Yesterday at midnight, during a successful operation by the police under Criminal Commissioner Muhlhaus and the Mayor’s plenipotentiary, Doctor Richard Pyttlik, all those taking part in the seance were arrested. They were, according to the notes, members of a secret occult brotherhood that worshipped ancient Greek deities. Among those arrested were eminent representatives of learning, such as a prominent Hittite linguist at one of the oldest and most renowned German universities. They have been apprehended in order to investigate the matter, but there are unofficial reports that Rossdeutscher’s notes — which consist of obscure and garbled notions on mythological subjects — cannot form the basis of a charge.
An unfortunate incident occurred during the seance. Rossdeutscher’s handicapped and wheelchair-bound daughter, Louise (twenty), used by her father as a medium to enable the brotherhood to communicate with the dead, suffered a fatal accident as she fell from her wheelchair. On witnessing the death of his beloved daughter, Rossdeutscher shot himself.
The grisly investigation known by the police as the “Four Sailors” case has come to an end. Certain individuals allegedly at risk of death at the hands of the vampire, and for that reason held in isolation by the police, have now been released. The city breathes a sigh of relief. But one question arises: what is happening to our society when one of its foremost representatives, a well-respected surgeon, yields to superstitions which lead him to commit such monstrous crimes? It would be understandable for some eccentric aristocrat, or a shopkeeper tormented by rampaging inflation, to find solace in supernatural powers, but an enlightened representative of science? Sic transit Gloria mundi.†
At the bottom of the page there was a large photograph of a young woman with the caption “Erika Kiesewalter”, and beneath it the following text:
Twenty-three-year-old Erika Kiesewalter, actress and dance-hostess at the Eldorado Restaurant, disappeared on the night of 27th to 28th September. Dark-red hair, medium height, slim build. No distinguishing features. Anyone with information regarding the missing person is requested to contact the Police Praesidium. Information resulting in Erika Kiesewalter’s discovery will be rewarded with the sum of fifteen thousand marks.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 28TH, 1919
ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
Mock climbed to the first floor of the imposing, detached tenement near South Park and knocked energetically at the door to one of the apartments. It was opened by the owner himself, Doctor Cornelius Ruhtgard, who was wearing a crimson dressing gown with velvet lapels and embossed brown-leather slippers. From beneath the velvet lapels peeped the knot of a black necktie.
“Come in, come in, Ebbo,” he said, opening the door wide. “Your father feels much better.”
“Is he with you?” Mock asked, hanging his bowler hat on the clothes stand.
“He’s at my hospital,” the doctor said, taking Mock’s walking stick.
“The nurse told me he was with you.” Mock made his way along the familiar corridor towards the doctor’s study.
“Because he is with me.” Ruhtgard sat down at a small coffee table and gestured for Mock to sit down opposite him. “At my hospital.”
“Maybe that’s what she said.” Mock clipped the end of the Hacif cigar Ruhtgard had offered him. “That’s probably what she said … I was so tired and devastated I didn’t take anything in.”
“I know, I read about it in the Breslauer.” Ruhtgard stood up. “It’s all over. You shouldn’t be devastated. It’s finished. Nobody’s ever going to sing another mournful ballad about the vampire of Breslau. I’ll make you some coffee. It’s the servants’ day off, and Christel’s not here either. She’s gone on an excursion with the Frisch Auf gymnastics society.” He studied his friend. “Tell me, Ebbo, how did that handicapped girl die?”
“I killed her.” Mock gazed out at the rustling chestnut tree as it generously bestowing the earth with its yellow leaves. “Unintentionally.” The wind murmured, the yellow leaves drifted. “No doubt there’s a storm and gales by the sea,” he thought, then said out loud: “I hit her when she attacked me. She bit her tongue off and choked on her own blood. Is that possible, Corni?”
“Of course.” Ruhtgard forgot about the coffee, opened the sideboard and took out a carafe of Edelbranntwein and two small glasses. “In the state you’re in, this will do you more good than coffee and cake.” He poured with an experienced hand. “Of course it’s possible. She drowned in her own blood. If you were to open somebody’s mouth and pour a glass of water into it in one go, they would choke and could drown in that small amount. And there would certainly be more blood if you bit your tongue off than one glass.”
“I killed her.” Mock felt a burning sensation under his eyelids. “And I killed another woman too, though indirectly.” He ran his fingers over his eyelids and felt the sand that had built up through lack of sleep. “A woman I fell in love with … She was a prostitute and a dance-hostess … I’d spent three weeks with her in Rugenwaldermunde …”
“Is it that Kiesewalter?” Ruhtgard asked, reaching for the Breslauer Neueste Nachrichten. He looked very tense, his face like a petrified mask of pain. The doctor leaned towards Mock and grabbed him by the biceps. His fingers were as strong as they had been when he picked up his shattered friend in a Konigsberg street.
“What’s happened, Corni?” Mock said, putting down his full glass.
“Brother,” Ruhtgard stammered, “how sorry I feel for you … That girl” — he sprang out of his armchair and slammed his palm down on the photograph on the front page of the newspaper — “is your dream. It’s the girl of your dreams, your nurse from Konigsberg who doesn’t exist …”
Mock stood up and wiped his damp forehead with the back of his hand. Doctor Ruhtgard’s study grew longer and narrower. The window appeared to be a far off, bright point. The pictures on the walls distorted into rhomboids, Ruhtgard’s head sank into his shoulders. Mock stumbled into the bathroom adjacent to the study, tripped and fell to the floor, hitting his forehead against the edge of the porcelain toilet bowl. The blow was so hard that tears filled his eyes. He closed them and felt the warm bump on his forehead pulsate. He opened his eyes again and waited for the veil of tears to disperse. Objects returned to their rightful proportions. Ruhtgard was standing in the doorway, his head once again its rightful size. Mock pushed himself up on his knees and pulled his Mauser from his pocket. He checked that it was loaded and slurred:
“Either I kill myself, or I kill that son of a whore who was supposed to keep an eye on her …”
“Wait a moment,” Ruhtgard said, grasping Mock’s wrists in his iron grip. “Don’t kill anyone. Sit down on the sofa and tell me everything, calmly … We’ll find a solution, you’ll see … After all, that girl has only disappeared, she might still be alive …”
He pulled Mock forcibly to the study sofa. The velvet-upholstered piece was too short for Mock to lie on comfortably, so Ruhtgard laid his friend’s head on a large pillow and his feet on the armrest at the other end. He removed his shoes and applied a cold letter-knife to the bump.
“I’m not going to tell you anything.” Ruhtgard’s nursing clearly brought Mock relief. “I can’t talk about it, Corni … I just can’t …”
“You have no idea how much it can help to talk to someone who sympathizes with you …” The doctor was very serious. His grey, evenly trimmed beard bristled with kindness, and his pince-nez flashed wisely. “Listen to me, I know a form of therapy which can work extremely well when patients have a block, when they don’t want to or can’t fully trust their psychologist …”