Like all gamblers, Knüfer was superstitious. He took Sophie’s absence at the table and Mühlhaus’ voice booming in his skull as warnings. He should not repeat the game with the money he had just received from Mühlhaus because he had lost that sum once already, the day before, and had written out a bill of exchange for it. So he would have to give it back to von Stietencrott, rent a room in Wiesbaden, and not leave town for two months so that he could keep a discreet eye on Sophie. Thanks to a fortunate coincidence, Mühlhaus’ instructions had been obeyed and von Stietencrott had effectively “isolated” Sophie for two months. Fate had done Knüfer’s work for him and he should have been jumping for joy to be able to spend his winter holiday peacefully and happily in Wiesbaden, but this momentary joy was wrecked by a grating voice that kept repeating: I tell you, if you’re lying to me, you’re not just going to lose a lot like them – you’re going to lose everything.
“You’re going to lose everything if you lose sight of Sophie even for a second,” added Knüfer, and abandoned the secret casino and its naked croupiers’ siren song.
WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 16TH, 1927 NINE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
Von Stietencrott struggled to contain his mounting rage. With furious, bloodshot eyes he glared at Markus Wielandt, who was smiling ironically as he exhaled columns of cigarette smoke through his nostrils, and forced himself to adopt a polite tone:
“My dear Mr Wielandt, you have already explained it to me. You’re a writer and you want to describe Miss Lebetseyder’s mental state the day after – as you put it – ‘she was consumed as an additional reward in erotic roulette’. I’m pleased you approach your work so seriously, but Miss Lebetseyder is indisposed just at the moment and doesn’t wish to see anyone.”
“They must really have been at it,” Wielandt remarked, “if she can’t stand at a table twenty-four hours later.”
Von Stietencrott was spared an attack of apoplexy by the ringing of the telephone. The casino manager picked up the receiver, listened for a moment and yelled:
“Bring me that receptionist!”
The door opened and into the room filled with Biedermeier furniture, ferns and palms burst three powerfully built doormen and a short receptionist wearing the Hotel Nassauer Hof uniform.
“Name?” von Stietencrott shouted, aiming his fat index finger at the receptionist’s chest.
“Zeissmann, Helmut Zeissmann,” said the man, trying not to look his boss in the eye. He was clearly suffering from Parkinson’s disease.
“Tell me, Zeissmann.” The manager grabbed the receptionist by his frail shoulders. “Tell me everything.”
“Mr Knüfer came to see me half an hour ago,” Zeissmann said, immobilized by the vice of his boss’ hands and burned by the sparks fired from behind the monocle, “and asked whether Mr Wlossok was in his room. I told him the truth, that he had just returned. Mr Knüfer then went up, and he’s still there.”
“You know that I’m looking for Knüfer for not redeeming a bill of exchange?”
“Yes, I do.” Zeissmann finally found the courage to raise his shaking head and watery eyes to von Stietencrott’s face, which was purple with anger. “I was told that five minutes ago. That’s why I immediately called the doormen. Two of them are standing outside Wlossok’s door right now.”
“You act with lightning speed, Zeissmann,” the monocle flashed with satisfaction. “You’ll receive an appropriate bonus. And now tell me everything about Madame Lebetseyder and Wlossok. How many times have you seen her today?”
“Two,” Zeissmann said, relaxing, and he patted his trouser pockets with his hands as if looking for something. Wielandt the writer handed him a cigarette. “Twice. Once at about five in the morning. She went into her room with Mr Wlossok. At about twelve, Mr Wlossok phoned and asked me to check the times of trains to Breslau. I looked them up and called him back. Three hours later, at about three o’clock, Madame Lebetseyder left the hotel. She seemed to be going for a walk in the park. At about five, Mr Wlossok called for some dinner, which I took up to him personally.”
“Couldn’t a more junior member of staff have done that?” There was no irony in von Stietencrott’s voice.
“Do you know, sir,” Zeissmann smiled from ear to ear, “I preferred to do so myself, to emphasize our respect for guests who make large winnings.”
“You were more concerned to get a tip,” muttered von Stietencrott. “Go on, go on.”
“I brought him dinner at five. He was alone. He didn’t go out after that. Half an hour ago, Knüfer went up to see him. Shortly after that, Mr Wlossok called and asked for some cigarettes. Again I saw to the request myself. Mr Wlossok was in a heated discussion with Mr Knüfer about something. I then returned to reception and the casino steward, Mr Hechs, called me to say that Mr Knüfer was wanted by the manager. I immediately informed the guards and since then they’ve been standing outside Wlossok’s room awaiting further instructions.”
“Thank you, Zeissmann.” Von Stietencrott revealed a set of teeth that were about as authentic as the “von” in front of his name. “I won’t forget this. And now, everyone apart from Mr Wielandt – out!”
When the office was empty, the manager collapsed into his armchair and raised his eyebrows.
“Any questions, my dear Mr Wielandt?”
“Yes.” The writer was clearly worried about something. His face reflected the astonishment of a primary school pupil who has been told to conjugate all the basic forms of the Greek verb gignomai. “Did none of your men follow Madame Lebetseyder? Is all you know what the receptionist has told you? Did you let her leave, just like that, to go for a walk? Maybe she’s no longer in Wiesbaden? Aren’t you worried about such a beautiful croupier? Any man would wager his wife’s dowry to have her!”
“My dear Mr Wielandt,” von Stietencrott smiled. “Have you fallen in love with Madame Lebetseyder? Are you worried you’ll never see her again?” He took a cigar from an ebony box, snipped it with clippers and pushed the box along the shining surface of the desk towards the writer. “If I was as foolish as you think, I wouldn’t have been running this casino for the past twenty years. Let me tell you something very interesting– you must give me your word of honour not to use it in your book.” Von Stietencrott scrutinized the writer who, hand on heart, gave his word of honour. “In the agreement signed by that whore and her pimp, it states as clear as day that if she flies the coop, that director from the burned-out theatre is going to have to work for me instead. And my bodyguard is following his every step. I’m not letting him go …”
“And?” Wielandt laughed out loud, making a mental note to jot down von Stietencrott’s linguistic metamorphosis from elegant man of fashion who drops foreign quotations into his speech to vulgar lout. “Is von Finckl going to lie naked on the roulette table and push stacks of chips with a spatula? What a worthy substitute for Lebetseyder!”
“My good fellow, the only thing those two are going to have in common is working in the secret casino. That Jew is going to make me more money than his lady.”
“As a naked croupier?” Wielandt asked once more. But then he became serious, and took no offence when he heard von Stietencrott whisper:
“As my sharper, you imbecile.”
WIESBADEN, THAT SAME DECEMBER 16TH, 1927 HALF PAST NINE IN THE EVENING
Von Stietencrott and Wielandt walked along the corridor to Wlossok’s room. They wore neither coats nor hats, even though Hotel Nassauer Hof was on the other side of the street. Behind them, two doormen tossed their bellies rhythmically, while Zeissmann the receptionist skipped along. A cloud of cigar smoke wafted into the open mouths of the doormen and encircled Zeissmann’s trembling head.
“Now you’ll see,” von Stietencrott said, as a column of ash fell from his cigar onto the red carpet, “how I deal with bastards who don’t repay me.”
They stopped at the door to the room and von Stietencrott thumped his fist on it several times. The door was not locked, and the manager and writer
entered. On the floor Wlossok and Knüfer lay prone, their blue faces turned up towards the new arrivals. A film covered their staring eyes and their tensed Adam’s apples almost burst through the skin of their necks.
“Scheisse, someone’s screwed their heads round a hundred and eighty degrees,” muttered one of the doormen.
Von Stietencrott approached Knüfer’s corpse and turned it onto its back. The heavy head spun on the limp rope of the neck. Von Stietencrott reached into the inside pocket of the dead man’s dinner jacket and pulled out a wad of notes.
“What are you doing?” yelled Wielandt. “We mustn’t touch anything. We’ve got to call the police.”
“I can’t touch my own money?” The manager extinguished his cigar in some sauce left on a plate on the table. “The rest is the business of the police, and yours too. Yes, yours …” Von Stietencrott patted Wielandt on his chubby cheek. “As you can see, there’s never a lack of material for writers in my casino.”
“What have they got in their mouths?” asked one of the doormen, bending over the bodies.
“Scraps of paper,” replied the other. “They look like pages from a calendar.”
BRESLAU, MONDAY, DECEMBER 19TH, 1927 SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Breslau was cloaked in swollen skeins of grey cloud from which fell large, sticky flakes of snow. Viktor Ziesch, assistant to the administrator of St Georg Hospital on Mehlgasse, removed his stiff, peaked cap, fanned himself with it, unbuttoned his greatcoat and leaned on his snow shovel. Ziesch was of a reflective nature and enjoyed above all those moments of reverie that would suddenly overcome him, directing him to stop work and meditate on the world around him and its inhabitants. It seemed to Ziesch that his eyes could penetrate the walls of the rented tenement on Mehlgasse and see the people living within: Slotosch the barber finds it hard to wake up and regretfully leaves the safe haven of his eiderdown, dunks his head in a basin of cold water, slicks down what hair might be standing on end and turns up his moustache, and then sets off for his establishment on the corner near the Registry Office; the seamstress, Mrs Wiedemann, slides her leg from beneath her nightdress and with her toes pushes a full chamber pot towards the old servant stoking up the kitchen stove; in a moment the bar owner, Scholz, is going to come down and chide the caretaker, Hanuschka, for not having shovelled away the snow outside his place; the caretaker is not cleaning the sign of the inn because he is hacking away at the crystallized edges of old mounds of snow with his shovel and chasing away a stray dog that, searching for something to eat, pokes its muzzle through the cellar window and puts its front paws up on the rims of the cast-iron buckets of ash that the caretaker has taken out into the street. Ziesch looks up at the hospital and sees a distinguished, bearded man opening a window. Ziesch can almost smell the aromatic clouds of Austria tobacco coming from the sickroom and wonders whether he should not tell the management about the smoker. But he meets the man’s watchful eye and discards the thought: “What’s it got to do with me!” The man turns back towards the patient’s bed and sees that he is no longer asleep.
“So you’re awake, Mock. You’ve been sleeping for twenty hours. And even longer before that. Two whole weeks in a coma. Can you talk?”
Mock nodded and realized his head was held in something stiff. He then felt a stinging tear through the skin on his chin. He closed his eyes and tried to ride out the shooting pain.
“Your skin is badly and quite deeply flayed,” Mock heard Mühlhaus’ grating voice. “The buckle of your belt tore into your chin. Apart from that, you’ve suffered a crack of the cervical vertebra. You’re immobilized in a corset. That’s all. You’ll survive,” a tone of joyfulness sounded in Mühlhaus’ voice. “I welcome you back to this vale of tears.”
The events of the preceding few days passed before Mock’s eyes in slow motion: a maggot burrowing into the corpse’s eye in the shoemaker’s workshop, Honnefelder hacked to pieces, the throbbing dryness of a hangover, Sophie’s rape, her escape, the nameless prostitute with a severed head, the blue swellings on Councillor Geissen’s hairy back, the investigation conducted together with Director Hartner, “forget about that whore, get on with your work and don’t think about her!”, happy families in modest, happy homes, Breslau turning white, becoming whiter than snow, Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.†
“You were saved by the University Library caretaker, one Josef Maron,” continued Mühlhaus. “He didn’t feel like being your Charon,” he sniggered.
“I forgot to give him the obol.” Mock closed his eyes and fell asleep. But he slept only for a moment, during which the slow rhythm of recent events passing before his eyes gained in strength. He turned onto his side with Difficulty and spurted vomit onto the granite-patterned hospital linoleum.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 19TH, 1927 TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Mock awoke again later that day and immediately sat up in bed. Blood rushed to his head, a piercing pain tore through his neck and his scraped chin rubbed painfully against the rough edge of his corset. He fell back on the pillow and let the sweat trickle down his brow. Slowly extending his arm, he pressed the button by the bed and a moment later saw a Borromäerinner sister enter his room.
† Sprinkle me with hyssop and I shall be cleansed, wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.
“Is the man who came to see me this morning,” he managed to whisper, “still around somewhere?”
“He’s been around for a few days.” The sister lowered her eyes modestly. “He hasn’t left you for a moment. Other than to go to the bathroom or to smoke. He’ll be here shortly. Is there anything else?”
Mock wanted to shake his head but remembered his fractured cervical vertebra. So he said nothing and the sister dispersed into the whiteness of the hospital interior. In her stead appeared Mühlhaus, warming his hands on his hot pipe.
“Ah, you’re awake again!” he said. “I hope you’re not going to react with the same degree of revulsion at this subsequent return to reality.”
“What is there to return to?” snorted Mock and closed his eyes. He then saw an entirely different image: night, Mühlhaus asleep on an iron hospital chair, ash from his pipe scattered over his waistcoat.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, opening his eyes, “for being with me. It’s like keeping watch over the deceased. The last respects …”
“Yes, I’m keeping watch over you,” said Mühlhaus slowly. “As a friend and as your superior. Besides, the one’s tied up with the other. The superior wants you to come back to work. The friend believes work will cure you.”
Mock looked at the article standing in the corner of the room, a brass frame with two supporting rings. The lower one held a water jug, the upper a basin. Above the basin was a small pole with a mirror. The wash-stand was intricately decorated with violin keys; the metalworker must have been a music lover. On the rim of the basin were the remnants of some shaving foam, flecked with black specks of redundant growth. Mock touched his chin and felt that it was smooth.
“Who shaves me here?” he whispered.
“I do,” answered Mühlhaus. “I ought to be a barber. Your flayed chin would have been quite a challenge for any professional.”
“Why? Why are you taking care of me? I’m not going back. What for?” murmured Mock.
“Am I to reply as your superior or friend?”
“It makes no difference.”
“You’ll go back to your wife and your work.”
Taking no notice of the pain, Mock sat up, got out of bed and grabbed the corset with both hands, trying to pull it over his head. His feet searched for his shoes and his arms struggled to free themselves from the sleeves of his nightshirt. But within moments he could no longer ignore the pain. He collapsed onto his bed and glared at Mühlhaus. Somewhat alarmed by his subordinate’s behaviour, Mühlhaus remembered the doctor’s instructions not to annoy the patient and decided to come clean.
“Listen, Mock,” he began, feveri
shly stuffing tobacco into his pipe. “I spoke to Knüfer four days ago. He’s found your wife in Wiesbaden and today – or tomorrow at the latest – she’s going to be in Berlin. There, Knüfer’s going to bring her to a certain apartment where some friends of his are going to watch her day and night. She’ll have everything she needs. As soon as you’ve wrapped up the calendar murderer’s case, you can pick her up in Berlin and it’ll all be over. Your theory of crimes repeating themselves is convincing.”
“And what now, Mühlhaus?” Mock had never addressed his boss in this way. “You’ve got me in a checkmate, haven’t you? ‘Find the “calendar murderer”, Mock, and I’ll tell you where your wife is,’” he aped Mühlhaus’ grating voice. He sat up suddenly once more. “Now listen to me carefully. This job and that monster who’s killing alcoholics, Hitlerites and corrupt politicians can go to hell. All I’m interested in is my wife. I’m going to get up, get dressed and go to Berlin. I’m going to find Knüfer in his lair and he’s going to tell me where Sophie is. Understand? That’s exactly what I’m going to do right now.”
“You forget,” Mühlhaus said, clutching at straws, “that another girl was murdered too. A whore, who for a couple of pfennigs did anything scum like Geissen desired. She was only nineteen, and before dying of syphilis she could still have had a bit of a life …”
“What do I care about some nameless whore.” Mock rang for the sister again. “There’s no way even of putting her in our files. I’m going to fetch a different whore … And I’m going to change her … Never again …”
“And what are you going to do, damn it, when you’ve found her?” yelled Mühlhaus.
“Put my arms around her,” replied Mock calmly, “and ask her for …”
The sister appeared and began to protest as the patient informed her of his intention to leave the hospital. Mock’s bass voice was spliced by the sister’s hysterical soprano. In all this commotion, Mühlhaus tried to pin down one thought, which gave him no peace; it was to be a counterargument to something Mock had said, something he had been quite wrong about, or had not taken into account. It was not about Mock putting his arms around Sophie to hug or strangle her, it was something he had said earlier, something that did not tally with the truth. Yes, now he remembered.
End of the World in Breslau Page 20
