by Richard Lord
“I think the first time we met him … he still hadn’t fully absorbed the loss. Didn’t absorb it emotionally, I mean. He was still in a later stage of shock probably.”
“A week after the murder?”
Stebbel nodded. “I believe so. It’s possible that shock is … the way we protect ourselves when the horror of an event would be too much if we took it all in at once. The shock acts like a drug, a sedative. After it finally wears off, we can deal with the full pain, the grief finally. And maybe sometimes it … takes a few weeks for us to embrace the pain and swallow the grief.”
“Mein Gott, Stebbel – you’re beginning to sound like a crazy man. I think you’ve been reading too much of that Freud fellow. You’d better be careful, you know – reading a lot of that stuff can itself make you go mad.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, I’m being serious now. I was even speaking to some doctor once about something like this. He was the one who confirmed it for me: reading about all these crazy things and how the mind can get itself all twisted around eventually twists your own mind around.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I’m tempted to open one of Doktor Freud’s books.”
“Good.” Dörfner snorted his snort of semi-victory.
“Anyway, I was glad to see von Klettenburg suffering there.’ He shook his head. “I don’t mean I was glad to see him suffering, of course. But he seemed … I guess, more human today. I felt more sympathy for him. I could almost like the guy seeing him today.”
“Yes,” Stebbel said. “It’s another new chapter.”
“Now we only need to catch that swine who killed his wife.”
Stebbel turned to his partner, but the only response he could provide was a slow nod.
Chapter 31
The inspectors weren’t back in their office for more than a few minutes when one of their assistants came in and reported that they’d conveyed the message to Herr Hitler and he said he would be in by four o’clock. Stebbel looked out at the clock in the corridor. That gave them barely an hour. But that was no problem, since they were just preparing a simple business deal. They doubted that the struggling artist would be willing, or able, to turn them down.
Hitler arrived a few minutes minute past four, flushed and his hair all a-muss. He apologized profusely for being late. The inspectors told him that he wasn’t late and that they were grateful that he was able to turn up at short notice.
Neither Stebbel nor Dörfner found small talk with Hitler easy, so they moved quickly to the business at hand.
“Herr Hitler, you told us that the sketch of the killer you gave us was a copy from your original.”
“That is correct, Herr Inspector.”
“And you can make other copies, is that true?
“Yes, indeed.”
“Excellent. We would like to commission you to make additional copies of the killer’s face. You will, of course, be paid a reasonable fee for your work.”
“And what … do you consider reasonable, gentlemen?”
“Three kroners a copy?”
“Three?”
“Well then, let’s say four kroners. Four kroners for each copy you give us.”
Suddenly, a smile spread across Hitler’s face as far as it could reach. It was the first time the policemen had seen Hitler really smile. Stebbel was just taking stabs in the dark with the price, but they seemed to have hit the right one.
“And how many copies would you like?”
“Oh, let’s say … at least six. Maybe as many as ten. Or even a dozen if that’s possible.”
Hitler started doing some quick calculations in his head. He shook his head in delighted disbelief. He was about to become a financially successful artist.
“And when do you need them by?”
“As soon as possible. We need them to … distribute to other police officers. We think this will speed up our capture of this killer.”
“Of course, of course. Yes, I see that this is an important assignment.” Hitler paused for a few more moments as he finished up his calculations.
“Gentlemen … considering the importance of this work, I am willing to push all my other commissions back so that I can concentrate on getting these sketches made for you. I will begin the work this very evening. I think it imperative that all of us do our part in capturing this fiend.
“You can rely on me, Inspectors. I will have your copies ready within a day or two.” The two loupes looked quite happy to hear this. “How should I deliver them to you?”
They then worked out the details of delivery. Hitler was to drop off all his copies to the division. If Stebbel or Dörfner were in, he could hand them over personally. If not, he could simply leave them with the duty officer at the reception desk. He only had to stipulate that they were to be kept for either Stebbel or Dörfner. After they received the copies, they would issue a funds requisition form, and Hitler could pick up his fees two days later.
Everyone seemed satisfied with this arrangement, and the three shook hands on it. Hitler left the office beaming. His saunter down the corrider to the lifts was almost like a victory dance.
The inspectors were also quite happy; they felt that things were moving a little more quickly towards a resolution of the strangler case. They now knew that the sketch was not just some fantasy, that it had put them on the trail of the man who was, most likely, the brutal murderer who had become their obsession.
* * *
Stebbel turned the visitor’s card over in his hands, as if there might be some clue, some further identification, perhaps something scratched into a corner at the back, or maybe written in invisible ink.
He read the name: Lorenz Bastian. It meant nothing to him. But the officer at reception insisted that the card had been left for him that morning. Also, the young man who had dropped off the card included a message: Herr Bastian would call the inspector at his desk shortly before noon.
Stebbel glanced up at the wall clock. It was now ten minutes to noon. For Stebbel, that qualified as shortly before noon. So when would this call be coming? He was starting to feel some pressure in his bladder, but was afraid to dash out to the toilet and not be there when the call from this Herr Bastian came through.
At two minutes to twelve, the phone on Stebbel’s desk began to ring. He was about to grab it gruffly and answer. But he decided that the best way of playing Herr Bastian’s game was to wait for the phone to ring four times, pick up the receiver and then bring the speaker slowly to his face.
“Inspector Stebbel.”
“Yes, Inspector. So nice to speak with you finally. My name is Lorenz Bastian.”
“I’ve seen your card, Herr Bastian.”
“Then we should meet.”
“If possible.”
“Oh, I think you should make it possible. Shall we say … in an hour’s time? At the west entrance to the Volksgarten? That is, I believe, not far from your office.”
“Yes, that’s correct. But let me ask you something before I agree to this meeting. Who are you exactly?”
“For the moment, let’s just say a visitor from Berlin. Who has some information that you will find very interesting.”
“What kind of information?”
“Very interesting. If we can meet there at the park at 1 p.m., I think you will definitely find the meeting valuable.”
Stebbel looked up at the wall clock again. “Can we say 1:15?”
“We can. So, I shall see you there at the entrance to your Volksgarten in just over an hour.”
“Yes. How will I know you?”
“I will be standing at the west entrance to the Volksgarten waiting for you.” There was a teasing pause. “Oh, and I have a dark blue suit. And am, of course, extremely handsome.” At that, Bastian let out a generous laugh at his own joke.
“OK. I’m sure I’ll find you.”
Stebbel arrived at the Volksgarten park, west entrance, at 1:10. As he approached, he saw a tall man in a blue suit. The man spo
rted a large handlebar moustache looping over a well-rehearsed smile. He dipped his head in a slight bow as the inspector came closer.
“Herr Stebbel, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.” They shook hands.
“Shall we take a bench and have a pleasant little chat. That bench right over there looks inviting; nice and sunny, you know.”
“Fine.” As they started walking, Stebbel asked, “Where are you from, Herr Bastian? You said Berlin?”
Bastian nodded. “From Duisburg originally. But now I’m a devout Berliner, through and through. And you?”
“From Innsbruck originally. But now, a Viennese, through and through. Or ‘rotten to the core’ as some others like to say.”
“I can assure you, Inspector, I myself would never say something like that. I rather like your city.”
A few moments later, they had found a secluded bench and seated themselves. As Stebbel had warned that he couldn’t stay out of the office too long, niceties were kept to a minimum. After a few opening parries of polite questions, Stebbel asked what was this interesting information the Berlin visitor had for him. Bastian leaned back and smiled.
“There’s a brothel in Paris …”
Stebbel arched his eyebrows in mock amazement. “A brothel in Paris? The mind fairly boggles.”
Bastian responded with a condescending smile. “Let me continue, please. You see, this is a very special brothel. For clients with very special tastes. The workforce there is exclusively young men. Young men who have been favored by nature in various aspects.”
For Stebbel, the conversation was indeed becoming more interesting. “I see.”
“Well, as it happens, your Herr von Klettenburg pays a visit to this establishment whenever he travels to Paris on business. Or whenever he travels there for any reason.”
Stebbel nodded, now quite interested.
“We happen to have informants who operate in this brothel. They provide us with some detailed and valuable information on people like the Geheimrat von Klettenburg. For instance, we now know that Klettenburg has a number of … shortcomings in the area of sexuality and he likes this Parisian establishment because they cater to well-heeled gentleman with these kinds of problems.”
“You’re sure that these reports are valid?”
“Quite sure. Anyway, our informants assure us that your Herr von Klettenburg is one of those who enjoys the charms of young men as much as he enjoys women. So even a young, very pretty woman such as his late wife was clearly not enough to keep him satisfied.” He now turned to face Stebbel fully. “And I think you’re aware of how a man who has known a life of such privilege can find ways of getting exactly what he enjoys … whenever he can get it.”
“Yes, I am … certainly aware of that.”
“So, I was right, yes? This is an interesting bit of news for you. You might even find it valuable one day.”
Stebbel nodded. “Perhaps.”
“And why am I telling you all of this?”
“That was to be my next question,” Stebbel replied.
Bastian’s face twisted into a sour expression, as if he’d just bit deeply into a lemon. “We don’t find this Klettenburg fellow very reliable. And we don’t think you people here in Vienna should find him reliable either. We wouldn’t want him and his machinations to interfere with our good relations.”
“Yes, you keep saying ‘we’. You sound like the pope. Just who is this ‘we’, Herr Bastian?”
Bastian turned back again. “I work in the Intelligence branch of the government of his Imperial Majesty, Wilhelm II.”
Though it shouldn’t have, this revelation jolted Stebbel. “You’re working for the Kaiser’s Secret Service?”
In answer, Bastian merely smiled. “Getting back to von Klettenburg’s visits to that Paris brothel. There’s this one young Russian lad there who von Klettenburg is especially fond of. He requests his favors on most of his visits. An extremely handsome fellow, we’re told, and richly well-endowed below the belt.”
He then drew a long breath. “We have reason to believe that this Russian lad is a plant, that his real business is actually something other than the flesh trade.”
“He’s a spy?”
“The Czarist secret services are ravenous for any information about the political situation in this region. And our sources in Paris tell us that the handsome young Russian is quite fond of conversation, both as foreplay and as a post-coital stimulant. And as I said, we consider your Geheimrat most unreliable.”
“But you have no evidence that – ”
“Evidence is just suspicion with a very nice haircut. Hard-and-fast proof, now that’s quite another category. But no, we do not have any proof of that nature. Not yet.”
“Well, should you ever get that sort of proof, I’m sure that people in our Interior Ministry would be very happy if you shared it with them. But I work in the normal police force, in the Homicide Division. Espionage is not my field.”
“Of course. But as Herr von Klettenburg is connected to your major investigation at the moment, I thought you might like to know some of his peccadilloes.”
Stebbel sat back and mulled this over for awhile. He had nothing to add or to ask.
“And now let me give you my official card.” He handed it to Stebbel. “As you can see, this has all the contact information for my office in Berlin. Should your investigations ever turn up something interesting about the Geheimrat’s international … connections, we would be very grateful to hear about this.”
He again beamed that smile of noxious affability.
“Wouldn’t it be better if you kept in touch with the people here who are responsible for espionage matters?”
The Berliner shook his head. “Your military intelligence office is also not entirely reliable.”
Stebbel gave an inquisitive stare. Bastian replied with his rehearsed smile. He then pulled out his pocket watch, an elegant gold affair, and checked the time. “Hmm. I rather think I’d like to try one of your famous Viennese coffees. And perhaps indulge in one of those pastries I always hear so much praise for. Any particular establishment around here you would recommend?”
“The Prückel is quite popular. Here, it’s not too far out of the way to my office. I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you. I am always so impressed with your Viennese hospitality. A refreshing change from our Berlin manners: up there, we’re gruff … but highly efficient.”
Chapter 32
The next few days were spared of any squalid – or even sober – reports of the strangler’s misdeeds. Stebbel and Dörfner were hoping against hope that their fantasy might actually be true: that Brunner had left Vienna for a time and was laying low, miles away from the capital.
But the brief respite was shattered on a pleasant, warm evening in early May. A university student, Elisabeth Grettin, was returning from late research at her department. Having just missed one tram, she decided to cut across the upper Ringstrasse to another tram stop, then catch a streetcar that would bring her close to her home in Lainz. But to get to this other stop, she had to pass through an area noted for its heavy presence of streetwalkers.
Not wishing to be seen in this company, Frau Grettin decided to slip into one of the back lanes where prostitutes and their clients rarely ventured. Being unfamiliar with the area, she proceeded cautiously. Suddenly, someone called out to her.
“Fräulein, you seem to have dropped something back here.”
Elisabeth turned. Right behind her stood a tall, bulky man, holding up a book.
“Oh, thank you, I must have – ”
Before she could get out another word, the man slammed the book into her face, smack on the nose, stunning her. Seconds later, he had taken her by the throat with two large, calloused hands.
She briefly tried to fight back, but was no match against the much stronger man. A full minute after the light of life seemed to have gone out of her eyes, he was still choking her. He then lowered her
slightly before letting go and watching the body thud to the ground.
He bent down and picked up one of the books she had dropped after being hit in the face. He skimmed through it rapidly until he found Chapter Five. He then placed the book, still open to that chapter, over her face in a tent-like position. Standing back up, he surveyed the scene, then hurried out the slip-road exit Frau Grettin had been looking for moments before her death.
* * *
This fifth murder unleashed a storm of outrage across the capital. It was not only the stepped-up brutality (which the press had somehow gained wind of), but also the victim herself. As Werner Heissluft of the Wiener Morgenstern newspaper wrote the following day: “Not only do these grisly murders continue, spreading a corrosive fear throughout the city, but now the choice of victims has moved beyond the poor girls who sell their bodies to nameless lovers to the most delicate and innocent flowers of Viennese society.
“Frau Elisabeth Grettin, an excellent third-year student at our justly renowned university, has now given her life to the sub-human rages of a totally depraved criminal mind. This lovely young lady, who promised to contribute so much to our beautiful city and our beloved country, has now been brutally stolen from us. Yes, from all of us, and we all feel the deep loss of this tragic victim. And it is not too early to ask once again why the pampered and pompous police force of our supposedly great city seems powerless to bring an end to these murders.”
And the Heissluft barrage was not even the most overwrought article that the latest murder had set loose. The front page of the Weiner Mercur carried the following headline, in towering type: IT’S ALL EVEN NOW! JACK THE RIPPER – 5, THE SPITTELBERG STRANGER – 5.
Inspectors Stebbel and Dörfner were forced to see first-hand the brutality that Frau Grettin had undergone. Early the next morning, they made their now too-frequent visit to the police morgue to view the victim. Doktor Gressler provided a more detailed commentary as he showed them the body.
“Again, the same bruises on the neck, though wider and more intense this time. You can still see it from the colors of the bruises: note how those bruises are an intense purple, the red is still flaming, the blue is – ”
