Widow Killer

by Pavel Kohout

  Morava found his tongue.

  "And you think you're a better target because your surname means 'ram'?"

  "He won't touch me, because he knows the whole operation would shut down without me. They executed my potential replacement, and the next best person would be you."

  Morava stared, dumbfounded, at the man who had just demoted him and then paid him the very compliment he'd desperately longed for.

  "Yes, Morava, I sense a talent in you, the same kind—all modesty aside—that I once had. And you're just as tenacious. There are dogs who won't let go of their prey even if you swing them round in the air by their legs. You'll get that monster!"

  "But how, if I'm not—"

  "I don't have the time to reinvent the wheel, and fortunately I don't need to. I will officially conduct the meetings of the investigative team, but will always ask you first, one on one, how to do so."

  "But—"

  "Don't try to make my life any harder than it is already, or yours any easier. In public I'm taking responsibility away from you, but in private you will run things for me. Now, listen closely. I'm convening the team for two this afternoon to take charge myself. Fifteen minutes before that I want you to give me a precise plan of action and tomorrow's task roster—for everyone, including yourself. Take two more laps around the island to clear your head; in the meanwhile I'll inform Rajner and the Germans."

  As he left, he turned around once more.

  "You can let your beloved in on our little secret this evening. Just so she doesn't think she's marrying a good-for-nothing."

  As directed, Morava set off around the sandy oval, trying to make sense of his public fall and private resurrection. He knew he had not made any mistakes, but also that this meant precious little. One of Beran's first pearls of wisdom, which Morava had written into his notebook, was that a seasoned detective had to do more than just what was necessary; he had to think one step further.

  He felt sure the superintendent would want a fresh idea from him at a quarter to two. A new, more urgent message for the newspapers? He doubted strongly that widows would read it. A further appeal to a wider circle of specialists, maybe with a photograph of one of the horrid death altars? He remembered Beran's solemn warning. Reinforced surveillance of the cemetery? He knew the team was stretched to its limit; the criminal police could barely keep up as it was. Stretch them any thinner, and Prague would become a playground for thieves, robbers, and "ordinary" murderers.

  He rounded the tip of the island for the second time. Leaning against a tree, he looked out across the water. Charles Bridge, the castle—this scene always raised his spirits, but now he barely noticed it. The worst thing, he admitted to himself, was that he had lost his spark, lost the thread, couldn't even concentrate; he caught himself thinking in turns about his mother, Jitka, their child—treasures the war would threaten far more than the widow killer ever could.

  A long object slid into the corner of his vision; a barge drifted down the Vltava, with a solitary fisherman and two rods attached to the stern. Slowly and silently it floated down toward the nearby weir as a weak wind carried the rumble of falling water off toward the Old Town bank.

  Morava knew how deceptive an idyll like this could be. Since their March expedition to Moravia, the images of a powerful German army massing to the east had never left him. He sensed that despite all the defeats of the past two years, there was enough destructive strength in those soldiers to turn the Protectorate into a vast wasteland. In the upcoming conflict of responsibilities, how come he hadn't chosen his personal ones? Why wasn't he on one of those final trains right now, bringing his mother back here? Why hadn't he found her and Jitka's parents a place to rent long ago, maybe with farmers outside Prague? Was it the unholy sum it would cost? And what was he saving for, if not to protect his own family? Why hadn't he refused Beran right off?

  Out of solidarity with him? Should it take precedence over solidarity with his family? Or out of fear for himself? But Beran had seen to that when he claimed the case as his own cross to bear. So then? Had Morava's gloomy craft become so crucial to him that he would risk endangering his loved ones for it?

  Yes, he answered himself, but not for the sake of his career. Catch that monster, Jitka had told him; he frightens me more than Hitler does. He understood what she meant. Adolf Hitler was the product of a deranged nation's political will, horrible but explicable, and therefore defeatable. The unknown and unpredictable widow slaughterer stripped the thin veneer of civilization from mankind and threatened to return humanity to its savage prehistory.

  The fisherman rowed closer; he lifted both lines from the water, opened an old can, and spindled wriggling earthworms on the hooks. Then he flung his arm wide and the floats whistled down between the dinghy and the shore. The man in the boat waved to him, but Morava just stared dumbly back.

  He had his idea.

  All the heads of department marched into Meckerle's office. They ran out of chairs; the assistants brought more in from the anteroom and the hallway as well. There was no food, no one thought to light a cigarette, nobody spoke, everyone sat clenched as stiff as a ramrod. A puppet theater, Buback thought to himself. It seemed inconceivable to him, but not long ago he had been one of those figurines.

  Yes, Grete had freed him from servitude to the war. True, it was their unceasing and unflagging lovemaking that bound them together—interrupted by her stories, which merged with his deliriously exhausted dreams—but he realized that at some point he had dropped out of this society of soldiers, and now he was hers alone.

  Had she truly freed him? Or had she deprived him of his foundations, his sources of equilibrium? She had exposed him—for better or worse—to emotions and passions; had she also transformed him into an animal, unprincipled, unwilling, and probably even incapable of defending an ideal?

  But without her, without the woman who had stepped unexpectedly into Hilde's shoes, what sort of ideals would he have to defend? The ones that had deformed German culture so completely? Weren't the murderers sitting here today all the more monstrous for the fact that they massacred innocent victims left and right from the comfort of their desks, often by telephone? Without moving his neck he surveyed them in his peripheral vision, face by face. Was he the same as them? Probably not, so long as it seemed more important to him that he spend the next night with Grete.

  The way she had detached him from Hilde was a more serious matter. A month ago, he had convinced himself that his dead wife had sent him the Czech girl as her own reincarnation, to cure his loneliness. Now he felt equally sure that she would not approve of Grete; Hilde would have found the actress's emotionally turbulent life contemptible. After all, it even bothered him. But why? Hadn't he become part of it?

  The colonel appeared in the doorway, and all present snapped to attention. Meckerle whipped his right hand into the German salute and simultaneously motioned them to sit down. Then, as if he were alone in the office, he began to study the papers in the folder an assistant had just placed on his desk.

  Buback remembered he had a letter for Meckerle in his breast pocket, and felt a new pang. Why had she left the colonel, anyway? And had she, in fact? What was she writing him about? The benefits of her relationship with Meckerle were evident; surely it was only a matter of time before the rift was healed and he, Buback, would become another of her episodes, one that would not even yield a good story. Advance nostalgia overwhelmed him.

  "Gentlemen!" Meckerle slammed the leather binder shut with an audible crack. "The final battle has begun. Last night the whole eastern front shifted, from the Balkans to the Baltic. Vienna has fallen, and it seems the main defensive line on the Oder has been broken. There is no doubt that the main goal of the offensive is Berlin."

  The meeting's participants neither moved nor breathed. Everyone except Buback seemed to know already. Had Grete's wiles even dulled his interest in the final days of the Reich (which might be his own as well)? Maybe it was time for him to loosen Grete's grip befor
e she became a drug he couldn't give up.

  "From this day forward," Meckerle pronounced, "the military leaders are following the Fuhrer's strategic plan. Our goal is the defense of Bohemia and Bavaria as the launching point for our final victory. Mitte's army units have enough men, military machinery, munitions, and fuel to fulfill this historic task. Our job here is to insure absolute tranquility behind the front lines. We will not declare martial law, as it might provoke the more militant domestic elements to resistance; nevertheless, it is in force from now on. Every act of sabotage or incitement hostile to the Reich—whether directed against soldiers or civilians—must be nipped in the bud, suppressed, and punished with Draconian severity."

  A blow. This time everyone twitched. Meckerle's elbows had again come down on the tables. Buback's stomach cramped. Yes, no wonder Grete liked this Tarzan.... He regained control when his brain came to his aid. The Empire was dying, and he was jealous! Of a blabbering Gestapo agent and a woman whose life creed was infidelity!

  "I want to warn all of you—and you must warn your subordinates as well—that a line of troops lies between us and the western front. Many will find this situation tempting, but anyone suspected of desertion will be swiftly sentenced in court to death by hanging. With no pardons! Prague is the primary railway and highway center of Bohemia, and we will defend it if necessary, even at the cost of its total annihilation. Why should it fare better than our lovely Dresden did?"

  Buback remembered how Meckerle and his wife had described the destruction of their villa. A few hours later, the mysterious woman who sat next to him that night turned his life upside down. Wasn't it time for him to become his own master again, before his freedom became a new sort of slavery?

  Before he could think this assertion through, he was dragged into the sudden motions and sharp noises all around him. Force of habit catapulted him out of his chair along with the rest, who were hastening to flee Meckerle's office. He moved along with the flow; having missed Meckerle's last sentence completely, he had no idea what the order was. Then he heard it again.

  "You stay, Mr. Buback."

  The head of the Prague Gestapo occasionally respected Buback's civilian status and addressed him according to the old ways.

  "Your order, Standartenfuhrer," Buback responded.

  "Did you give her my letter?"

  The last officer was closing the door behind him; the two of them were left alone. His boss mostly seemed embarrassed.

  "Of course...."

  Buback reached into his pocket and dug out the answer she had written that morning while he was shaving. He felt like the worst sort of liar.

  And that too was her fault.

  He handed over the envelope, resolving to end this awkward comedy.

  "Permission to leave, sir."

  "Wait a minute."

  Meckerle ripped open the envelope and read the letter standing up. Buback's mind raced. What should he say if Meckerle asks about her? That he sees her from time to time? Where, when, and how? God, why hadn't they at least agreed on the details, if she was going to keep up the deception? The giant raised his eyes. Buback saw surprise.

  "Did she let you read it?"

  "No."

  "That's just like her ... damned like her. Have a seat."

  Once again he brought over the bottle of cognac and the rounded glasses single-handedly, and poured them almost to the rim.

  "Cheers!"

  The colonel drank half his glass in one gulp and then bemusedly scratched his head some more at Buback, as if he could not quite place who he was. The detective drank cautiously, looking in vain for a hint of what was going through his boss's head. Meckerle gave a bitter laugh.

  "Messengers like you used to be thrown to the wolves; thank Lady Luck that you're living in a civilized country."

  A brave assertion, Buback thought; Germany hasn't done very well on that count. He wanted to see what would come next.

  "She's given me the sack."

  No... !

  "She writes that she's cutting me loose, because my behavior is insulting. Even though I explained that some idiot wrote my wife about her, and that I'm looking for a solution."

  Hmm ... maybe the murderer could help ... ?

  "She says that naturally, under the circumstances, she'll find someone else."

  Meckerle lightly swirled the remains of the viscous liquid in his goblet, stared at the letter, and melancholically nodded.

  "And do you know what the strangest thing is?"

  Here it comes, Buback thought. Why had she put him in such an impossible situation?

  "The strangest thing," the giant answered himself, "is that I feel relieved. I do! I've always been lucky with women, but she was a colossal mistake, do you believe me?"

  Buback did not respond, but no response was needed; Meckerle had to talk through this to get it off his chest.

  "Before she chased me down—and she did the chasing, that cunning beast!—I noticed her in the troupe. She looked like a schoolgirl in a bunch of Brunhildes, but I sensed she'd be a passion bomb. Before she was firmly in the saddle—and yes, eventually she was—she'd heat me up white-hot, but wouldn't give it to me, the vixen; every German in Prague knew I was sleeping with her, only I wasn't. Till she got the apartment keys. And then it happened.. .."

  He waved his hands and fell into a reverie.

  "The first time was sensational. Like drumfire!"

  By now Buback's stomach was definitely hurting.

  "But then it was over. A fish."

  "Fish?" Buback repeated involuntarily.

  "A Pisces. By sign and by nature—a spoiled kitten. In public, by my side, she'd make eyes at everyone and anyone until I... well, I was mad with jealousy. Then back in the apartment she was a wet rag. Each time I had to prove myself again, or so she said. She smoked exclusively Egyptians, drank champagne like it was going out of style, listened only to that crazy nigger music, which I'd get for ungodly sums from Switzerland, and wanted her feet massaged every evening. Yes, she turned -me into a masseur. It was unbelievable the way she pushed me around. When she disliked something I did—and often she wouldn't even tell me what, I was supposed to guess—she'd turn into an icicle."

  It was too much for Buback to accept.

  "I know it's hard to believe," Meckerle continued. "Pretty soon I had to ask myself: Why do I keep her, especially in this city, where all I have to do is ..."

  He snapped his fingers loudly.

  "But each time I wanted to slam the door behind me, she'd sense it a moment earlier and find a way to make me stay on. She's a truly fateful woman, Buback, a femme fatale. The glow that tempts you to love her is real, but then she expects the same in return. With me she finally realized that she would always be third: after my work and my wife. So she held me like a hostage until she could find the man who'd give her what she lacked...."

  The head of the Gestapo sighed. "That bitch! That goddamned bitch! And I can't even destroy her, that beautiful little bitch!"

  He downed the rest of the cognac.

  "Or you, Buback...."

  His gaze pierced the detective, sharp as an interrogation. As chills and hot flushes raced through him, Buback decided silence was still the wisest option. Meckerle raised the hand with the letter in it.

  "That's right, she presents you as my replacement. Handpicked, with my own stamp of approval. Because she guessed—correctly—how furious I would have been if my men had reported you to me. Of course it makes my blood boil, but..."

  He rose, towering over Buback, and angrily shred the paper into tiny pieces.

  "Get the hell out of here! Go hunt that pervert with your Czechs, snoop around in their drawers, and stay out of my sight. Heil Hitler!"

  Morava ran into Bartolomejska Street breathless, but in time to catch Beran before he sent off his message.

  "Mr. Beran," he pleaded, "I know you want to cover for me, but please, hold off for a while. This is a demanding plan; it'll be hard for you to find time for
it."

  When he finished his brief explanation, he heard the words that made his heart soar.

  "Good work, Morava."

  A minute before two, Chief Inspector Buback arrived with today's interpreter; now they had a political quorum as well. They were all there, even the Vysehrad team, and Jitka was taking notes.

  "Bait!" Morava announced to the assembled men. "We'll throw it to him day in, day out, until he bites. And then we'll reel him in."

  In his typical style, he laid it out for them, point by point.

  Point A: Tomorrow, in a convenient free spot in the Vysehrad cemetery, a false grave would be installed, where the technicians would place a marker with the name of a newly deceased man.