Mock stood outside the door of apartment 20 and tapped out the rhythm to the “Schlesierlied” for the second time.
“Who’s there?” came the voice of a sleepy child.
“Eberhard Mock.”
The door opened a little. Erika was wearing a long and rather too large nightdress. She let the door swing open and went back into the room. Mock closed the door behind him and sniffed. He could no longer detect that unpleasant odour. The kitchen table was now covered with a cloth on which stood upturned plates and glasses, their rims leaving wet rings on the material. The floor was still wet. He entered the room and placed a large package on the chair. Erika sat on the bed and stared at him fearfully. Mock was sure neither of his emotions nor his words.
“Did my man bring you the bedlinen?” he asked, to break the silence.
“He did.”
“Who washed the dishes?”
“Kurt.” Fear gradually disappeared from Erika’s eyes. “He did it very comprehensively. He doesn’t like dirt …”
“So you’re on first-name terms?” He reacted irritably, unable to bring to mind anything to substantiate Smolorz’s preference for excessive tidiness. “Just how well have you got to know each other?”
“So-so.” The trace of a smile appeared on Erika’s lips. “I just like the sound of the name Kurt. Why are you so annoyed? I’m only a whore. What was it you called me? ‘A crafty whore.’ Why shouldn’t I get to know sweet little Kurty very well indeed?”
“Where is he?” Mock ignored the question.
“About an hour after you left,” Erika said more seriously, “a large man came round. He was huge. He didn’t say anything, just wrote something on a piece of paper. Kurt read it and rushed out with him. He told me not to open the door to anyone.”
Silence descended. The headlamps and shadows of passing cars drifted across the ceiling. Coloured illumination from the neon sign of Gramophon-Spezial-Haus on the opposite side of the street seeped through the net curtain. Erika sat shrouded in red and green speckles of light and studied Mock without the hint of a smile.
“Why don’t you come and sit next to me, sir?” she asked in a low, serious voice.
Mock sat down and watched with astonishment as his hand glided across her white arm. Never before had he seen such white skin, never before had his diaphragm deprived him of air for so long, never until now had he felt such pain in his thighs.
“Why don’t you take me, sir?” she asked just as seriously. She moved up the clean bedclothes and opened herself before him.
Mock sighed, got to his feet and went to the chair. He unwrapped the rustling package and hung a nurse’s hat and starched housecoat over the back of the chair.
“Put this on,” he said hoarsely.
“With pleasure.” Erika leaped out of bed and freed herself from the nightdress. As she raised her arms, flickers of neon blazed across her prominent breasts. She tied her hair into a loose bun and put on the hat. Mock unfastened his trousers. At that moment Smolorz, Wirth and Zupitza stepped into the apartment. Erika quickly jumped into bed as Mock kicked the door shut. He approached the bed and pulled the eider-down off the girl. A moment later somebody’s knuckles were tapping out the rhythm of the “Schlesierlied”. Mock sighed, walked over to the window and gazed for a while at the street lamp which illuminated the hairdresser’s salon. He approached the girl and stroked her hair. She clung on to his hand with both of hers. He bent and kissed her on the lips.
“Wait a moment,” he muttered, and went into the hall.
Smolorz was at the door, about to knock again. Wirth and Zupitza were sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by wet dishes.
“Why are you rapping out our signal, Smolorz?” Mock scarcely managed to suppress the irritation in his voice. “I saw you come in. And now hop it, all of you! From now on I’m going to keep an eye on the girl myself.”
“Caretaker Frenzel …” Smolorz said, giving off the scent of soap. “He’s not there.”
“Tell me what happened, Zupitza,” Mock hissed through clenched teeth.
“I was at the caretaker’s” — Zupitza set his hands to work while Wirth translated into his characteristic German with its Austrian lilt — “and was keeping my eye on him all the time. He was uneasy. He kept looking around as if he wanted to go somewhere. All the more reason for me to keep an eye on him. I took him to the toilet. Stood outside the door. For a long time. In the end I knocked. Several times and — nothing. I forced the door. The window was open. The caretaker had escaped through the window. Mr Smolorz can take it from there.”
“Didn’t you hear what Wirth said?” Mock growled at Smolorz. “Out with it!”
“This is what Zupitza wrote.” Smolorz handed Mock a piece of paper with large scribblings. “Then we questioned the neighours. Nobody knows where Frenzel is. One said that he was a gambler. We’ve combed the local gambling dens. Nothing.”
Yet another corpse. The following day, or in a few days time, the murderer would send Mock a letter. They would go to a given address and find Frenzel with his eyes torn out. The organ grinder’s little girl would sing yet another verse. And you, Mock, you are to go home and talk to your father, and repair all the damage you’ve done. Admit you’re defeated, Mock. You’ve lost. Hand over the investigation to others. To those who haven’t made any mistakes that will be punished by people having their eyes gouged out or their lungs pierced.
Mock walked slowly to the table and grasped its edge. The surface shuddered and bounced, and then a moment later it was up in the air. Wirth and Zupitza fled to the wall, dishes crashed to the floor, glass shattered, plates gave an ear-piercing wail and cups screeched. The noise was terrible, and became intolerable when eighty- five kilograms of Mock jumped on to the upturned table. Fragments of crockery gave out their last strains, a shattered complaint, a grating
Panting, Mock stepped off the table and immersed his head in the iron sink. Cold water rushed around his neck and burning ears.
“Towel!” he yelled from the sink’s cool interior.
Somebody put a sheet round his shoulders. Mock stood upright and covered his head with it. Streams of water flowed down inside his collar. He felt as if he were in a tent; he would have liked to be in a tent at that moment, far from everything. After a while he uncovered his head and took stock of the anxious faces.
“We’re ending this investigation, gentlemen,” he spoke very slowly. “Criminal Commissioner Heinrich Muhlhaus will take over. I’ll just take down Erika Kiesewalter’s statement and you, Smolorz, are going to hand it to the Commissioner. He’ll know that they’ve got to find a man with a daughter in a wheelchair. Well, what are you staring at? Read the statement, then you’ll know what it’s all about.”
“And what about the people in the storeroom? Are we going to let them go?” Wirth asked nervously.
“You take them to a detention cell. Tomorrow night Guard Buhrack will be waiting for you. He’ll look after them. Any other questions?”
“Criminal Assistant, sir,” Smolorz mumbled. “What about her? The storeroom, or straight to Buhrack?”
There was silence. Mock looked at Erika as she stood in the doorway. Her nurse’s hat was now askew. Her lips were trembling and her vocal organs were positioning themselves to ask a question. But the bellows of her lungs could not expel the air. She stood breathless.
“What happens” — Smolorz had become exceptionally talkative — “if Muhlhaus wants to question her himself?”
Mock was staring at Erika. She shivered as the clock in the hall struck three times. The shivering did not subside, even though she was wrapped in an eiderdown. He looked at the nurse’s starched housecoat, at Smolorz, who was unhealthily excited, and then came to a decision.
“If Criminal Commissioner Muhlhaus wants to question the witness, Miss Erika Kiesewalter, he’s going to have to put himself to the trouble of going to the seaside.”
RUGENWALDERMUNDE, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1919
NOON
