew up a list of fifteen sadists and fetishists careless enough to invite “little girls” into their own apartments. Seven of these were not at home and eight had cast-iron alibis: indignant wives, every one of whom had confirmed that their uglier halves had spent the whole of the previous night in the marital bedchamber.