“What are they doing?” Dosche asked, momentarily forgetting Mock’s strange request.
“The same as you do with my father every day,” Mock answered. “Playing chess. But going back to my request …”
“Exactly. What do you need my dog for?”
“See that?” Mock pointed to the sky where a swollen moon hung suspended, its soft light gliding across the dark windows of the building, the privy door and the stoop of the pump. “It’s full, isn’t it?”
“Correct.” Dosche decided to have his last smoke of the day and extracted his tobacco pouch from his pocket.
“I’m going to tell you something.” Mock glanced meaningfully at the man to whom he was speaking. “But it must remain absolutely confidential, understood? It’s to do with the investigation I’m conducting …”
“Ah, the one everybody’s going on about?”
“Shhh …” Mock put a finger to his lips.
“Yes, sir.” Dosche struck his breast and a cloud of smoke escaped through his lips. “I swear I won’t say a word to anybody!”
“The first murder was committed a month ago …”
“I thought it was a week ago …”
“Shhh …” Mock cast his eyes around and, noticing Dosche’s perplexed expression, went on. “Well, the first murder was committed at full moon, like tonight. I’ve got a suspect who hasn’t got an alibi. If he did commit the murder, he would have had to keep the corpse in his room for a few days. Please don’t ask why! I can’t tell you, my dear Dosche.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in the direction of the chess players, who were noisily putting away the chess pieces. “The suspect has a dog and says he couldn’t have kept the corpse at his place because the dog’s howling would have alerted the neighbours. Howling, you understand, my dear Dosche? Dogs howl in the presence of a corpse, or so the suspect claims. I’ve got to verify that tonight! Using your dog!”
“But, Mock,” Dosche wheezed through his old pipe, “are you going to take my Rot off somewhere? To some corpse? Where?”
“Shhh … If my experiment is successful, I’ll take you there, too. Would you like that?”
Sparks erupted from Dosche’s pipe. He passed the leash to Mock.
“Fine, fine, take him. But shhh …”
Mock took the leash and tugged the sleepy Rot out from under the bench. He shook Dosche’s hand and went home.
Ruhtgard stood on the threshold of the old butcher’s shop smoking a cigarette.
“Is this our gauge for measuring the strength of the spiritual event?” With the glowing stick he indicated the dog, which was looking at him distrustfully.
Mock winced when he heard Ruhtgard’s joke and said, “Who won?”
“Three to one.”
“To you?”
“No, to Mock senior. Your father plays very well.”
Mock felt himself flush with pride.
“Are we going to go to sleep now?” he asked.
“We are. I think your father’s already made up the beds.” Ruhtgard looked around uncertainly. “Where can I throw my cigarette away? I don’t want to leave rubbish outside the house …”
“This way.” Mock opened the door. “There’s a drain in Uncle Eduard’s old shop. I even thought the noises might have been made by rats getting into the shop that way.”
Ruhtgard went behind the counter, lifted the grille and disposed of his cigarette butt. He went up the stairs. Mock carefully bolted the door, blacked out the shop windows with wooden shutters, filled the lamp to the brim with paraffin and hung it from the ceiling. The place was now well lit. He then went upstairs to their quarters, pulling the somewhat reluctant dog behind him. The hatch door lay open; he did not shut it. He unhooked the dog’s leash, lowered the wick in the lamp and only then cast his eye around the semi-darkness of the room. Ruhtgard lay covered with a blanket on his father’s wooden bed, with eyes closed. Carefully folded trousers, jacket, shirt and tie hung over the headboard. Mock’s father was asleep in the alcove, turned towards the wall. Mock undressed down to his long johns, placed his clothes on the chair, just as neatly as his friend had and stood his shoes to attention next to the bed. He slid his Mauser under the pillow and lay down next to his father. He closed his eyes. Sleep did not come. Erika Kiesewalter came several times, however. She leaned over Mock and, contrary to a prostitute’s principles, kissed him on the lips. As tenderly as she had done that evening.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1919
MIDNIGHT
Mock was woken by the sound of laughter from below. Malicious laughter, as if someone were playing a practical joke. Mock reached for his Mauser and sat up in bed. His father was asleep. From his sunken, toothless mouth came an asthmatic whistle. Ruhtgard was snoring, but the dog was trembling, its tail between its legs. The hatch was open, just as he had left it before going to sleep. He shook his head. He could not believe the laughter. Releasing the safety catch of his gun, he approached the hatch and lay down on the floor beside it. The dog howled and ran under the table; Mock caught a glimpse of a shadow gliding beneath the ceiling of the old shop; the dog squealed; something ran past Mock as he lay there, something larger than a rat, something larger than a dog. It slipped past his hand and under the bed, avoiding Mock’s blow. He grabbed the paraffin lamp and pulled up the sheet, damp with his own sweat, which covered the gap between the bed and the floor. A child was sitting there. It flared its nostrils and smiled. Out of its nose slid a blowfly, green and glistening. More malicious laughter came from below. Mock leaped up, wiped the sweat from his chest and neck and threw himself towards the open hatch. He knocked into the chair laden with clothes. It toppled over and hit the basin. Hearing the clanging of metal above him, he slid down the stairs on his buttocks, ripping his long johns. There was nobody there. He heard a rustling from the drain. He quickly jumped over the counter and lifted the grille. Something was moving down below. Mock aimed the muzzle of his Mauser. He waited. From the grille loomed Johanna’s head. The scales on her neck rattled quietly. Two needles were lodged in her eyes. He fired. The house shook with the noise. Then Mock woke up for real.
BRESLAU, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1919
A QUARTER PAST MIDNIGHT
Mock stood beside Ruhtgard’s bed, gun in hand, and stared down at his closed eyes. The doctor twitched his eyelids sleepily.
“Did you hear that?” asked Mock.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Ruhtgard slurred, his tongue stiff with sleep.
“Then why aren’t you asleep?”
“Because you’re leaning over me and staring at my eyes.” He wiped his pince-nez and pressed it onto his nose. “I assure you, when you stare at someone so intensely when they’re asleep, they’re bound to wake up. That’s how we sometimes wake patients from a hypnotic trance.”
“You really didn’t hear anything? But the chair fell over onto the basin and made a racket, I fired at Eczema’s head …” Mock sniffed. “Can’t you smell the gunpowder?”
“It was only a dream, Ebbo.” Ruhtgard sat up in bed and lowered the thin legs that protruded from his nightshirt to the floor. He took the gun from Mock’s hand and held it under his large nose. “There’s no smell of gunpowder. Take a sniff. There was no shot, or it would have woken your father up. See how fast he’s asleep? The chair is still standing where it was too.”
“But look.” There was a note of satisfaction in Mock’s voice. “The dog’s behaving strangely …”
“True enough.” The doctor studied the animal which was sitting under the table with its tail curled under, growling quietly. “But who’s to know what the dog was dreaming? They have nightmares too. Like you do.”
“Alright. But you’ve noticed that my father’s a little deaf, haven’t you?” Mock would not give in. “Besides, even when he was young he was a heavy sleeper. No shot would’ve woken him up! So I fired, and he’s carried on sleeping.”