XII
BRESLAU, THAT SAME MONDAY, JULY 16TH, 1934
FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
The heat had increased after lunch but, strangely, neither Mock nor Anwaldt seemed to feel it. The latter, however, was troubled by a pain in his gum where, an hour ago, the dentist had extracted a root. Both men were sitting in their offices in the Police Praesidium. But it was not just the place that brought them together — their minds, too, were preoccupied by the same case. They had found the murderer. It was Kemal Erkin. Both had confirmed their first, still intuitive suspicions, reached by a simple association: the tattoo of a scorpion on the Turk’s hand … scorpions in the Baron’s daughter’s belly … the Turk is the murderer. This conclusion, after Hartner’s expert appraisal, had acquired something without which any investigation would be groping around in the dark: a motive. In killing Marietta von der Malten, the Turk had taken vengeance on a seven-century-old crime which the Baron’s ancestor, the Crusader Godfryd von der Malten had committed, in 1205, on the children of Al-Shausi, leader of the Yesidi sect. As Hartner had said, the imperative of vengeance was passed down from generation to generation. However, some doubt did arise: why was it committed only now, after seven hundred years? In order to disperse the doubt and turn suspicion into unwavering certainty, it was necessary to answer the question: was Erkin a Yesidi? Unfortunately it would remain unanswered as long as nothing more was known about Erkin than his name, nationality and fat Konrad’s babbling “He came to the Gestapo in order to train”. This could mean that the Turk was undergoing something like a practice period with the Gestapo, an apprenticeship. One thing was certain: the suspect had to be captured using all possible means. And interrogated. Likewise using all possible means.
At this point, the parallel thinking of the two policemen came up against a serious obstacle: the Gestapo guarded its secrets. In all certainty, Forstner, freed of his “vice” by the death of Baron von Kopperlingk, wouldn’t want to co-operate with a man he loathed, Mock. Getting hold of basic information about Erkin, therefore, was extremely difficult, not to speak of finding any proof of his belonging to any secret organisation or sect. Mock did not even have to stretch his memory to know that he had never in the Police Praesidium met anyone resembling Erkin. The former Political Department of the Police Praesidium, which occupied the west wing of the building on Schweidnitzer Stadtgraben 2/6, after Piontek’s downfall and Forstner’s domination, constituted territory where Mock’s feelers did not extend. Long infiltrated by Hitler’s men and officially under their control after Goring’s decree in February, it constituted an independent and secretive organism whose numerous sections were located in rented villas in beautiful Kleinburg, utterly inaccessible to anyone from the outside. Erkin might be working in just one of these villas and only be in the “Brown House” on Neudorfstrasse from time to time. In the old days, Mock would have simply turned to the chief of a particular department in the Police Praesidium for information. Now, there was no question of it. The Chief of Gestapo, Erich Kraus — the right hand of the notorious chief of Breslau’s S.S., Udo von Woyrsch — hostile as he was to Mock, would sooner own up to being of Jewish descent than to pass even the tritest of rumours beyond the purlieus of his department.
How to obtain facts about Erkin and then arrest him was where Mock’s and Anwaldt’s plans — identical to this point — diverged. The Director’s thoughts tended to the chief of Breslau’s Abwehr, Rainer von Hardenburg; Anwaldt’s hopes focussed on Doctor Georg Maass.
Remembering the warning he had received that morning — that one of the telephonists was the lover of Kraus’ Deputy, Dietmar Fob — Mock left the police building and, crossing Schweidnitzer Stadtgraben, made his way to the square near Wertheim’s Department Store. Suffocating from heat in the glass telephone kiosk, he dialled von Hardenburg’s number.
In the meantime, Anwaldt, wandering through the Praesidium building, tried in vain to find his chief. Impatient, he resolved to take the decision into his own hands. He opened the door to the Criminal Assistants’ room. Kurt Smolorz was quick on the uptake and followed him into the corridor.
“Take one man, Smolorz, and we’ll go and get Maass. Maybe we’ll sit him in the dentist’s chair.”
Mock and Anwaldt simultaneously felt the heat turn tropical.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 16TH, 1934
FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
An indescribable mess reigned in Maass’ apartment. Anwaldt and Smolorz, tired after their hurried search, sat in the games room and panted heavily. Smolorz kept going to the window and peeping out at the drunk who, glued to the wall, swept his strangely sober eyes all around. Maass was not coming yet.
Anwaldt stared at the typing paper, covered in handwriting, which lay in front of him. It was something like an unfinished draft of a report, two chaotic sentences. On the top of the paper was written: “Hanne Schlossarczyk, Rawicz. Mother?” Underneath: “Investigation in Rawicz. Paid to Adolf Jenderko Detective Agency: 100 marks”. Anwaldt no longer paid attention to either the heat, or the sound of a piano upstairs, or the too-tight shirt which clung to him or even the throbbing pain caused by the extraction of the tooth nerve. He sunk his eyes into the sheet of paper and desperately tried to remember where, in the not too distant past, he had come across the name “Schlossarczyk”. He glanced at Smolorz, who was nervously shuffling the papers which lay on the cake platter, and emitted Archimedes’ cry. He knew: the name had appeared in the dossier of von der Malten’s servants, which he had gone through the previous night. He sighed with relief: Hanne Schlossarczyk would not be an unknown factor, as was Erkin. He muttered to himself:
“I’ll find everything out from the Adolf Jenderko Agency.”
“Pardon?” Smolorz turned from the window.
“Oh, nothing. I was simply thinking aloud.”
Smolorz peered over Anwaldt’s shoulder. He read Maass’ note and burst out laughing.
“What are you laughing at?”
“It’s a funny name, Schlossarczyk.”
“Where is the town of Rawicz?”
“In Poland, some fifty kilometres from Breslau, just across the border.”
Anwaldt fastened his loosened tie, put on his hat and glanced with distaste at his dusty shoes.
“You, Smolorz, and your pseudo-drunk are to take turns and sit in Maass’ apartment until he returns. When our scholar appears, please keep him here and inform Mock or myself.”
Anwaldt carefully closed the door behind him. After a while, he returned and looked at Smolorz with interest:
“Tell me then, why did the name Schlossarczyk make you laugh?”
Smolorz smiled, embarrassed.
“It reminded me of the word Schlosser — ‘locksmith’. Just think: a woman has the name ‘locksmith’. Ha, ha … what kind of a locksmith is that, without a key … ha … ha …”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 16TH, 1934
SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING