by Pavel Kohout
Out in the hallway, fresh air coursed over him. He could see his long-dead friend, one of the first army pilots, who had once saved himself by jumping from a biplane in a parachute. The first thing his friend had requested afterward was to get right into another cockpit again. "Otherwise I would have been afraid the rest of my life," he confided later.
He realized that he too must overcome his bad luck immediately!
Morava got barely two hours of sleep that night. He gave Jitka a detailed description of his visit with his mother and the trip with Buback. She hung anxiously on his every word, and he realized how worried she was about her father. The first flowering of love in the shadow of death, he thought. There was nothing else he could say, so he took her in his arms and stroked her hair and cheeks until the two of them began to fade with exhaustion and simultaneously fell asleep. He came to in her embrace when the alarm clock had just started to rattle, and she dozed on his shoulder as they rode in on the tram.
When Beran arrived, Morava gave him a brief summary of his trip with Buback and asked, heart in his mouth, what he should be working on.
"This case isn't enough for you?" Beran queried.
"You're leaving me on it?"
"Have you lost your courage?"
"I just don't want to cause you any difficulties...."
"So don't, then."
His superior looked meaningfully into his eyes. Morava had to clear his throat again nervously.
"You're aware that it's not just our prestige at stake here," Beran continued. "I tried to explain that to you the other day."
"Yes...."
"If your head is starting to spin again, we can go for another walk."
"Yes...."
"Besides, I heard your cooperation with our colleague was going well."
"Yes, he doesn't seem to have any reservations about our work."
"If the Germans see the second murder the same way we do, they might drop the theory that this is the work of the Czech Resistance."
"But then there'd be no reason ...," Morava objected, but fell silent when the superintendent put his index finger to his lips.
"I assume," Beran said, "that out of simple collegiality they won't recall the chief detective just yet. The killer has shown that he doesn't play favorites; German women are still in danger, just as Czech ones are. Mr. Buback can still assist you with security measures for potential victims on both sides. What ideas do you have?"
Morava put forth the conclusion he had reached that morning on the tram. In none of the three cases to date—including Brno, if it belonged among them—was there any sign that the perpetrator had used violence to gain entrance to the apartment; on the contrary, all indications were that he had been admitted willingly, although both Prague women had been mistrustful loners. How did he do it? Where did he first speak to them? How did he win their trust?
"This leads me to question our rationale for placing the case under strict censorship. Panic and fear can't overshadow the positive effect of publicity: women would be warier of unfamiliar men who try to win their favor."
"There's still a risk that the killer might gain confidence from the publicity and increase his activity, like an egotistical artist," Beran countered. "You and Mr. Buback should weigh your options together; both sides need to agree on a single approach."
"It only makes sense to do so," Morava continued, spinning his thread further, "if we have the courage to describe his method in detail. This butchery has a ritual element to it that must have a source. Given how repulsive it is, it has to be some sort of dark art."
Beran frowned. "I'd be afraid of that. At a certain extreme these things exert a repulsive fascination. I've met any number of copycats in my day; I'd rather not inspire some other deviant to try and top the one we've got now. No, Morava, you'll think I'm old-fashioned, but I won't sign off on hocus-pocus like that. Don't be disappointed; a compromise can always be found."
"What sort, in the given case?" Morava asked skeptically.
"Send out a brief official announcement about a deviant murderer who preys on gullible women. And at the same time—I've got it now— send out detailed factual information to all our offices. They'll distribute the description confidentially to individuals whose work brings them into contact with large numbers of people; they might uncover some connection between one of them and what you're calling a ritual. I'm thinking of doctors, teachers, postmen too; you'll certainly come up with others. If you're right, there must be something that inspired him. Assuming Mr. Buback agrees, you can start today; my nose tells me we don't have much time."
Morava also mentioned his conversation with Buback about Jitka's father, and was assured that the superintendent would intervene as well at the first opportunity.
"But, Morava, don't give her any illusions," Beran finished after checking that Jitka was not in the anteroom. "We are all more mortal than we've ever been. Even as we speak, this war is gathering its own momentum, independent of the warlords. Soon laws, institutions, and governments will have no force, and even logic itself—not to speak of morality—will go by the wayside. You can fight an elemental force up to a certain critical point; after that it may be all you can do just to survive it."
With this, his boss dismissed him.
As Morava was dictating a brief message for confidential distribution to doctors, teachers, postal carriers, and other public-sector workers, Jitka asked, "What about clergymen?"
Like Morava, Buback had kept his report short and sweet. And the chief inspector also concluded that the latest crime made any political motivation for the murders seem doubtful. He agreed that they would nonetheless continue to play up the baroness's case as a threat to German women in Prague, so that the Gestapo's continuing interest would seem plausible. Sharing his observations about the Brno police, he mentioned what he had noticed on their trip to southern Moravia. At this even the powerful Meckerle lowered his voice.
"My dear Buback," he addressed him more confidentially than he'd ever done before, "you are the only detective here with the slightest bit of sense; the rest are worthless shit-for-brains who got in on their connections. That's why I've given you this assignment; it's more important than you probably realize. My sources tell me the secret weapon—the one that will wrap up the war in a matter of days—will be ready for launch in mid-May. I don't have to make borscht for you, and I can spare myself Goebbels's nonsense about luring the Anglo-Americans and the Bolsheviks into the greatest trap in military history. We are retreating because right now the enemy has a severalfold advantage in manpower and materials, and there's no reason to be ashamed of it. Until the new weapon can turn the tide, we simply have to hold on and to prepare ourselves for every eventuality; do you understand what I'm saying?"
He saw that Buback was confused, so he leaned his trunk forward over the desk to make the point more forcefully.
"The Fuhrer has just issued an order, and personally transmitted it to the highest party functionaries in the army, security forces, and state and public offices. According to him, policies we previously applied only in occupied countries will now come into effect in the territory of the Reich as we retreat. I'm talking about the total annihilation of all transportation, communication, industrial, and distribution networks. Total, Buback. Do you understand what this means?"
He did, and felt himself flush. I'm afraid, he realized, my God, I'm afraid! It was an unfamiliar feeling for him; at critical moments he tended to be coolly inquisitive, never frightened. This, however, was truly horrifying news. He nodded in assent.
"I'll tell you more, just so someone intelligent will know what to do and how to do it, in case I don't make it. According to witnesses, Imperial Minister Speer objected. 'My Fuhrer,' he said, 'if we follow through on your instructions we will destroy any hope of keeping Germany alive.' To which the Fuhrer responded: If we lose this war, Speer, then the German people are as good as lost; failure means they don't deserve to exist.'"
A clear question
played across Meckerle's face, but Buback could not bring himself to answer it. Is he trying to provoke me? Buback's head spun; is he testing me? What does he want? After a moment of silence the giant suddenly grinned.
"I know what's worrying you. No, I don't want your opinion; I'm simply giving you mine, at my own risk. I've had you thoroughly checked out and there wasn't any indication that you're a fanatic or a traitor. Your lack of party activity indicates that you joined to keep your job, one you thought would be honorable in any society. And your behavior leads me to believe that your highest goal is the survival of our people, whether or not they achieve what they aspired to. Anyway, if I had the slightest suspicion that you'd betray my confidence, I'd finish you off, Buback, once and for all."
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 Fuhrer, 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 Fuhrer 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 Schorner. 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, Standartenfiihrer," 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 amiably.
"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. Apparently 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: Sebesta 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 Pospichalova. 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 cou
ld 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?
That afternoon they assembled, crossed out, rewrote, and rerefined both texts, for public and selective distribution. For the latter Morava more or less copied out of his notebook his first, raw impressions from the embankment.
