Anwaldt did as he was told.
“Not a single beer?” Von Grappersdorff was incredulous.
“Not even a beer.”
The Commissioner took him by the arm and they began to walk along the platform. The engine was expelling clouds of steam.
“Listen carefully. I don’t know what it is you’ve got to do in Breslau, but the task is very difficult and dangerous. The bonus you’ll receive will allow you not to work for the rest of your life. Then you’ll be able to drink yourself to death, but during your stay in Breslau, not a drop … Understood?” Von Grappersdorff laughed heartily. “I must admit, I advised Muhlhaus, my old friend from Breslau, against this. But he insisted. I don’t know why. Maybe he heard that you used to be good from somewhere. But, to the point. You’ve got the entire carriage to yourself. Have a good time. And here’s a going-away present from your colleagues. It’ll help with the hangover.”
He wagged his finger. A shapely brown-haired woman in a playful hat came up to them. She handed Anwaldt a piece of paper: “I’m a present from your colleagues. Take care and drop in to Berlin again from time to time.”
Anwaldt looked around and behind the ice-cream and lemonade stall on the platform he saw his laughing colleagues pulling silly faces and making rude gestures. He was embarrassed. The girl, not in the least.
BRESLAU, FRIDAY, JULY 6TH, 1934
HALF-PAST FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON
Criminal Director Eberhard Mock was getting ready to leave for Zoppot, where he intended to spend a two- week holiday. The train was leaving in two hours so it was not surprising that an indescribable mess reigned in his apartment. Mock’s wife felt like a fish in water. The short and corpulent blonde was giving the servants brief instructions in a loud voice. Mock sat in an armchair, bored and listening to the radio. He was in the process of searching for a different wavelength when the telephone rang.
“The Baron von der Malten’s residence here,” he heard the butler Matthias’ voice. “The Baron is expecting you, Criminal Director, just as soon as is possible.”
Without ceasing to search for his wavelength on the radio, the Criminal Director said in a calm voice:
“Listen here, you lackey, if the Baron wants to see me then let him take the trouble ‘just as soon as is possible’ himself because I’m just about to leave on holiday.”
“I was expecting just such a reaction, Eberhard.” Eberhard heard the deep and cold voice of the Baron over the receiver. “I foresaw it and, since I have respect for time, I have placed a visiting card with a telephone number on it next to the receiver. It cost me a lot of trouble to get hold of it. If you don’t come here straight away, I’ll dial the number. Do you want to know who I’ll be connected to?”
Mock was suddenly no longer interested in the martial music transmitted over the radio. He ran his finger along the top of the radio set and muttered: “I’ll be there directly.”
A quarter of an hour later he was on Eichen-Allee. Without a word of greeting, he passed the old butler, who was standing — straight as an arrow — in the doorway, and growled: “I know how to find the Baron’s study!”
His host was in the open door, dressed in a long, pique dressing gown and slippers of pale leather. Beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt was a silk neckerchief. He was smiling, but his eyes were extremely mournful. The slim, furrowed face was aflame.
“It’s a great honour for us that your Excellency has deigned to trouble himself to come and see us,” he contorted his face in a joker’s grin. All of a sudden he grew serious. “Come inside, sit down, have a smoke and don’t ask any questions!”
“I’ll ask one.” Mock was clearly angry. “Who were you going to phone?”
“I’ll start with that. If you hadn’t come, I’d have phoned Udo von Woyrsch, Chief of the S.S. in Breslau. He’s a nobleman from an excellent family, somehow even connected to the von der Maltens by marriage. He would most certainly have helped me get through to the new Head of the Gestapo, Erich Kraus. Did you know … von Woyrsch has been in an excellent mood for a week now. He drew his knife during ‘the night of the long knives’ too, and destroyed the despised enemy: Helmuth Bruckner, Hans Paul von Heydenbreck and other S.S.-men. Oh my, and what a terrible thing met our dear rake and conqueror of boys’ hearts, Edmund Heines! The S.S. killed him in beautiful Bavarian Bad Wiessee. They dragged him out of not just anybody’s bed, but that of the Chief of the S.A., Ernst Rohm himself, who not long after, shared his loved one’s fate … And what happened to our beloved, hearty Piontek that he had to go and hang himself in his own garden? Apparently they showed his darling wife a few photographs where old Walter, dressed in a spherical cap, was performing what the ancients used to call lesbian love, with a nine-year-old girl. If he hadn’t done away with himself, our brown-shirt cubs from Neudorfstrasse would have dealt with him.”
The Baron, a dedicated lover of Homer, adored retardation. This time the retardation was actually an introduction.
“I’ll ask you a brief and succinct question: do you want Kraus to see the documents I keep and which prove irrefutably that the Chief of the Criminal Department used to be a Freemason? Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Did you know that the Chief of the Gestapo of barely a few days feverishly wants to prove himself so as to show his principals in Berlin that their decision had been correct. We have in the Gestapo now a man who is more of a Hitlerite than Hitler himself. Do you want the Hitler of Breslau to find out the whole truth about your career?”
Mock began to wriggle in his chair. The choice cigar suddenly took on a sour after-taste. He had known somewhat earlier about the planned attack on Rohm and his Silesian followers, but he had, with particular relish, forbidden his men to intervene in any way. “Let them kill themselves, the swine,” he had told the one and only man in the police whom he trusted. And he, himself, had gladly supplied the S.S. with a number of compromising photographs. He had wanted to greet the fall of Piontek, Heines and Bruckner with champagne, but as he was raising a solitary toast his arm suddenly stiffened. He had realized that the thugs had executed a purge among themselves but that they continued to rule. And that after the few bad specimens, even worse might follow. He had anticipated correctly: Erich Kraus was the worst of all the Hitlerites he had known.
“Don’t answer, you little shoemaker from Waldenburg, you little hustler, you mediocrity! Even your interpretations of Horace had the finesse of a shoemaker’s hoof.
Mock got up abruptly.
“What do you want? I’ve already handed you the murderer. Speak, as you promised, ‘briefly and succinctly’ and spare yourself this Ciceronian performance!”
Von der Malten did not say a word, but walked up to his desk and took a tin Wiener Chocolate box from a drawer. He opened it and slipped it under Mock’s nose. A scorpion was pinned to the red velvet. Next to it lay a little blue card with the Coptic verses about death which he already knew. Underneath was added in German: ‘Your pain is still too small.’ I found this in my study.”
Mock looked at the geocentric model of Earth and said far more calmly now:
“There is no lack of psychopaths. In our city, too. And most certainly among your servants — who could get into such a well-guarded residence?”
The Baron was toying with a paper-knife. Suddenly, he turned his eyes to the window. “Do you want to see in order to believe? Do you really want to look at my daughter’s
Mock did, indeed, remember that Marietta’s underwear was missing from the scene of the crime. He had even told one of his men to check on all fetishists on this very account.
Von der Malten put the knife aside and said in a voice trembling with rage:
“I finished off that ‘murderer’ in the cellar, the man you delivered to me … That old, demented Jew … There’s only one man I hate more than you: the real murderer. You’re going to put all that’s within your power, Mock, to work and find that murderer. No … no … not you personally. Somebody else will be heading the new investigation. Someone from the outside, whom no gang from Breslau will ensnare. Besides, you’ve already caught the murderer … How would that be? You looking for him again? You might even lose your position and your medal …”
The Baron leaned across the desk and their faces came within a few centimetres of each other. Stale breath
