Phantoms of Breslau (13 page)

“The rabid dog of vengeance.” Mock wiped the water from his cheeks. “Are you acquainted with Auweiler’s poetry?”

“Whereas you have no idea what the murderer wants. The psychotherapy session with Doctor Kaznicz certainly hasn’t moved the investigation …”

“And that’s why you’re dismissing me?” Mock saw columns of magnesium shoot into the sky several metres away, where the body had been discovered. Smolorz had just left the spot and, carrying the notes he had taken when questioning the unfulfilled lovers, was making his way over to Mock and Mühlhaus. “The rabid dog of vengeance no longer proved necessary, right?”

“That’s not the reason, Mock.” Mühlhaus took him once again by the arm. “That’s not the reason. You haven’t answered me. I’m not going to play at being Socrates and you’re not going to be my Alcibiades …”

“No, especially as the latter came to a sticky end …”

“Secondly, what do the victims have in common? Their murderer’s
hatred of Mock. That’s what all six have in common. But what do the last two victims have in common?” Mühlhaus raised his voice and glanced at Smolorz as he approached. “Well, tell me, damn it, what do the last two victims have in common? The old sailor Ollenborg and Wohsedt, the river port director?”

“They were both questioned by Criminal Assistant Mock,” Smolorz said.

“Correct, Sergeant.” Mühlhaus looked approvingly at Smolorz. “That swine wants to tell us: ‘I’m going to kill everyone you question, Mock. So don’t question anyone. Don’t conduct the investigation.’ Now do you understand why I’m taking you off the case? Who else did you question, Mock? Who have you poisoned? Who else is going to die in this city?”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1919
A QUARTER PAST SIX IN THE MORNING

A prison wagon pulled up outside South Park Hotel. Two uniformed policemen climbed out and ran briskly into the building, swords clanking at their sides. A moment later they emerged holding Kitty by the arms as she thrashed about and tried to bite them in an attempt to break free. One of the men’s shakos was knocked askew. Mühlhaus, Mock and Smolorz watched attentively. Kitty stared at Mock, her eyes full of hatred. He walked up to her and whispered:

“Try to understand, Käthe, it’s for your own good. You’ll be put up in the best single, warm cell for a few days and then you’ll be able to leave.” He moved closer and whispered even more quietly: “Then later I’ll make it up to you …”

The promise did not impress Kitty in the slightest. She spat at Mock, her spittle landing on the sleeve of his jacket. He looked round. All the policemen were smiling to themselves, banking on a violent reaction
from the Criminal Assistant. They were disappointed. Mock approached Kitty, removed the wig from her head and smoothed her somewhat greasy hair.

“I’ll visit you in your cell, Käthe,” he said. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

The policemen had no trouble loading Kitty into the wagon. One of them joined her under the tarpaulin while the other took a seat on the box and cracked his whip.

“Commissioner, sir.” Mock wiped his sleeve with a large leaf. “We can set a trap for the killer. He must be following me. Otherwise, how would he know who to kill? It should be enough for me to question someone and then for us to keep a close eye on that person. Kitty, for example. Let’s free her. If we don’t lose sight of her day or night we’ll get hold of that swine in the end. And besides … I want to work for you. Of course, I don’t have to lead this particular investigation, I could …”

“I’m not a street preacher. I don’t repeat myself.” Mühlhaus folded Smolorz’s notes in four. “Besides, we don’t have any other cases on apart from the Four Sailors. Every policeman in town is on the Four Sailors case or, to be precise, Six Sailors counting Ollenborg and Wohsedt. Wohsedt also held the honorary title of Rear Admiral. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

Mühlhaus set off towards the Horch which was just drawing up outside the hotel. He climbed in and Ehlers the photographer, laden with his tripod, tumbled in after him. Doctor Lasarius’ men heaved the stretcher bearing the corpse into their wagon. The engine of the Horch growled and shot a cloud of fumes from the exhaust. The car pulled away but did not go far, stopping beside Mock and Smolorz.

“Just explain one thing to me,” Mühlhaus said, leaning his beard out of the window. “Why are there no signs of torture on Wohsedt’s body when in the letter he wrote to you … I think he expressed it as ‘the man in the executioner’s hood tortured me’?”

“Maybe he meant mental torture.” Lines appeared on Mock’s face, mercilessly highlighted by the bright yellow sun. “Wohsedt wasn’t difficult to break …”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. One medical term was enough to get him to agree to work for me immediately. He nearly pissed himself in fright.”

“And what term was that?”

“‘Tuberculosis of the skin after being bitten by someone with tuberculosis’,” Mock said, and at that moment he paled. Smolorz knew why. There was one other person Mock had condemned to death because he had questioned her on the Four Sailors case.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1919,
HALF PAST SEVEN IN THE MORNING

Thiemann & Co.’s cigar factory was located in the last of the inner yards on Reuscherstrasse. Since it was in full operation until all hours of the night, it gave out stinking fumes, and the clatter of its machinery disturbed the afternoon peace of everyone who lived in the tenements; they never stopped complaining, protesting, even demonstrating, and forming blockades at the gates of the establishment. Eventually the tenement landlords, descendants of Niepold, prevailed on the factory management to open up the establishment an hour later and shut it down an hour earlier. Having worked there for twenty years, even during the time of Mr Thiemann senior, Hildegard Wilck could not get used to the new working arrangements, and the clacking of her wooden clogs could invariably be heard in the inner yard before seven in the morning. And that day – as on every other day – fifty-year-old Miss Wilck stood outside the closed laundry gossiping with the concierge, Mrs Annemarie Zesche. Their interminable conversations drew facetious criticism from Siegfried
Franzkowiak, a carpenter living on the ground floor, who did not cease to be amazed at the eloquence of both women. “Those wenches can go on and on about nothing!” he would say to himself.

That day Franzkowiak was in no mood for jokes. He had not slept half the night because little Charlotte Voigten, who lived above him, had been crying. The child’s wailing had been accompanied by the dog’s howling. Franzkowiak had knocked several times on the door of the bedsit which Charlotte’s mother, Johanna, had occupied with her daughter and dog for the past two months. The mother was not in, which did not surprise the carpenter since the entire tenement knew that the city at night was her natural place of work. Some kind person, however, would always look after the child – frequently it was Franzkowiak’s wife – and the exceptionally trusting little girl had always allowed herself to be comforted by her carers. Finally, at about four o’clock that morning, the child had fallen asleep. Silence had descended on the lodgings and Franzkowiak had happily laid his weary head next to that of his spouse. It was hardly surprising that he was truly angry now when, after only a few hours’ sleep, he heard the yapping of the two women.

“Just tell me, Mrs Zesche, what sort of times do we live in? The child lies asleep behind a screen while the mother and some stranger …”

“She’s got to make a living somehow, my dear Miss Wilck. You do the laundry and she lives off men …”

“Animals, that’s what those men are, Mrs Zesche, all they want to do is have it off …”

“And all you want to do is natter!” Franzkowiak yelled, leaning out of his window. “You can’t let anyone sleep, can you, damn it!”

“What’s up with him!” Hildegard Wilck had come to her own conclusions about men. “I’ve seen him going up to her room! An animal, he is! No better than the others!”

“You look after your own arse, not someone else’s!” Now Mrs
Franzkowiak had leaned out too, coming to her husband’s defence. “We’re both helping that poor woman! One has to be human, not a swine!”

The shouting in the yard had obviously woken the child because little Charlotte’s crying suddenly erupted again, followed by the rattling of a window being opened. The little girl’s head appeared above the sill. Still sobbing, she shouted something which was drowned out by the dog’s howling. People began to gather in the yard. Charlotte moved a chair closer to the window and stood on it. Tears had traced dirty furrows down her cheeks, and her nightdress was yellow with urine.

From the street came the drone of an automobile and a large Horch drove into the yard. The driver, a sturdy, dark-haired man, squeezed the horn and jumped out. An ear-piercing sound filled the well of the yard, this time occasioned by the passenger, a red-headed man with a moustache. The child fell silent, everyone fell silent, even the dog fell silent. As the two men ran through the gate, Miss Wilck’s voice could clearly be heard in the silence:

“See, Mrs Zesche? That’s one of her suitors. Just look what drink’s done to his mug?”

The crash of a forced door resounded through the tenement, followed by the rustle of crumbling plaster and the shrill squealing of the dog. The dark-haired man ran to the windowsill and took the child in his arms. Charlotte looked at him in fright and tried to push him away with straight arms. Siegfried Franzkowiak, who was blessed with good hearing, detected sighs of relief in the child’s crying. He also heard Mrs Zesche’s commentary:

“See, my dear Miss Wilck, how the child has calmed down? That must be her father. See how alike they are? Tears are even running down that mug of his.”

“Her father died in the war, you idiot!” Franzkowiak yelled.

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1919
FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

Mock woke up in detention cell number 3 at the Police Praesidium on Schuhbrücke 49. He felt heavy and tired. He closed his eyes and tried to remember his dream, and succeeded without difficulty. The dream was hazy, unreal and melancholic. A meadow and a forest, grass criss-crossed by streams of water. There was a person there, too: beautiful, red-headed, with gentle eyes and dry, soft hands. Mock reached for the jug of unsweetened mint tea which the guard, Achim Buhrack, had prepared for him. He swallowed and established with some relief that he did not need the beverage after all. His hangover had disappeared – and here Mock felt blood rush to his head – along with that morning’s events. He remembered the drop of blood which had dripped from Wohsedt’s head onto his cheek as he squatted by the pond in South Park; he recalled Commissioner Mühlhaus’ words: “Now do you understand why I’m taking you off the case? Who else did you question, Mock? Who have you poisoned? Who else is going to die in this city?” He remembered all too well the little girl’s despair as she first pushed him away, then snuggled into him; he remembered questioning the inhabitants of the dark inner yards on Reuscherstrasse: “Nobody knows anything, she often went out at night, but always came home – yesterday she came home at about four o’clock.” He remembered Smolorz forcefully tearing the child away from him and saying: “We’ll catch him. We’ll catch him with or without Mühlhaus. It’s too early now; we’ll do it this afternoon.” The last scenes he replayed were distorted and unclear – Smolorz pushing him into the car, saying: “You haven’t slept all night. Get some sleep, the carpenter’ll take care of the little one.” Then the jug of mint tea and cell number three.

Mock got up from the bunk and performed several squats. He went to the cell door and knocked several times. The old guard, Achim Buhrack, opened up and said in his strong Silesian accent:

“It’s the first time I’ve seen a police officer sleeping in cell number three when he’s not drunk.”

“Sometimes some people don’t have anywhere to go to get enough sleep,” Mock said as he ran his hand over the rough stubble on his cheeks. “I’ve one more favour to ask of you, Buhrack … Is there a razor around here anywhere …”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1919
SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

As yet there were very few customers in the Hungarian King. Only one alcove had been occupied, and its heavy curtain was drawn. A few ladies, judging by the high pitch of their voices, could not make themselves comfortable. The curtain rippled and the rail separating the alcove from the rest of the restaurant kept ringing as if someone were striking it with a rod.

“They can’t find anywhere to put their umbrellas,” whispered Adolf Manzke, the young waiter who had helped Mock transport an unconscious Rühtgard to the car the previous night. Manzke was far from pleased that Mock had not ordered any alcohol that evening, but the first twenty-mark note with which this regular customer paid for his
Wiener Schnitzel
without asking for any change dispersed any concerns he may have had about his tip.

“What is your name, young man?” Mock asked, and on hearing his answer continued: “Explain something to me, Manzke. I asked for a fiacre yesterday and you called for the automobile which usually ferries drunken clients home. Isn’t that so?”

“It is,” Manzke said, and when he saw Mock fold another enormous twenty-mark note in four, he leaned in even closer.

“The fiacre’s horses soil the pavement outside your establishment, isn’t that what you said?”

“It is,” – the waiter’s neck was getting stiff – “Mr … Mr … I don’t know your name – what should I call you?”

“Call me Periplectomenus,” Mock said, remembering the sybarite from Plautus’ comedy
Miles Gloriosus
. “So how would you explain the behaviour of your colleague when he was attending to the demands of one of the ladies? She called for a carter and he promised to fulfil her wish immediately. Explain that to me, Manzke.”

“Maybe he needed to fetch the carter from far away and the lady was appropriately generous.” The waiter kept glancing at the folded note Mock was weaving between his fingers. “Anyway, you should ask him …”