by JJ Toner
ZUGZWANG
A short story by
JJ Toner
First published April, 2015
Cover: Anya Kelleye
ISBN: 9781908519221
Copyright 2015 JJ Toner
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events or locales are entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter 1
On March 3, 1933, four days after the burning of the Reichstag in Berlin, Kriminalkommissar Saxon of the Munich police arrived at work late. He’d had little sleep. His wife, Ruth, had spent half the night nursing a colicky baby in their one bedroomed apartment in Piperstrasse.
His telephone was ringing as he approached his desk. He picked it up and barked, “What is it?”
“You will be aware of this morning’s murder in Schwabing.” It was Saxon’s boss, Kriminaldirektor Mydas.
“Of course, sir, a most unfortunate murder.” Saxon signalled wildly to his assistant who had just entered the room balancing a couple of cups of coffee on a tray. Kriminaloberassistent Glasser put down the tray, grabbed the incident log from the front desk, and dropped it in front of Saxon. Saxon ran a finger down the overnight entries and found the incident in question.
Mydas grunted. “That’s not how I would have described it. But I’ve decided it would be best if you take over the case. We need to find this maniac and put him away quickly. It won’t take the newspapers long to make the connection between the two killings. And when that happens every woman in Munich will be too terrified to venture into the streets, and we will all come under extreme pressure from our political masters. Bernd Hessel has the two files. Drop into my office when you’ve read them.”
Mydas terminated the call. Saxon groped for his coffee, his eyes glued to the incident log. “Why was I not told about this?”
Glasser used a bony finger to slide Saxon’s coffee under his searching hand. “The report came in at 2:00 am, sir. The duty sergeant called Kommissar Hessel. I expect he thought you probably needed your sleep – you and your good lady, both.”
One look at the preliminary notes from the crime scene told Saxon what connection the newspapers would make. A prostitute had been the subject of a gruesome murder in Hofgraben in the red light district a couple of weeks earlier. The mutilations sounded remarkably similar. “He should have called me. Do we have the victim’s name?”
“Frau Henrietta Happeck, aged 59. She was a housekeeper for a Jewish banker.”
More than any man Saxon had ever met, Glasser resembled the grim reaper. A tall man, he was nothing but skin and bone, all he needed was a hooded cape and a scythe. His voice had a hollow, echoing tone, too, the words ‘Jewish banker’ sounding like a death knell from his mouth.
#
Bernd Hessel was surprisingly cooperative.
“I’ve been asked to take over the red light case now that it looks like a double murder,” said Saxon.
“I heard. Kriminaldirektor Mydas informed me this morning. I have assembled everything from both cases in these files.”
Saxon took the files. The first one was unexpectedly bulky for such a recent case.
“I’m sorry for stepping on your toes, my friend…”
“Don’t give it a second thought. And please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Just be sure to catch this monster before he kills any more women.” Hessel’s pale, round face always appeared cherubic, his smile cold; today’s angelic beam was warm and genuine, but strangely unsettling.
Saxon opened the first file. The photographs turned his stomach. Maria Kazinski, aged 24, had been disembowelled and decapitated 9 days earlier. She was naked. Whoever had done this had meant to obliterate her. Leaving her remains in a public place the killer had removed every vestige of humanity from the poor girl. It was a crime of pure evil, an act of undiluted hatred.
“She was Polish?” said Saxon.
“Originally, yes.”
“A street walker?”
“No. She worked in a brothel. It’s all there in the file.”
Saxon turned a few pages and found the written record of the interview with Maria’s roommate, Tania. Both girls worked in a registered brothel called Angel Wings located within 200 metres of the murder site.
He opened the second file. It contained very little more than the name and address of the victim: Frau Henrietta Happeck, housekeeper, Mozartstrasse 20. The photographs showed a remarkably similar crime. The age of the second victim made the pictures even more nauseating. It was like looking at the mutilated remains of your own mother.
#
Kriminaldirektor Mydas peered into his silver cigarette case and picked one out with the care of a man selecting a delicacy from a box of chocolates. “Take a seat, Kommissar. I take it you’ve read both files?”
Kommissar Saxon remained standing. “Why give these murders to me? You know I’m under pressure at home. Ruth has her hands full with a young baby.”
Overweight and with a fondness for his beer, Mydas was not so much a policeman these days as a burnt out local government official, his chair moulded to the form of his fat behind, his eyes firmly fixed on his retirement. He flipped open his gold lighter, lit his cigarette and snapped the lighter shut. “What can I say, Saxon? The SS have been on the telephone already, demanding results. And you are my best investigator, after all.”
“I was hoping for some leave…” Saxon crossed his arms.
“All leave is cancelled. For God’s sake, sit down, man.” He waved his cigarette like a smouldering dagger. “You know I have to give you this case. Who else do I have?”
“Bernd Hessel.”
Mydas snorted smoke through his nostrils. “Kommissar Hessel is a fine policeman, but he’s too slow. If you’re asking me would I trust him with a case this important, the answer is no. No, it’s your case now.”
“Who do I report to, SS-Standardtenführer Kratschik or you?”
“You report to me, as usual. I will keep the SS informed.”
#
The sandstone terraces in Mozartstrasse appeared like a monumental golden ingot in the evening sunlight.
Glasser laughed mirthlessly. “It seems not everyone suffered in the financial crash, boss.” He switched off the engine. “People like that have brought this country to its knees…”
Saxon laid a heavy hand on Glasser’s arm. “Wait in the car.” He squeezed Glasser’s arm.
“You’re serious?”
“Wait here. I won’t be long.”
Isaac Goldfarb opened the door dressed in an elaborate green frogged smoking jacket. For a banker he seemed ill at ease, as if unused to having strangers in the house. He led Saxon into the front parlour and stood at an awkward distance, leaving his visitor standing.
Saxon removed his hat. “I’m sorry for your loss, Herr Goldfarb.” He ran his eyes over the furniture. Carved fruit was much in evidence in light cherry, maple and walnut pieces. A Jewish menorah with nine fresh candles held pride of place over the m
antel. Saxon parked his behind on a chaise longue.
Goldfarb took a chair, his hands resting in his lap. “Yes. Thank you, Kommissar. It was a terrible shock, the way… the way she…”
They remained an uncomfortable distance apart. Saxon felt he had to raise his voice to be heard. “How long was Frau Happeck in service with you?”
“A year and a half. She was an excellent housekeeper. I don’t know how I’m going to replace her…”
“She lived here, in this house?” Saxon touched the side of his head; Goldfarb mirrored the movement. Saxon put the banker in his mid forties, tall, erect, with a full head of hair.
“Yes.”
“Do you have other servants?”
“None. Frau Happeck is – or was – the only one.”
“What was she doing out of the house at such an early hour?”
“She liked to buy fresh vegetables from the market in Haydnplatz. She visited the market two days each week.”
“Which days?”
“Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
“Did she have family?”
“Her husband died in the War. They had no children.”
Saxon said, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have killed her.” Not exactly an open question, but he was suffering from lack of sleep.
“None. I assumed it must have been the madman who murdered that girl two weeks ago. Unless…” He stood up. “Can I get you anything, Kommissar? Tea? Coffee?”
“Unless what, Herr Goldfarb?”
“Unless maybe someone was sending me a message…”
It took a couple of moments for Saxon to wrap that suggestion in any sort of logic. The rise of the Brownshirts had cast a shadow over Germany, and since Hitler’s accession to power certain groups were under the spotlight. The Jews were top of the Nazis’ list of undesirables. “You’re suggesting the killing might have been political?”
Goldfarb shrugged. “Henrietta came to me direct from Prinzregentenplatz 16.”
The address rang a loud bell in Saxon’s head, but he failed to make the connection. Rather than show his ignorance, he nodded. Goldfarb nodded back.
“Has anything else out of the ordinary happened recently?”
“Who can say these days? Everything seems out of the ordinary.”
“What do you mean?”
Goldfarb’s shoulders drooped. He looked older than his years. “Everything has changed. We’ve lost a lot of friends in the past year. This was our town. We used to throw parties.” He gave a small laugh, shaking his head. “It’s not safe for us in the streets. There are Brownshirt thugs everywhere, and they all seem to know who we are.”
“You think the Brownshirts could have killed your housekeeper?”
Goldfarb ignored the question. “My wife… She’s taken it very badly. I fear for her mental health.”
Saxon gave the banker a moment to gather himself. Then he said, “I’d like to see Frau Happeck’s room.”
Goldfarb led Saxon to a room at the back of the house, opened the door and ushered him in.
“Thank you, Herr Goldfarb.” Saxon waited by the open door, making it plain that he wished to be left alone.
Goldfarb left, and the Kommissar conducted a thorough search of the room. Henrietta Happeck was a tidy soul, with a neatly made bed, and everything in its proper place. The absence of photographs or letters spoke volumes. This woman was alone, isolated, probably lonely. Her housekeeping duties were her life.
Glasser had filled the car with cigarette smoke. “How was Herr Goldfarb?”
“Worried. Frightened.”
Glasser suppressed a smile. “His sort always fall on their feet. But for his sake I hope he has his bags packed.”
When Saxon mentioned Prinzregentenplatz 16, Glasser said, “That’s where our Führer lives.”
Of course! Frau Happeck used to be Hitler’s housekeeper. Now that was a potential lead.
#
“Where to next?” Glasser edged the car into the traffic.
“The brothel. What was it called again?”
“Angel Wings.” Glasser swung the car around, crossing the tram tracks and heading north.
They drove in silence for a few moments. Then Glasser said, “Why do you think you were given the case, Boss?”
“I’m sure the Kriminaldirektor had his reasons.”
“You think it was his decision? The whole thing stinks to high heaven if you ask me.”
“All right, spit it out before it chokes you.” They were entering familiar territory. Glasser was a political animal, an early recruit to the Nazi Party, fully versed in the shenanigans of the Nazis.
“I’d say it was Standartenführer Kratschik’s decision. This case is a classic poison chalice. Hessel has been earmarked for promotion. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with that. If you catch the killer, Kratschik will take the credit. If you fail you’ll find yourself all alone watching your career disappear into the toilet.”
Saxon grunted. He couldn’t argue with Glasser’s analysis, which was pinpoint accurate, as usual. As a member of the SS, Hessel was destined for greatness. His meteoric career spoke of favouritism and the eager greasing of palms. The undercurrent in Glasser’s voice spoke volumes, too. He had been refused entry to the SS at least twice, probably because he lacked a gymnasium education.
They flashed their police badges at the door of the brothel and were shown into the Madam’s private office.
An aura of cheap perfume announced Frau Bruckmann’s arrival and accompanied her wherever she went. It was like an invisible shield, and every bit as effective. She nodded to Glasser, with whom she was obviously acquainted. Glasser introduced the Kommissar.
Saxon asked about Maria Kazinski. How long had she worked at the brothel? Did she have any special customers?
Frau Bruckmann inserted a black Russian cigarette into a ridiculously long cigarette holder. Glasser lit it for her; her arms weren’t long enough to light it herself. “I’ve answered these questions already. Don’t you policemen talk to one another?”
“Was she working on the night that she was killed?”
“Yes. She was here most nights.”
“Who was she with that night?”
“That I can’t tell you, Kommissar.”
“Can’t or won’t?” said Glasser.
She turned on Glasser at that. “We don’t keep records, and even if we did, our customers all use pseudonyms – as you well know.”
“Did she have any difficult customers?” said Saxon.
“None, Herr Kommissar. All my customers pay in advance. And if you’re asking me about violent customers…” she cut off Glasser’s objection with an imperious wave of her cigarette holder, “…I really couldn’t say. As long as my girls have no visible bruises, the clients can be as heavy-handed as they wish, and I never discuss the clients with the girls. Our customers are guaranteed absolute confidentiality.” She turned her head, allowing her cigarette holder to point at Glasser for a second. “Idle talk is forbidden. The business wouldn’t last a day if the girls gossiped about their clients.”
Tania was a delight: tall and painfully thin, with long blonde hair tied in pigtails, and wearing a short skirt and tight blouse that left little to the imagination. Her only blemish was her fingernails which were chewed to the bone. Glasser invited her to sit. She did so, crossing her legs slowly. Saxon smiled at her and asked if she had any idea who could have killed her roommate.
Tania was tongue-tied. Eyes brimming with tears, she shook her head. Her chin trembled. The way her pigtails bounced on her bare shoulders with the movement of her head sent a primitive shimmer through Saxon’s bones. He gave her a minute to regain a measure of composure.
“Do you know who she was with that night?” said Glasser.
She shook her head again, emphatically.
“Did she ever speak of any violent customers?” said Saxon.
“We never talked about the men.”
“Never?�
�� This seemed unlikely, in spite of what Frau Bruckmann had said.
“Look, we had better things to talk about than our work. We put all that behind us when we left here each morning. She was a good roommate – the best. I miss her so much.”
Saxon said, “Who was her last customer that night?”
Her eyes opened wide in terror. Saxon was unsure if she had been touched by the horror of what her friend had endured or if there was something else troubling her.
“H… Heinrich. He calls himself Heinrich.”
#
The next day was Saturday. Saxon spent the day with his wife and child. He tried pushing all thoughts of the investigation to the back of his mind, but the name ‘Heinrich’ rattled around like a marble in his skull.
In the early evening, Glasser parked outside the apartment and knocked on the door.
Saxon opened the door and said in a loud voice, “Yes, Glasser, I understand. Wait here while I get my coat.”
Ruth glared at her husband. “You’re not leaving me again? It’s Saturday night! Surely you’re entitled to some sort of home life.”
“I’m sorry, dear. Something’s come up. I have to go out for a few hours.” He planted a kiss on her cheek and made a quick exit.
“You did warn Ruth that we were going on watch tonight?” said Glasser.
“Get in the car.”
They stopped off at police headquarters where Glasser went in search of a camera.
“How are Ruth and the boy?” said Glasser when they were both back in the car.
‘The boy.’ Even Ruth called him ‘the baby’. It was high time they settled on a name.
“They are well, thank you.”
Glasser parked the car opposite the entrance to Angel Wings and they settled down to keep watch.
They had agreed with Frau Bruckmann that she would signal them if and when ‘Heinrich’ made an appearance.
Glasser said, “What age would you say she was?”
“Frau Bruckmann? Anywhere between late forties and mid fifties, I’d say.”
“I think she’s a lot older. I meant Tania, the one with the peroxide hair.” Glasser leered at the Kommissar.
