“A man called Mr Rosenthal, Karlsstrasse 28. I’m his right-hand man at the tenement. The apartment was standing empty, and that worried Mr Rosenthal. These four came along in June. A bunch of wastrels — like so many others discharged from the army after the war. They were a bit tipsy and, by the look of things, they hadn’t a pfennig to their names. I told them there weren’t any vacancies, but they asked politely. One of them showed me some money and said: ‘This is a good spot, old man. We’ll conduct our business here and pay you regularly.’ Somehow he managed to talk me round. I get a commission from Mr Rosenthal for every new lodger.”
“You didn’t ask for their names?”
“I did. And they said: Johann Schmidt, Friedrich Schmidt, Alois Schmidt and Helmut Schmidt. That’s what I noted down. They said they were brothers. But they didn’t look like each other somehow. I know what life’s like, Commissioner sir. No shortage of chaps like that after the war. They loiter, steal, haven’t got anything to do … They prefer to conceal their real identities …”
“And you took the risk for a few measly pfennigs and registered who knows who, bandits maybe?”
“If I had a suit like you, sir, I wouldn’t be registering anyone …” Frenzel said quietly, and was immediately alarmed by his impudence.
“And they paid up regularly?” His comment left no impression on his interrogator’s face.
“Yes. Very regularly. The one who called me ‘old man’ always came with the rent towards the end of the month. I gave it to Mr Rosenthal and he was perfectly happy.”
“What sort of business were they in?”
“They were visited by ladies.”
“What sort of ladies, and what for?”
“Rich ladies, judging by the way they dressed. They wore hats with veils. And what for? What do you think, Commissioner sir?”
The police officer lit a cigarette and stared at Frenzel for a long time.
“Remember what I said at the beginning of our talk? The rules of our conversation?”
With difficulty Frenzel breathed in the dust that swirled in the light falling from the window. He racked his brains and had no idea how to answer the question. All he knew was that in two hours the strongman from Poland was going to be sitting at a table in Cafe Orlich.
“I’m the one asking the questions here, Frenzel, not you. Understand?”
“Sorry,” Frenzel said. “I’ve forgotten what you asked me.”
“What did the ladies visit them for? Answer quickly, don’t pick your words.”
“They visited them” — a toothless grin brightened Frenzel’s face — “for hanky-panky.”
“How do you know?” There was not a trace of amusement on the face of the interrogator.
“I eavesdropped at the door.”
“How many rooms in the apartment?”
“One room and a kitchen.”
“The lady would be in the room with one of the boys and the others stayed in the kitchen?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t go in. The ladies came alone, sometimes in pairs. Sometimes one of the Schmidts would go out during these visits. Sometimes all of them were there. It varied …”
“And this didn’t disturb the neighbours?”
“There were only two complaints, about the ladies shrieking and shouting … Because there weren’t all that many ladies. Barely more than a handful.”
“Did you ever see these men dressed up?”
“Dressed up?” Frenzel did not understand. “What do you mean? How?”
“Have you ever been to the theatre, Frenzel?”
“A few times.”
“Did the Schmidts ever wear costumes like actors in a theatre? Zorro, for example, knights and so on?”
“Yes, sometimes, when that fat man came for them.”
“What fat man?”
“I don’t know. Fat, spruced up. He drove a car with ‘Entertainment’ or something written on it … I’m not sure, my eyesight isn’t that good.”
“How often did the fat man come?”
“Several times.”
“Did he go up to their apartment?”
“Yes, and then they’d all climb into his car and go off somewhere. He must have paid them well because they’d drink twice as much afterwards and go and have a good time at Orlich’s, not far from here.”
“Did any other men visit the Schmidts?”
“There was one other. But he never came alone. There were always two women with him, one in a wheelchair. He’d lug the wheelchair with the invalid up the stairs himself.”
“Would you recognize the man?”
“I’d recognize the man and the other woman. They didn’t hide their faces.”
“And the one in the wheelchair?”
“The cripple always wore a hat with a veil.”
“What did the man look like, and the other woman, the one who wasn’t an invalid?”
“I don’t know … He was tall, she had red hair. A pretty woman.”
“How old?”
“He was about fifty, she about twenty.”
“Weren’t you surprised when those four men disappeared? Why didn’t you report it to the police?”
“Surprised? Yes, I was surprised. Sometimes they’d drink for two days at Orlich’s before coming home, but now a whole week … As for the police … Sorry, I don’t much care for the police … But I would have reported it today anyway …”
“Why today?”
“The Schmidts were always here on Saturdays because that man with the girl and the invalid came on Saturdays.”
“Are you saying they came regularly, every Saturday?”
“Yes, every Saturday. At the same time. But not together. First the man with the invalid, then a few minutes later the red-head.”
“At what time did they come?”
“They’ll be there in about half an hour.” Frenzel pulled out his watch. “Always at six.”
“Were they there last Saturday?”
“Yes. But without the red-head.”
“Was that the last time you saw the Schmidts?”
“No, it was the previous day. The fat man came for them in his car. They went off somewhere.”
“How do you know they were at home on Saturday if you saw them for the last time on Friday?”
“I didn’t see them, but I heard them in their apartment.”
“You eavesdropped?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you hear?”
“Their voices, and the moans of the invalid woman.”
“Did you hear the man too?”
“The man? No.”
“You’re free to go.” The police officer took out his watch and showed Frenzel the door. “Here’s for a cab.” He tossed him two ten-mark notes. “You can go home. But remember, this giant here” — he indicated the man- wardrobe — “is going to keep a discreet eye on you for the next few days. Wait, just one more thing … Tell me, why don’t you like the police?”
“Because they’re too mistrustful, even when you go to them of your own accord and want to report something.” Again, he was frightened by his own impudence. “But that doesn’t apply to you, sirs … I really … Besides, you don’t look like a policeman …”
“So what do I look like?”
“A pastor,” Frenzel replied, and thought “out whoring.”
