“Sorry,” he croaked in a schnapps-baritone. “I was supposed to keep an eye on her … I don’t remember a thing …”
Mock knelt on the floor and took several deep breaths, allowing his fury to subside. Streams of sweat ran down his neck and seeped into the pale layer of dust that covered the collar of his best shirt. His cuffs were red with Smolorz’s blood, his shoes scuffed from the kicks, his jacket torn from breaking down the door, his hands black with soot from the poker.
“I’m sorry,” Smolorz said as he cowered by the doorframe. Something had happened to his eye: it was open, bloodshot, and so big that the eyelid could not cover it. “For the love of God, I swear on my Arthur’s soul …”
“You son of a whore,” hissed Mock. “Never swear on a child!”
“On my soul, then” Smolorz groaned. “I’ll never touch alcohol …”
“You son of a whore,” Mock repeated, tossing his head to the side. Drops of sweat darkened the newly polished floorboards. “Get up, pour some soap down your throat and get to work. I’ll tell you what you have to do …”
As Mock spoke, so Smolorz sobered; with every word Mock uttered he grew more and more amazed.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 28TH, 1919
THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
It was the second time Sister Hermina had seen the younger Herr Mock that day, and this time he made a far worse impression on her. His suit was covered in dust and torn at the sleeve, his shirt was bloodied and his brogues scuffed at the toe. Small pieces of stone, like bits of rubble, were lodged in the brim of his bowler hat. Herr Mock ran into the corridor of the Surgical Ward repeating something under his breath, something Sister Hermina could not quite make out. It was as if he were saying: “Those closest … Where are they now …?”
“Herr Mock!” she called after him as he passed the duty room, muttering to himself. “Where do you think you’re going?”
He paid no attention to her and ran towards his father’s private room. Sister Hermina set her thin, tall body into motion and her heels clicked loudly down the hospital corridor. Her bonnet with its four folds flapped in all directions like a sailing boat finding its course. Hearing the sound of her heels, patients woke from their painful torpor which none could call sleep, pulled themselves up in bed and waited for a merciful injection, for the gentle touch of her dry, bony hand, for a sympathetic, comforting smile. Sister Hermina’s telepathic receptors did not pick up the patients’ mute complaints and requests this time, however; they were more sensitive to the anxiety and unease of the dark-haired man who was stumbling from wall to wall, heading for the empty private room. Herr Mock tumbled in and slammed the door. Sister Hermina heard a stifled cry. Perhaps one of her patients was sharing his pain with the others?
But it was not a patient. The younger Herr Mock was lying on his stomach with his arms spread across the clean, freshly made bed, moaning. She rushed over and shook him.
“Doctor Ruhtgard came to collect your father an hour ago,” she said. “The gentleman felt much better and Doctor Ruhtgard took him home with him …”
Mock had stopped thinking, stopped feeling anything. He took a few banknotes from his pocket.
“Could you ask somebody, Sister,” he whispered, and his bloodshot eyes flashed, “to clean my suit?” He collapsed onto the pillow and fell asleep.
Sister Hermina stroked his cheek, through which the pinpoints of a five o’clock shadow were beginning to protrude, and left the private room.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 28TH, 1919
TEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Mock walked out of Wenzel-Hancke Hospital and stood deep in thought on the street corner next to a newspaper kiosk. Small children jostled past him in their Sunday best. Entire families hurrying to the evangelical church of St John the Baptist for morning Mass marched along the pavement. Industrious fathers strode by, their gastric juices dissolving fat Sunday sausages; next to them tripped mothers, flushed and sweating in the sun, chasing small herds of unruly children with their parasols. Mock smiled and stepped behind the kiosk to allow four young citizens to pass as they walked in a row holding hands, singing the miners’ song:
Gluck auf! Gluck auf!
Der Steiger kommt!
Und er hat sein helles Licht
Bei der Nacht
Schon angezundt.
A girl of about twelve wearing a pair of thick, darned stockings was making her way behind the children, carrying a bouquet of roses and pushing it under the noses of those standing at the hospital entrance.
Mock glanced down at his cleaned suit and his brogues; a thick layer of polish concealed the scuff marks. The sleeve of his jacket had been well repaired and he could tell from the exceptional softness of its felt that his bowler hat had been cleaned over steam. He beckoned to the girl. She ran to him with her bouquet of roses, apparently limping. Mock inspected the flowers critically.
“Take the flowers into the hospital, to the nurse who was on night duty.” He handed the girl ten marks and a small card printed with the words EBERHARD MOCK, POLICE PRAESIDIUM. “And attach my business card.”
The girl hobbled to the hospital and Mock was reminded of the cripple he had killed the previous day. He thought of Erika’s empty bed. His diaphragm heaved, and his gullet filled with burning bile. He felt faint and held on to the railings surrounding the hospital. Everything seemed to be at a slant. The elegant Neudorfstrasse grew distorted in yellow-black reflections. The mighty buildings with their elaborate decoration rolled and pressed down on one other. He rested his head against the railings and closed his eyes. His head was bursting, as if he had a hangover. The worst hangover was better than a bad conscience, than the invalid’s contorted legs thrashing against the floor and the empty bed where there was no longer even a trace of Erika’s scent. Mock wanted a hangover, wanted to suffer, anything so as not to hear the baying of the Erinyes. He looked up and saw the sun-drenched street in its proper perspective. Among the shop signs, one stood out: m. horn — colonial goods. Mock knew the owner and knew he could persuade him to sell him a bottle of liqueur, even on a day of rest.
He set off in the direction of the shop, but stopped at the kerb. The street was very busy. Carriages and cars carrying citizens to church wound their way towards the town centre; in the opposite direction strolled those intending to enjoy an autumnal walk in South Park. All of a sudden there was a commotion. A cab had almost hit a speeding motor with its shaft. The horse yanked at its harness and the cabby swore at the driver, aiming his whip at the elegant gentleman sitting in the open-topped car. Making the most of the confusion, Mock leaped into the street and ran towards the shop and its shelves of bottles filled with colourful sweetness.
But before he could reach them he was accosted outside the shop by a newspaper vendor.
“Special edition of the Breslauer Neueste Nachrichten!” yelled the boy in the cap. “Vampire of Breslau commits suicide!”
When Mock saw the article on the front page, he forgot all about alcohoclass="underline"
VAMPIRE NO LONGER THREATENS CITIZENS OF BRESLAU
Last night, during a spiritual seance, the well-known Breslau doctor, Horst Rossdeutscher, committed suicide. Notes were found in the suicide’s house, a singular diary in which he admits to the cruel murder of four men, unidentified to this day, of Julius Wohsedt, director of the Wollheim river port, and of a young prostitute identified as Johanna Voigten. The diary claims that the murders committed during the first four days of September were of a ritualistic nature. According to the Chief of the Murder Commission of the Police Praesidium, Criminal Commissioner Heinrich Muhlhaus, Rossdeutscher had summoned the souls of those he had killed during spiritual seances and, using occult practices, had channeled them to harm an employee of the Vice Department. Neither Criminal Commissioner Muhlhaus nor the aforementioned employee himself, Criminal Assistant Eberhard Mock — we give his name here for the organ grinders of Breslau sing of him! — can explain why Rossdeutscher harboured such a burning hatred for Mock.