Death in Breslau (6 page)

At the sight of Mock, who had arrived five minutes earlier, he was disconcerted. He pulled himself together, rose and greeted Mock effusively. The Counsellor manifested less joy at the encounter. Piontek opened a silver cigarette case with the engraving: “To a dear Husband and Daddy on his fiftieth birthday from his wife and daughters.” The musical box played, the cigarettes in blue paper gave off a sweet scent. An elderly waiter took their order and removed himself without a sound.

“I shan’t conceal, Counsellor,” Piontek broke the tense silence, “that all of us at the Gestapo were happy that somebody like yourself would like to work with us. Nobody knows more about the more or the less important personalities of this city than Eberhard Mock. No secret archive can be the equal of that which you have in your head.”

“Ah, you overestimate me, Hauptsturmführer …” Mock cut him off. The waiter put down the plates of eel in dill sauce, sprinkled with glazed onions.

“I’m not suggesting you go over to the Gestapo.” Piontek was not put off by Mock’s indifference. “What I know about you makes me think that you would not accept such a proposal.”
(But of course – and who could have told this tub of lard any such thing? Forstner, you mongrel, I’m going to destroy you.)
“But, on the other hand, you’re a reasonable man. Look wisely into the future and remember: the future’s going to belong to me and my people!”

Mock ate with great appetite. He wrapped the last piece of fish around his fork, submerged it in the sauce and devoured it. For several seconds, he did not take the tankard of spiced Schweidnitz beer from his lips. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and contemplated the miniature tuna.

“I believe you had something to tell me about the murder of Marietta von der Malten …”

Piontek was a man who never lost his self-control. He took a flat, tin box from the pocket of his jacket, opened it and offered it to Mock to whom a strange suspicion occurred: did accepting a cigar amount to accepting the proposal that he go over to the Gestapo? He pulled back his hand. Piontek’s hand shook a little.

“Go on, Counsellor, have a smoke. They’re really good. One mark cigars.”

Mock inhaled so deeply that he felt a stabbing pain in his lungs.

“You don’t want to talk about the Gestapo. So, let’s talk about the C.I.D.,” Piontek said jovially. “Did you know that Mühlhaus has decided to take early retirement? In a month at the latest. That’s what he decided today. He told Obergruppenführer Heines, who agreed. So at the end of June there’s going to be a vacancy for the post of Chief of the Criminal Department. I’ve heard that Heines has had some candidate from Berlin suggested to him by Nebe. Artur Nebe is an excellent policeman, but what does he know about Breslau … Personally I think that a better candidate would be someone who knows conditions in Breslau … You, for example.”

“Your opinion is, no doubt, the best reference for the Prussian Minister of Internal Affairs, Göring, and the Chief of Prussian Police, Nebe.” Mock tried, at all costs, to disguise with biting irony the reverie induced by the man from the Gestapo.

“Counsellor,” Piontek surrounded himself with cigar smoke. “The two men you mentioned do not have time to waste on provincial personnel pushovers. They can simply approve the personal recommendation of the Supreme President of Silesia, Brückner. Brückner will put forward whomsoever Heines supports. And Heines communicates in all matters of personnel with my chief. Have I made myself clear?”

Mock had a great deal of experience in conversations with people such as Piontek. Nervously, he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and wiped his forehead with a chequered handkerchief: “That lunch has somehow made me hot. Maybe we could take a walk along the promenade by the moat …”

Piontek glanced at the aquarium with the tuna fish.
(Could he have noticed the microphone?)
“I haven’t got time for walks,” he said good-naturedly. “Besides, I haven’t given you the information on Fräulein von der Malten’s case yet.”

Mock got up, slipped on his coat and hat: “Hauptsturmführer, thank you for the excellent lunch. If you want to know my decision – and I have already made it – I’ll be waiting outside.”

*   *   *

A group of young mothers, pushing their prams near the statue of Cupid Riding Pegasus on the promenade, remarked upon the two elegantly attired men walking in front of them. The taller of the two was of a heavy build. The pale trench-coat sat tightly on his shoulders. The shorter of the two was tapping his walking stick while studying his patent leather shoes.

“Well, look at that, Marie,” said the slim blonde woman quietly. “Those there must be some gentlemen.”

“That’s for sure,” muttered the plump Marie, a scarf tied around her head. “Could be artists because why aren’t they at work? Everyone works at this time, not yaps away in a park.”

Marie’s observations were partially accurate. In so far as Piontek and Mock were performing a work of art at that moment, it was the art of subtle blackmail, veiled threats and ingenious provocation.

“Counsellor, I know from my chief that Nebe can be stubborn and decide to place his own man as chief of Breslau’s C.I.D., even in defiance of Heines or Brückner. But you can strengthen your position considerably and become the one and only, unrivalled candidate …”

“How?”

“Oh, it’s so simple …” Piontek took Mock under the arm. “A successful case, loud and spectacular, would raise you to that position. Of course, a successful case plus Heines’ and Brückner’s support. And then even the Chief of Prussian Police, the uncompromising Nebe, will give in …”

Mock stopped, removed his hat and fanned himself with it for a moment. The sun glistened on the roofs of the houses on the other side of the moat. Piontek took the Counsellor by the waist and whispered in his ear:

“Yes, dear sir, success … And we both have no doubt that your greatest success at this moment would be capturing the murderer of Baron von der Malten’s daughter.”

“Hauptsturmführer, you’re presuming that I want nothing more than Mühlhaus’ position … But maybe that’s not the case … Maybe I have other plans … Besides, we do not know that I will find the murderer before Mühlhaus leaves.” Mock knew this sounded insincere and would not deceive Piontek. The latter leaned over to Mock’s ear once more, shocking the women overtaking them.

“You’ve already found the murderer. It’s Isidor Friedländer. He confessed last night. At our quarters, in Brown-Shirt House on Neudorfstrasse. But only I and Schmidt, my subordinate, know about it. If you so wish, Counsellor, we’ll both swear it was you who forced Friedländer to confess at the Police Praesidium.” Piontek grasped Mock’s small hand
and folded it into a fist. “There, you’re holding your career in the palm of your hand.”

BRESLAU, TUESDAY, MAY 16TH, 1933
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

Mock woke with a stifled cry. The duvet pressed down on his chest as if it weighed a hundred kilograms. His nightshirt, soaked in sweat, was twisted around his limbs. He threw the duvet violently aside, got up, went to his study, lit the lamp with a green shade on his desk and set out his chess set. In vain, he wanted to chase away the nightmare of his bad conscience. The dream he’d had a moment ago re-appeared before his eyes: the lame girl was looking straight at him. Despite the river separating them, he clearly saw her eyes full of passion and hatred. He also saw the steward’s wife heading towards him. She approached with a swaying gait. He looked with surprise at her face covered in a rash. She sat down, hitched her dress up high and spread her legs. From her thighs and stomach grew syphilitic cauliflowers.

The Counsellor threw the window wide open and returned to the safety of the green circle of light. He knew he would not be able to sleep before the morning. Both women in the dream had faces he knew well: the girl, that of Marietta von der Malten; the syphilitic Phaedre, Françoise Debroux.

*   *   *

Schlesische Tageszeitung
of May 19th, 1933

Page 1: Counsellor Eberhard Mock of Breslau’s Criminal Police, after several days of investigation, apprehended the felon who killed the Baron’s daughter, Marietta von der Malten, her governess, Françoise Debroux, and the conductor of the saloon car, Franz Repell. It turned out to be the sixty-year-old, mentally sick dealer, Isidor F. Further details on p.3.

Page 3: Isidor F. murdered the Baron’s 17-year-old daughter and her guardian, 42-year-old Françoise Debroux in an exceptionally brutal manner. He raped both women, then quartered them. Prior to that, he took the life of the carriage conductor. Stunning the victim, he slipped three scorpions under his shirt which fatally stung the unfortunate man. The perpetrator of the crime decorated the carriage with writing in a Coptic tongue: ‘Both for the poor, and for the rich – death and vermin.’

The epileptic Isidor F. had long been treated by Doctor Weinsberg from the Jewish Hospital. Here is the doctor’s opinion: ‘Following an attack of epilepsy, the sick man would remain in a state of unconsciousness for a long time, although giving the impression of being fully aware. After an attack of epilepsy, the schizophrenia which plagued him ever since he was a small child would re-appear. He would then be unpredictable; he would shout in strange tongues, and have horrifying, apocalyptic visions. In such a state, he was capable of anything.’

The accused is being held in a place known only to the police. The trial will take place within a few days.

Völkischer Beobachter
of May 20th, 1933

Page 1: The abominable Jew defiled and quartered two German women. Prior to that, he killed a German railwayman in a perfidious manner. That blood cries out, demands vengeance!

Berliner Morgenpost
of May 21st, 1933

Page 2: This last night, the vampire of Breslau, Isidor Friedländer, committed suicide in his cell. He killed himself in a manner as macabre as that in which he killed his victims: he bit through his veins …

Breslauer Zeitung
of July 2nd, 1933