The adventure with the wasp and with the ashes, his unfamiliarity with Breslau all made Anwaldt late for his meeting with Lea Friedlander. When finally he got to Hansastrasse and found the Fatamorgana Studio of Photography and Film, it was four-fifteen. Pink curtains were drawn across the window front, a brass sign ENTRANCE FROM THE YARD was nailed to the door. Anwaldt obeyed the instruction. He knocked for a long time; it was several minutes before the door was opened by a red-haired servant. In a strong foreign accent, she informed him that “Fraulein Susanne” did not admit clients who arrived late. Anwaldt was too irritated to try subtle persuasion. Without ceremony, he moved the girl aside and sat in the not very large waiting room.
“Please tell Fraulein Friedlander that I’m a special client.” He calmly lit a cigarette. The servant left, clearly amused. Anwaldt opened all the doors except for the one behind which the girl had disappeared. The first led to a bathroom lined with pale blue tiles. His attention was drawn to a bath of unparalleled size which stood on a high pedestal, and a bidet. Having looked at the unusual sanitary equipment, Anwaldt entered the large front room where the film studio “Fatamorgana” was located. The centre was taken up by an enormous divan strewn with gold and crimson cushions. Spotlights and several wicker paravents, hung with elegant, lace underwear, were arranged all around. There could not be the slightest doubt as to the nature of the films shot here. He heard a rustling, turned and saw a tall, dark-haired girl standing in the door, wearing nothing but stockings and a see-through peignoir. She rested her hands on her hips, parting her garment. In this way, Anwaldt became acquainted with most of the beautiful secrets of her body.
“You’re half an hour late. So we haven’t got much time,” she spoke slowly, drawing out the syllables. She walked over to the large bed, gently swaying her hips. She gave the impression that crossing these two metres was beyond her strength. She sat down heavily and, with a slender hand, made an inviting gesture. Anwaldt approached quite cautiously. She pulled him firmly towards her. It seemed she would never finish the simple action of unbuttoning his trousers. He interrupted these manipulations, leaned over a little and took her tiny face in his hands. She looked at him with surprise. Her pupils had dissolved, entirely covering her irises. The shadows of the semi-darkness outlined Lea’s face — pale and sick. She tossed her head in order to sever the gentle embrace. The peignoir slipped from her shoulder to reveal fresh prick marks. Anwaldt felt the cigarette burn his lips. He quickly spat it out, straight into a large porcelain bowl. The butt hissed in a residue of water. Anwaldt removed his jacket and hat and sat down in the armchair opposite Lea. Rays of the setting sun penetrated the pink curtains and danced on the wall.
“Fraulein Friedlander, I’d like to talk with you about your father. Only a few questions …”
Lea’s head fell forward. She rested her elbows on her thighs as if she were falling into a sleep.
“What do you need this for? Who are you?” Anwaldt guessed rather than heard the questions.
“My name’s Herbert Anwaldt and I’m a private detective. I’m leading the investigation into Marietta von der Malten’s death. I know that your father was forced into confessing his guilt. I also know Weinsberg’s alias Winkler’s nonsense …”
He broke off. His parched throat was refusing to obey. He walked up to a sink mounted in the corner of the studio and took a moment to drink water straight from the tap. Then he sat in the armchair again. The water he had just drunk evaporated through his skin. He wiped a wave of sweat with the surface of his hand and asked the first question:
“Someone framed your father. Maybe the murderer himself. Tell me, who could have wanted to make your father the murderer?”
Lea brushed the hair languidly away from her forehead. She said nothing.
“Mock, most certainly,” he answered himself. “Thanks to finding the ‘murderer’, he got a promotion. But it really is difficult to suspect the Director of such naivety. Or maybe those who murdered the Baron’s daughter are the ones who pointed us to him? Baron von Kopperlingk? No, that’s impossible for natural reasons. No homosexual is capable of raping two women within a quarter of an hour. Besides, he spoke the truth when he told us about your shop as a place where scorpions could be bought, so all this does not look like being construed in advance. To put it briefly, your father was slipped under Mock’s nose by someone who knew that the Baron had once bought scorpions from you and also knew about your father’s mental illness. That someone found the perfect scapegoat in your father. Who could have known about the scorpions and your father’s madness? Think! Did anybody apart from Mock come to see you and ask your father about an alibi? A private detective like myself, perhaps?”
Lea Friedlander turned to lie on her side and rested her head on her bent arm. A cigarette smoked in the corner of her mouth.
“If I tell you, you’ll die,” she laughed quietly. “Funny. I can deal out death sentences.”
She fell back and closed her eyes, the cigarette slipped out of the painted lips and rolled across the bed. Anwaldt threw it into the porcelain bowl. He was on the point of getting up from the divan when Lea threw her arms around his neck. Like it or not, he lay down next to her. Both lay on their stomachs, close to each other, Anwaldt’s cheek touching her smooth shoulder. Lea put the man’s arm on her back and whispered in his ear:
“You’ll die. But now you’re my client. So do your bit. Time is running out …”
For Lea Friedlander, time had indeed run out. Anwaldt turned the inert girl and pulled her eyelids open. The eyes slipped away into the cranial vault. For a moment, he struggled with the desire that was overcoming him. He gained control of himself, however, removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. Cooling himself a little in this way, he went into the hall and then into the only other room he had not yet inspected: a drawing-room full of furniture under black covers. A pleasant coolness prevailed — the windows gave on to the yard. A door led to the kitchen. No sign of the servant girl. Everywhere were piles of dirty dishes, beer and lemonade bottles. (What does the servant do in this house? Probably makes films with her mistress …) He took one of the clean tankards and half filled it with water. Tankard in hand, he entered the windowless room which ended this untypical suite of connecting rooms. (Larder? Servant’s room?) Practically the whole surface was occupied by an iron bed, a decorative escritoire and a dressing-table with an intricately twisted lamp. On the escritoire stood some dozen books bound in faded green cloth. The titles were printed on the spines in silver. One of them did not have a title and this was the one which interested Anwaldt. He opened it: a notebook half full of large, rounded writing. On the title page, meticulously calligraphed, was written: “Lea Friedlander. Diary”. He removed his shoes, made himself comfortable on the bed and immersed himself in reading. This was not a typical diary but rather memories of childhood and youth, recently noted.
Anwaldt compared his imagination to a revolving stage. Often the scene he was reading would appear in front of his eyes with intense reality. In this way, while he had been reading Gustav Nachtigal’s memoirs recently, he had felt the scorching desert sands under his feet and the stench of camels and Tibbu guides assaulted his nostrils. As soon as he tore his eyes away from the book, the curtain would fall, the imagined sets evaporate. When he returned to the book, the appropriate scenery would return, the Sahara sun would burn.