The Widow Killer (17 page)

He felt each swallow electrify him like the galvanized strips of tin his chemistry professor had once given him to hold. The emptiness inside him warmed and became more tolerable, and he stopped seeing himself from outside. Even his exacting and intractable brain, which never stopped thinking, was beguiled by the bubbles; he turned off time and space and simply existed, like a pleasantly sated animal. Only his fingers moved, lifting the bottle regularly, filling the goblet and raising it to his lips.

He did not even speak when she came out of the bathroom in her terry robe, removed the old record from the gramophone, opened a new bottle, and lit one cigarette after another from a short pearl holder, putting on album after album of music forbidden in the Reich as the product of inferior races. Despite the wail of saxophones, he must have fallen asleep for a while; when he awoke it was quiet, and she was trying to remove his jacket.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “please feel free to make yourself comfortable and stay. Our lord and leader is temporarily out of the picture. Total house arrest.”

He slowly began to regain consciousness.

“Thank you, Marleen, but I’d better not complicate your life any further.”

“First of all, Marleen is my stage name. The director of our group hoped it would remind people of Lili the whore from that hit song; I’m an ordinary German Gretchen. Second, even if his wife weren’t around, he has no idea I’m here today; we were supposed to spend the night in Karlsbad. And third, I’ll complicate my life if it pleases me to do so, which you definitely shouldn’t take as an attempt to seduce you. I just thought you needed a bit of company today.”

He shivered with a kind of shame.

“Lord knows I do…”

“When you want to sleep, I’ll make you up a bed.”

He had no strength to protest. After a hot shower that tired him further, he put on his white undershirt again and his shorts, and wrapped a bath towel around his waist to seem more fully dressed. She greeted his appearance with a hearty laugh.

“A chastity belt? I have seen a naked man before, once.”

Soon after, he lay on a narrow couch in the living room-kitchen, staring into the darkness. Complete calm reigned in the building and the yard out back, but he was as hopelessly alert as in broad daylight. Now! Now it will come, he was sure; first all his own wounds would open before his eyes, and then the abyss where his people’s fateful piper had resolved to lure their entire nation.

At that moment he knew for sure that the glorious secret weapon was nothing more than a final deadly lie—a bluff, a boast, a dodge, a trap—base deception and trickery meant to prolong for another few weeks this twilight of the idols. The ones who fell for it would obey Hitler’s monstrous order, transforming their homeland into a desert that would never support life again, much less support all those thousands of young Germans freezing in the pre-spring night in the south Moravian woods—and all of them together were doomed to rack and ruin, just as he was; he would consider himself lucky if they merely shot him without torturing him first.

Why wait around? He had lost all the ties that force a man to live for others’ sake. The only remaining reason for his existence was to snoop around the Czech police force, which would influence the course of the war about as much as a swarm of mosquitoes influences the weather. Why not do the one thing that was within his power, since he actually had the means… ?

He’d left his pistol at home, but the solitude of this attic apartment would be the perfect place!

He got up, turned on the light, and managed to open the kitchen door noiselessly. Grete Baumann’s forehead was creased in sleep, and her chin was propped against her hand; she looked as if she were deep in thought. He left the door ajar, and in the scattered beam of light he searched for the hanger with his dark suit on it. As he returned to the kitchen on tiptoes, he looked over at her one last time and found her eyes open.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked.

“Yes, I would…”

He stripped off his underclothes and she lifted the blanket. She was naked and drew him close with no overtures or ceremony.

When he clasped Grete in his arms, it was like barriers collapsing. He became his old unrestrained self once more, the one Hilde had tamed with her tenderness, and his long abstinence made him even more passionate.

He felt his life depended on their love.

And he realized that Grete was opening every corner of herself to him.

Morning found them in a lovers’ competition over who could give the other more and better pleasure; they were acrid and ashen from physical exhaustion but, aware that this night would never be repeated, they neither were able nor wanted to break apart.

Hour after hour they barely spoke; occasionally he heard her call weakly, “Oh, ja!” or “Oh, Gott!” but if he said anything himself, he did not notice.

At seven the alarm clock went off. They were so engrossed in each other that moments went by before she flung her hand over her head to turn it off.

“Sorry,” she said hoarsely, “got to catch the tour… ”

“And I’ve got to get to work…”

“Good thing I’m in a chorus.”

“Good thing I have subordinates.”

She returned from the bathroom a few short minutes later, dressed, coiffed, and made up. He was further impressed.

“You’re like a soldier.”

“I’m a wartime lover.”

When he came out of the bathroom the scent of strong Dutch cocoa, like he had not had since childhood, wafted from the table. She held her cup to her mouth with both hands, but did not drink, merely shook her head thoughtfully.

He felt uneasy. “What’s happened?”

“Something very strange. As soon as I find the words for it, I’ll tell you.”

She had praised him. Yes, he should be proud! What a great idea, having them tape each other’s mouths and bind each other’s legs! Except again there was nothing in the papers.

By now he was sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He already had four of them in the cellar behind the ice blocks. So why the silence?

At the same time, something told him they were close to breaking. He would just have to do it over and over again!

This time he settled on a Sunday, so he could vanish without being noticed. There would be lots of people there, but it might help him to blend in; he’d manage as he managed with the rest.

The third day, when he had already lost hope, he found what he was looking for.

“Beware of the sadist!” warned a small but unmissable headline. “Several brutal murders have been committed in Prague; the victims were single women who let the murderer into their apartments. The unknown assailant then sadistically slaughtered and disfigured the corpses without robbing them. The police are looking for a perpetrator and a motive, and ask the populace to take note of all suspicious persons. Women, especially those living alone, are cautioned not to admit anyone they do not know well. Information, anonymous and otherwise, will be accepted at any police station in the Protectorate.”

He was quite satisfied. Especially pleasing was their admission that he was not A burglar. And the knowledge that he could finally take a well-deserved rest before continuing on schedule.

On Easter, bombs fell on Prague for the second time. Again it was broad daylight, but this time their targets were factory complexes outside the city center. Because of the holiday, human losses were low, although the buildings were largely reduced to ruins.

“A clean job,” Beran remarked as they returned from their survey. “Or maybe just a tiny bit dirty.”

Morava did not understand.

“Two years ago,” the superintendent explained, “it might have shortened the war by a month. But at this point I have to wonder if this isn’t the first volley of a postwar rivalry.”

“But they’re allies.”

“Morava, Morava, dear little Morava, when this war ends, take care your world doesn’t collapse around you. You’re a homicide detective and a Czech, so you’re living in a dream world if you think good always fights against evil. Now, I lived twenty years in a relatively good country—I mean the old Czechoslovak Republic—and I can assure you that sometimes it turns your stomach all the same.”

Morava could not see it.

“But now that the Nazis have lost the Ruhr Basin and Silesia, only the Czech factories can rearm them.”

“That’s true too,” Beran exhaled. “And anyway youth is entitled to its hopes. As for us older folk, our skepticism probably just leads to capitulation. So let’s hear it.”

They were at the station already and back on the topic of their own work.

“So far we have had four hundred twelve calls about suspects, mostly through our office. About half of them we’ve eliminated as groundless or misleading; the rest are under investigation. Especially those in Moravia; the Russian advance on Vienna may cut them off soon.”

“Any fresh trails?”

“So far all cold ones; everyone named had an airtight alibi on at least some of the dates. But information is still coming in; it’s surprising, but even in abnormal times like these people are quick to notice deviants of all sorts. Or to invent them.”

“Such as?”

“Turning in lusty ladies’ men for stealing their wives.”

“Aha. Has Buback come up with anything?”

“He confirmed that Hunyady, the Gypsy, died in a work camp, and Thaler—the butcher and Henlein’s man—is apparently working where he is supposed to be in the Reich. We can be sure our colleagues in Brno didn’t get hold of the right man.”

“Apropos of Brno,” the superintendent remembered, “is there anything new with Jifka’s father? I haven’t seen her yet today.”

“I’m sorry; I meant to tell you. She took today off. There was a telegram last night telling her to expect a phone call at the main post office, but she’s been down there since morning. Her father is already home, we hope.”

“That’s good news. Congratulations to you as well.”

As he said it he raised his eyes queryingly and Morava as usual shook his head; so far there were no signs of other activities on Buback’s part.

“We’re both happy, but a bit afraid of how our parents will manage if there’s a battle.”

“As if we know how we’ll fare here. They might get lucky and find the front whips past them like a hurricane; we’ll be the unfortunate ones if Prague is conquered bit by bit, like a fortress. It’s in the hands of fate. Or God, in your case. Anything else?”

Finally there was something Morava was on top of.

“I think it’s safe to call him a widow killer. And it occurred to Jitka that maybe he prowls the cemetery. He might count on them leading him home, where they’re probably alone. Say he claims to sell gravestones or something…”

Beran picked up the train of thought.

“And the four deceased husbands are buried…”

“All at Vysehrad!”

“Which you should have under surveillance immediately.”

“There have been two people there since this morning. I’m going straight from here to meet them, so we can set up our surveillance.”

“Good work, Morava!” It was the first time in a while Beran had praised him, and a feeling of bliss wafted over the young detective, although this rare feather belonged in Jitka’s cap. “Look smart and hop to it.”

A cold wind lashed the intermittent rain at the cemetery, there had been two or three women all told since morning and not a single man. The pair had had plenty of time to talk tactics. The problem was that there were three entrances. Lebeda, a greenhorn Morava had conscripted in desperation, suggested that they simply close two of them off. The other two warned him in unison that it was the best way to scare the murderer off to another venue. No, they’d have to spend a portion of their lives here as sweepers, stonelayers, gardeners, beggars, or the bereaved in mourning. They had no choice but to deputize the sexton, who would be sure to notice a repeat visitor. Before doing so, Morava verified that the tubby fellow had been digging graves with an assistant on the days of the murders; otherwise the sexton himself would have become a suspect.

He returned to Bartolomejska to send a third man out to the cemetery and set two shifts for the next day. Then he called Buback at Bredovska Street and learned he was back in his Czech office. The German had not appeared at Bartolomejska Street since his odd supper with Jitka; was he waiting until her father was released? Morava knocked and opened the door.

The chief inspector was poring over a mountain of papers. When he spotted Morava he started, as if caught at something.

“What is all this?” he snarled at him without a greeting.

Morava had no idea.

“Can I have a look?”

Buback shoved the papers toward him. Morava recognized them.

“I ordered that you be sent copies of all the reports that came in from our appeal—”

“And where are the translations?”

So that’s why he’s upset? Mistake!

“My fault, I’ll put someone on it right away.”

But who? he thought despairingly; it’ll take three people a week to get through it… To his surprise the German calmed down as quickly as he had flared up.

“That’s not necessary. You don’t have the men to spare. Give me one person who can summarize the most important ones for me orally.”