“Did you want something from me, Frederic?” she asked very gently.
“Yes, your Ladyship.” Friedrich looked at little Louise von Bockenheim und Bielau as her governess chased her with open arms, calling with a strong English accent: “Don’t run so fast, little Baroness, you’ll get too hot!”
“I didn’t dare disturb your moment of contemplation as you admired the little Baroness, like quicksilver …”
“Did you not hear my question, Frederic?” the Baroness said even more gently.
“A telephone call for you, Baroness,” Friedrich announced. “It’s the man who handed your Ladyship that strange business card a few moments ago.”
“You should spare yourself the word ‘strange’, my dear Frederic,” hissed the Baroness. “You’re not here to make comments.”
“Yes, of course, your Ladyship.” Friedrich bowed, his eyes now revealing less readiness to sacrifice his life for his employer. “What am I to say to the gentleman?”
“I’ll talk to him.” She excused herself from the ladies for a few moments and floated across the garden, bestowing smiles all around. The warmest smile was for her husband, Baron Rudiger II von Bockenheim und Bielau.
Climbing the steps to the villa, she looked once again at the business card and the word “Verte”. On the reverse were the words: “Concerning cabbies and carters”. The Baroness stopped smiling. She entered her boudoir and picked up the receiver.
“I’m not going to introduce myself,” said a man’s hoarse voice. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer truthfully. Otherwise the Baron will have to find out about his wife’s secret life … Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Because you haven’t asked me anything.” The Baroness took a cigarette from a crystal case and lit it.
“I want to know the addresses of the men you take as escorts after your visits to the Hungarian King. They dress up — one as a carter, another as a cabby. I’m only interested in the ones who dress up as sailors.”
“You like sailors, do you?” The Baroness rippled with quiet laughter. “You want them to screw you, do you?” Obscenities excited her. She wanted to hear this man swear, in his voice hoarse with tobacco. She liked swearing and the smell of cheap tobacco.
“You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you? Answer me, you old bag, or do I have to speak to the Baron?” The man’s voice changed tone.
“You’re through to him already,” the Baroness replied. “Speak to this wretched blackmailer, darling!”
“Baron Rudiger II von Bockenheim und Bielau speaking,” said a deep voice. “Don’t try to blackmail my wife, dear man. It’s despicable and base.”
Baron Rudiger II von Bockenheim und Bielau replaced the receiver and left his study, kissing his wife on the forehead on the way.
“Let’s say goodbye to our guests, my little dawn,” he said.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1919
ELEVEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT
Baroness Mathilde von Bockenheim und Bielau sat at her escritoire writing a letter of warning to her friend Laura von Scheitler, a habitue of the Hungarian King whose noble title and coat of arms were brand new to her — just like her own. When she had finished the brief note, she sprayed the back of the paper with some perfume and put it into an envelope. She then tugged on the bell and, rubbing some cold cream bought at Hopp’s House of Beauty for the astronomical sum of three hundred marks into her alabaster complexion, she sat down at her dressing table in front of the mirror. She waited for Friedrich and heard a knock at the door.
“Entre!” she called, and carried on rubbing the cream into her generous decollete.
She looked into the mirror and saw two hands on her delicate skin. She felt one of them, rough and gnarled, over her mouth, while the other pulled her hair. The Baroness felt excruciating pain on her head and landed on the chaise longue. A man with red hair sat astride her, pinning her shoulders to the sofa with his knees. With one hand he again covered her mouth, and with the other slapped her sharply on the cheek.
“Are you going to be quiet, or shall I do it again?”
Baroness von Bockenheim und Bielau tried to nod. The red-headed man understood her gesture.
“The addresses of those sailors,” he said, and the Baroness realized that this was not the man she had spoken to on the telephone. “Male whores dressed up as sailors. Immediately!”
“Alfred Sorg,” she said quietly. “That’s the name of my sailor. I’ll give you his number. He brings other men too.”
The red-headed man snorted and climbed off the Baroness with obvious regret. She stood up, wrote a telephone number on a piece of paper and sprayed the reverse side with perfume. Her assailant tore the paper from her hands, opened the window and jumped down onto the lawn. The Baroness watched as he climbed the railings. She heard the roar of an engine and the squeal of tires. She pulled the scarlet cord again and sat down at her mirror. She spread a thick layer of cream onto her hands.
“I know you let him in, Frederic,” she said gently as the butler appeared at her side. “As from tomorrow, I no longer want to see you in my house.”
“I don’t know what your Ladyship cares to mean.” Friedrich’s voice was full of solemnity and concern.
The Baroness turned to her servant and looked deeply into his eyes.
“There’s only one way you can save your position, Frederic.” She turned back to the mirror and sighed. “I’m giving you one last chance.”
Seconds passed, then minutes. The Baroness combed her hair while Friedrich stood there, stiff as a poker.
“I’m listening, your Ladyship.” His voice betrayed unease.
“You’ll lose your position” — she gazed at her reflection with satisfaction and tore up the letter to Baroness von Scheitler — “unless you bring me that red-headed monster before the night is out.”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1919
MIDNIGHT
In the Three Crowns beer cellar on Kupferschmiedestrasse 5–6 the air was heavy with tobacco smoke mixed with fried bacon, burned onions and human sweat. This odour drifted up towards the arched vault and enveloped the pseudo-Romanesque windows which gave on to the yard belonging to the White Eagle building. The fug was not alleviated by the few blasts of cold night air which blew in as the door opened to let in new customers. The traffic in the cellar was one way only. No-one was leaving; if someone left now, they would be considered a traitor by the others. In the Three Crowns, a meeting of the Breslau division of the Freikorps was under way.
Mock and Smolorz stopped at the back of the hall while their eyes adjusted to the stinging atmosphere. At the heavy tables sat men leaden with beer. They slammed their tankards on the oak tabletops swimming with white froth, clicked their fingers at the head waiter and hushed each other. To the eye of an experienced policeman their varied headgear was just as clear an indication of the men’s social standing as any military decoration. Workers sat at tables wearing canvas caps with patent peaks, or soft caps made of oilcloth. Their social class was further highlighted by their collarless shirts and rolled-up sleeves. A little to one side were tradesmen, restaurateurs and clerks. Their distinguishing attire was a bowler hat, with the additional attribute of a stiff collar — many of which were crying out for a visit to the laundry. These men drank less and did not slam their tankards down, but it was from their cigars and pipes that the heaviest smoke bombs wafted. The third and largest group was made up of youths in helmets, or round caps with no peaks known as Einheits-feldmutzen, very familiar to Mock.