The Minotaur's Head: An Eberhard Mock Investigation (Eberhard Mock Investigation 4) Read online

  “I knocked,” said the secretary, “but you must have been too engrossed in your meeting to hear. I have an important telegram from Kattowitz. It’s just been encrypted.”

  “Please read it to us, Miss Zosia,”said Zubik, assuming an authoritative stance. “And you, Mr Zaremba, translate every word for our honourable guest!”

  “In mental institution in Rybnik. Stop. Woman bitten on face by dog. Stop. Maria Szynok, 20. Stop. Claims bitten by count.” Miss Zosia read out the contents of the telegram and looked at those present.

  “Thank you.” Zubik did not mask his disappointment as he took from the secretary the text with the police decoder’s signature. “And so, gentlemen?” – he turned to the officers once she had left – “which of you would like to go to Silesia to question a mentally-ill woman in order to find out whether she has been bitten by a count or a tiger? Perhaps you would like to go, Criminal Director Mock? It’s no distance at all to Breslau from there …”

  “You’re not going to kick me out of here,” retorted Mock through clenched teeth, resting his fists on Zubik’s desk, “until I find the pig! But I’ll go to Kattowitz because I never ignore leads, do you understand, sir, most honourable and most moral Inspector, sir?”

  “You should have said ‘we find’, not ‘I find’!” Zubik got up and he too rested his fists on the desk. “This is not your own personal case!”

  The jaws of both police officers continued to move as if they were pounding curses and insults back and forth. Both men looked like gorillas preparing to attack, and they remained like that for a good fifteen seconds. Neither of them even blinked. A heavy silence fell.

  It was Mock who relented first. He walked away from the table, put on his coat and bowler hat and then said very slowly:

  “Yes, you’re right. I should have spoken in the plural: ‘until we find the pig’. But that ‘we’ means me and somebody else, not you gentlemen present! With that someone, we – the two of us – are going to find the monster and bring his head here. Per fas et nefas. You know what that means? Judging by your faces you don’t. But that someone will know, because he knows Latin.”

  And with that Mock left the chief’s office.

  LWÓW, THAT SAME JANUARY 29TH, 1937 ONE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  On the table in the darkened living-room stood a platter with large slices of cheesecake and poppy-seed cake, and next to it, bowls with vegetable salad, bread rolls garnished with coarse salt and caraway seeds, and halves of hard-boiled eggs wrapped in herring. Every Friday, year after year, Edward Popielski corrected guileless Hanna Półtoranos’ description of “herrings from the barrel” with the words “I always thought herrings came from the sea”. These words of reprimand said in jest belonged to the family’s Friday tradition and they always provoked the same reaction from everyone else in the house: Hanna’s condescending nod, Leokadia’s faint smile, and Rita’s bored, disdainful pout.

  That day Popielski did not poke fun at anyone. He sat at the table in his cherry-coloured smoking jacket with its velvet lapels, a cigarette in an amber holder between his lips, and from his freshly shaven head there emanated the scent of an eau de cologne Leokadia had bought at the Black Dog perfumery the previous day. He did not even touch the cakes, the salad or his favourite herrings. He was fixed in the attitude of someone who is far-sighted but cannot be bothered to wear spectacles: in one outstretched hand he held a letter, in the other, a newspaper, and he shifted his eyes constantly from one to the other.

  Leokadia knew the reason for Popielski’s terrible mood. A short letter addressed to him – his name had been typed – had been slipped through the letterbox at about one o’clock in the morning. As she had carried the letter to his desk she had smelled the scent of cheap perfume wafting from the envelope. At first she had thought that the sender was one of the girls with whom – for fear of tainting his already dubious reputation – he took the sleeper on his overnight trips to Kraków. She had rejected the thought, however, firstly because none of the girls used a typewriter, and secondly because all those sluts were pretty and had enough wealthy lovers to be able to afford better perfumes.

  As she looked at her frowning cousin, who had not even touched his breakfast, she felt a surge of anger. She had had enough of his morning moods, his gloomy glances over the breakfast table, his neurotic outbursts and obsessive love for Rita to whom he pretended to be an overbearing tyrant when in fact he was a dog fawning for the slightest caress. But most of all she hated his feigned secretiveness. She knew perfectly well that he would reveal the reason for his mood that day in due course, but first he had to tease her a little, act out a pantomime and sigh and hiss, only to burst finally and tell her everything ab ovo. She was as familiar with his reactions and most of his secrets as she was with overtrumping in a game of bridge. But the letter smelling of cheap perfume had knocked her a little off balance. She feared it had something to do with a dark, unknown matter which Edward had not told her about, and probably never would. She was almost certain that the letter had something to do with his mysterious visits to the apartment of the ballet dancer Szaniawski; the woman selling artificial flowers at the shop on Halicka, who frequented the apartment for, so to speak, professional reasons, had been her informant.

  In annoyance Leokadia spread out her cards which had refused yet again to be arranged in a sequence of Patience, sorted them into open heaps, then carefully rearranged them into four bridge hands. This drew Edward’s attention and he set aside the letter and newspaper. For a moment he forgot about his problem, took his fork and cut a square of cheesecake, which he devoured with obvious pleasure.

  “Look, Edward,” she said as she laid out the cards. “This is the way they were dealt yesterday. The assistant judge bid one spade. The assistant judge’s wife called ‘no bid’. What would you have said in my place? These were my cards” – she indicated one heap with her slender, well-manicured hand. “Would you have agreed on spades or shown your clubs? Both are questionable … I’ll tell you presently what happened but first take a good look at the cards.”

  But Leokadia did not manage to tell him anything, nor did Popielski manage to analyse the cards because the doorbell rang. About ten seconds later Hanna entered the living-room.

  “Commissioner, sir,” said the maidservant, greatly troubled. “There’s some fatso dandy here to see you.”

  “How many times have I asked you, Hanna,” said Popielski angrily, “not to make comments about my guests! The gentleman may have overheard!”

  “God help us!” Hanna did not give up easily. “He don’t understand our language, that’s for sure.”

  LWÓW, THAT SAME JANUARY 29TH, 1937 A QUARTER PAST ONE IN THE AFTERNOON

  Popielski noticed immediately that Mock did not make the best impression on Leokadia. His cousin was a bridge fanatic, and he attributed her anger to the fact that she had not been able to conclude her account of the previous day’s bidding vicissitudes. Nor did the German police officer rise much in her estimation when he appeared greatly surprised on hearing Popielski say that he held no secrets from Leokadia, and that they could confidently discuss professional matters in her presence. When she saw Mock grimace in disbelief, Popielski’s cousin ostentatiously gathered the cards from the table and left the room under some pretext or other. Her sulks did not bother Popielski; he remained silent while his thoughts hovered once more over the newspaper and letter which lay on the table, as if Mock did not exist at all. The German was silent too and stared intently at Popielski, unable to concentrate on what he had come to say. The reason for Mock’s distraction was the plate of herrings he so adored, and which reminded him that he had not eaten since breakfast. Hanna placed a cup in front of the guest, who thanked her with a broad, insincere smile.

  “To what do I owe your visit?” The clinking of a cup being replaced on its saucer tore Popielski from his reverie. “Did something come to light at Chief Zubik’s meeting?”

  “There’s an old university custom” –
Mock picked up a sugar cube with the little tongs and dropped it into his coffee – “hailing from a time when study was not as widespread as it is today. A student starting at a new college would visit his professors at home. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Oh, how gracious you are today.” Popielski passed him the cake platter. “But the comparison is greatly exaggerated. I’m not going to play up to you, or flatter you by saying that you are the professor and I the student. No, that wouldn’t be right. We’re equal. There, see? The papers say the ‘Popielski, Mock and Zaremba partnership’.”

  “Sounds good.” Mock greedily put a piece of poppy cake in his mouth. “Popielski, Mock and Zaremba …”

  “I even wondered for a moment what metre it could be in.” The Commissioner tapped his fingernail rhythmically on the table.

  “It’s iambic dimeter with catalexis and the last iamb is an anapest,” said Mock, swallowing a mouthful.

  “Does metre interest you?” A combination of astonishment and joy was reflected in Popielski’s face. “I used to be a great deal interested in it too, especially the discrepancies in accentuation in Plautus’ spoken verse. It seems some scholar in Breslau wrote something on the subject.”

  “Could be, I don’t know …” Mock lost himself in thought for a moment. “I analysed the whole of Plautus’ Casina and Aulularia metrically.” He pulled out a golden cigarette case and passed it to the man he was addressing.

  “Including the choruses? Really?” Popielski studied the German Juno cigarette and, full of joy, looked at Mock again. “Those kinds of analyses are particularly fascinating, like describing new plants and insects!”

  For a while neither man said anything. They smiled at one another while their thoughts revolved around bygone days at school and university, when each of them dissected the verses of ancient poets with sharp pencils and from them cut pure, crystalline particles, like trigonometric equations.

  “That dimeter of our names sounds good” said Mock, breaking the silence, “but it isn’t accurate. We form a much larger group under Chief Zubik’s leadership. There are six of us altogether: you, Zaremba, Grabski, Cygan, Kacnelson and I. Have I remembered their names correctly? That’s a few too many. Such a large team is a little lifeless, it doesn’t operate efficiently …” He inhaled and looked attentively at his colleague. “Let me tell you something … in confidence … Something occurred to me at today’s meeting … The two of us – you know, just the two of us – should create a two-man special task force within the group. A privileged force with exceptional powers. Just you and I. Without having to report in or go to endless meetings. They’re a waste of time! If the others discover anything significant, they’re bound to tell us. What do you think?”

  Popielski was amazed, but before he had time to give it any thought or express his opinion, the German began to relate the events of the morning’s meeting with Chief Zubik until he got to their argument about “fascist methods”. Popielski listened very carefully up to the point when Mock recounted numerous examples of what he called a “pressure vice”. Popielski heard how this police officer from Breslau had once “pressed” a prostitute addicted to morphine, and felt his throat fill with bile. He remembered how he himself had blackmailed the innocent schoolgirl in the Ossolineum. He saw all this in a flash: the fear, the tearful, terrified eyes, his visiting card next to the box of library cards, spat upon and ripped in half. Like a torn school uniform at the scene of a rape.

  “That’s enough, Mr Mock!” he cut in. “In describing this hyper-effective vice to me so comprehensively and criticizing my colleagues, might you be suggesting that I resort to criminal methods? Dishonourable ones, too! And as if that weren’t enough, that I withhold this from my superior! Are these the exceptional powers you refer to?”

  “I didn’t think you were such a stickler for rules.” Mock’s cufflinks clinked quietly as he placed his interlocked hands on the table. “Is the Polish police force made up of noble knights fighting with open visors?”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Mock shifted nervously in his chair, angry at himself for having revealed too much with the word “unfortunately”. “I don’t understand your question.”

  “But I do.” Popielski rested both hands on his high forehead and looked at Mock in irritation from beneath them. “A seventeen-year-old daughter. My beloved Rita whom I brought up single-handed. Without a mother. And I brought her up very badly. Now I have to protect her from the Minotaur and other men who would like to do to her the things he does! Well, apart from murdering and devouring her perhaps … I have a choice: either I enter into a ‘Popielski and Mock partnership’ with you and track down the beast per fas et nefas,† or not worry about the investigation, conduct it sluggishly and concentrate all my energies on protecting my daughter!”

  Popielski drew on his cigarette so hard it looked as if he was going to swallow it, then furiously threw it onto the floor. He pulled himself together, however, and restrained himself from crushing the butt into the polished parquet. Instead he snatched the letter from the table, gathered up the tiny red embers and poured them into the ashtray.

  “Listen, Mock.” Popielski sat down, wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked his guest in the eye. “I’ve chosen the latter. I’m going to protect my daughter. I’m not going to run after the beast. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get dressed. I’m going to work shortly.”

  “I have great respect for your familial feelings” – Mock pretended not to have understood Popielski’s dismissal – “but instead of receiving an answer to my question as to whether the Polish police are knights of honour I have heard your fears of … a tragedy which hopefully your daughter will never encounter!”

  “Yes, I suppose it all sounds confused … I owe you an explanation.” Popielski slapped his bald head. “Here goes! I put one of my daughter’s friends in just such a vice. I wanted her to tell me what Rita does and who she sees when she’s not in my direct care. The friend, an exceptionally delicate and thoughtful girl, began to cry, she’d obviously suffered a shock. I wanted to make an informer of her, a grass! I’ve degraded her! It’s as if I had raped her! That’s what your kind of vice leads to! And now let me read something to you!”

  Popielski stood up, put on his spectacles and slowly began to translate the scented letter he had just used for scooping up the cigarette ash.

  Dear Commissioner, sir!

  After our last meeting, when I saw your face in the newspaper, I realized what an important mission you are performing for society in your search for the beast who murders and chews up innocent virgins. I’ve hidden the newspaper with your photograph in my escritoire and sneak a look whenever I feel threatened. And then I gaze at you, Commissioner, sir, and feel so well, so safe … You look much better in real life than you do in the photograph, but even there you look better than that fat German…

  “Show me that newspaper!” Mock broke in. “Do I really look that fat in the photograph?”

  “Well …” Popielski hesitated and handed Mock the newspaper, “You’re not all that slender in it … But you’re much slimmer in real life … It’s not a good photograph … Alright, now let me carry on reading:

  After our last meeting, I realized how silly my qualms were about co-operating with you, Commissioner, sir, and that your suggestion, well, your demand, is an honour for me. Take this letter as my agreement. I hasten to inform you that Rita may be endangered by our Polish teacher, Professor Jerzy Kasprzak. He’s the young teacher who has replaced Professor Mąkos. He leads the drama group and thinks Rita has a great talent for acting. He’s always telling her so, and keeps offering her parts in school productions. In my opinion this is harmful because it distracts her from her work and more important subjects. And the fact that Rita is probably secretly in love with Professor Kasprzak is even greater cause for alarm. They often talk to each other during break, and obviously all our friends comment on this.

  Resp
ectfully yours,

  Jadwiga Wajchendler

  Popielski sat down in a chair by the clock. He was exhausted. Grey wisps of smoke floated in the air beneath the brightly lit chandelier. The roaring fire blasted out heat. Both men were tired and felt like ardent players who, after a whole night at cards, have no idea that a new day has dawned and continue to sit in a smoky room with curtains drawn. Popielski unfastened two buttons on his shirt and with the back of his hand wiped the sweat from his brow. Mock fanned himself with the newspaper.

  “Open the window, will you,” he said, “or we’ll suffocate in this heat.”

  Popielski unhooked the vent of the casement window and fresh, frosty air poured into the living-room. Mock would most like to have opened all the windows onto the balcony but saw that this was impossible since, apart from the small vent, every one of them had been sealed with oakum and taped shut.

  “Allow me to recapitulate. I’ll also try to banish your anxieties,” said Mock greedily eyeing the herring once more. “You’re very much on edge just now. I understand your concerns about this jester – the teacher – even though I have no children myself. But one thing at a time, and first the matter of Rita’s friend. She has probably turned into an informer because she’s taken a fancy to you, as some of the passages in the letter indicate. And you accuse yourself of having corrupted her? Too bad, what has happened has happened. A girl has broken the sacred ties of friendship” – the irony in his voice was evident – “but thanks to that you have control over your daughter. Except that you keep having scruples. Unnecessarily! That little Hedwig would have transgressed her principles sooner or later! What is she to you anyway? It’s your daughter who is important! Your own flesh and blood!”

  When Mock had finished his tirade he slammed his fist on the table, making the coffee pot rattle. Popielski had the impression his guest’s reaction was premeditated and a little contrived.