Anwaldt lowered his eyes. The agitated siphon hissed. He lifted the tablecloth and saw two coupling hornets, abdomens interlocked. Swiftly, he smoothed down the tablecloth which changed into a sheet. The sheet used to cover Banker Schmetterling clenched in a painful knot with the beautiful schoolgirl, Erna.
He drank two glasses of cognac on the trot and glanced over to the side, avoiding the eyes of the fat drunkard who was revealing the secret wisdom of life to Herr Schultze.
“What? Under the statue of Battle and Victory on Konigsplatz? They go there, you say? Servants and nursemaids on the whole? You’re right, that is an exceptional situation. You don’t have to woo or strut … All they want from you is what you want from them …” a thin student was drinking Beaujolais straight from the bottle and becoming more and more excited. “Yes. It’s a clear situation. You approach, smile and take her home. You don’t waste your money or lose your honour. Eh, what competition are soldiers … Excuse me, but do I know you?”
“No. I was lost in thought …” Anwaldt said. (I’d like to talk to someone. Or play chess. Yes, chess. As at the orphanage once. Karl — he was one keen chess-player. We would place a cardboard suitcase between the beds and put the chessboard on it. Once, when we were playing, the drunk tutor came into the dormitory.) Anwaldt clearly heard the clatter of chess pieces scattering now and felt the kicks dealt by the tutor to both the suitcase and their bodies hiding under the beds.
Two glasses, two gulps, two hopes.
“Herr Schultze, it’s good that they threw those professors out of work. No Jew’s agoing to teach German children … Agoing to fu … fu … Agoing to foul …”
The hiss of gaslight, the impatient hiss of the siphon: another drink!
“Oh, those Polish students! They know next to nothing! And what demands! What manners! And it’s a good thing they’ve been taught some sense at the Gestapo. They’re in a German city, so let them speak German!”
Anwaldt, tripping, made towards the toilet. There were numerous obstacles in his path: uneven floorboards, tables blocking his way, waiters bustling through thick smoke. Finally, he reached the cubicle. He dropped his trousers, supported his hands on the wall and swayed from side to side. Among the uniform murmur, he heard the dull thumping of his heart. He listened intently to the sound for quite a while then suddenly heard a cry and saw Lea Friedlander’s alluring body twitching below the ceiling. He stumbled back into the room. He needed a drink to scrub the image from his eyes.
“Oh, how pleased I am to see you, Criminal Director! Only you can help me!” he shouted with joy to Mock, who was sitting at his table and smoking a fat cigar.
“Calm down, Anwaldt. It’s not true, any of it! Lea Friedlander’s alive,” the strong hand, covered with black hair, patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll solve this case.”
Anwaldt looked at the place where, a moment ago, Mock had been. Now a waiter sat there, looking at him with an amused expression.
“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve woken up, sir. It would have been awkward for me to throw a client out who gives such tips. Shall I order you a droschka or a taxi, sir?”
BRESLAU, SATURDAY, JULY 14TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
The morning sun outlined Baron von der Malten’s Roman profile and the wave of Eberhard Mock’s black hair. They were sitting in the Baron’s garden, drinking aromatic coffee.
“How was the journey?”
“Fine, thank you. Only I was a bit worried with your chauffeur driving so fast and being so tired.”
“Oh, Hermann’s a man of iron. Have you read Anwaldt’s report?”
“Yes. Very detailed. It’s a good thing you sent it to me straight away.”
“It took him the whole of yesterday to write it. He says he writes well after a drinking binge.”
“He got drunk? Really?”
“Unfortunately. At Orlich’s, near the Operetta. What do you intend to do, Eberhard? What are your plans?”
“I intend to take care of Maass and von Kopperlingk,” Mock exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “They’ll lead me to that Turk.”
“And what has Maass got to do with him?”
“Olivier, Baron von Kopperlingk bribed Maass with pretty rented schoolgirls from Madame le Goef’s. Anwaldt’s right: Maass is too intelligent not to know that he’s dealing with the daughters of Corinth, but on the other hand too egocentric to accept the fact. He’s of a kind with Professor Andreae, I think. Why did the Baron bribe him? That, we’ll find out. Then I’ll put some pressure on the Baron. I’m sure he’ll serve the Turk to me on a plate. Anwaldt’s not going to achieve more than he has. He doesn’t know Breslau well enough and, besides, they really scared him. Now I’m stepping into action.”
“How are you going to make them talk?”
“Olivier, please … Leave my methods to me. Ah, here is Anwaldt. Good morning! You don’t look all that good. Did you fall into some hydrochloric acid?”
“I had some minor problems,” said the convalescent, bowing to both men. Mock, embracing him cordially, said:
“Please don’t worry. The Gestapo aren’t going to harass you again. I’ve just sorted that out.” (“Yes, he sorted that out very efficiently,” thought the Baron holding out a limp hand to Anwaldt. “I wouldn’t like to be in that Forstner’s shoes.”)
“Thank you,” Anwaldt croaked. Generally, on the third day after being drunk, the physical pains would subside and a deep depression would appear. That is how it would have been now, too, if it were not for that one human being — Eberhard Mock. The sight of that angular man in his immaculately cut pale suit had a soothing effect on Anwaldt. He glanced contritely at Mock and, for the first time in his life, had the feeling that somebody cared.
“I’m sorry. I got drunk. I’ve no excuse.”
“Too true, you’ve no excuse. If you ever get drunk again, you’ll stop working with me and you’ll go back to Berlin. And Criminal Counsellor von Grappersdorff won’t be welcoming you with open arms.” Mock looked sternly at the humbly stooping Anwaldt. Suddenly, he put his arm around him. “You won’t get drunk any more. You simply won’t have any reason to. I’m back from Zoppot and I’m going to watch over you. We’re leading this investigation together. Allow us, Baron …” He turned to von der Malten, who was observing this whole episode with a degree of distaste, “to take our leave. We’ve an appointment to see the Director of the University Library, Doctor Hartner.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 14TH, 1934
NINE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Despite the early hour, the sun scorched the windows and roof of the Adler. Anwaldt was driving, Mock navigating and explaining the streets and places they passed. They drove down Krietener Weg, along which ran workmen’s blocks interspersed with small, flowery houses. They passed the border post of Breslau and found themselves in Klettendorf. The sweetish stench of Liebich’s sugar factory penetrated the thick air. The recently built Evangelical church, separated by a low fence from the presbytery concealed among trees, flashed past their right window. Mock grew pensive and stopped commenting on the neighbourhood. They were driving through a beautiful suburb full of gardens and villas.
“Ah, so we’re in Oparow, are we? Except we’ve approached it from another direction, is that right?”
“Yes. It’s Opperau, not Oparow.”
Anwaldt did not ask the way again. He parked the car outside Madame le Goef’s salon. The muffled cries of bathers — already using the sports pool some 200 metres away, despite the early hour — could be heard in the silence. Mock did not get out. He found his cigarette case and offered it to Anwaldt. The striped, blue cigarette paper grew damp to the touch.