The Widow Killer (11 page)

He instantly regretted his move when his neighbor stiffened again, but before he could reproach himself for his simplemindedness, he heard the relatively affable reply that the Reich’s offices respect the law but know it needs to be interpreted at times. He, Buback, personally did not believe that the father of this… what was her name again? Jitka Modra… yes, of this Miss Modra—surely she was unmarried, at her age?—would be punished for black marketeering if the facts were as Detective Morava reported them. When they got back to Prague, Morava should tell the young lady that she could call on Buback for help in this matter; the German would certainly look into the case—all he needed was the personnel file.

Ahead, the tower of the castle was rising out of the vineyards; the suspect Jakub Malatinsky was supposed to be waiting for them. His absence, however, was not to be the last surprise that day.

The conversation about Jitka Modra excited Buback. She was undoubtedly a delicate chip off the old paternal block; the girl’s father had probably been acting in the spirit of the old traditions, and if so, then he could help her.

Buback’s new task assumed a scenario which, if expressed aloud a short while ago, would have been grounds for a charge of high treason: that the proud Reich which had covered most of the continent would shrink back to its core. It was no longer possible to evacuate or liquidate the millions of Czechs living here who had never submitted to their loss of independence; at best Germany might persuade them not to revolt through deft use of the carrot and the stick.

Buback was sure that in the given instance, Meckerle would not object. He could extend a helping hand to Beran and his men that cost nothing and might prove fruitful. The Prague Gestapo supervisor had seen the need for a change of priorities last fall, and now reined in his subordinates as zealously as he had earlier applied the spurs. The girl’s father was just a pawn in the game, and Buback, while respecting its rules, could spare the reincarnation of his Hilde any further fear and misfortune.

Then his musings were cut short. As it turned out, the suspect Jakub Malatinsky, despite the order from Brno, was not there, and no one had any idea where he might be. Before Buback was forced to dress down the officers, Morava translated for him that the summons could not have reached him; Malatinsky had taken two days’ leave earlier.

“So what are you waiting for?” Buback snarled at the local policeman, who turned white as a sheet. “Send for him, have him tracked down, whatever, but don’t just stand there like God’s gift to mankind. I want to be in Prague tonight.”

Morava cautiously intervened.

“Could it wait half an hour?”

“Why?” he barked in irritation.

“He should come of his own accord. His shift starts at two.”

Is he trying to show me up in public? Buback wondered, but when he looked into those eyes again, even his professionally suspicious glare could find no hint of intrigue. He assented, but as punishment haughtily declined their offer to visit the renowned castle wine cellar. While his guide diligently filled lined pages with facts about the suspect, he continued his pretense of not understanding Czech and stubbornly fixed his sight on a flock of circling crows outside who were choosing a suitable tree to land in.

Malatinsky was hauled in by a sweat-drenched police officer at two minutes after two. A giant in linen clothes and felt boots, the suspect barely fit under the door frame. Buback inadvertently thought of Meckerle but immediately dismissed the comparison. Malatinsky was a sheaf of sinew and muscle, not a sack of meat. He had a nice, well-proportioned, and sturdy face beneath a black mane without a single gray hair. As he walked he thrust his knees and hips forward, almost like a ballerina, but one with a wild animal’s strength.

Buback caught the deferential glance of the assistant detective and signaled him to start. The Czech asked the cellar workers to leave and ordered the suspect to sit down. This too Malatinsky did in a surprisingly refined manner, crossing his legs at the knee and clasping his hands in his lap. A native of this mixed border region, he offered to speak German with them. His accent was strong, but his vocabulary was adequate to the task.

After the usual preliminaries, where Morava verified his identity and instructed him, the giant got the same question they had put to Jurajda that morning in Brno. Where had he been on February fourteenth and who could confirm it?

“I don’t like to write down where I go.” The questioned man grinned.

“Then you’ll just have to remember.”

“Why is it so important?”

The kid went right to the point, and Buback knew he would have done the same in Morava’s place.

“In 1929 you were convicted of a brutal murder. After your release, you were investigated in the fall of 1938 in connection with another one; the investigation was never completed. We are looking for the person who murdered a woman in Prague on February fourteenth of this year in a very similar fashion.”

Yes, Buback approved; keep going, if he’s the murderer, he knows exactly why we’re here and will give himself away. Instead, the vintner laughed as if he had just heard a good joke.

“And why look for him here?”

“The best way to start an investigation is to look in places you know,” Buback’s famulus said just as casually. “Sometimes it’s the best way to finish one as well. Was it you?”

“No,” the vintner responded, still with a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m done with crazy stunts like that. If I’d given her a few good slaps and tossed her rags out on the street behind her, I could have saved myself ten years of life and not missed out on a hundred better women. Except I was twenty, and a complete fool.”

“There was nothing crazy about the way you did it,” the kid continued in a conversational tone. “The jury called it a repulsive display of extreme sadism. The prosecutor asked for life.”

“But the court gave me fifteen years; fortunately they got the point. It was my first woman, you see; I was terribly jealous. I got over it in prison once and for all.”

“Where were you on February fourteenth?”

“What day was it?”

“Wednesday.”

“At work, I guess.”

“No you weren’t,” Morava shot back. “We already know you took two days’ vacation. Why?”

“I was probably exhausted. We’d spent a week cleaning the big barrels.”

“So you often take vacations.”

“I take them when I want to and when I can. Don’t you?”

“And how do you spend them? Today, for instance. You can’t have forgotten that already?”

Malatinsky laughed until his pearly white teeth flashed.

“No, that I remember.”

Not a single filling, Buback noticed enviously. It made the vintner even more irritating. If one of Meckerle’s boxers got his hands on you… he thought, and was immediately ashamed: I’m becoming just like them!

“Mr. Malatinsky,” his companion continued in a suddenly solemn tone, “I should warn you: the victim was a citizen of the Third Reich. This is why Chief Inspector Buback from the Prague Gestapo is overseeing this investigation. If you don’t give me proof of your innocence, the Germans will be the next to ask. It’s your choice.”

He’s reading my mind, Buback thought with amazement, and shot Malatinsky an icy glare he had perfected. The man opposite them stopped laughing.

“It really wasn’t me. I have the same alibi for February as for yesterday. But it’ll cost me my job…”

A widening crack appeared in the suspect’s self-confidence. The interrogator turned to the local keeper of the peace.

“Could you wait outside for a minute?”

The policeman, who had been following the interrogation with evident interest, misunderstood what Morava meant. Grabbing Malatinsky by the elbow, he began to lead him out. When he heard the request a second time, he blushed like a scolded schoolboy and made a quick exit. Only then did the youngster continue, now in an almost affable manner.

“We don’t want to make trouble for innocent people. If your alibi holds up, we’ll keep it to ourselves.”

“I was in Brno.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Fucking,” the man said in his native language. “I don’t know how to say it in German.”

Buback enjoyed watching the Czech’s discomfort as he translated. The German had been the first in his class to know that word.

“You understand,”—Morava turned to Malatinsky again—“that we’ll have to confirm it.”

“Yes. That’s the problem.”

“Is the lady married?”

“Which one?”

“What do you mean, which one?”

“Do you mean the one in February or the one now?”

“We’re talking about February now!”

“Yes, okay… but could you ask her when the other one isn’t around?”

“Why should she be… ?”

“They’re mother and daughter.”

The assistant detective suddenly looked like an openmouthed teenager, and Buback had the impression that their suspect was looking for some masculine understanding. It was time to jump in.

“Which one was it in February?”

“The mother.”

“And where can we find her?”

“Well, here.”

“You mentioned Brno.”

“We were at a hotel in the city. I was just there with the daughter too.”

“And who is the mother?”

“My boss’s wife. He’s the administrator. They live here at the castle. But you won’t tell her about her daughter?”

“No,” Buback said.

“And could you interview her… inconspicuously, somehow?”

“Yes,” Buback said.

What is it with me? he wondered. First I wish he would get beaten to a pulp and now I’m ready to throw up a triple smoke screen for him? Am I really going to cover for him to his boss and two mistresses?

Except… what was the point in turning him in? His detective’s sixth sense told Buback that although this man had committed an atrocity, it was not a sign of any inborn deviance, but an eruption of anger at his humiliated masculinity. He felt sure the alibi would hold up. The man radiated charisma; he would not need to substitute torture and murder for pleasure—not with women young and old beating a path to his door. No, today’s trip would serve only one purpose: Buback could try to get closer to his guide, and in doing so, fulfill his true mission.

But given his midday musings, what was his true mission anyway… ?

Morava was more and more surprised. Throughout their unequal cooperation (with Morava doing all the work while the other merely watched over his shoulder), he had found the German to be a patronizing prig, possibly not as arrogant as others from the Gestapo, but certainly not a colleague one could trust. However, in the last couple of hours Buback had changed beyond belief.

Letting Morava visit his mother, offering to intervene on behalf of Jitka’s father, and finally jumping in so unconventionally during the vintner’s interrogation could all be classic tricks—if Beran was right— but it was certainly easier to breathe in this new atmosphere. A thaw in relations would bring advantages to both sides; you just had to prick up your ears and watch your mouth a bit more closely.

They turned Malatinsky over to the policeman and casually asked the administrator’s wife for some rye coffee while her husband was down in the cellars. When she brought it to them, Morava abruptly translated Buback’s question for her: where had she been on February fourteenth and whom had she been with? The handsome woman’s jaw fell open and her lips trembled; suddenly she sagged into a heap of misery. Before she could burst into tears or faint, Buback had Morava tell her that everything she said would remain confidential; her husband would not find out.

She collected herself with surprising speed, grabbed their promise like a life preserver, and made such an ardent confession that Morava felt hot under the collar. Yes, they had been together those two days and nights in February as usual, but this month they hadn’t gone, because he thought they shouldn’t always leave at the same time, so instead he went to visit his mother; yes, they always registered legally in the hotel, with his friend the reception clerk putting them in separate rooms, but she’d been with him in one of them and swore he hadn’t gone farther than the toilet the whole time; yes, she would even put it in writing, but for God’s sake, she was relying on their word that none of the local men would see it, because otherwise it’d be her husband doing the murdering.

With Buback’s permission, Morava wrote out a rather short declaration; her hands shook, but she managed to sign it. The two of them finished their drink and returned to the office. Malatinsky was chatting affably with the officer. He was still laughing as they walked in, but stood up respectfully. And it was Buback who with an almost genial nod indicated to him that his account had been confirmed. In return, Malatinsky docilely let Morava photograph him head-on and in both profiles to show to the Prague caretaker (can’t be too careful!). With that they were finished and could go home.

Just before they left, Morava had a memorable experience. As he relieved himself at the employees’ ramshackle urinal while Buback went to take in some fresh air, the door banged open and the local policeman appeared at his side.

“Sir, what should we do?” the policeman asked.

“Nothing. Unless we send for him, you can leave him alone,” Morava replied.

“That’s not what I mean. What should we do in general? If things heat up? Say, if the Germans try to mobilize us. Who do we answer to?”

“How long have you been in the police?”

“Urn… since 1920.”

Morava searched the man’s eyes. This was not the panicky fear of a collaborator, but the understandable anguish of a man who for twenty-five years had served the law under various changing powers. The young Czech thanked fate that his work, dismal as it could be, was basically independent of the political weather.

“Or if the Russians come, the way things are looking,” the man continued nervously. “Who should we listen to?”

Morava was too much Beran’s pupil to trust his feelings completely. A cop who had survived every regime could be a perfectly corrupt bastard and a provocateur, maybe even in the Germans’ pay and under Buback’s thumb. He decided to play the wise man.