BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1919
FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON
Someone removed the hood from Frenzel’s head. He gasped for air and looked around. He was in a semi-circular room whose bare brick walls were illuminated by two small windows. The stool he sat on was the only piece of furniture. His eyes, at first unaccustomed to the darkness, could make out only two other objects, one of which he supposed to be a wardrobe, the other a small nematode. A moment later, he recognized the wardrobe as the man who had blocked his broom, and the nematode as the short carter who had tried to answer Nature’s little call in his yard. He pulled a watch from his pocket. Its hands — as well as his aching neck — were irrefutable proof that he had spent three hours in a jolting wagon before trekking up countless stairs. He got to his feet and stretched his shoulders, then made his way hesitantly towards one of the windows. The wardrobe moved fast. Frenzel stood still, terrified.
“Let him look at the view of the city,” the other man said quietly and gestured enigmatically with his hand.
Frenzel walked to the window and was spellbound. The orange autumn sun enhanced the squat building of the church of St John the Baptist on Hohenzollernstrasse and slid along the elaborate cornices of the Post Office building and Juventus manor, leaving the magnificent art-nouveau tenements which circled Kaiser-Wilhelm-Platz in soft shadow. Further afield he identified the church of Carolus Boromeo and the modest tenements of the working-class district of Gabitz. He was about to look eastwards, towards the wooded cemeteries beyond Lohestrasse, but stopped short as he heard a new sound. Someone was issuing halting instructions in a hoarse voice and muttering something in approval. Frenzel turned and in the dim light saw a well-built man in a pale frock coat and bowler hat. Beneath the folded wings of his gleaming white collar was the fat knot of a black silk tie, cut through with crimson zigzags. The picture was rounded off with a pair of carefully polished, patent-leather shoes. “Either a pastor, out whoring secretly, or a gangster,” thought Frenzel.
“I’m from the police.” The dandy’s hoarse voice dispersed Frenzel’s doubts. “Don’t ask me why I’m interrogating you here — I’ll only say it’s none of your business. Don’t ask me any questions at all. I want answers, O.K.?”
“Yes, sir,” retorted Frenzel dutifully.
“Stand in the light so I can see you.” The police officer sat on the stool, exhaled, unbuttoned his jacket, removed his bowler hat and placed it on one knee. His ribcage and belly constituted one unified mass. His face suggested future corpulence.
“Name?”
“Erich Frenzel.”
“Profession?”
“Caretaker.”
“Place of work?”
“I look after the yard on Gartenstrasse, behind Hirsch’s furniture shop.”
“Do you know these men?” The dandy shoved a photograph under Frenzel’s nose.
“Yes, yes,” Frenzel said as he studied the stiffened features of the four sailors. “Oh hell, so that’s why I haven’t seen them for a week … I knew they’d end up like this …”
“Who were they? Give me their names.”
“I don’t know their real names. They lived in an annexe on Gartenstrasse. Gartenstrasse 46, apartment 20, to be precise. At the very top. The cheapest there is …”
“What do you mean you don’t know their names? They must have registered somehow. Who did they register with? The tenement’s landlord? Who owns it?” Frenzel was inundated with questions.
“A man called Mr Rosenthal, Karlsstrasse 28. I’m his right-hand man at the tenement. The apartment was standing empty, and that worried Mr Rosenthal. These four came along in June. A bunch of wastrels — like so many others discharged from the army after the war. They were a bit tipsy and, by the look of things, they hadn’t a pfennig to their names. I told them there weren’t any vacancies, but they asked politely. One of them showed me some money and said: ‘This is a good spot, old man. We’ll conduct our business here and pay you regularly.’ Somehow he managed to talk me round. I get a commission from Mr Rosenthal for every new lodger.”
“You didn’t ask for their names?”
“I did. And they said: Johann Schmidt, Friedrich Schmidt, Alois Schmidt and Helmut Schmidt. That’s what I noted down. They said they were brothers. But they didn’t look like each other somehow. I know what life’s like, Commissioner sir. No shortage of chaps like that after the war. They loiter, steal, haven’t got anything to do … They prefer to conceal their real identities …”
“And you took the risk for a few measly pfennigs and registered who knows who, bandits maybe?”
“If I had a suit like you, sir, I wouldn’t be registering anyone …” Frenzel said quietly, and was immediately alarmed by his impudence.
“And they paid up regularly?” His comment left no impression on his interrogator’s face.
“Yes. Very regularly. The one who called me ‘old man’ always came with the rent towards the end of the month. I gave it to Mr Rosenthal and he was perfectly happy.”
“What sort of business were they in?”
“They were visited by ladies.”
“What sort of ladies, and what for?”
“Rich ladies, judging by the way they dressed. They wore hats with veils. And what for? What do you think, Commissioner sir?”
The police officer lit a cigarette and stared at Frenzel for a long time.
“Remember what I said at the beginning of our talk? The rules of our conversation?”
With difficulty Frenzel breathed in the dust that swirled in the light falling from the window. He racked his brains and had no idea how to answer the question. All he knew was that in two hours the strongman from Poland was going to be sitting at a table in Cafe Orlich.
“I’m the one asking the questions here, Frenzel, not you. Understand?”
“Sorry,” Frenzel said. “I’ve forgotten what you asked me.”
“What did the ladies visit them for? Answer quickly, don’t pick your words.”
“They visited them” — a toothless grin brightened Frenzel’s face — “for hanky-panky.”
“How do you know?” There was not a trace of amusement on the face of the interrogator.
“I eavesdropped at the door.”
“How many rooms in the apartment?”
“One room and a kitchen.”
“The lady would be in the room with one of the boys and the others stayed in the kitchen?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t go in. The ladies came alone, sometimes in pairs. Sometimes one of the Schmidts would go out during these visits. Sometimes all of them were there. It varied …”
“And this didn’t disturb the neighbours?”
“There were only two complaints, about the ladies shrieking and shouting … Because there weren’t all that many ladies. Barely more than a handful.”
“Did you ever see these men dressed up?”
“Dressed up?” Frenzel did not understand. “What do you mean? How?”
“Have you ever been to the theatre, Frenzel?”
“A few times.”
“Did the Schmidts ever wear costumes like actors in a theatre? Zorro, for example, knights and so on?”
“Yes, sometimes, when that fat man came for them.”
“What fat man?”
“I don’t know. Fat, spruced up. He drove a car with ‘Entertainment’ or something written on it … I’m not sure, my eyesight isn’t that good.”
“How often did the fat man come?”
“Several times.”
“Did he go up to their apartment?”
“Yes, and then they’d all climb into his car and go off somewhere. He must have paid them well because they’d drink twice as much afterwards and go and have a good time at Orlich’s, not far from here.”
“Did any other men visit the Schmidts?”
“There was one other. But he never came alone. There were always two women with him, one in a wheelchair. He’d lug the wheelchair with the invalid up the stairs himself.”