Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

He made his point by banging both fists down, shaking the solidly built desk. Then he relaxed into his armchair again and continued in an almost casual tone.

“The imperial minister and an overwhelming majority of those present at the following session decided to interpret Plan Nero (that’s what someone called it) as a grave warning from the Führer, meant to galvanize the nation’s heroic resistance. They resolved unanimously to carry out the order — what else could they decide, of course — but to modify its goals. The western imperial territories, whose loss is inevitable, will be handed over with minimal damages, so they can become the initial base for our people after the battles end. All forces and materials will be withdrawn to strategic areas of the center, where the new weapon will be launched. This territory will be defended to the last man, and in tactical retreats will be destroyed as the Führer requests. Because most of this area is within the Protectorate, the non-German nation and its economic base must be wiped out. Now do you see?”

“Yes,” he said finally. “But I still don’t understand what my role is.”

“What you saw in Moravia was the beginning of this operation: one of the largest military movements of all time. Within a month it will be a stronghold capable of repulsing any attack. The eastern line alone will consist of two million soldiers; its nucleus will be the military command of General Field Marshal Schörner. I want to rule out in advance any possibility of internal resistance. And that’s where you come in, Buback. We both know that only the Czech police are capable of organizing that sort of activity. We could, of course, take their light weapons away, but that would have a drastic effect on public order, again to our disadvantage. Those few thousand policemen know from experience how to fight and lead; each one of them could organize an attack on a smaller German unit and teach a hundred people how to fire a weapon. We’d have to round them up and possibly shoot them as a precaution, but in doing so we might set a Warsaw ghetto effect in motion — an uprising out of sheer despair. So, Buback, let Baroness von Pommeren continue to be a German foot in the Czech door, and you can be our Trojan horse. Keep your eyes and ears open and don’t be afraid to ask for whatever help you need.”

Immediately the images of apocalypse gave way to the memory of a shy girlish face.

Buback said, “I need the cooperation of the department dealing with black-market meat sales. The father of Beran’s secretary has been imprisoned for an alleged violation of these rules. Leniency on our side would greatly simplify my job.”

“I’ll have Hinterpichler get in touch with you.”

Buback felt tremendously relieved. His reaction amazed him. I must be in love with her, he admitted to himself finally; my God, I must really be… He stood up and said good-bye, hoping to leave before Meckerle got annoyed, but surprisingly the colonel was in no hurry to let him go. He scratched his shaved chin until it reddened.

“And… Buback…,” he spoke hesitantly, “do you think you could do me a personal favor?”

Buback had never been taken into Meckerle’s confidence this way; unprepared, he stood motionless, with no idea how to react.

“But of course, StandartenFührer,” he managed to squeeze out just in time.

“There’s a ball at German House today; you must know about it.”

“No….”

“It’s not a real ball; they’re forbidden till after the victory and we know and respect that. It’s more like a sixth anniversary celebration of our occupation of Prague. The Castle has exceptionally permitted us a few dances, to lift the mood of our leaders and their wives. I invited a charming German artiste to accompany me a while ago, but as you know my wife escaped Dresden alive and has joined me here. Naturally I’ll go to the ball with her, but I’d prefer not to insult or humiliate my… this sensitive woman. That’s why I’d like to invite her to my table along with you as her… let’s say her close friend.”

“But I don’t dance…,” Buback offered helplessly.

“She’ll teach you fast enough. She even taught me.”

He stood, showing Buback a figure sturdy as a Greek column. Then he extended his right hand aimiably.

“It’s agreed, then. Eight o’clock; wear your dress uniform. I’ll send my driver round; he knows everything.”

“It’s less than a year since my wife and child died…,” Buback objected again.

“Listen, in a war like this, different standards apply. It’s high time you found someone to comfort you. But watch out!”

Meckerle released his painful grip and jokingly threatened Buback with a finger large enough to break an ordinary wrist.

“Not her. I’m the jealous type, all right?”

By afternoon Morava knew all there was to know. It wasn’t much. Any traces, if the killer had left them, had been completely obliterated by the fire and water. The little girl from the mezzanine still stuck by her water sprite; aside from the suitcase and the color she could not remember anything else. The victim’s brother-in-law, whom he visited in the hospital, was still deep in shock; between torrents of tears he told them far less about the deceased than her neighbors did. The descriptions matched: a quiet, good-hearted woman who took exemplary care of her husband until his painful death and then touchingly revered his memory. She lived modestly on his pension, probably with support from his brother. Apparentiy he was the only person who had visited the two of them and later the widow alone. There was a substantial chain lock on the door. The mystery was why she too, just like the baroness, had let her murderer in. Did she know him? Impossible! He must inspire trust. How? Of course! The suitcase. Was he a traveling salesman with goods in demand? Candles for air raids? Household soap? Quality rye coffee? Some other article that vanished from the shops long ago? But why wouldn’t the caretaker have remembered something as conspicuous as a large suitcase? Why hadn’t the clothing’s unusual color caught his attention, since he noticed the man’s unusual pronunciation? And the serious little girl showed no signs of having a wild imagination. The autopsy confirmed beyond a doubt that it was the same perpetrator. Why, then, were there so many different indicators? Had he deliberately changed his appearance? So, this was no primitive on the rampage; there was a mind behind it. Then his method of killing must have a deeper meaning. Is it a symbol? Of what? A message? What sort?

Even before Morava’s return from Brno, Beran had assigned two more men to him: ebesta and Marek, experienced sleuths who were not at all offended to be working under a youth their sons’ age. They shared Beran’s good opinion of him and, in their time, had voluntarily chosen careers as “sniffing dogs,” because they enjoyed working in the field and had no desire to learn German. They quickly reconstructed the daily habits and routes of Barbora Pospíchalová. On the last day of her life she had gone to the post office to deposit part of her pension; at the butcher’s she had bought sausage worth a quarter of her month’s rations, and at the grocery store she had arranged for lentils on her allotment and elderberry wine, procured for a special occasion. Her husband’s brother was coming the next day, she had told the shopkeeper with unusual animation. Just before noon she had taken her bed linens to be pressed and bought a bunch of cowslips, which they later found in a small vase at the cemetery. According to the sexton she went there every other day, sometimes more often.

No one had noticed when she returned home. Because of the fire, the exact time of her death could not be determined; she must have had several hours to let her murderer in (assuming she did not bring him back with her — and the possibility remained that she had). The origin of the fire was a further question mark. Had it been set deliberately? Then why had this crazy man taken such care with the baroness to make an altar of death and this time destroyed his work? Maybe it had not turned out the way he’d expected?