The End of the World in Breslau (12 page)

BOOK: The End of the World in Breslau

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The Counsellor switched on the light and greeted the two policemen who officially reported to Mühlhaus. They were clever, discreet and taci-turn inspectors whom Mühlhaus employed for special assignments. The assignment with which Mock now presented them required, above all, patience and doggedness.

“I know, gentlemen,” he began like a university lecturer, although his schnapps-baritone was more suggestive of extra-curricular pastimes, “that I would offend you if I asked you to work through years of files in search of two addresses without giving you my reasons.”

Mock lit a cigar and pulled the plate-sized ashtray nearer to him. He waited for a reaction from his listeners. There was none. This pleased him greatly.

“You have doubtless heard about the Gelfrert–Honnefelder case. Both men were murdered with some ingenuity: Gelfrert was tied to hooks in the small recess of a shoemaker’s shop, and then walled in. Honnefelder, on the other hand, was quartered in his own apartment. Gelfrert was a lonely musician who abused alcohol, a member of Hitler’s party. Honnefelder was an unemployed locksmith and active communist. Everything set them apart: their age, their education and social status, and their political views. Yet something linked them, which the murderer himself told us about. To Gelfrert’s waistcoat he pinned a piece of paper with a date, September 12th of this year. That page came from Gelfrert’s wall calendar, which is why Doctor Lasarius is inclined to believe this was when he
was killed. The murderer visited Gelfrert’s room, tore the page from the calendar, then led him – or somehow lured him – to the shoemaker’s shop, where he rendered him unconscious and walled him in alive. All we know about the circumstances of Honnefelder’s death is what I have already told you. Again the murderer left a clue: on the table was a pocket diary with the date November 17th marked. Doctor Lasarius is certain that was when Honnefelder was killed. You have no doubts I take it, gentlemen, that both murders were committed by the same person.”

Kleinfeld and Reinert had no doubts.

“So you can see,” Mock continued, not noticing that Mühlhaus was standing in the door listening to his arguments, “the beast is telling us: this, and only this, is the day on which I killed. I interpret it thus: this is when I killed because only then
could
I kill. ‘Could’ here does not mean ‘was in a state to’ but ‘only then did the circumstances allow me to do so’. What circumstances? That is the question we must answer.” Mock extinguished his cigar and bowed to Mühlhaus. “Gentlemen, it is not the characters of the victims that connect the two murders – they are probably innocent – it is only the perpetrator. We would have nothing to go on if it weren’t for the signs given to us by the murderer himself. However, if we were to analyse the dates of these crimes inside out, if we were to juggle them and add up the numbers, we wouldn’t move the case forward one iota. It occurred to me that these murders might be a reminder of something that happened on these days and in those months, but earlier, in years gone by. The murderer might be telling us to dig out some old investigation that may have resulted in an erroneous conclusion or was simply hushed up. This, of course, took place in these places, exactly at these addresses. So for the addresses of the crimes, look in the files. If you manage to find a mention of them, then record exactly what it relates to. We are interested in what happened there and, above all, when it happened! And we have to find all this out here.”

Mock glanced at Mühlhaus who, lost in thought, had approached the wall lined with shelves behind wooden blinds. He ran his hand along them.

“Both of you completed a classical education, and so you are acquainted with the various declensions. We have the qualifying declensions of location, time, cause, condition and affirmation. We are interested in the first three. We won’t find the answers unless we examine the time and place. Do you have any questions?”

“Counsellor,” said Kleinfeld. “You mentioned some addresses. We’d like to have them, please.”

†
King of living.

BRESLAU, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

The somewhat regular row of tenements on Grünstrasse between Palmstrasse and Vorwerkstrasse was abruptly broken by a gap as broad and as deep as a tenement. This recess was partially filled by a small one-storeyed building separated from the street by a two-metre wall with a gate in between two turrets. The rear of the building appeared to be stuck on to the back of the huge tenement whose frontage gave on to the yard of the nearest block of houses. This peculiar construction had two small windows on the ground and first floors, and an enormous set of doors above which hung the sign
MONISTISCHE GEMEINDE IN BRESLAU
.
†
Breslau’s Monists, apart from being convinced of the spiritual and material unity of world and man, preached the need for a natural education for the young, non-religious morality, pacifism and a sympathy for socialism, and were linked to various other sects and groups, including the Breslau Society of Parapsychic Research.

The building had interested the secret police for a long time, and
especially the small department devoted to religious and para-religious movements which reported directly to Commissioner Klaus Ebners. His men had not been able to obtain much information about the mysterious building, and so had contented themselves with adding a note about it to the files of a known parapsychologist and clairvoyant, Theodor Weinpfordt, founder of the Breslau Society of Parapsychic Research. This note conveyed that the building was guarded by four men on a rota, working in pairs. Apart from them, the place was visited twice a month by a great throng of people who stayed between five and twenty hours, spending their time – in line with the society’s principles – engaged in spiritualist séances. Occasionally, open lectures were held on subjects relating to occultism and astrology. Ebners’ officials had noted something rather surprising in the files. Their informers had told them that those visiting the building were sometimes accompanied by children. The policemen assumed that the society’s members were introducing the children into the mysteries of the secret arts, and once he had familiarized himself with his men’s reports, Ebners resolved to ensure that the children were not being led there for any ignoble purposes. His suspicions were heightened when it turned out that the children were exclusively girls from an orphanage whose director was a member of the society. After a thorough investigation, it was established that the girls were being subjected to hypnosis by qualified doctors, and were coming to no harm. Ebners happily set aside the case of the building on Grünstrasse and went back to spying on communists and Hitlerites; his secretary duly copied out the files and transferred them to the Vice Department. Its chief, Criminal Counsellor Herbert Domagalla, had not noticed anything untoward in the society’s work, and got on with his day-to-day affairs, that is, the mass recruitment of informers among prostitutes. The girls from the orphanage continued to visit the house on Grünstrasse.

And they were there now. Dressed in long, white robes they stood as
if hypnotized or intoxicated around an enormous divan on which there reclined three women. Only a little light fell from the small window and reflected off the empty, white-painted walls of the lecture hall, from which all chairs had been removed. The morning light of winter fused with the warm glow of a multitude of candles placed irregularly throughout the hall. On the podium behind the lectern stood a bearded old man, naked, quietly reading from a small book bound in white leather. Two stoves emitted quivering waves of hot air.

Over the naked bodies of the women the girls scattered white flower petals which slid down their smooth skin and fell with a faint rustle onto the stiff sheets. Some of the petals came to rest on the mounds and hollows of their bodies. One of the women, fair-haired, lay motionless, while the other two – one dark, one red-haired – performed a number of actions that bore witness to their great skill in the field of
ars amandi
. When the dark-haired woman decided that the motionless blonde was quite ready for the next stage, she stopped what she was doing, restrained her redhaired colleague’s zeal, and nodded to the old man in encouragement. He was not long to respond.

†
Monistic Community of Breslau

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
HALF PAST TEN IN THE MORNING

Mock’s skull was exploding. An excess of tobacco and black coffee, an unnecessary bottle of schnapps the previous day, an unnecessary two bottles of beer that morning, tense nerves, a pile of files, his marriage in ruins, the slanting calligraphy on the reports, the interminable skimming through paragraphs in search of words ending in-
strasse
, the dirty ribbons holding the files together, the necrosis of feelings, the dust blowing about, a sense of helplessness and the futile research in the archives – all this had clouded the acuity of Mock’s mind, who only a few hours
earlier had been showing off in front of Reinert and Kleinfeld with his precise grammar of the investigation.

He squeezed his temples in an attempt to prevent his skull from bursting with the dull, persistent pain. Resigned, he tore his hands from his head and took the cradle and receiver that Scheier, the archivist, was holding out to him.

“Good morning, Counsellor, this is Meinerer …”

“Where are you?”

“Outside Matthiasgymnasium; but Counsellor …”

“You’re to get here as soon as possible.”

Mock replaced the receiver, stood up from the table with difficulty and switched off the light. Reinert gave him a vacant look, while Kleinfeld repeatedly licked a dirty finger. Mock dragged himself upstairs to his office. He arrived ten minutes later, having whiled away a fair amount of time paying nature her dues. Angrily, he assailed the door to his office. The panels in the glazed door clattered, Meinerer jumped to his feet and von Stetten gave him a look as if to say “the old man’s very angry”.

Mock waved him aside and went into the office, letting Meinerer through the door first. The latter had not taken two steps before he felt a heavy blow on the back of his neck. He flew forward so violently that he tumbled to the floor. He got up immediately and sat down opposite Mock, who was already at his desk, glaring at him furiously.

“That’s for my nephew, Erwin,” Mock said sweetly. “You were to follow him day and night. And? And last night my nephew nearly gambled everything away in the casino, on credit. He got himself into considerable danger since he didn’t have anything to pledge. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mock leaned over his desk and reached out an arm. A loud, burning slap resounded off Meinerer’s cheek. The latter retreated and no longer looked at his assailant with fury.

“Listen to me, Meinerer,” Mock said, his tone still sweet. “You’re
bright enough for me not to have to waste my breath telling you about certain individuals from this establishment whose careers I successfully cut short – even though I like them more than I do you. So I’ll be brief: if you bungle it one more time, you’ll be transferred to the Vice Department where you’ll spend your time persuading old whores to have regular check-ups for venereal disease. Apart from that, another exciting activity awaits you there: blackmailing pimps. And they’re not easy to blackmail – you can’t pin anything on them. All the whores keep their mouths shut about any weaknesses their bosses might have. So you’ll taunt each other and take the abuse that’s thrown at you day in, day out. And the results will be miserable. Reprimands, one after another … My friend Herbert Domagalla won’t take pity on you. And that’s it, Meinerer. That’ll be where you end up. You’ll accept a position as constable on the Ring beat with relief, anything so as not to have to face the stench, the decomposition and the syphilis.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Meinerer. His voice betrayed no emotion, which worried Mock.

“You’re to continue tailing my nephew. From the moment he walks out of the school gates.” Mock pulled a fob watch from his waistcoat and looked down. He felt small explosions in his temples. “But now it’s only eleven, so you’ve still got some time. Go to Counsellor Domagalla and get me something in Vice on the boss of the Four Seasons Hotel casino, Norbert Risse. Well, what is it? Go and see what your future department looks like.”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 1ST, 1927
NOON

The old man gave one last amorous sigh. Sophie cried out loudly, hoarsely. She squeezed her eyes shut and lay like that for some minutes. She was
relieved, freed from the old man’s weight. She heard the shuffle of his bare feet. Without opening her eyes, she stroked her neck where his coarse beard had left an itchy red mark. The divan rocked beneath the pressure of Baron von Hagenstahl’s muscular body as it transferred its kinetic energy to the red-haired street-walker and, through her, to Elisabeth’s body which lay at the bottom of this complicated pyramid.

Sophie opened her eyes. Two little girls were standing by the bed, their eyes now clear, with no trace of intoxication or hypnotic trance. At that moment, the Baron slapped the red-haired prostitute across the face. A bright red patch appeared on her cheek. Von Hagenstahl took another swing at her. The girls shuddered, their eyes filling with tears. Helpless and horrified, they clutched white rose petals in their little fists.