The End of the World in Breslau (30 page)

“What, in fact, are you doing here?” he yelled suddenly and leaped to his feet. “Have you come here to ask my permission to arrest some Russky marquis?” With a chubby fist he thumped the desk with all his might. “Why isn’t that swine already locked up in your station at Schuhbrücke? Are you waiting for more crimes to be committed?”

“With all respect,” Mühlhaus now joined in for the first time, “please kindly note, Your Excellency, that these crimes are being reported in newspapers that von Orloff is bound to read. He presents his proof at the lectures only after a crime has been committed, that is, as Counsellor Mock and Doctor Hartner ascertained in the reading room yesterday, after the appropriate paragraphs have appeared in the press. Consequently, we have absolutely no reason to arrest him. No judge is going to sentence a man simply because some murders prove useful to him as he argues the end of the world. At present this is nothing more than a trail leading us to von Orloff and throwing a shadow of suspicion over him or somebody else from his sect.”

“Yes …” von Schroetter sat down at his desk and extinguished his cigar in the ashtray, staring for a moment at the crumbled leaves, which resembled the wings of a squashed, monstrous insect. “You’re right …
There are no grounds for the arrest of von Orloff, but somehow we’ve got …”

“Allow me, Your Excellency.” Mühlhaus filled his mouth with the taste of his beloved tobacco for the first time that day. “There is one way out. We must find out the time and place of the next murder. In that way we’ll spare the next victim and set a trap for the murderer.”

“How do you intend to do that?” asked von Schroetter, raising a cup to his lips.

“The murders,” Hartner once more assumed a didactic tone, “are being committed in chronological order. Unfortunately, this chronology applies only to the day’s date. So the crime models could have occurred in any century. The first took place in the Middle Ages, the second during the Renaissance, and the third in the Baroque period. So all available sources must now be studied to uncover murders that were committed after …” he hesitated. “What date is it today? Yes, from December 20th onwards … Paying attention to the date and not the year …”

“Who is to do this?” inquired von Schroetter.

“That’s what we’ve come to see you about, Excellency,” answered Mühlhaus. “A team of experts must now be assembled to begin researching the archives as swiftly as possible.”

“What skills do these people need?” The Government Leader relaxed in finding himself in the role of organizer once again. “And how many of them should there be?”

“They have to know Latin,” said Hartner. “They have to be able to read manuscripts and old publications, and work tenaciously day and night – for which they will be paid appropriately. If we want to find the date of the next crime as quickly as possible and spare any prospective victim … we would need quite a number of people …”

“Apart from that they must be beyond any suspicion,” added Mock. “We cannot entrust someone with this task who might themselves be the
murderer. We mustn’t forget that it’s someone for whom the archives hold no secrets. And these are the people among whom we will be looking for our experts.”

“Exactly,” von Schroetter said, taking a blank sheet of paper and noting something down. “And who is going to draw up this team?”

“The man who will lead it,” Mühlhaus replied. “Doctor Hartner.”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 20TH, 1927 HALF PAST NINE IN THE MORNING

Mühlhaus and Mock parted with Hartner outside the door of the clerk’s office who, on the instructions of the Government Leader, was to write out an appropriate contract for the newly appointed head of this team of experts. They went down to the main hall in silence, left Palais Hatzfeld, and set off towards the Police Praesidium. Snow settled on the brims of their hats.

“There’s one thing that interests me.” With his palm Mühlhaus rubbed his ears, frostbitten in trenches on the Russian front on the Chvina. “Are these crimes only being replicated in Breslau? And if so, how does von Orloff explain this? Why does the end of the world have to take place right here in our town?”

“No.” Mock observed two men clad in greatcoats load balls of frozen horse manure onto a cart. “Not only in Breslau, but in Wiesbaden too. I’ve got to telephone someone there. But it’s a good question. We’ll have to ask von Orloff.”

“He might tell you the crimes are being committed by Satan, or by an exterminating angel heralding the end of the world.”

“If the end of the world really is to come about, then it should have been an actual bell founder’s apprentice living in the Griffins tenement. As it is we have a strange substitute, a drunken musician transported to
the Griffins tenement by some dark angel … This angel reminds me of a schoolboy who cheats at exams, even though he’s perfectly capable of answering the questions himself …”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 20TH, 1927 THREE O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON

The usual lunchtime bustle reigned in Schweidnitzer Keller. Baker women stood in their usual spots at the entrance, selling bread rolls and sausages. Waiters dressed in cassocks as if from centuries gone by rushed around like busy bees, carrying trays of plates, jugs, glasses and tankards above their heads. Some bore large wooden trays with wine cups the size of two Silesian quarts. These were filled with “white” or “dark sheep”, as the products of the Keller’s brewery had been called since time immemorial. Their ankle-length aprons and the napkins thrown neatly over their arms glowed white in the dim light of the restaurant. On the walls gleamed squares of wood panelling. At one of the tables, under the insignia of student associations, shone the white cuffs of a shirt: a man was assiduously reading some documents, tilting back his head from time to time – as far as his surgical corset permitted – and staring at the ceiling. He looked as if he was trying to learn something by heart. He raised his tankard to drink the last drops of his beer. The head waiter, whose eyes had hardly left him, immediately sent a junior waiter to this peruser of documents to ask if there was anything else Criminal Counsellor Mock wished. Mock did wish something else. He wished another Fabian beer. This request was swiftly fulfilled by the waiter, who was speechless at the thought of talking to a famous police officer. The hero of Breslau took a long draught of the beer and looked once more at the list of members belonging to Breslau’s occult societies, prepared for him by Domagalla. Next to the names of those listed was no more than a short note: their age,
their profession, and whether or not they were mentioned in any police files. Similar details appeared on another list prepared by the Director of the Municipal Library, Theodor Stein. Those people listed by Stein, however, were distinguished by an entirely different, far safer and more down to earth passion: they were devotees of Silesia and Breslau. Mock’s suspicious nature did not allow him to put aside any of the lists, and he kept sowing questions such as: “Why did the forty-five-year-old housewife, Christel Buschhorn, get involved in the Rosicrucian movement?”, or “How did roaming the cobbled streets of Breslau and studying the town inspire the thirty-eight-year-old postman, Paul Fink, to join the Society of Devotees of the Silesian Fatherland?”

Hartner approached the alcove and greeted Mock, interrupting his musings on the causes of human motivation.

“I’ve already got twelve men together, mainly school professors,” he said happily, accepting a menu from the waiter. “Nobody has declined. They were probably tempted by the generous remuneration. Von Schroetter has allowed me to recruit only eight, so I had to invent some sort of criteria to help me make the selection. I told them all to submit a description of their scholarly work and a bibliography. The decision is now yours, Counsellor. A starter of
kesselwurst
for me, followed by veal cutlet with egg and anchovy,” he said to the waiter who stood by politely, waiting for Mock’s order.

“And you, sir …”

“Ye-es …” murmured the Counsellor. “For me, cod in mustard butter and eel in aspic with baked potatoes. Yes, that’s all.” He looked at Hartner. “You’re right, now it’s down to me. I’ll veto them, and if the result is unfavourable, we won’t waste the Mayor’s money. But, but … I’m assuming, quite unnecessarily, that there’s someone we aren’t going to take on board. Personally, I can’t imagine what could disqualify the docile teachers you’ve gathered … Unless …”

Mock scanned Hartner’s list and then, engrossed in the bibliographies, became immune to all distractions. He did not see the starters placed in front of him by the waiter, did not smell the tobacco, did not hear the clatter of cutlery or the hiss of beer being poured from barrels. All he could see were two names that appeared on both of the lists in front of him; in those names, occultism was linked to a sentiment for the Silesian Fatherland, complex human motivations became straightforward and clear, and human aims unambiguous and murderous.

“Listen, Doctor Hartner,” Mock said, regaining control of his senses. “You remember that, apart from Gelfrert, there were eight men who borrowed Barthesius’
Antiquitates Silesiacae
from the Municipal Library. They were the
viri Leopoldini
:† Urban Papst – Pope Urban VIII, that is – Franz Wentzl, Peter Canisius, Johann Carmer, Carl von Hoym. And now we have an interesting candidate for our team: Professor Erich Hockermann, a member of the Society of Devotees of the Silesian Fatherland and author of a monograph on famous men whose portraits can be admired in the Leopold Lecture Theatre. (It’s a good thing you asked the candidates to prepare a bibliography of their works!) The names of these men appear in the Register of Loans. Why are they there? They could have come from the pen of someone who’s thinking about them, or studying them. And who could be studying them more thoroughly than the author of a monograph about them?” All at once Mock felt a stabbing pain in his neck, an itchy throat and the pressure of his corset. “I believe Hockermann read Barthesius in the reading room, not at home, and then signed himself in using the names of ‘Leopold’s men’. If Hockermann had wanted to borrow Barthesius to take home, he could have done so far more easily than Gelfrert just by signing his own name. He is, after all, a professor at a secondary school! There is only one explanation: he didn’t want anyone to know he was studying this ancient publication.” Mock
glanced regretfully at his cod as it grew cool, and continued his deductions in a whisper. “And as for this employee of the Municipal Archives, Wilhelm Diehlsen, we don’t have to strain ourselves too much to consider him suspicious. According to Domagalla’s list, he’s a member of the occult organization the Breslau Society of Parapsychic Research.”

Mock paused and started on his cod, which was now almost cold.

“And what are we going to do with them?” Hartner stared at Mock in bewilderment. “Not accept them on our team?”

“Oh, we’ll accept them alright” – thick globs of eel in aspic dissolved in Mock’s mouth – “so as to observe their skills carefully. My men aren’t going to let them out of their sight. Nor any of your other experts. If they’ve got anything to do with the crimes, they’ll try to deceive us, give us a different date so we can’t lie in wait for anyone. Somebody is going to have to check their results every day, slowly and accurately … In secret, out of the team’s normal working hours … And we’re coming up to Christmas …”

“My wife’s going to Poland today, to spend Christmas with her parents,” Hartner said with a smile, lighting a postprandial cigarette. “I’m to join them on Christmas Eve. Another beer for me,” he told the waiter dancing up to the table. “You too?”

“No.” Mock thought he was hearing a stranger’s voice. “Two are enough for today. Besides, I’m going to a lecture – I can’t turn up drunk.”

BRESLAU, THAT SAME DECEMBER 20TH, 1927 SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

The white-painted lecture hall in the Monistic Community of Breslau’s building on Grünstrasse was too small to hold all the listeners who either believed in or doubted the imminent coming of the Apocalypse. The former applauded the lecturer who was just stepping up to the lectern; the
latter pouted their lips contemptuously or whistled. Mock, although he firmly identified with the opponents of the Apocalypse, clapped with measured enthusiasm and studied the people around him. The majority were women of a certain age, angry and sullen, incessantly repeating the words “such is the truth”, and asserting their aversion to everything that might burst through the corset of their principles and conventions. The small number of men, generally in their retirement, laughed out loud as they mentally levelled accusations at the lecturer that they had formulated long in advance. There were also a few present who betrayed signs of mental illness. A young man huddled in the fur collar of a worn, checked coat kept standing up and raising his hand and, since nobody gave him the opportunity to speak, would sit down again violently in his chair, curling up and hunching his narrow, rounded shoulders, and cutting himself off from the rest of the audience with a wall of furious glances. A grey-haired man with especially Semitic features sat next to Mock, browsing through notes coded in a complicated system of symbols and peering affectionately at his neighbour in the hope of attracting his admiration. When Mock maintained his stony expression, the man began to snort scornfully and tried to interest his neighbour on the other side – a plump, old woman whose multi-tiered hairstyle was crowned with a hat the size of a sailing boat – in his mysterious notes. In the corner, next to a stove belching heat, two schoolboys tussled in threadbare uniforms, rings of dried, salty sweat visible under their arms. Mock felt he stood out from von Orloff’s audience and feverishly racked his brains for ways to disguise himself. Fortunately, all eyes were fixed on Prince Alexei himself.