The Minotaur's Head: An Eberhard Mock Investigation (Eberhard Mock Investigation 4) Page 20

  KATTOWITZ, THAT SAME FEBRUARY 17TH, 1937 SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  After they had found Klementyna Nowoziemska’s body, Mock had remained in Kattowitz for three reasons: first of all, he did not believe in the Lwów lead so strongly advocated by Popielski; secondly, it was not far from Kattowitz to Breslau, and therefore to Karen, whom he missed more and more in proportion to his bad conscience, which plagued him after his erotic excesses; thirdly, and most importantly, the murder of the owner of the Matrimonium marriage bureau demanded an explanation, and the circumstances pointed to the Minotaur, whom Mock was beginning to hate as much as Popielski did. Admittedly, in killing Nowoziemska, the Minotaur had not murdered a virgin, but the mutilation of the victim’s cheek was his signature. Besides, it could be the copycat act of a madman, or the virginity of the previous victims could have been coincidental. The investigation promised to be exceptionally tedious since all the files from the marriage bureau had disappeared. The police had two choices: to investigate the criminal underworld in search of any contacts the murdered woman may have had, or to look for shady elements in her past. Neither of these seemed all that important as Miss Klementyna Nowoziemska was well respected and enjoyed an immaculate reputation. But one thought did not leave Mock in peace, namely, Popielski’s suggestion that the owner of the bureau must once have been a brothel madame.

  Having served for many years in the Vice Department, the police officer from Breslau knew the world of covert prostitutes only too well; often they were poor working-class women who provided carnal services on the quiet while working at entirely different professions, as workers or maidservants, for example. Covert prostitution proved lucrative. On the one hand, these women did not risk being on the records of the Vice Police, which would ruin their reputation and result in them losing their job; on the other hand, they could put a fair amount of money aside as an eventual dowry. Since they never walked the streets, they would make use of various intermediaries instead. Admittedly, Mock had never before heard of a marriage bureau acting as a go-between, but the comparison of Nowoziemska to a brothel madame gave him no peace, and it seemed to him an exceptionally tempting lead to follow. He was almost certain that the “ugly count” was not some mathematician from Lwów, but an ordinary Silesian industrialist who secretly made use of Nowoziemska’s mediation and spent his money on crypto-prostitutes. Although this was just an intuition, it was one he had to explore. Mock would be the last person to disregard his own intuitions.

  So Mock had something to do and, most importantly, he could act with confidence. Nor did parting company with Popielski hinder him in any way; people in Kattowitz generally spoke German, even the common folk. Besides, Popielski had endeavoured to obtain for him appropriate authorisation, which allowed him to act independently on Silesian territory as a representative of Police Headquarters in Lwów. It was with a certain reluctance that Mock had said goodbye to Popielski, but then he had eagerly thrown himself into the metropolitan hustle and bustle of the Silesian capital. He felt wonderful in a town which reminded him so much of Breslau.

  Right from the very start, however, Commissioner Holewa had poured a bucket of cold water over Mock. The police officer from Kattowitz – who turned out to be totally irascible, and for all the world just as Popielski had imagined him – coarsely told him where he had Mock’s authorization and categorically forbade him to conduct any investigation into the case of Maria Szynok. He knew the German would be in no position to appeal to the Polish police authorities and resume the inquiry. In order to prevent him from attempting to pursue it of his own accord he allotted him an assistant in the person of Senior Sergeant Franciszek Wybraniec who was to inform his superior immediately of any instances of Mock’s insubordination.

  As Holewa’s informant, Wybraniec watched Mock’s independent activities very carefully, but he did not attribute the least importance to any enquiries they undertook together, believing that Mock would not be so bold as to lead a private investigation with him at his side. When the German informed him over an evening beer that the following day they would be visiting a man called Michał Borecki, who was Nowoziemska’s messenger, he nodded in agreement without even asking how Mock had come to know of the man. Of course Mock did not mention that before Holewa had placed the restrictions on him he had questioned Gertruda Wozignój, at whose lodgings Szynok had rented a bed, and from the landlady had learned of a certain Michał Borecki, apparently the girl’s betrothed. The role of messenger was a figment of Mock’s imagination.

  The questioning of Borecki was the last task they had set themselves for that day. After visiting Matrimonium’s financial auditor, Mr Jan Sławiński, who had nothing interesting to tell them, they stood outside the police station on Młyńska Street from where they were to go to the Bogucice district. There wasn’t a droschka in sight and all the police Chevrolets were in use. At that moment Sławiński, who was just passing, suggested they borrow two bicycles. The weather was frosty and dry – the snow had long since blown off the pavements – so it seemed like a good solution.

  They rode their bicycles into the cobbled street. It was a long time since the criminal director, a man of considerable weight, had ridden one, and to begin with he had to be very careful to maintain his balance. He quickly ascertained, however, that the locally constructed Eboco bicycle was extemely solid, and that the Dunlop tyres made it even more reliable. He therefore stopped worrying about his conveyance and looked about him as he rode.

  They arrived in Kattowitz’s poor mining district, entirely different in appearance to Lwów’s slum quarters with which Mock had acquainted himself a little. These streets were densely lined with two- and three-storey, unplastered, red-brick buildings, whose recessed windows were by and large painted green. Both here and in Lwów entire families tended to live in one-room lodgings with a shared toilet in the yard, but the living quarters in Polish Silesia were much larger, the streets paved and wide, although few trees grew in the town, unlike in Lwów.

  They passed a large church and a hospital, and then, turning into a narrow street, stopped at the first house, the address of which Mock had copied from the Szynok report as belonging to Borecki. No. 1, Piotr Street. Groups of people speaking what Germans disdainfully called Wasserpolnisch were walking along the main avenue, the men in long black cloaks and hats, the women in full, coloured skirts and lace bonnets. They were on their way somewhere in herds, watching the two men on bicycles with curiosity. Wybraniec quickly worked something out and struck his forehead.

  “Ash Wednesday,” he informed Mock. “Today’s Ash Wednesday, we might not catch him in right now, damn it!”

  “So we’ll wait in some tavern until he gets back,” said Mock. “Would you like a small schnapps? It’s cold today!”

  “You don’t know the local customs,” said Wybraniec, a little annoyed. “Taverns here don’t open on Ash Wednesday.”

  Mock shook his head in disbelief and peered at the dark windows. It certainly did not look as though there was anybody on either the ground or the first floor. He went through the main entrance – scrubbed clean and smelling of detergent – approached the door to No. 1, and put his ear to it. Smiling to himself, he stepped outside and nodded to Wybraniec. The latter entered and stood at the door next to Mock. He listened and a moment later his broad face also lit up in a smile.

  “The wench moaning in there isn’t going to make it to church today, that’s for sure,” whispered Mock.

  “So what are we going to do? Knock and go in?” asked Wybraniec.

  “Wait until they’ve finished.” Mock put his ear to the door once more. “Ever been interrupted at a moment like that?”

  KATTOWITZ, THAT SAME FEBRUARY 17TH, 1937 A QUARTER TO SEVEN IN THE EVENING

  Michał Borecki sat in the room wearing a pair of trousers, braces and a vest. A saucepan stood on the tiled kitchen stove, blazing with heat. Across the floor a child’s toys lay strewn. On the wall hung a wedding photograph in which Borecki sported a walr
us moustache. Now his moustache was thin and its owner reminded Mock of Adolf Hitler. In spite of the unpleasant association Mock was smiling from ear to ear. Senior Sergeant Wybraniec kept peering through the window at the bicycles they had left in the yard.

  “Gave her a good one, eh, Borecki?” Mock shoved an index finger in the ring formed by the fingers of his other hand and pumped it a few times. “The only question is, who’s the woman? I don’t see anyone here in the kitchen.” Mock bent to look under the table.

  “I don’t understand German,” replied Borecki in Polish.

  Mock got up and made towards the door leading to the only other room, but Borecki was faster and barricaded it with his body. He was well built. The powerful muscles of his arms tensed beneath tattooed skin. Mock moved away, walked over to the window and studied the frame. It was stuck down with tape and sealed with oakum – just as in Popieski’s apartment. Anyone wanting to escape through it into the yard could not do so without making a noise. Mock approached the kitchen stove. He lifted the lid off the saucepan and sniffed.

  “Ah, tasty. Garlic smells good,” he smacked his lips. “And I’m so hungry …”

  To Borecki’s and Wybraniec’s total consternation he poured some soup into a metal bowl, placed it on the table and began to eat. When he was half finished he stopped and looked at Borecki.

  “If your wife’s in that room, Borecki,” he said slowly, waiting until Wybraniec had translated, “she’ll get dressed soon and come out and say hello. And if your wife isn’t in there, then we’ll wait for her, won’t we, Wybraniec? We’ll wait until she comes back from church with the children.”

  “What do you want?” asked Borecki.

  “I want to know everything about Maria Szynok.”

  “But, sir,” protested Wybraniec, without translating what Mock had said, “you’ve no authority to pursue the investigation!”

  “Go and keep an eye on the bicycles!” the criminal director shouted at him angrily. “I’m your superior, and that’s an order!”

  “I’ll go then.” Wybraniec looked offended. “You won’t find anything out anyway – he doesn’t speak German!”

  “It’ll come back to him.” Mock slurped the aromatic soup with pieces of bread floating in it. “You’re the one who’s making him so anxious he’s lost his tongue!”

  Wybraniec went out, red as a beetroot. Mock ate his soup and poured himself some more. He placed two zlotys on the table.

  “I don’t want to deprive your children,” he said, and continued to ply his spoon energetically.

  Something moved on the other side of the wall. The clock struck half past six. Mock pulled out a packet of Egyptians, Polish cigarettes which he particularly liked, and pushed it across the table towards Borecki. A rustling came from the other side of the wall and the door squeaked quietly as it opened a little.

  “Welcome!” shouted Mock. “Please come and join us, Mrs Borecki!”

  “What do you want?” the man in the vest asked in German.

  “There you are!” Mock grinned even more broadly. “And didn’t I say it was that idiot who was making you uncomfortable? You can speak German like nobody’s business!”

  “What?”

  “I heard you were Maria Szynok’s betrothed. A funny kind of betrothed who’s married. But maybe ‘betrothed’ means ‘lover’ in Polish?”

  Borecki did not say anything, and Mock continued without waiting for an answer:

  “It’s not important whether you were her betrothed or she was your mistress. What’s important is that you had it off with her, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Finally you’ve said something!” Mock clapped his hands. “Well now, tell me just how much she wanted to get married, how she went about looking for a husband – whether she went to a marriage bureau, whether she met anyone who wanted to marry her. What do you know?”

  “She wouldn’t have dared to tell me,” said Borecki, smiling to himself. “She knew I’d beat the shit out of her. She was mine or nobody’s!”

  “The first time you had her, was she a virgin?”

  “Come on!” Borecki burst into loud, forlorn laughter which echoed around the kitchen. “She’d already had the scrape several times!”

  “In a hospital?”

  “No, not a hospital. You’d be nicked for that in Poland.”

  Something struck Mock. He was revisited by his intuition about the crypto-prostitution to which Szynok had submitted herself. His heart began to pound. He had never before heard of a respectable marriage bureau acting as a go-between for carnal services. But he had heard often enough that women who performed abortions acted as such, and he had even encountered it on several occasions. These women could easily persuade their desperate and generally poor clients that one night with a wealthy gentleman was nothing to be ashamed of.

  “So where did she get rid of the foetus?” Mock saw that Borecki did not understand the question and so, with some disgust, he used the previous formulation. “Where did she have the scrape? Who did it?”

  “How should I know? It was before my time!”

  Mock removed his coat and hat, gestured to Wybraniec, who was standing by the bicycles, to come in, and spread his arms as if to say he had not learned anything. He looked at Borecki calmly and coldly. Without smiling.

  “Give me the name of the woman who does the scrapes here in this town, in this area. I’m not going to throw her in the nick. I just need to talk to her.”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know the name of anyone doing scrapes!”

  “We’ve got time. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  LWÓW, SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 21ST, 1937 A QUARTER TO TWELVE IN THE MORNING

  The Viennese Café on Mariacki Square was busy on Sunday mornings. On that day the café was filled mainly with wealthy Jews who, unlike their Christian fellow citizens, were not hurrying off to church where High Mass was being celebrated. At this hour the café’s regulars were drinking hot chocolate and eating cakes and fruit with their families, on the whole members of the wealthy, liberal intelligentsia. There were not many devout Jews among them, because they generally avoided all dealings with their free-thinking kinsmen. Nor were there merchants, as merchants tended to spend their Sunday mornings in the Grand Café on Legiony. There was, on the other hand, an abundance of doctors and lawyers.

  Edward Popielski was not looking for a representative from any of these professions. For almost three weeks the only professionals he had been interested in were mathematicians. Now he was whiling away his time in the café solely in order to behold the face of a lawyer, Eisig Nussbaum, whom a certain informer had described as: “a fellow with a mug like a monkey’s”. The lawyer’s name was the last on a list compiled by Aspirant Kacnelson, and it differed from the others in that it had not been underscored. The list was the result of two weeks’ painstaking work by Kacnelson and Cygan and comprised the names of people who were mathematically gifted, but who had not chosen that line of study. In order to acquire this information Kacnelson had done the rounds of all the Jewish schools, while Cygan had taken on those run by Christians or the state. They had spoken not only to the headmasters and teachers of mathematics and physics, but also questioned librarians about past pupils who had shown a particular interest in charades or logical problem solving. Grabski, in turn, had carried out the titanic job of gleaning information about various private tutors who made their living by working in the homes of the rich. All the officers had asked about physique, and a considerable list of fifty-two names had emerged, which they divided equally – like dealing cards at bridge. The thirteenth name on Popielski’s list was the lawyer Eisig Nussbaum, whose countenance he was yet to behold as on Saturday the gentleman had left for Tarnopol on a business trip. Popielski’s informant, the one who had compared the lawyer to a monkey, assured him that the lawyer always appeared at the Viennese at midday on Sundays, come what may. And indeed, as the clock in the room struck twelve, a short, slender man entered the café, hi
s evident ugliness contrasting with the striking Mediterranean beauty of his companion. The waiter winked to Popielski to let him know that the lawyer about whom the commissioner had just enquired, and whom he had promised to point out for the sum of twenty groszys, had just arrived. The police officer stood up to approach the lawyer, but immediately abandoned his intention with a heavy sigh. Instead of a left hand, the man had a prosthesis which ended in an expensive suede glove.

  Popielski swore to himself. He should have told his men when they were compiling their lists to ask not only about physique, but also about anything which could disqualify the suspect from being the acrobat who had leaped from roof to roof in Breslau. Annoyed, he looked through the window and instantly calmed down. In a split second he had forgotten all about his investigation.

  “God, she’s so beautiful,” he muttered.

  His daughter was slowly walking by and looking about her dreamily. She truly was the epitome of beauty. All of a sudden it occurred to Popielski that the clock by the Viennese Café was a meeting place for lovers. He hid behind the curtain and waited for an admirer to appear. After a while Rita walked off towards the Grand Theatre and Popielski, rushing out of the café, ran after her. He needed to know the reason for her walk even though, deep down, he knew she would not tell him the truth.

  The true reason was known to the author of the seductive letter who, from beneath the statue of Hetman Sobieski, was carefully observing father and daughter through a pair of binoculars.

  LWÓW, FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 26TH, 1937 HALF PAST SIX IN THE EVENING

  The Lenten psalms at St Nicolas’ church always brought in a sizable group of schoolgirls. They were drawn not only by unquestionable devoutness, but also by the priest, Konstanty Kierski, who gave magnificent sermons. Apart from a fiery talent for preaching, nature had not stinted the young priest on masculine good looks. Standing in the pulpit and tossing his head in anger so that his black hair fell over his forehead, or shedding heartfelt tears of sorrow which flowed down the cheeks of his soulful, gaunt face, he inspired both fear and fascination in most of the young girls. It was not surprising, therefore, that the schoolgirls flocked to Lenten psalms and, much to the delight of their catechists, filled their exercise books with holy pictures handed out to mark their presence at the Lenten rites.