called Hanne Schlossarczyk. My instructions were to find out whether she really did have a child by the Baron and what has happened to the child now.”
“Did you go to Rawicz yourself?”
“No, I sent one of my men.”
“And?”
“He found Hanne Schlossarczyk.”
“How did he persuade her to talk? After all, people aren’t usually very willing to admit to such a sin.”
“My man, Schubert, presented himself as a lawyer looking for any heirs to the supposedly deceased Baron. That’s what I thought up.”
“Clever. And what did your man find out?”
“The rich, old lady, on learning of a great inheritance awaiting her, readily admitted to the misdeed of her youth, then started crying so much that Schubert could hardly calm her.”
“So she was sorry for her sin.”
“Not quite. She was furious at herself for not knowing anything about her son, who would have been the Baron’s heir. That’s why she was crying.”
“So she had qualms of conscience?”
“So it would appear.”
“And so the Baron has an illegitimate son by her. That’s a fact. What is his name, how old is he and where does he live?”
“Schlossarczyk worked for the Baron from 1901–1902. That’s presumably when she got pregnant. Thereafter, Baron Ruppert von der Malten, Olivier’s father, never again employed a woman, not even as cook. So her son must be thirty-one or thirty-two. His name? We don’t know. Certainly not the same as the Baron. His mother got a handsome sum to keep quiet, enough for her to live comfortably to this day. Where does the bastard live now? That we don’t know either. And what do we know? That until he became of age, he lived in an orphanage in Berlin, where he landed up as a baby from his loving mother’s arms.”
“What orphanage?”
“She doesn’t know herself. Some merchant took him there. An acquaintance of hers.”
“The merchant’s name?”
“She didn’t want to give it to us. She said he had nothing to do with it.”
“And your man believed that?”
“Why should she lie? I told you she cried because she didn’t know her son’s name. If she did, she’d have been pleased. She’d got an inheritance, after all.”
Anwaldt automatically asked another question:
“Why did she hand him over to an orphanage? She could have lived comfortably with her son on the money the Baron gave her.”
“That my man didn’t ask.”
The detective put his pistol in his pocket. He could barely breathe through his parched throat. His gum was aching and swelling. The hornet stings, too, were playing up again. He opened his mouth and did not recognize his own voice:
“Was Maass happy with you?”
“Yes and no. Because, after all, we only partially carried out his instructions. My man established that Hanne Schlossarczyk had a child by the Baron. But he did not establish either his name or his whereabouts. So we only got a half from Maass.”
“How much?”
“A hundred.”
Anwaldt lit a Turkish cigar which he had bought in the covered market by Gartenstrasse. The pungent smoke took his breath away for a moment. He mastered the spasm in his lungs and exhaled a huge ball of smoke towards the ceiling. He unbuttoned his shirt collar and loosened his tie. He felt embarrassed: a moment ago he had held the man in his sights and now he was smoking in his company as with an old friend.
“Herr Huber, I apologize for pulling out that pop gun. You used to be a policeman (how do you people in Breslau call it?
“Go ahead.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that Maass dispensed with your services so easily? It’s obvious, after all, that he’s looking for the Baron’s illegitimate son. Why did he stop halfway, pay half your fee and not try to look for him any more with the help of your agency?”
Huber took off his jacket and poured himself some soda water. He remained silent for a moment and gazed at the framed photographs and certificates.
“Maass laughed at me and my methods. He thought I had bungled it, that I could have put pressure on the old woman. He decided to find it all out for himself. I knew he liked to brag, so I asked him how he was going to find the man he was looking for. He said that he would restore the old bag’s memory with his friend’s help and that she would tell him where her little son was.” Huber opened his mouth and sighed loudly. “Listen to me, son. Your pop gun didn’t frighten me. I’ve got that old Jew Maass and you up my arse,” he panted angrily. “I didn’t lie to you because I didn’t want to. And do you know why? Ask Mock. I’ll have a word with him about you. And you’d better get yourself out of here if it turns out he doesn’t know you.”
XIII
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 16TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
Anwaldt was, indeed, leaving Breslau, but not because of Huber’s threats. He sat in a first-class carriage, smoking cigarette after cigarette and watching with indifference the monotonous, Lower Silesian landscape in the orange light of sunset.
