Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

Buback was sure that in the given instance, Meckerle would not object. He could extend a helping hand to Beran and his men that cost nothing and might prove fruitful. The Prague Gestapo supervisor had seen the need for a change of priorities last fall, and now reined in his subordinates as zealously as he had earlier applied the spurs. The girl’s father was just a pawn in the game, and Buback, while respecting its rules, could spare the reincarnation of his Hilde any further fear and misfortune.

Then his musings were cut short. As it turned out, the suspect Jakub Malatínský, despite the order from Brno, was not there, and no one had any idea where he might be. Before Buback was forced to dress down the officers, Morava translated for him that the summons could not have reached him; Malatínský had taken two days’ leave earlier.

“So what are you waiting for?” Buback snarled at the local policeman, who turned white as a sheet. “Send for him, have him tracked down, whatever, but don’t just stand there like God’s gift to mankind. I want to be in Prague tonight.”

Morava cautiously intervened.

“Could it wait half an hour?”

“Why?” he barked in irritation.

“He should come of his own accord. His shift starts at two.”

Is he trying to show me up in public? Buback wondered, but when he looked into those eyes again, even his professionally suspicious glare could find no hint of intrigue. He assented, but as punishment haughtily declined their offer to visit the renowned castle wine cellar. While his guide diligently filled lined pages with facts about the suspect, he continued his pretense of not understanding Czech and stubbornly fixed his sight on a flock of circling crows outside who were choosing a suitable tree to land in.

Malatínský was hauled in by a sweat-drenched police officer at two minutes after two. A giant in linen clothes and felt boots, the suspect barely fit under the door frame. Buback inadvertently thought of Meckerle but immediately dismissed the comparison. Malatínský was a sheaf of sinew and muscle, not a sack of meat. He had a nice, well-proportioned, and sturdy face beneath a black mane without a single gray hair. As he walked he thrust his knees and hips forward, almost like a ballerina, but one with a wild animal’s strength.

Buback caught the deferential glance of the assistant detective and signaled him to start. The Czech asked the cellar workers to leave and ordered the suspect to sit down. This too Malatínský did in a surprisingly refined manner, crossing his legs at the knee and clasping his hands in his lap. A native of this mixed border region, he offered to speak German with them. His accent was strong, but his vocabulary was adequate to the task.

After the usual preliminaries, where Morava verified his identity and instructed him, the giant got the same question they had put to Jurajda that morning in Brno. Where had he been on February fourteenth and who could confirm it?

“I don’t like to write down where I go.” The questioned man grinned.

“Then you’ll just have to remember.”

“Why is it so important?”

The kid went right to the point, and Buback knew he would have done the same in Morava’s place.

“In 1929 you were convicted of a brutal murder. After your release, you were investigated in the fall of 1938 in connection with another one; the investigation was never completed. We are looking for the person who murdered a woman in Prague on February fourteenth of this year in a very similar fashion.”

Yes, Buback approved; keep going, if he’s the murderer, he knows exactly why we’re here and will give himself away. Instead, the vintner laughed as if he had just heard a good joke.

“And why look for him here?”

“The best way to start an investigation is to look in places you know,” Buback’s famulus said just as casually. “Sometimes it’s the best way to finish one as well. Was it you?”

“No,” the vintner responded, still with a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m done with crazy stunts like that. If I’d given her a few good slaps and tossed her rags out on the street behind her, I could have saved myself ten years of life and not missed out on a hundred better women. Except I was twenty, and a complete fool.”

“There was nothing crazy about the way you did it,” the kid continued in a conversational tone. “The jury called it a repulsive display of extreme sadism. The prosecutor asked for life.”

“But the court gave me fifteen years; fortunately they got the point. It was my first woman, you see; I was terribly jealous. I got over it in prison once and for all.”

“Where were you on February fourteenth?”

“What day was it?”

“Wednesday.”

“At work, I guess.”

“No you weren’t,” Morava shot back. “We already know you took two days’ vacation. Why?”

“I was probably exhausted. We’d spent a week cleaning the big barrels.”

“So you often take Vácations.”

“I take them when I want to and when I can. Don’t you?”

“And how do you spend them? Today, for instance. You can’t have forgotten that already?”

Malatínský laughed until his pearly white teeth flashed.

“No, that I remember.”

Not a single filling, Buback noticed enviously. It made the vintner even more irritating. If one of Meckerle’s boxers got his hands on you…, he thought, and was immediately ashamed: I’m becoming just like them!

“Mr. Malatínský,” his companion continued in a suddenly solemn tone, “I should warn you: the victim was a citizen of the Third Reich. This is why Chief Inspector Buback from the Prague Gestapo is overseeing this investigation. If you don’t give me proof of your innocence, the Germans will be the next to ask. It’s your choice.”

He’s reading my mind, Buback thought with amazement, and shot Malatínský an icy glare he had perfected. The man opposite them stopped laughing.

“It really wasn’t me. I have the same alibi for February as for yesterday. But it’ll cost me my job.. ”

A widening crack appeared in the suspect’s self-confidence. The interrogator turned to the local keeper of the peace.

“Could you wait outside for a minute?”

The policeman, who had been following the interrogation with evident interest, misunderstood what Morava meant. Grabbing Malatínský by the elbow, he began to lead him out. When he heard the request a second time, he blushed like a scolded schoolboy and made a quick exit. Only then did the youngster continue, now in an almost affable manner.

“We don’t want to make trouble for innocent people. If your alibi holds up, we’ll keep it to ourselves.”

“ I was in Brno.”

“ What were you doing there?”

“ Fucking,” the man said in his native language. “ I don’t know how to say it in German.”

Buback enjoyed watching the Czech’s discomfort as he translated. The German had been the first in his class to know that word.

“ You understand,“ —Morava turned to Malatínský again—“ that we’ll have to confirm it.”

“ Yes. That’s the problem.”

“ Is the lady married?”

“ Which one?”

“ What do you mean, which one?”

“ Do you mean the one in February or the one now?”

“ We’re talking about February now!”

“ Yes, okay… but could you ask her when the other one isn’t around?”

“ Why should she be…?”

“ They’re mother and daughter.”

The assistant detective suddenly looked like an openmouthed teenager, and Buback had the impression that their suspect was looking for some masculine understanding. It was time to jump in.

“ Which one was it in February?”

“ The mother.”