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

  “Criminal Director Eberhard Mock from Breslau.” Mock’s eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness.

  “Commissioner Edward Popielski from Lwów.” The bald man stood up and held out his hand. “We’re not so intimate yet, surely, as to be called friends. Especially as the manner in which our one and only telephone conversation ended suggested quite the opposite.”

  Mock studied Popielski and sensed that he would not enjoy working with the Polish police officer. The latter was sure of himself, repulsive to look at and not very hospitable. He had not invited Mock to take a seat in the compartment and stood there in silence as if to say: You have come, sir, at a bad time! This is my private time, a Sunday, a day of rest; we’ll talk about work matters tomorrow, on a weekday! Mock even preferred the loge of mockers in his own compartment to this haughty, taciturn Pole. He glanced at the chessboard and recognised a configuration he had seen somewhere before. For a moment he forgot the bitter welcome.

  “I apologize, Commissioner, for that crude description.” Mock approached the chessboard and without waiting for a “never mind”, which in fact never came, asked: “Checkmate in how many moves?”

  “Seven,” replied Popielski, still standing.

  Mock admitted that the chess puzzle was difficult, but he could still use Horace’s verse to make closer contact. He looked at Popielski, whose expression was part disparaging, part repulsive. Mock was overcome by a double dejection.

  “Well, I’ll be on my way,” he said. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Commissioner. See you in Lwów!”

  Suddenly a door separating the private compartment from an adjacent room opened and Mock heard a woman scream with fright. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a naked figure hide behind the door. He could not be sure whether in the semi-darkness he had seen – or only imagined – heavy, full breasts suddenly sway. The young blonde whose fashionably cut hair was held in a band poked only her head and rounded shoulders from behind the door. She said something in a melodious voice; Popielski sighed, walked over to a woman’s hold-all – Mock had not noticed this in the semi-darkness – and pulled out a linen make-up bag. He rummaged for something he could not find and exclaimed vehemently in Polish something which sounded like the German for a contagious disease. The girl smiled at Mock, who was momentarily electrified. In a second he understood Popielski’s bad mood and his expectant glare which said: “Perhaps you could go now!”

  “Commissioner, sir!” Mock smiled joyfully. “Homo sum et nil humani a me alienum esse puto.”†

  He listened to a brief exchange between Popielski and the girl. The Pole then looked at the German carefully, without his former agitation and tensed facial muscles.

  “Politeness dictates” – he smiled faintly – “that I translate for you, sir, my brief exchange with the young lady. She asked me to translate Terence’s famous saying and I told her that you said we belong to the same club of lovers of Antiquity and a woman’s body. Am I right?”

  “And what did she say?”

  “‘I like men who belong to that club.’ That’s what she said.”

  LWÓW, MONDAY, JANUARY 25TH, 1937 TWO O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  There was a throng of newspaper hacks milling around the entrance to the Provincial Police Headquarters, known as the “mansion on Łącki Street”. Everyone was waiting for the meeting called by the Head of the Investigative Bureau, Chief Inspector Marian Zubik, to end. Present at this meeting – which the journalists had known about since that morning, their source of information known only to themselves – was Criminal Director Eberhard Mock. Articles referring to him as a “legend of German criminology” and outlining his achievements in the ’20s had already appeared in the afternoon papers. Had Mock been able to understand Polish and read the articles he would have been most surprised since he had never solved the cases they described. Conscious of the remunerative potential, these journalists wrote whatever came to their heads in moments of inspiration. They waited with their photographers, so that their pieces for the evening edition could be accompanied by a picture of this “star of the Breslau police”.

  After a good night’s sleep at the Grand Hotel, a substantial breakfast and a walk along Hetmańska and Akademicka, Mock was now sitting with several Polish police officers and the forensic doctor cum psychologist, Doctor Ivan-Pidhirny in Chief Inspector Zubik’s office. He listened attentively to the speech being given by the Head of the Investigative Bureau and simultaneously translated for him by Popielski.

  “Gentlemen” – Zubik raised his arms and thumped the desk – “thanks to Criminal Director Mock’s report we can renew our investigation into the Minotaur affair. Our chief suspect is a man whom we should surely have no difficulty finding. Commissioner,” – he turned to Popielski – “I hand you the voice since you have a better knowledge of German.”

  Popielski rose to his feet, adjusted his dark glasses and stood behind Zubik’s desk. The chief did not budge an inch, as if to demonstrate that he was handing over the proceedings only for a moment.

  “The chief suspect …” Popielski tried to speak slowly. In fact all the Lwów police officers present in the office, apart from Stefan Cygan, had won their military epaulettes during the reign of Emperor Franz Jozef, and Doctor Pidhirny had studied at the university in Czerniowce, but the German language – as it was not used on a regular basis – could have led to a misunderstanding of the important instructions he wanted to convey. “The chief suspect is a sallow, dark-haired man of no more than thirty with leanings towards homosexuality. All this we know thanks to Criminal Director Mock. On the day the unidentified Polish girl, Anna, was murdered, the suspect was dressed in women’s clothing. He has associations with Breslau’s circle of queers. A German customs officer in Chebzie remembers him frequently crossing the Polish-German border; he always travels in a private compartment in the company of older, wealthy Germans.”

  “A male dame,” said Commissioner Wilhelm Zaremba in Polish. “I knew some like that in Franz’s day, they used to use the trains but they were just young floozies.” He glanced meaningfully at Popielski. “Not boys, though. One ride to Vienna with a wealthy client and they wouldn’t have to roam around on Hetmański Embankment for a whole week.”

  Popielski’s eyes briefly met Mock’s.

  “Let’s not lose track, gentlemen,” said Zubik reproachfully. “Ad rem. We now have something we didn’t have before: a starting point. Please go on, Commissioner Popielski.”

  “Yes,” continued the man being addressed. “After two murders committed in 1935 the Minotaur has become active once again. He has killed after two years of silence, and this time in Germany. How would you explain that, Doctor?”

  “It indicates” – short Doctor Pidhirny stood up and with one fingernail scratched a face furrowed with acne scars, which spiteful people said had been devoured by corpses’ venom – “that he is becoming more careful. Two earlier murders in the vicinity of Lwów and now far away in Breslau, Germany … And disguised in women’s clothing. No doubt, gentlemen, you’d like to ask whether it is possible for a man with homosexual tendencies to rape a woman. I’m of the opinion that the word ‘tendencies’ is highly significant here. Perhaps he goes both ways and can be a passive or active participant. If the latter is the case he could be quite normal, and in the case of the former only a dispassionate and passive object who has found himself a means of making money in this particular way. He certainly has above-normal sexual needs. It’s possible that there were moral disturbances implicating him at his school or halls of residence … That is all I have to say.”

  “Thank you very much, Doctor” Popielski nodded to Pidhirny as the latter sat down. “These are the important characteristics of the man we seek: sallow skin, or a Gypsy-like appearance, heightened sexuality and homosexual tendencies. With Chief Inspector Zubik’s agreement I allocate you your tasks, gentlemen. Aspirant† Stefan Cygan‡ is to infiltrate the world of men with Greek preferences.” Popielski meticulously addressed th
e men by their titles and names; experience had taught him that it was difficult to remember foreign names and he wanted Mock to be well acquainted with those he would be working with. “You’re to begin with the Szaniawski boys and some of the regulars at the Atlas drinkingden. Szaniawski is a well-known dancer, a ballet master with the Grand Theatre,” he explained to Mock. “He surrounds himself wtih a fair number of perverts and these, if they’re to be found in a larger group, congregate at the Atlas. It’s where writers and actors go – and sometimes homosexuals among them. The Atlas is usually …”

  “The place of their rendez-vous,” concluded Zaremba and turned to Cygan with a smile. “Well, well, Stefan, you be careful in the Atlas. You’re such a pretty boy, slim … A tasty morsel for them … Like a pretzel …”

  Everyone sniggered apart from Mock and Zubik. Aspirant Cygan, a slender young man with black hair and a scarf wrapped around his neck, did not feel at all like laughing. He bridled, snorting disdainfully at Zaremba’s insinuations.

  “Yes, that’s where they meet.” Popielski got back on track, hastened by the chief’s severe glare. “Aspirant Valerian Grabski is first of all to look through the vice files at our headquarters – both municipal and provincial – and then to follow any leads he finds there, and question the managers and porters – especially the porters because they know everything – working in men’s halls of residence and hostels.”

  Grabski, a short, fat man with an honest countenance, squinted through the cigarette smoke and jotted down Popielski’s instructions in his notebook. His dullness and lack of any distinguishing characteristics predestined him to work as a secret investigator, and he had already misled many an offender.

  “The Jewish community will be infiltrated by Aspirant Herman Kacnelson in search of this sallow, dark-haired pervert,” continued the commissioner. “And please don’t forget about our Armenians and the immigrants from Soviet Armenia and Georgia, Officer. Criminal Director Eberhard Mock, Commissioner Wilhelm Zaremba and I will visit all the orphanages and schools in the province.”

  “Sorry for butting in,” Doctor Pidhirny sprung up, “but you’ve forgotten the ethnic Russians, Commissioner.”

  “Who?” asked Mock in surprise.

  “Ethnic Russians” – Popielski picked his words carefully – “are our fellow citizens of Ukrainian nationality. They’re mainly Greek-Catholics, or less frequently Orthodox. In Lwów and the south-eastern provinces they make up a considerable proportion of the population. Doctor Ivan Pidhirny here is an ethnic Russian.”

  “I see,” said Mock, belying what was going on in his head. “But are they important to our investigation? Are they sallow-skinned?”

  “There, Doctor,” Popielski laughed merrily. “You’re always looking to see where ethnic Russians are being discriminated against. I’m not trying to find a murderer among them, I’ve simply mentioned all the other nationalities without saying a word about the ethnic Russians! And why? Criminal Director Mock has asked a very good question! No, Criminal Director Mock, sallow skin is not a characteristic of ethnic Russians. They don’t distinguish themselves from us in any way.”

  “I know what discrimination I’m talking about!” Pidhirny was not in the habit of giving in so easily.

  “And what happened to you?” Mock said with growing interest.

  “I was forced to change my name to a Polish one, you know,” said Pidhirny. “To ‘Jan Podgórny’! A university lecturer cannot be called Ivan Pidhirny! And that isn’t discrimination?”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Doctor,” Grabski said indignantly in Polish. “There are several ethnic Russians working at the university, after all. Take the archaeologist, Associate Professor Styrczuk, who fought with the Siczów Fusiliers! And then …”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Zubik broke in. “Let’s not bore Criminal Director Mock with our country’s affairs. Doctor” – he turned to Pidhirny – “you’re one of the best forensic pathologists in Poland and we could not do the work we do without your expert opinion. And that is what counts right now, not the Polish–Ukrainian conflict! Gentlemen, I have a question.” Zubik made himself comfortable in the armchair, which squeaked alarmingly. “Why do the three of you have to search the orphanages? To track down the suspect and his moral perversions? Surely Mr Grabski can do that by himself. And why orphanages

  “Criminal Director Mock will explain everything,” Popielski said, looking at the German.

  Mock got up from his chair and cast his eye over the assembled men. This was what he had been missing for the past three years. Briefings, focus, pertinent questions, suggestions exchanged and spiced with political discussions. One could not discuss politics in Breslau any more. Only one set of values was permitted, and only the Austrian Corporal honoured. Mock breathed a sigh of relief. How he missed this smoke-filled world of meetings and swearing, and the quest for corpses! In distant Lwów he had found what he had longed for back in his sterile office, where he analysed information and wrote endless reports and statements.

  “Gentlemen,” he spoke slowly and clearly. “We’re not going to be looking for traces of the suspect at the orphanages. We’re going to look for traces of his victims. We have to identify them because this trail may lead us to the murderer. I had a lengthy discussion about this with Commissioner Popielski over a game of chess last night. We asked ourselves why nobody had recognized the murdered girls, despite the expertise with which their faces had been reconstructed by Doctor Pidhirny here. Why did nobody report their disappearance?”

  “Because they could have been orphans! Of course!” Pidhirny interrupted him. “They could have been brought up in an orphanage.”

  “To work, gentlemen!” shouted Zubik. “You all know what to do.”

  The room was filled with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor, pages turning and cigarettes hissing as they were extinguished in the damp ashtray. Mock filled his lungs with air. This was what he missed. For the first time in his life he thought with gratitude about Kraus, who had wanted to banish him but instead had awoken in him something nobody would ever be able to eradicate: the happy excitement of an investigator who could display on his standard the slogan investigo, ergo sum – “I detect, therefore I am.”

  LWÓW, THAT SAME JANUARY 25TH, 1937 THREE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

  Mock, Popielski and Zaremba stood on the steps of the building on Łącki and fixed confident, hard eyes on the flash bulbs which kept sweeping horrifically bright light across their figures. They thrust their chins towards the lenses, stuck out their chests and pulled in their stomachs; in other words, they did everything to present the readers of Lwów’s evening newspapers with an image of three city cowboys, determined and ready to do almost anything to catch this cannibal and rapist of virgins.

  Popielski signalled to a caretaker, who adjusted his hat and greatcoat, then willingly advanced upon the journalists with his enormous belly.

  “That’s enough, gentlemen, enough! That’s it! There’s work to be done here!” repeated the caretaker in his booming voice and, spreading his arms, marshalled them all towards the revolving door.

  All of a sudden the officers heard the clatter of a woman’s shoes behind their backs. They turned and gazed at the chief’s secretary, each of them differently: Zaremba with a patronizing smile, Popielski with unease, and Mock with desire. Miss Zosia blushed beneath these gazes, even though she had worked in this male world for two years now and was familiar with many and varied manifestations of interest – from timid glances to covert propositions.

  “Commissioner, sir,” she said, holding out a piece of paper towards Popielski. “I’m sorry, but I’ve only just managed to transcribe this telegram. The chief would like you to have a look at it before he sends it out to all the provincial police stations …”

  “Thank you.” Popielski took the piece of paper and ex abrupto translated it into German. “All heads of police investigative departments are requested to gather information regarding any exceptionall
y cruel murders displaying cannibalistic tendencies. Please send information to the address below. Signed the chief and so on …”

  Popielski looked at Mock, who in a split second had metamorphosed from satyr to vigilant detective.

  “It seems to me” – Mock was pensive – “that something needs to be added …”

  “I think I know what you mean, Criminal Director.” Popielski glanced at Zaremba. “Turn around, Wilek, and hunch your shoulders a little! There’s no lectern so I’ll use your back.”

  “And now I’m going to be a camel from Arabia.” Zaremba started working his jaws horizontally, pretending to be the exotic animal.

  Miss Zosia burst out laughing. Zaremba removed his hat and pulled silly faces at her while the commissioner scribbled a long note on his back with his Waterman.

  “You are also requested to give information of any cases in which victims have been gnawed by a human being, even if not fatally, provided the injuries were sustained on or near the face.” Popielski spoke as he wrote and added a full stop so forcefully that he almost pierced the paper with his nib. “Please make that addition, Miss Zosia. And tell the chief that I’ll explain it to him when I can.”

  Miss Zosia ran off, asking them to wait a moment, and her slim calves flashed in the dark corridor. Mock could not tear his eyes away.

  “Hello, Criminal Director!” Popielski scowled at Mock. “Wake up! Is that the sort of note you had in mind?”