“Two macabre crimes. One murderer?” he wrote. In his mind he answered his own question in the affirmative. The fundamental argument supporting this hypothesis was neither the cruelty of both crimes nor the degenerate extravagance of the murderer, but his attachment to dates, his desire to mark the day of the crime in a calendar, his attempt to write his deed down in history. As Mock had been informed by Doctor Fritz Berger, Head of Evidence Archives and an expert in forensic science, the page found on Gelfrert dated September 12th, 1927, had been torn from the victim’s wall calendar. Doctor Lasarius had suggested that this might have been the date of Gelfrert’s death. A pocket diary had been found that day in the room of Berthold Honnefelder, a twenty-two-year-old unemployed locksmith; the murderer had scored through the date November 17th with the victim’s blood. Doctor Lasarius had no doubts whatsoever that this was when Honnefelder had died. “And so two men, both sadistically murdered, are found,” thought Mock, as if explaining to an imaginary opponent in his mind. “Next to each, the date of death is found marked in a calendar. If, on the scene of two equally elaborate murders, a rose, a page from the Bible or from a calendar has been left, then the perpetrator of both is one and the same person.”
Mock gratefully accepted a slice of apple cake, a coffee and a glass of cocoa liqueur from Max. There was nothing in the preliminary reports and findings to link the walled-in alcoholic and virtuoso French horn player, supporter of the Brown Shirts and amateur historian, with the quartered teetotal communist activist. Nothing, that is, apart from the date of death, clearly and eagerly given by the murderer. “The murderer wants to tell us: ‘I killed him on precisely this day. Not a day earlier, nor later. Right then’,” Mock thought, swallowing the delicious cake with its duvet of whipped cream. “Let us therefore assume that the victim is incidental; only the day on which he died is not incidental. Question: why is it not incidental? Why does the murderer kill on some days and not on others? Perhaps he is simply waiting for a favourable opportunity: when it becomes possible, for example, to convey a bound man past a drunken caretaker to his place of execution. And then, triumphantly, he leaves a note as if to say: ‘Today is a big day. Today I was successful.’ But to all intents and purposes, an opportunity presents itself at every step. One can kill on any day, stick a page from a calendar onto the victim’s forehead, wall him in somewhere or chop him up. And if that opportunity is not out of the ordinary, then is it worth proudly proclaiming to the world when it took place?”
Mock carefully wrote his thoughts down in his notebook and realized he had arrived once more at his starting point. He was not, however, depressed. He knew he had clarified the field of his search and was ready to conduct the investigation. He felt the excitement of a hunter who, in the clear, brisk, fresh air, loads his double-barrelled shotgun and buckles on his cartridge belt. “Old Mühlhaus was wrong,” he thought. “We don’t need many men on this. Smolorz and Meinerer can carry on with the cases I have assigned to them.”
This thought pleased him so much that, after the sweet liqueur, he ordered a glass of dry red wine. Instead of bringing it to his table, however, Max produced a telephone. The voice of Counsellor Herbert Domagalla from the Vice Department grated in the receiver:
“Eberhard, come over to the ‘chocolatier’ straight away. I’m here with Ebners and Völlinger. We can play a couple of rounds of bridge.”
Mock concluded that he would be able to return to the point of departure equally well the next day and decided to have his dry wine at Schaal’s chocolate shop instead.
† Eat first, then philosophize.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Winter sun flooded the white parlour. Its walls flaunted white-painted panelling; the white varnish of the furniture glistened, the white upholstery tempted with its softness; the white-glazed grand piano elegantly raised its wing. This whiteness was broken by the cream tapestries that hung on the wall, and by the unnatural flush on Sophie’s cheeks as she passionately struck the keyboard, transforming the piano into a percussion instrument. Elisabeth’s violin sobbed and squeaked, attempting – in vain – to break through the piano’s crescendo. The bare branch of a maple tree, thrashed by the wind, beat an accompaniment against the window-pane, down which trickled pitiful remnants of snow. They also trickled down caretaker Gurwitsch’s inadequately wiped shoes as, having let himself in through the front door with his key, he unceremoniously and without knocking opened the door to the parlour. With relief the women interrupted their playing and rubbed their chilled fingers. A small, dirty coal-caddy on wheels rolled across the white parquet. The caretaker opened the stove door and poured in a few generous shovelfuls of coal. He then stood straight as an arrow and looked expectantly at Elisabeth, who felt a headache coming on when she saw the muddy patches left by his boots. The violinist reached for her purse, handed Gurwitsch half a mark and politely thanked him. The recipient clearly did not intend to leave.
“I realize, Miss Pflüger,” the tenement’s most important occupant smiled cordially, “that half a mark is enough for bringing in the coal. That’s what I always get,” he explained to Sophie, “when Miss Pflüger has given her servants the day off. But today,” he looked at Elisabeth again, “I deserve more.”
“And why is that, my good man?” Sophie, irritated by this banter, stood up from the piano.
“Because today …” Gurwitsch turned up his walrus moustache and glanced lecherously at Miss Pflüger’s friend. “Because today I could have revealed many truths about Miss Pflüger, but instead I told a pack of lies.”
“How dare you!” Sophie’s affected tone had no effect on Elisabeth, who quickly asked:
“You lied? To whom? Who was asking about me?”
Gurwitsch folded his arms over his protruding belly and twiddled his thumbs. As he did so he winked knowingly at Sophie, gradually infuriating her with his impertinence. Elisabeth reached for her purse once more, and Gurwitsch’s willingness to continue the conversation returned.
“The plain-clothes policeman who came after you arrived this morning, that’s who.”
“And what did you tell him?” Elisabeth said.
“He wanted to know who comes to see Miss Pflüger, whether men visit, whether they spend the night, whether Miss Pflüger drinks or snorts snow, what state she comes home in and at what time. He also asked about the other lady. Whether she visits Miss Pflüger frequently, and whether there are any men with her.” The caretaker smiled at the five-mark note Elisabeth had rolled into a narrow straw. “And I said that Miss Pflüger is an extremely respectable lady who is sometimes visited by her mother.”
Gurwitsch held out his hand for the money, astounded by his own perspicacity and intelligence, thanks to which he had earned a week’s worth of vouchers for the canteen.
“Wait,” Sophie said, taking the rolled-up note from her friend’s fingers. “How do we know all this isn’t a lie, that our good man really did see someone, and if it’s true he was questioned by a policeman, then how do we know that is what he told him and not something entirely different?”
“I am not lying, madam,” Gurwitsch raised his voice. “I know that ferret. He once locked me up at the police station even though I wasn’t all that drunk. I know him. He’s called Bednorz or Ceglorz. That’s what the other policemen called him.”
“Smolorz, perhaps?” Sophie suddenly grew pale, losing a great deal in the eyes of the caretaker who favoured large, rosy women.
“Yes, indeed, Smolorz, Smolorz,” the caretaker said, quickly slipping the money into his canvas trousers.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
HALF PAST THREE IN THE AFTERNOON
Three men occupied a large table in the window of Schaal’s chocolatier at the corner of a block in the centre of Ring. This was where, having just bought their sweet delicacies, Schaal’s customers generally gave free rein to their greed, and Mock’s cohorts were doing just that – washing dow
n sugary specialities with coffee and smoking excessively. Schaal had congratulated himself on having such important customers, and when one of them had complained about the lack of a skat club in the neigh-bourhood, he proposed that they play in his shop. The card-players greeted the proposal with delight, and ever since had played bridge or skat over chocolate and liqueurs while the owner rubbed his hands. And so it was now. Counsellor Herbert Domagalla, an old friend of Mock’s and Head of the Vice Department – that is, Department II of the Police Praesidium – executed a dovetail shuffle and the cards fell into an orderly pile. Commissioner Klaus Ebners, a Sipo official,† concertinaed the cards from one hand to the other. Only the astrologer and clairvoyant Helmut Völlinger – derided by many, but whose exceptional abilities were sought by practically every policeman – was not shuffling or cutting cards. His hands were busy turning the stem of a large wine glass around its axis, and his eyes were fixed on the window that gave on to the western side of Ring.
Mock greeted his friends effusively, hung up his coat and hat on a modern hat-stand, and took his place at the green baize table. A moment later he was presented with a glass of nut liqueur, and thirteen cards lay in front of him, dealt by the efficient hand of Völlinger, his partner in the first rubber.
“One spade,” began Völlinger. Ebners, sitting to the right of Mock, politely called “no bid” while Mock, seeing four spades in his own hand plus the ace and jack of hearts, raised his partner’s bid to four spades. Domagalla’s “no bid” brought the bidding to an end. Ebners led with a trump. Völlinger quickly drew trumps, finessed with Mock’s jack of hearts, and then laid down his cards.
“As a reward for allowing me that brilliant finesse, I’ll give you the expert advice you asked for.” Völlinger pushed a dark-blue envelope decorated with the stamp h. völlinger – astrological services and consultations towards Mock.
“Thank you,” Mock smiled, “for the praise and the expertise.”
Völlinger did not respond; he stared out of the window and drummed his fingers uneasily on the green felt of the card-table. Mock stashed the envelope in his briefcase alongside the material evidence from both crimes and the cardboard folder containing his subordinates’ reports. Ebners quickly dealt. A moment later he had to do so again when Völlinger picked up two of Domagalla’s cards, mistaking them for his own.
Three “no bids”.
“Two no trumps,” Völlinger said. There was a murmur of authentic admiration.
“I haven’t had cards for a bid like that in ages. All I can say to such a challenge is ‘no bid’,” Ebners sighed.
Mock studied his three kings and jack of spades. “Six no trumps,” he said, provoking a loud double on his left. After two “no bids” Mock redoubled, and that was the end of the bidding.
Ebners led with a low spade and Domagalla took the trick with the king. “Why didn’t Völlinger take it?” thought Mock. “Could it be he hasn’t got an ace?” Domagalla slapped down the ace of spades. After taking the trick he nonchalantly threw down the queen of spades. Mock closed his eyes and did not reopen them until the end of the hand.
“Four down,” Ebners summed up. “Why, for the love of God, didn’t you say ‘no bid’ with the queen of diamonds? If you had played her early, you might have won control.”
Völlinger glanced again at the window.
“I’m sorry, Mock,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t be playing here.”
“Why not?” Domagalla asked ironically. “Cosmic fluids flowing through here, are there?”
“You know nothing about these things, Domagalla. So be quiet.”
“We can change places,” Ebners suggested.
“I don’t mean my position at the table. I mean this café.”
“What are you talking about, Völlinger?” Domagalla began shuffling the cards. “We’ve played at Schaal’s often enough.”
“But usually in the back.” Völlinger pulled at his stiff, rounded collar and loosened his tie.
“I’m your partner today, Völlinger.” Mock lit a Hawaiian cigar. “I have no intention of losing vast amounts of money just because you’re out of sorts. Have you got a hangover or something? Herbert,” he turned to Domagalla, “you invited me here. Maybe you thought it would be a brilliant idea,” – he mimicked Domagalla’s falsetto – “‘We’ll give Mock an ailing partner and then share the money between the three of us.’ Is that it? You wanted to play with ‘an ass’, and the ass today was to be me.” He looked under the table. “Maybe that’s where I left my ears!”
Ebners and Domagalla burst out laughing, whereas Völlinger was a long way from sharing his friends’ mirth.
“That is a serious accusation,” he hissed. “Are you accusing me of cheating?”
“Do calm down, my dear Völlinger.” Mock turned the ashtray, fastened as it was to the table, towards him. “That was only the second hand. It must have been a slip of the tongue. You should have opened one no trump, not two.”
“If we go on playing here I’m going to make even bigger mistakes. Since you have made these accusations against me, albeit jokingly, I owe you an explanation. It’s because of that house opposite. We’ve played here before, true enough, but in the back room. I couldn’t see that house from there.”
Mock looked out of the window and felt a peculiar stabbing in his diaphragm. Through the rain washing down the pane, he saw the Griffins tenement. Silence descended. Deep down, not one of Völlinger’s partners made light of his premonitions and trances. It was very often as a result of these that their investigations were brought to a successful conclusion.
“Völlinger, please, tell me more about the building and why it makes you so uneasy?” Mock had grown visibly pale. “I’m conducting an investigation into a murder committed right behind it.”
“I read about it in the paper,” Völlinger said, getting to his feet. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I cannot stay here a moment longer.”
Völlinger bowed and went to the cloakroom.
“Too bad.” After his visit that morning to a certain young lady who had a substantial file in his own department’s archives, Domagalla was unusually understanding. “We’ll find a fourth soon enough.”
“You’ll have to find a third and a fourth,” Mock said and hurried after Völlinger, seen off by Ebners’ abuse.
The astrologer was no longer in the café. Mock opened his wallet, pressed a coin into Schaal’s hand, took his coat and hat from him and ran into the street. A gusty wind sluiced sharp needles of rain. The Counsellor unfurled his umbrella, but did not enjoy the protection it offered for long. The wind tore at it and, bending the wire spokes, turned it inside out. A man in a pale overcoat was struggling with the same problem. It was Völlinger. Mock ran to him.
“I really have to talk to you,” Mock shouted over the din of a tram turning the corner. “Let’s go somewhere where you can’t see that cursed building. There’s a little bar here,” he pointed to a passage, sheltered by an arched vault, that lead to Stockgasse.
Escaping from the wind that raged in the narrow streets around the Town Hall, they entered a tavern at Stockgasse 10 bearing the sign petruske gastwirt. The place was filled to the rafters with students, carters, thieves and an assortment of petty thugs who swiftly made themselves scarce at the sight of Mock. What counted to Mock at that moment was not how they knew him, but the fact that they had freed up a table. He occupied it with Völlinger and nodded to a gloomy waiter, who clearly considered his job to be some kind of divine retribution. The sourpuss stood two large glasses of glühwein in front of them and retreated behind the bar, fixing his tormented eyes on an enormous jar of a cloudy suspension in which there swam herrings, gherkins and other hard-to-identify snacks.
“My dear Mock,” Völlinger took a draught of the clove speciality with obvious pleasure. “I have given you my expert astrological opinion. Analysing your and your wife’s cosmograms, I have marked out several dates for the possible conception of an heir. The first of these is
in a few days’ time.”
“I thank you very much,” Mock said. “But let’s get back to bridge and the Griffins tenement …”
“I assure you I would never …” Völlinger could not get himself to utter the word “cheat”. “I wouldn’t dare …”
“Enough,” Mock interrupted him. “Tell me about your fears regarding the Griffins tenement.”
“I first saw it in a photograph.” Völlinger’s eyes skimmed over the pictures on the walls whose subjects were about as obvious as the contents of the jar. “I had just passed my school-leaving exams and was on my way to study medicine in Breslau. Since I had never been to the city before, I wanted to find out more about it. In a shop in Lauban, I was looking through a photographic album called The Old City of Breslau when I came across the Griffins tenement. I felt a rush of deadly fear and closed the book. I had experienced déjà vu; I realized I had often seen that building in a terrible nightmare. In this recurring dream I would be running up a staircase, away from someone. I would get outside onto the roof, look down, and see what appeared to be enormous white birds, and then I would get dizzy. I wouldn’t fall, but the dizziness would turn into a pain in my head which then usually woke me up. So when I saw the photograph I felt such searing fear that I even abandoned the idea of studying in this city. As you know, I studied in Leipzig and Berlin. I did, however, spend my final two terms in Breslau because it is closest to Lauban, where my deceased father, God bless him, suffered his last days in dreadful agony. One evening I was waiting for a droschka with some friends after leaving Lamla wine bar. I was rather tipsy, but I will never forget the acute fear I experienced when I realized we were standing outside that accursed building. My friends quickly caught on to my phobias and began to play practical jokes on me. They would engross me in conversation then lead me up to the building, or they would send me postcards of it … I tried to fight these fears with self-hypnosis. In vain. That’s it, Counsellor. I’m simply frightened of that tenement.”
End of the World in Breslau Page 5
