“Go ahead.”
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that Maass dispensed with your services so easily? It’s obvious, after all, that he’s looking for the Baron’s illegitimate son. Why did he stop halfway, pay half your fee and not try to look for him any more with the help of your agency?”
Huber took off his jacket and poured himself some soda water. He remained silent for a moment and gazed at the framed photographs and certificates.
“Maass laughed at me and my methods. He thought I had bungled it, that I could have put pressure on the old woman. He decided to find it all out for himself. I knew he liked to brag, so I asked him how he was going to find the man he was looking for. He said that he would restore the old bag’s memory with his friend’s help and that she would tell him where her little son was.” Huber opened his mouth and sighed loudly. “Listen to me, son. Your pop gun didn’t frighten me. I’ve got that old Jew Maass and you up my arse,” he panted angrily. “I didn’t lie to you because I didn’t want to. And do you know why? Ask Mock. I’ll have a word with him about you. And you’d better get yourself out of here if it turns out he doesn’t know you.”
XIII
BRESLAU, THAT SAME JULY 16TH, 1934
EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
Anwaldt was, indeed, leaving Breslau, but not because of Huber’s threats. He sat in a first-class carriage, smoking cigarette after cigarette and watching with indifference the monotonous, Lower Silesian landscape in the orange light of sunset. (I’ve got to find that descendant of von der Malten’s. If some curse really is hanging over the Baron’s descendants, then they’re in mortal danger from Erkin. But why am I really looking for him? After all, Mock and I have found the murderer. No, no we haven’t, we’ve only identified him. Erkin works through Maass; he’s watchful, knows we’re looking for him. There’s no doubt that Erkin is the “friend” who’s going to squeeze the information out of Schlossarczyk. So, looking for Schlossarczyk’s son, I’m looking for Erkin. Dammit, he might be in Rawicz already. I wonder what orphanage the boy was at in Berlin. Maybe I knew him?) Lost in thought, he burnt his fingers on his cigarette. He swore — not only in his thoughts — and swept his eyes over the compartment. All the travellers on the night train had heard his crude expletive. A boy of around eight, podgy, very Nordic and dressed in a navy-blue suit was standing in front of him and holding a book in his hand. He said something in Polish and put the book on Anwaldt’s lap. Suddenly, he turned round, ran to his mother — a young, stout woman — and sat on her knees. Anwaldt glanced at the title of the book and saw that it was a school edition of Oedipus the King by Sophocles. It was not the little boy’s book; some secondary school pupil going on holiday must have left it in the compartment. The boy and the mother watched him expectantly. Anwaldt gesticulated that it was not his book. He asked his fellow passengers about it. Apart from the lady with the child, there were a student and a young man with pronounced Semitic features. Nobody owned up to the book and the student, seeing the Greek text, reacted with a “God forbid”. Anwaldt smiled and thanked the boy by tipping his hat to him. He opened the book at random and caught sight of the familiar Greek letters which he had once so loved. He was curious whether, after so many years, he would be able to understand anything. He read under his breath and translated verse 685: “There was the voice of dark suspicions which gnaw at the heart”. (I still remember Greek well; I did not know two words; it’s a good thing there’s a little dictionary at the back of the book.) He turned over a few pages and read verse 1068 — Jocasta’s lines. He did not have the least problem with the translation. “Unfortunate one, may you not know who you are.” The aphoristic character of these sentences reminded him of a certain game he used to play with Erna: Biblical fortune-telling, so called. They would open the Bible at random and point to the first verse that came to hand. The sentence thus found was to constitute a prophecy. Laughing quietly, he closed Sophocles then opened him again. The game was interrupted by the Polish guard asking for his passport. He examined Anwaldt’s documents, touched the peak of his cap with his finger and left the compartment. The policeman returned to his divination, but he could not concentrate on the translation because of the fixed and stubborn gaze of the boy who had presented him with Oedipus the King. The lad was sitting and staring at him without blinking. The train moved off. The boy continued staring. Anwaldt lowered his eyes to the book then glared at the boy. It did not help. He wanted to attract the mother’s attention, but she was fast asleep, so he went out into the corridor and opened the window. Pulling out the cardboard box of cigarettes, he touched — with relief — the new police identification card which he had picked up from the Police Praesidium Personnel Department after leaving Huber’s office. (If a little brat can manage to make me so anxious, there is something wrong with my nerves.) One inhalation and nearly a quarter of the cigarette was burned down. The train drew into a station. A large sign announced RAWICZ.
Anwaldt bid his fellow passengers goodbye, slipped Sophocles into his pocket and jumped down to the platform. He left the station and stood beside a few well-tended flower beds. He opened his notebook and read: Ulica Rynkowa, 3. At that moment, a droschka drew up. Anwaldt, pleased, showed the cabman the paper with the name of the street on it.
Rawicz was a pretty, neat little town, full of flowers and dominated by red-brick prison watch towers. The falling dusk was inviting people out into the street so there were groups of noisy, teenage boys hanging around and proudly accosting strolling girls, women on little stools sitting in the entrances of white-washed houses, whiskered men in tight waistcoats, treating themselves to frothy tankards and discussing Polish foreign politics as they stood outside restaurants.
The cab stopped near one such gathering. Anwaldt threw the cabby a handful of fenigs and glanced up at the number of the house. Rynkowa 3.
He entered the doorway and looked around, searching for a caretaker. Instead there appeared two men in hats. Both had very determined expressions. They asked Anwaldt something. He spread his arms and — in German — presented his reason for being there. He mentioned the name of Hanne Schlossarczyk, of course. The men’s reaction was simply peculiar. Without a word, they cut off his way out and shepherded him upstairs. Anwaldt climbed the solid, wooden stairs tentatively and found himself on the first floor where there were two small apartments. One was open, lit and crowded with a number of men whose expressions betrayed self-assurance. Anwaldt’s instinct did not fail him: that is what the police look like all over the world.
One of the guardians urged Anwaldt delicately towards the lit apartment. Once inside, he indicated the long kitchen with his hand. Anwaldt sat on a wooden stool and lit a cigarette. He had not even managed to look around when an elegant man entered the kitchen in the company of another with a walrus-like moustache, who wielded a broom in his hand. The moustached man looked at Anwaldt, then at the dandy, shook his head and left. The dandy approached the stool and spoke in correct German: