Pavel Kohout - The Widow Killer

The half-pint was sincerely devastated. He brewed some rye coffee, and dutifully repeated what he could and could not tell his neighbor before going over.

“One more thing,” he asked the little man at the last moment. “Does she have your keys?”

“Yeah, she does.”

“Then get them back! I want to be sure no one comes in except you while I’m here.”

“Right, got it!”

When the door slammed shut, he began to sip the hot liquid carefully and reflect in peace.

WHAT WILL I DO WITH HIM?

He had never written with lipstick on a mirror before. “Love,” he began, “my greates—” The softened stick snapped. He looked at his uncompleted confession and was still amazed at how much had changed in him since yesterday. Although he had barely slept, a shower refreshed him completely; his brain was like a letter knife, smoothly opening problem after problem until it reached a solution.

He had to retain his post at all costs. And at no cost could he give up his official contacts with the Czech police. In an emergency they were the only ones who could protect Grete — and him as well.

There was no point sticking his head in the sand and waiting until Meckerle had it pulled out for him. He went straight to Bredovská. After all, he had been right, and the colonel must see that. Would Meckerle punish Buback out of sheer jealousy as the water rose around the two of them? With Hitler’s death the precariously balanced upside-down pyramid of the Third Reich had come crashing down. Who had seized the highest office; who held in his hands the fate of the German nation, the life and death of millions? Was it the mysteriously vanished Goebbels? Admiral Dönitz, brandishing a supposed last will and testament from the Führer? Or Reichmarschall Goring, who was supposedly exposed in it as a traitor?

Each of them, as Meckerle must know, was a potential protector for Buback. But even the light of the Protectorate’s former polestars paled before the brilliance of another contender. Although only a guest in this region, and until recently almost unknown, he commanded the million-strong mass of soldiers which now threatened to overflow their ever-contracting territory like dough rising in a bowl.

Buback had once learned to play poker. In the days when confessions had to be extracted without torture, Dresden detectives had used it to train in their craft, leading shysters down a false trail. One after the other, they showed how to bluff suggestively — for instance, that a criminal’s coconspirators had long since confessed. Today, for the first time, Buback would use this skill to deceive his superior.

He entered his office, slamming the door open, contrary to habit. Kroloff, in the anteroom, snapped to attention even more furiously than usual. By the time a sign of defiance appeared in his eyes, he had lost his chance.

“Get me Schürner’s adjutant, on the double! Move it, man!”

His commanding tone and the rank of the man he was calling made a deep impression on Kroloff, who was eagerness itself as he reached for the receiver.

Buback leaned back into the armchair and waited. He was convinced that a call from the Prague Gestapo headquarters would not go unanswered — correctly, as it turned out.

“Oberstleutnant Gruner. What can I do for you, Herr Kamerad?”

“Did Lieutenant General Richard von Pommeren serve with you?”

“Confirmed. But if you’re looking for him, you’re in the wrong place. He fell at the start of the Russian campaign.”

“It’s not about him, it’s about his spouse, who was brutally murdered in Prague. I’ve identified the killer with the help of the local detectives and now just need to catch him. Attempts are being made on our side to call off the operation, under the rationale that von Pommeren was not a notable military figure. Is your superior interested in having me see this through?”

“I’m surprised you need to ask. The field marshal is firmly convinced that the army is the last guarantor of German law and order. The opinion you have conveyed to me, whoever its author might be, is insulting and politically aberrant. Without even asking I can tell you that you should — no, you must — continue.”

“Thank you, Herr Kamerad,” Buback said, using the National Socialist title for the first time in his life. “In that case I request that you phone my superior immediately, so I’ll have a free hand for continued cooperation with the Protectorate police.”

“Let me take it down. His name?”

“Standartenführer Meckerle.”

“Christian name?”

“Hubertus….” Buback remembered.

“No! Hubertus the Great! He was the head clerk at my bank at home. And no doubt will be again some day. I’ll call him straightaway. Heil…”

Pause. And then, in sincere confusion:

“What do we say from now on?”

When Buback dropped in at his Czech office to pick up his hat and raincoat, Beran turned to Morava in surprise.

“Could I have been wrong? What could interest him more than the situation in this building? Not the case, certainly? Keep his nose to the grindstone; it’d be damned awkward having him around here when we have our own collaborators to watch. Best of luck, but if things heat up in the meantime, back to me on the double!”

He dismissed Morava without further explanation, wordlessly squeezing both his shoulders.

On the way to Plze , Buback informed Morava — as if nothing had happened in the meanwhile — about everything he had learned since yesterday.

“Fve had a couple of cases in my career where we uncovered what could be termed a ritual. The perpetrators picked a ceremonial method of killing, out of a conviction that they were acting in a higher interest. This is clearly Rypl’s case; he became his mother’s instrument of revenge. Maybe Rypl believes he’s ridding the world of trash, and that’s why he’s not a depressive maniac, the sort that give themselves away. His coworkers and neighbors in the building described him as quite a pleasant person. Most of those women opened their doors to him trustingly. His shy inconspicuousness and serious demeanor will no doubt continue to cover his tracks.”

They were in Plze just after noon and began by combing Rypl’s apartment again, looking for a portrait better than the five-year-old photo from his identity card application. After his mother’s death he had evidently had no one to take pictures for; they found absolutely nothing.

Then Morava assembled the entire theater staff and had them rack their brains. In vain. No, Rypl hadn’t gone to parties, when they were still permitted, nor had he gone on staff days out; no one had ever made up a staff photo album, or taken pictures at meetings, certainly not!

Buback spoke into the silence that followed.

“Was he ever in a performance?”

“No!” The manager dismissed this idea. “After all, he was a stoker and a jani — Wait a minute!”

He headed for the program archives, but before he had plowed through them the others remembered as well: To earn some extra money, Rypl had played a walk-on role as a servant just before the Czech theaters had been closed. A photo was found; it was sharp and those present agreed that it captured Rypl’s current likeness quite faithfully.

Two hours later, Plze policemen had spread out across the city with photos reproduced by the local criminal section. Working from a plan they drew up quickly with Morava, they covered the various crucial points at which the suspect could have been spotted. Meanwhile, the Werkschutz log at the theater door showed that on the days murders were committed this year, Rypl had been either on Vácation or supposedly running errands, but he always left and returned at times corresponding to train arrivals and departures.