Marek Krajewski: Death in Breslau

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 Muhlhaus, 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,” Muhlhaus 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 Konigsberg. 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, Muhlhaus, 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