The End of the World in Breslau (29 page)

Mock did not even attempt to remember the title of the book. He had no intention of exploiting his memory unnecessarily. He approached Hartner’s desk and dialled the number of the Police Praesidium, where the telephonist connected him to Ehlers. Some time elapsed before Ehlers found Gelfrert’s file on Mock’s table. He quickly satisfied his boss’ curi-osity. Without replacing the receiver, Mock glanced at the book Hartner was studying and read its title out loud.

“
Antiquitates Silesiacae
by Barthesius?”

“That’s it. That’s the book,” he heard Ehlers say. “And Counsellor, I’ve found the files from the Vice Department on your desk, the ones that relate to religious sects …”

“Bring them to me with your report.” Mock replaced the receiver and smiled at Hartner. “If that Domagalla was as quick at bridge …”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 19TH, 1927 TEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

Mock finished summing up the results of his five-hour search. Hartner poured some Kupferhammer sour cherry schnapps into two large glasses and handed one to Mock.

“You were right. Let’s drink to the knowledge we’ve acquired.”

“We know a good deal about the crimes that charlatan talks about in his sermons.” Mock went to the window and stared out at the Oder’s dark mass. He thought he could hear ice-floats grating against the buttresses of Sandbrücke. “We do not, however, know how to deal with him. Whether to lock him up or wait for him to make a move. I’m one hundred per cent sure our Russian prince has an unshakeable alibi. But I’m not sure about many of the lesser issues. For example, how can the Municipal
Library possibly loan eighteenth-century publications like the
Antiquitates Silesiacae
to ordinary readers …”

“I’m sorry!” shouted Hartner and poured the contents of his glass into his empty stomach. “I forgot to tell you … You were engrossed in reading your subordinates’ reports when caretaker Maron brought me a message given to him by Theodor Stein’s messenger from the Municipal Library. Director Stein explained that some readers representing an institution are allowed to borrow old publications if they leave a large deposit.”

“That’s nice,” muttered Mock. “But what deposit could an alcoholic like Gelfrert afford? What institution did he represent?”

“Director Stein has answered the second question. Gelfrert was Secretary of the Society of Devotees of the Silesian Fatherland.”

“It’s good of Director Stein to look into that for us.”

“Not only did he look into it.” Hartner, worked up, poured yet another glass down his throat. “He also sent me a list of members belonging to that society – he is, as it happens, its president – and an extract from the Register of Loans …”

“Did he indeed? I’m listening, Doctor. Please go on …”

“It looks as if eight readers borrowed Barthesius’ work before Gelfrert. They all have unusual names …”

“In what way are they unusual?”

“In that they’re the names of historical figures.”

“I’d be glad if you’d tell me them.”

“My dear Counsellor, you can even see their faces. They all appear in the Leopold Lecture Theatre at our alma mater …”

“I don’t understand,” Mock rotated his glass and observed the drops of schnapps trickling down the curved sides. “I’m rather unwell today, rather sad, rather tired … Please speak clearly.”

“Some reader or readers borrowed Barthesius’
Antiquitates Silesiacae
to browse through in the reading room, and instead of entering their own
names in the register, wrote down the names of eminent scholars and benefactors of our university whose portraits can be found in the Leopold Lecture Theatre. Unless they really were the names of the readers … Unless Franz Wentzl, Peter Canisius, Johann Carmer and Carl von Hoym visited the Municipal Library’s reading room last year …” Hartner joined Mock at the window and stared for a minute at the small number of black birds perched on a fast-moving ice ?oe. “You’ll have a lot to report to President of Police Kleibömer if Mühlhaus has managed to arrange a meeting for you. Come on, let’s drink to the end of a good day – we’ve managed to settle so much …”

“I think the two of us are going to report this to the Mayor. We’ve finally got the swine,” Mock said quietly, then shook the Director’s hand and, without touching his schnapps, left the study.

BRESLAU, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20TH, 1927 EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Mock’s servants, Adalbert Goczoll and his wife Marta, were dressed in their Sunday best in order to celebrate – as Adalbert told Mock when he woke him – their employer’s happy return to health. The old butler had squeezed into a somewhat worn tailcoat and pulled on a pair of gloves, while his wife had wrapped herself in a dozen Silesian aprons. They served breakfast in silence and Mock, irritable from lack of sleep, also remained silent as he filled his protesting belly with apple strudel. Marta was delighted with her master’s appetite, Adalbert with his own pocket, which now contained their wages for the month, and Mock with the ascetic look of the apartment, which the day before had been stripped of anything that might remind him of Sophie. The Counsellor swallowed his last sips of coffee and went into the hall. He put on his ankle boots using an amber shoehorn, took his hat and coat from Adalbert, and stood in
front of the mirror for a long while, pressing and smoothing the brim of his hat to give it its rightful appearance. Under his arm he slipped a briefcase he had borrowed from his servant, now filled with documents and a cake that Marta had made, and left the apartment, passing a huge sack that contained, amongst other items, a briefcase given to him once by Sophie. A sledge ordered by Adalbert was already waiting outside the tenement, its cabby talking to a newspaper vendor who was stamping his hole-ridden shoes on the icy pavement. Beneath the crumpled peak of his cap, the boy’s face was green and pale. Mock took a copy of the
Breslauer Neueste Nachrichten
and in return gave him a five-mark coin and Marta’s cake. Brushing off the boy’s thanks, he climbed into the sledge and collapsed onto the hard seat. The piercing pain in his neck reminded him momentarily of the existence of deceitful wives, and of caretakers and surgeons who save lives. The coachman smoothed his impressive whiskers and cracked his whip as vigorously as if he wanted to chase away all the sorrows of the world. Hidden by his newspaper, Mock looked for any mention of crimes, the city’s history and Russian aristocrats, instead of which he found mention of the Sepulchrum Mundi meeting planned for that day, negotiations concerning mutual trade between Germany and Poland, and hunger in China. The coachman disturbed him just as he was jotting down the details of von Orloff’s lecture. They had stopped outside Palais Hatzfeld, where the headquarters of Regierungsbezirk Schlesien were located. Mock reached into his pocket, handed the cabby the same amount as he had given the newspaper boy a quarter of an hour earlier, and waited for his change. As he handed over the coins, sticky with grease, the cabby reproached Mock from between his broken teeth:

“That boy, you gave him such a good tip … It’s cold, sir, and I’m a long way from home …”

Overcoming his disgust, the Counsellor leaned towards the cabby and whispered:

“That boy is bound to drink it all away, and you, would you invest it in anything?”

“In what, sir?” the walrus whiskers waggled.

“A new pair of stockings and garters for your daughter,” Mock yelled back through the snow as he entered the palace.

Mühlhaus was standing in the lobby and, seeing Mock, glanced at his watch.

“You’re punctual,” he said by way of a greeting. “And what about that Hartner of yours?”

“He’s usually late in a calculated and consistent manner. Always five minutes. But today he’s going to be on time.”

They fell silent. They both knew that the leader of the Silesian provincial government, von Schroetter, would have more understanding for Geissen’s weaknesses than for Leo Hartner’s aristocratic lack of punctuality. But Mock was right. Neither Hartner nor von Schroetter’s secretary were late. The sleek official descended to the lobby and ceremoniously invited them up to the government leader’s office. They passed busy employees – agitated secretaries and personages of greater or lesser importance, searching vainly for happiness in the Silesian provincial capital. Von Schroetter’s office was arranged with Danzig furniture. The government leader greeted them no less ceremoniously than his assistant and, justifying himself with a sitting of the Silesian Landtag, requested that they come to the point as quickly as possible. Mühlhaus took this to heart and asked Mock to present the “calendar murderer” case.

“Government Leader, sir.” Mock omitted the title “Excellency”. “There is a murderer at work in our city who leaves pages from a calendar at the crime scenes, and a leader of a sect, a certain Alexei von Orloff, who heralds the approach of the end of the world. The latter supports his assertions with various predictions, according to which the end of the
world is preceded by terrible crimes. These crimes are a repetition of crimes committed far back in time – people are being murdered in similar circumstances. Three murders – three examples of age-old crimes …”

Government Leader von Schroetter opened a round box from which protruded the tips of cigars. They each lit one, apart from Mühlhaus.

“Von Orloff provides proof of his theory in his lectures.” Mock blew a smoke ring. “He claims that three murders from long ago have been replicated recently. All the details he provides have been noted by my men … Now I’m going to ask our expert, Doctor Leo Hartner, to carry on for me. I have a sore throat and can’t talk for very long …”

“Excellency,” Hartner began, glancing at Mock’s notes. “Gentlemen. The first case recounted by von Orloff is that of the ‘sinner’s bell’. You’ve heard of it?” Even though every child in Germany was acquainted with the story, Hartner would not allow anyone to stop his flow. “The story’s been told by Wilhelm Müller in his famous poem ‘
Der Glockenguss zu Breslau
’.† The apprentice to a certain bell founder in fourteenth-century Breslau disobeyed his master and made a cast of a bell for the cathedral of Maria Magdalena without following his instructions. The master was so infuriated that he killed his apprentice …”

“Von Orloff,” Mock broke in, “states that according to the most recent historical research, the apprentice was walled in alive by the bell founder in the Griffins tenement on Ring. This happened on September 12th,” he glanced at Reinert’s notes, “in 1342. And now let us return to the present. On November 28th, in the Griffins tenement, we found the body of Emil Gelfrert, a musician who worked at the Concert Hall. He was walled in alive. To his waistcoat was pinned a page from a calendar dated September 12th, 1927. The police pathologist, Doctor Lasarius, has confirmed that Gelfrert’s death took place some time in August or September. In the fourteenth century, a bell founder’s apprentice – that is,
someone who listens to and analyses the sound of a bell – and a few months ago, someone who works with sound.”

† ‘The Casting of the Bell in Breslau’.

“And what about Councillor Geissen?” choked von Schroetter.

“Let us proceed chronologically.” Mock ignored the question. “One day later, on November 29th, we found the quartered body of an unemployed man, Berthold Honnefelder. On the table lay a calendar with the date of November 17th marked. We didn’t have to ask Doctor Lasarius when that death occurred …”

“This happened at Taschenstrasse 23–24.” Hartner adored lecturing and the Government Leader was a most appreciative listener, since he was bursting with curiosity. “In 1546, in more or less the same place, a certain boltsmith known as Tromba was quartered just where the town fortifications used to be, beyond Ohlauer Tor. We know neither the perpetrator nor the motive. I discovered all this in Barthesius’ work,
Antiquitates Silesiacae
. The worst thing is that the murderer seems to be playing games with us. Honnefelder lived at the house of the Golden Bell-Cast …”

A dreadful silence descended.

“A boltsmith then – and now an unemployed locksmith, Berthold Honnefelder,” Mock broke the silence, somewhat irritated by the ambitions of Doctor Hartner, who was stepping boldly into police territory. “The third victim was known to you, sir, and you are aware of the circumstances of that murder. Councillor Geissen and a prostitute, Rosemarie Bombosch, were murdered in exactly the same way as the Austrian Emperor Albert the Second’s chamberlain nearly five hundred years ago. The Emperor had chosen Breslau as his base for expeditions against the Polish King, Kazimierz Jagiellończyk, in his battle for the Czech throne. His chamberlain …”

“ … went, according to Barthesius,” Hartner interrupted Mock, considering the past to be his domain, “on December 9th to a certain
brothel in Nicolaivorstadt, where he was killed and robbed. The prostitute he was with didn’t survive either. Unfortunately, Barthesius gives no details of the crime …”

“On December 9th,” concluded Mock, “Councillor Geissen was murdered in the arms of a prostitute. This was at Burgfeld 4, that is, in Nicolaivorstadt.”

At these last words, the Government Leader flushed and reached for the case containing his fountain pen. He opened and closed the case several times, and his visitors caught a glimpse of a dedication engraved on it. The flush spread slowly across von Schroetter’s bald head and grew in intensity.