Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

Morava did not understand.

“Two years ago,” the superintendent explained, “it might have shortened the war by a month. But at this point I have to wonder if this isn’t the first volley of a postwar rivalry.”

“But they’re allies.”

“Morava, Morava, dear little Morava, when this war ends, take care your world doesn’t collapse around you. You’re a homicide detective and a Czech, so you’re living in a dream world if you think good always fights against evil. Now, I lived twenty years in a relatively good country — I mean the old Czechoslovak Republic — and I can assure you that sometimes it turns your stomach all the same.”

Morava could not see it.

“But now that the Nazis have lost the Ruhr Basin and Silesia, only the Czech factories can rearm them.”

“That’s true too,” Beran exhaled. “And anyway youth is entitled to its hopes. As for us older folk, our skepticism probably just leads to capitulation. So let’s hear it.”

They were at the station already and back on the topic of their own work.

“So far we have had four hundred twelve calls about suspects, mostly through our office. About half of them we’ve eliminated as groundless or misleading; the rest are under investigation. Especially those in Moravia; the Russian advance on Vienna may cut them off soon.”

“Any fresh trails?”

“So far all cold ones; everyone named had an airtight alibi on at least some of the dates. But information is still coming in; it’s surprising, but even in abnormal times like these people are quick to notice deviants of all sorts. Or to invent them.”

“Such as?”

“Turning in lusty ladies’ men for stealing their wives.”

“Aha. Has Buback come up with anything?”

“He confirmed that Hunyady, the Gypsy, died in a work camp, and Thaler — the butcher and Henlein’s man — is apparently working where he is supposed to be in the Reich. We can be sure our colleagues in Brno didn’t get hold of the right man.”

“Apropos of Brno,” the superintendent remembered, “is there anything new with Jitka’s father? I haven’t seen her yet today.”

“I’m sorry; I meant to tell you. She took today off. There was a telegram last night telling her to expect a phone call at the main post office, but she’s been down there since morning. Her father is already home, we hope.”

“That’s good news. Congratulations to you as well.”

As he said it he raised his eyes queryingly and Morava as usual shook his head; so far there were no signs of other activities on Buback’s part.

“We’re both happy, but a bit afraid of how our parents will manage if there’s a battle.”

“As if we know how we’ll fare here. They might get lucky and find the front whips past them like a hurricane; we’ll be the unfortunate ones if Prague is conquered bit by bit, like a fortress. It’s in the hands of fate. Or God, in your case. Anything else?”

Finally there was something Morava was on top of.

“I think it’s safe to call him a widow killer. And it occurred to Jitka that maybe he prowls the cemetery. He might count on them leading him home, where they’re probably alone. Say he claims to sell gravestones or something….”

Beran picked up the train of thought.

“And the four deceased husbands are buried…”

“All at Vy ehrad!”

“Which you should have under surveillance immediately.”

“There have been two people there since this morning. I’m going straight from here to meet them, so we can set up our surveillance.”

“Good work, Morava!” It was the first time in a while Beran had praised him, and a feeling of bliss wafted over the young detective, although this rare feather belonged in Jitka’s cap. “Look smart and hop to it.”

A cold wind lashed the intermittent rain at the cemetery; there had been two or three women all told since morning and not a single man. The pair had had plenty of time to talk tactics. The problem was that there were three entrances. Lebeda, a greenhorn Morava had conscripted in desperation, suggested that they simply close two of them off. The other two warned him in unison that it was the best way to scare the murderer off to another venue. No, they’d have to spend a portion of their lives here as sweepers, stonelayers, gardeners, beggars, or the bereaved in mourning. They had no choice but to deputize the sexton, who would be sure to notice a repeat visitor. Before doing so, Morava verified that the tubby fellow had been digging graves with an assistant on the days of the murders; otherwise the sexton himself would have become a suspect.

He returned to Bartolom jská to send a third man out to the cemetery and set two shifts for the next day. Then he called Buback at Bredovská Street and learned he was back in his Czech office. The German had not appeared at Bartolom jská Street since his odd supper with Jitka; was he waiting until her father was released? Morava knocked and opened the door.

The chief inspector was poring over a mountain of papers. When he spotted Morava he started, as if caught at something.

“What is all this?” he snarled at him without a greeting.

Morava had no idea.

“Can I have a look?”

Buback shoved the papers toward him. Morava recognized them.

“I ordered that you be sent copies of all the reports that came in from our appeal—”

“And where are the translations?”

So that’s why he’s upset? Mistake!

“My fault, I’ll put someone on it right away.”

But who? he thought despairingly; it’ll take three people a week to get through it…. To his surprise the German calmed down as quickly as he had flared up.

“That’s not necessary. You don’t have the men to spare. Give me one person who can summarize the most important ones for me orally.”

Who can figure this guy out? Morava mused, but a weight lifted from him. He informed Buback about the steps they had just taken, and then sprang a request on him. Only German offices could authorize the installation of telephone lines. They needed one in the sexton’s tiny workroom, so they could call for reinforcements in an emergency.

“I’ll see to it,” Buback announced curtly.

“Your translator will be here in fifteen minutes,” Morava promised him again as he left, and it occurred to him that he owed the man more than that. “Miss Modrá is probably on the phone right now with her father. I’d like to thank you for that as well.”

“Then you’re in the wrong place,” Buback cut him off. “I told you the Reich is a government of law, and it expects in return that the Protectorate police, above all, will not waver in their respect of that law.”

“Understandably so,” Morava assured him and left.

Get as far from that guy as possible, he thought. Suddenly he believed Jitka when she said Buback could destroy him as effortlessly as he had helped her.

She must have waited so long at the post office that it wasn’t worth coming in to work, but why hadn’t she at least called?

Impatiently he sorted through the new reports, arranged a translator for the German, and stopped by the cemetery to ask his men for their first impressions. He was pleased that it took a long time to find them; even in this cramped space they had already learned how to make themselves nearly invisible.

At home, the smell of Jitka’s maddeningly delicious cabbage cakes and a bouquet of tulips, as dear and rare as meat these days, welcomed him.