Marek Krajewski - Death in Breslau

“Four lemonades,” ordered Mock. “Two for this man.”

Four tall glasses sweated on the small table. The door closed behind the servant. Anwaldt swallowed the first lemonade almost in one gulp. The second, he savoured for longer.

“Please call the pseudo-schoolgirl and some other pretty eighteen-year-old. She’s to be a ‘virgin’. You know what I mean? Then please leave us alone with them.”

Madame smiled knowingly and retreated from the royal presence. A freshly made-up eye winked meaningfully. She was pleased that His Excellency was no longer angry.

The “schoolgirl” was accompanied by a red-haired angel with pale, hazel eyes and white, transparent skin. They did not let the girls sit, so they stood in the middle of the room, worried and helpless.

Anwaldt got up and, with his hands behind his back, paced the room. Suddenly, he stopped in front of “Erna”.

“Listen carefully to me. Today the bearded chauffeur is going to take you to see Maass. You’ll tell Maass that your friend from school wants to meet and please him. That she’s waiting for him in the hotel … Which hotel?” he asked Mock.

“The Golden Goose on Junkerstrasse 27/297.”

“You,” Anwaldt turned to the red-head, “really will be waiting for him there, in room 104. The porter will give you the key. You’re to play the innocent and surrender to Maass after a long time resisting. Madame will tell you what to do to make the client think he’s dealing with a virgin. Then you,” he pointed to “Erna”, “will join them. To put it briefly — you’re to keep Maass in that room for two hours. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if you don’t. That’s all. Any questions?”

“Yes,” the schoolgirl’s alto reverberated. “Will the chauffeur agree to take us there?”

“It’s all the same to him where you give yourself as long as it’s with Maass.”

“I’ve got a question, too,” the red-haired angel croaked. (Why do they all have such deep voices? Never mind. As it is, they’re more honest than Erna Stange with her melodious, quiet squeak.) “Where do I get a school uniform from?”

“Wear an ordinary dress. It’s summer and not all schools make their pupils wear uniforms. Apart from that, tell him that you were ashamed of coming to a tryst in a hotel wearing school uniform.”

Mock got up unhurriedly from behind the desk. “Any other questions?”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934

TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

They parked the Adler in front of the Police Praesidium. After entering the gloomy building where the walls soothed with their cellar-like coolness, they parted ways. Mock went to see Forstner, Anwaldt to the Evidence Archives. A quarter of an hour later, they met at the porter’s counter. Each held a package under his arm. They left the thick walls of the Praesidium regretfully and choked as they breathed in the heat of the street. The police photographer, Helmut Ehlers, whose enormous bald head seemed to reflect the sun’s rays, waited beside the car. All three got in; Anwaldt drove. First, they went to Deutschmann’s tobacco shop on Schweidnitzer Strasse, where Mock bought his favourite cigars, and then turned back. They passed St Dorothy’s Church, the Hotel Monopol, the Municipal Theatre, Wertheim’s Department Store and turned right into Tauentzienstrasse. After about twenty yards, they stopped. Kurt Smolorz emerged from the shadowy gate and approached the car. He got in next to Ehlers and said:

“She’s been with him for five minutes already. Kopperlingk’s chauffeur is waiting for her over there,” he waved at the chauffeur who was leaning against the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette. Fanning himself with his somewhat too small, stiff cap, he was clearly suffocating in his dark livery with its golden buttons carrying the Baron’s monogram. After a while, on a pavement as hot as an oven, Maass appeared — plainly excited — with the schoolgirl attached to his side. An elderly lady, walking past, spat with disgust. They got into the Mercedes. The chauffeur did not look in the least surprised. The engine growled. A moment later, the elegant rear of the limousine disappeared from sight.

“Gentlemen,” Mock said quietly. “We’ve got two hours. And let Maass enjoy himself a bit at the end. Soon he’ll be with us …”

They got out and, with relief, hid in the shade of the gate. The short caretaker blocked their way and asked, a little frightened:

“Who have you come to see?”

Mock, Ehlers and Smolorz paid him no heed. Anwaldt pushed him against the wall and, with one hand, forcefully squashed his unshaven cheeks. The caretaker’s lips rolled into a frightened snout.

“We’re from the police, but you haven’t seen us. Understand, or do you want trouble?”

The caretaker nodded to show he understood and scurried into the depths of the yard. Anwaldt barely managed to climb to the first floor then pressed the brass doorknob. It gave way. Although his conversation with the caretaker and his ascent had taken no more than two minutes, both policemen and the photographer had not only silently entered the apartment, but they had also begun a methodical, detailed search. Anwaldt joined them. Wearing gloves, they picked up and examined every object, replacing it exactly where they had found it. After an hour, they met in Maass’ study which had been searched by Mock.

“Sit down,” Mock indicated the chairs spread out around a small circular table. “You’ve searched the kitchen, bathroom and living-room, have you? Good work. Find anything interesting? That’s what I thought. There is, however, one interesting thing here … This notebook. Ehlers, to work!”

The photographer unpacked his equipment, stood a vertical, portable tripod on the desk and fixed a Zeiss camera to it. On the top of the desk, he spread the rough-book found by Mock then held it in place with a pane of glass. He pressed the cable release. The flashlight shot once. The title page: “ Die Chronik von Ibn Sahim . Ubersetzt von Dr Georg Maass” †was fixed on photographic film. The flash clicked and went off another fifteen times until all the pages covered in the even, small handwriting had been photographed. Mock glanced at his watch and said:

“My dear gentlemen, we’ve managed on time. Ehlers, when can you have the photographs ready?”

“At five.”

“Anwaldt will collect them from you then. Only him, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.”

Smolorz locked the door as easily as he had opened it. Anwaldt glanced through the stained-glass window and, in its coloured glow, made out the caretaker sweeping the yard and anxiously looking around at the windows. It was probable that he did not know which apartment they had broken into. After a few seconds, they were in the car, Mock driving. They made their way along Agnesstrasse to the Police Praesidium where Ehlers and Smolorz got out. Mock and Anwaldt turned into Schweidnitzer Strasse, and then into Zwinger Platz and, passing the coffee-roasting house and merchants’ club, drove into busy Schuhbrucke. They passed the Petersdorff and the Barasch Brothers’ Department Stores — the latter crowned with a glass globe — then left behind them the Museum of Palaeontology and the former Police Praesidium. They reached the Oder. Next to St Maciej’s Secondary School, they turned right and soon found themselves at Dominsel. Passing the medieval cathedral and the red Georgianum Seminary building, they made their way on to Adalbertstrasse. A moment later, the bellboy of the Lessing Restaurant was bowing from the waist before them.

A pleasant coolness dominated the room, which, at first, allowed them to breathe freely again, then produced a calm sleepiness. Anwaldt closed his eyes. He thought he was being rocked by gentle waves. The clatter of cutlery. Mock attacked the succulent, pink salmon swimming in horseradish sauce, with two forks. He cast an amused eye on the dozing Anwaldt.