Mock bought his favourite cigars, and then turned back. They passed St Dorothy’s Church, the Hotel Monopol, the Municipal Theatre, Wertheim’s Department Store and turned right into Tauentzienstrasse. After about twenty yards, they stopped. Kurt Smolorz emerged from the shadowy gate and approached the car. He got in next to Ehlers and said:
“She’s been with him for five minutes already. Kopperlingk’s chauffeur is waiting for her over there,” he waved at the chauffeur who was leaning against the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette. Fanning himself with his somewhat too small, stiff cap, he was clearly suffocating in his dark livery with its golden buttons carrying the Baron’s monogram. After a while, on a pavement as hot as an oven, Maass appeared — plainly excited — with the schoolgirl attached to his side. An elderly lady, walking past, spat with disgust. They got into the Mercedes. The chauffeur did not look in the least surprised. The engine growled. A moment later, the elegant rear of the limousine disappeared from sight.
“Gentlemen,” Mock said quietly. “We’ve got two hours. And let Maass enjoy himself a bit at the end. Soon he’ll be with us …”
They got out and, with relief, hid in the shade of the gate. The short caretaker blocked their way and asked, a little frightened:
“Who have you come to see?”
Mock, Ehlers and Smolorz paid him no heed. Anwaldt pushed him against the wall and, with one hand, forcefully squashed his unshaven cheeks. The caretaker’s lips rolled into a frightened snout.
“We’re from the police, but you haven’t seen us. Understand, or do you want trouble?”
The caretaker nodded to show he understood and scurried into the depths of the yard. Anwaldt barely managed to climb to the first floor then pressed the brass doorknob. It gave way. Although his conversation with the caretaker and his ascent had taken no more than two minutes, both policemen and the photographer had not only silently entered the apartment, but they had also begun a methodical, detailed search. Anwaldt joined them. Wearing gloves, they picked up and examined every object, replacing it exactly where they had found it. After an hour, they met in Maass’ study which had been searched by Mock.
“Sit down,” Mock indicated the chairs spread out around a small circular table. “You’ve searched the kitchen, bathroom and living-room, have you? Good work. Find anything interesting? That’s what I thought. There is, however, one interesting thing here … This notebook. Ehlers, to work!”
The photographer unpacked his equipment, stood a vertical, portable tripod on the desk and fixed a Zeiss camera to it. On the top of the desk, he spread the rough-book found by Mock then held it in place with a pane of glass. He pressed the cable release. The flashlight shot once. The title page: “
“My dear gentlemen, we’ve managed on time. Ehlers, when can you have the photographs ready?”
“At five.”
“Anwaldt will collect them from you then. Only him, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.”
Smolorz locked the door as easily as he had opened it. Anwaldt glanced through the stained-glass window and, in its coloured glow, made out the caretaker sweeping the yard and anxiously looking around at the windows. It was probable that he did not know which apartment they had broken into. After a few seconds, they were in the car, Mock driving. They made their way along Agnesstrasse to the Police Praesidium where Ehlers and Smolorz got out. Mock and Anwaldt turned into Schweidnitzer Strasse, and then into Zwinger Platz and, passing the coffee- roasting house and merchants’ club, drove into busy Schuhbrucke. They passed the Petersdorff and the Barasch Brothers’ Department Stores — the latter crowned with a glass globe — then left behind them the Museum of Palaeontology and the former Police Praesidium. They reached the Oder. Next to St Maciej’s Secondary School, they turned right and soon found themselves at Dominsel. Passing the medieval cathedral and the red Georgianum Seminary building, they made their way on to Adalbertstrasse. A moment later, the bellboy of the Lessing Restaurant was bowing from the waist before them.
A pleasant coolness dominated the room, which, at first, allowed them to breathe freely again, then produced a calm sleepiness. Anwaldt closed his eyes. He thought he was being rocked by gentle waves. The clatter of cutlery. Mock attacked the succulent, pink salmon swimming in horseradish sauce, with two forks. He cast an amused eye on the dozing Anwaldt.
“Wake up, Anwaldt,” he touched the sleeping man’s shoulder. “Your lunch will get cold.”
Smoking a cigar, he watched as Anwaldt greedily consumed a beefsteak with sauerkraut and potatoes.
“Please don’t be offended, Herbert,” Mock placed a hand on his bloated stomach. “I’ve eaten too much, but you, I see, have an excellent appetite. Perhaps you’d like this piece of salmon? I haven’t touched it.”
“With pleasure. Thank you,” smiled Anwaldt. Nobody had ever shared their food with him. He ate the fish with relish and took a fair draught of strong, black tea.
Mock built Anwaldt’s character profile in his thoughts. It was not complete without the details of his torture in the Gestapo cell, but no tactical question, no trick which could provoke Anwaldt into confessing, came to mind. Several times, he opened his mouth and immediately closed it again because it seemed that what he was about to say sounded silly and flat. After a while, he came to terms with the thought that he would not be reading Anwaldt’s psychological profile to Madame le Goef’s girls next week.
“It’s half-past one now. Before half-past four, please look through von Kopperlingk’s files and consider how we can pin him down. Please look through the files of all the Turks, too. Maybe you’ll find something. At half-past four, you’re to give all those files to Forstner; at five, collect the photographs from Ehlers and come to see me in my apartment. I’m leaving the car with you. Everything clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So why are you looking at me so strangely? Do you need anything?”
“Nothing, nothing … It’s just that nobody’s ever shared their food with me.”
Mock laughed out loud and patted Anwaldt on the shoulder with his small hand.
“Don’t take it as a sign of my particularly liking you,” he lied. “It’s a habit from childhood. I always had to hand in an empty plate … I’m taking a droschka home now. I need a nap. Goodbye.”
The Criminal Director was falling asleep already in the cab. On the threshold of sleep and wakefulness, he remembered a Sunday lunch a year ago. He was sitting with his wife in the dining-room, happily nibbling spare ribs in tomato sauce. His wife was also eating with great relish, going through all the meat first. At one point, she glanced pleadingly at the plate in front of Mock, who always left the best pieces to the end.
“Please, do give me a little of your meat.”
Mock did not react and stuffed all the meat still remaining on his plate into his mouth.
“I’m certain you would not even give it to your children — if you could have any, of course.” She got up, angry.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Anwaldt left the restaurant and climbed into the car. He glanced at the files stamped by the Gestapo, and at the package which he had collected that morning from the archives. Unwrapping it, he shuddered: strange, curved writing. Blackened blood on blue wallpaper. He rewrapped the bloody writing and got out of the car. Under his arm, he carried the Gestapo files and the blanket used by Mock to cover the back seat. He did not feel like driving through the scorching city. He made off in the direction of the slender steeples of St Michael’s Church to Waschteich Park, whose strange name Mock had explained to him during their drive: in the Middle Ages, women used to wash their linen in the pond there. Now children were shouting and running by the pond while most of the benches were occupied by nursemaids and servants. These women demonstrated an excellent capacity to divide their attention as they pursued vociferous discussions while, from time to time, shouting at the children wading in the shallow waters by the bank. The remaining benches were occupied by soldiers and local scamps proudly smoking cigarettes.
Anwaldt removed his jacket, lay on the blanket and began to examine von Kopperlingk’s files. Unfortunately, there was nothing in them that he could use to pin down the Baron. What was more: everything the Baron did in his apartment and on his property took place with the Gestapo’s full blessing. (Mock told me that even Kraus, although
