“Olivier, Baron von Kopperlingk bribed Maass with pretty rented schoolgirls from Madame le Goef’s. Anwaldt’s right: Maass is too intelligent not to know that he’s dealing with the daughters of Corinth, but on the other hand too egocentric to accept the fact. He’s of a kind with Professor Andreae, I think. Why did the Baron bribe him? That, we’ll find out. Then I’ll put some pressure on the Baron. I’m sure he’ll serve the Turk to me on a plate. Anwaldt’s not going to achieve more than he has. He doesn’t know Breslau well enough and, besides, they really scared him. Now I’m stepping into action.”
“How are you going to make them talk?”
“Olivier, please … Leave my methods to me. Ah, here is Anwaldt. Good morning! You don’t look all that good. Did you fall into some hydrochloric acid?”
“I had some minor problems,” said the convalescent, bowing to both men. Mock, embracing him cordially, said:
“Please don’t worry. The Gestapo aren’t going to harass you again. I’ve just sorted that out.”
“Thank you,” Anwaldt croaked. Generally, on the third day after being drunk, the physical pains would subside and a deep depression would appear. That is how it would have been now, too, if it were not for that one human being — Eberhard Mock. The sight of that angular man in his immaculately cut pale suit had a soothing effect on Anwaldt. He glanced contritely at Mock and, for the first time in his life, had the feeling that somebody cared.
“I’m sorry. I got drunk. I’ve no excuse.”
“Too true, you’ve no excuse. If you ever get drunk again, you’ll stop working with me and you’ll go back to Berlin. And Criminal Counsellor von Grappersdorff won’t be welcoming you with open arms.” Mock looked sternly at the humbly stooping Anwaldt. Suddenly, he put his arm around him. “You won’t get drunk any more. You simply won’t have any reason to. I’m back from Zoppot and I’m going to watch over you. We’re leading this investigation together. Allow us, Baron …” He turned to von der Malten, who was observing this whole episode with a degree of distaste, “to take our leave. We’ve an appointment to see the Director of the University Library, Doctor Hartner.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Despite the early hour, the sun scorched the windows and roof of the Adler. Anwaldt was driving, Mock navigating and explaining the streets and places they passed. They drove down Krietener Weg, along which ran workmen’s blocks interspersed with small, flowery houses. They passed the border post of Breslau and found themselves in Klettendorf. The sweetish stench of Liebich’s sugar factory penetrated the thick air. The recently built Evangelical church, separated by a low fence from the presbytery concealed among trees, flashed past their right window. Mock grew pensive and stopped commenting on the neighbourhood. They were driving through a beautiful suburb full of gardens and villas.
“Ah, so we’re in Oparow, are we? Except we’ve approached it from another direction, is that right?”
“Yes. It’s Opperau, not Oparow.”
Anwaldt did not ask the way again. He parked the car outside Madame le Goef’s salon. The muffled cries of bathers — already using the sports pool some 200 metres away, despite the early hour — could be heard in the silence. Mock did not get out. He found his cigarette case and offered it to Anwaldt. The striped, blue cigarette paper grew damp to the touch.
“You’ve experienced great humiliation, Herbert.” Clouds of cigarette smoke emerged from Mock’s nose and lips with every word. “I once experienced something like that, too. That’s how I know how to stifle the bitterness inside. You have to attack, throw yourself at someone’s throat, tear and bite. Fight! Act! Who shall we attack today, Herbert? The corruptible erotomaniac Maass. Who shall we use against him?” He did not answer, but indicated, with his head, the manor standing in its burning garden. They extinguished their cigarettes and made a move. Nobody stopped them either at the gate or on the drive. The guards bowed politely to Mock. After several sharp rings, the door opened a little. With a kick, Mock flung it wide open and roared to the terrified butler:
“Where is Madame?!”
Madame ran down the stairs, wrapping a dressing gown around her. She was no less alarmed than the doorman.
“Oh, what’s happened, your Excellency? Why is your Excellency so angry?”
Mock placed one leg on a stair, put his hands on his hips and yelled so loudly that the crystals on the hall lamp swung.
“What’s the meaning of this, dammit? My associate is viciously attacked here, in this place! What am I to understand by that?”
“I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. The young man did not have any identification. But please, please … Do go up to my office … Kurt will bring some beer, a siphon, ice, sugar and lemons.”
Mock spread himself brusquely behind Madame’s desk, Anwaldt on the small, leather sofa. Madame sat on the edge of her chair and glanced anxiously at one, then the other in turn. Mock lengthened the silence. The servant entered.
“Four lemonades,” ordered Mock. “Two for this man.”
Four tall glasses sweated on the small table. The door closed behind the servant. Anwaldt swallowed the first lemonade almost in one gulp. The second, he savoured for longer.
“Please call the pseudo-schoolgirl and some other pretty eighteen-year-old. She’s to be a ‘virgin’. You know what I mean? Then please leave us alone with them.”
Madame smiled knowingly and retreated from the royal presence. A freshly made-up eye winked meaningfully. She was pleased that His Excellency was no longer angry.
The “schoolgirl” was accompanied by a red-haired angel with pale, hazel eyes and white, transparent skin. They did not let the girls sit, so they stood in the middle of the room, worried and helpless.
Anwaldt got up and, with his hands behind his back, paced the room. Suddenly, he stopped in front of “Erna”.
“Listen carefully to me. Today the bearded chauffeur is going to take you to see Maass. You’ll tell Maass that your friend from school wants to meet and please him. That she’s waiting for him in the hotel … Which hotel?” he asked Mock.
“The Golden Goose on Junkerstrasse 27/297.”
“You,” Anwaldt turned to the red-head, “really will be waiting for him there, in room 104. The porter will give you the key. You’re to play the innocent and surrender to Maass after a long time resisting. Madame will tell you what to do to make the client think he’s dealing with a virgin. Then you,” he pointed to “Erna”, “will join them. To put it briefly — you’re to keep Maass in that room for two hours. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if you don’t. That’s all. Any questions?”
“Yes,” the schoolgirl’s alto reverberated. “Will the chauffeur agree to take us there?”
“It’s all the same to him where you give yourself as long as it’s with Maass.”
“I’ve got a question, too,” the red-haired angel croaked.
“Wear an ordinary dress. It’s summer and not all schools make their pupils wear uniforms. Apart from that, tell him that you were ashamed of coming to a tryst in a hotel wearing school uniform.”
Mock got up unhurriedly from behind the desk. “Any other questions?”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
They parked the Adler in front of the Police Praesidium. After entering the gloomy building where the walls soothed with their cellar-like coolness, they parted ways. Mock went to see Forstner, Anwaldt to the Evidence Archives. A quarter of an hour later, they met at the porter’s counter. Each held a package under his arm. They left the thick walls of the Praesidium regretfully and choked as they breathed in the heat of the street. The police photographer, Helmut Ehlers, whose enormous bald head seemed to reflect the sun’s rays, waited beside the car. All three got in; Anwaldt drove. First, they went to Deutschmann’s tobacco shop on Schweidnitzer Strasse, where
