The Widow Killer (2 page)

It felt like ages. He had passed the burning wreckage and traipsed across a bridge covered with shards and chips of brick. A while later, a siren had sounded on the other side and the first fire engine appeared. Two private vehicles had pulled up at His house much sooner than he’d expected. That man, he remembered, that oaf I met on the stairs! He deserved it too…

No! He couldn’t kill an innocent person, especially not a man. He was not a criminal; he was an instrument. He was chosen to cleanse. That was why the method had been strictly defined for him. He’d blown it that time in Brno, true; he’d been a terrible disappointment. They’d said in the papers that the person who’d done it was a deviant. But he was not a deviant; he had just been clumsy. It was his fault they hadn’t recognized the message. He was lucky he hadn’t been punished for his failure. Or was it luck?

Clearly my services were still required!

He laughed aloud with joy: today he had pulled it off perfectly. What must they be thinking? What do they make of it? This time they must have understood! The newspapers won’t dismiss it so easily this time. Maybe they’ll use photographs too; yes, definitely—after all, words can’t do it justice. The only thing he lacked now was proof of the deed, and the papers would take care of that. An indisputably faithful picture of his work, just like the picture she had once given him as a guide.

Only now did he fully remember what happened in that apartment. While he was doing it, he’d been curiously detached, as if an outside force were directing him. He had neither felt nor perceived anything he had said, seen, or done. But it had all been recorded, and now it began to play itself back, like a film rewound to the beginning.

The past became present; the sun and the river vanished: now, in the twilight of the room, he relived each of his movements, noticed each of her reactions. And he marveled at his calm and efficiency as he quickly and precisely performed a horribly complex task. No, he was no longer a third-rate hack from Brno; in those lean, empty years he had matured into a master, just like that unknown painter.

She must have sensed it as well. The whore in Brno had squirmed and squealed like a crazy woman, even fouled herself—ugh! that was what had repulsed him most afterward—while this woman had immediately recognized his authority. Maybe she wouldn’t have screamed without the gag, but he couldn’t have risked it. He couldn’t tell when her life ended, because even in death her doglike stare followed him. Now he had finished the task, and when he stepped back, he saw that it was good.

The film ended, the lights came up, and the river was back again. He was even more tired after this rest than he had been before it. Sternly he ordered his muscles to pull him upright and grab his satchel. Now he had to find a place in this unfamiliar city where he could inform the one who gave him the task that it was complete.

Through a blast-shattered window the chill day entered the room. Its pungent air stilled his stomach. Meanwhile, Assistant Detective Morava mustered his strength, as he had often done before, so he would not look inexperienced in front of the Germans. There were six of them, all but one clad in the long leather coats that had become the secret police’s civilian uniform in the Protectorate. Their apparent leader was a giant whose chest threatened to split his coat open.

Morava introduced himself. They merely nodded expectantly, which he took as permission to go about his business. Briskly he pulled out a folded tablet and opened it to a clean page, so he could take notes for a later briefing, as Beran had taught him: the pathologists may laugh at it, Morava, but this is how we get the human picture before it disappears under a mountain of professional jargon.

The Germans left him alone, conferring among themselves sotto voce, as if they didn’t want to disturb him. He watched them in his peripheral vision as he worked, trying to guess what they might want from him. At least it prevented him from devoting his full attention to the gruesome spectacle on the table.

Only the civilian in the beige overcoat acted like a detective; he silently watched Morava wade through the mosaic of fine shards around the table with the woman’s torso on it, filling the pages of his notebook with tiny handwriting. However, when Morava finished, it was the hefty one who addressed him. The man’s high Gestapo rank was almost palpable; he stood, feet apart, and planted his hands on his hips in imitation of his Fuhrer.

“Your opinion?”

Morava answered as concisely as possible, the way he’d been taught.

“A sadistic murder.”

“We figured that out already,” the German snarled at him. “Any other bright ideas?”

Morava had always found it difficult to talk to people who raised their voices. His windbag of a father had labeled him a scaredy-cat, and this reputation followed him to Prague. Only Superintendent Beran had realized that it was an inborn aversion to the sort of violence that hides intellectual weakness.

Morava had to clear his throat again, but then he answered firmly. “At the moment, I can only tell you what I see. I’d have to investigate, but given the nature of the case—”

The man he took to be a detective broke in.

“The colonel wanted to know if you recognize an MO.”

Morava looked over at the corpse again. This time his training prevailed; he examined it dispassionately, as an object of professional interest. The bizarre and horrible tableau did not remind him of anything he’d read or learned in his few years as an apprentice. He shook his head. The man probed further.

“Do you know of any religious sect that might have done this?”

He should have thought of that himself. Yes, there could be a ritual behind it, but what? There was nothing like this in Czech history, at least.

“No, not offhand.”

“Where the hell is your boss?” the large one exploded.

When afflicted, Morava used to imagine his tormentors without their clothes. It still worked; the overfed pig in front of him wasn’t the least bit frightening.

“With the rest of my colleagues, at the air-raid sites,” he explained. “The city was just bombed for the first time.”

“No! You’re joking!” The Gestapo officer turned caustic again. “How could we have missed it? You want to know what bombing is, kid? Go have a look at Dresden!”

Suddenly he sounded almost insulted. Morava imagined the sinks and toilets hanging from the walls of the corner house, things their owners had been using just a short while ago. Those people certainly hadn’t missed it.

“The police commissioner is having the superintendent tracked down,” Morava assured him. “I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

The practical one spoke up again. Slender and gray-haired, he looked like the most reasonable of the lot and differed noticeably from the rest in his behavior and tone.

“Will you wait for him or start the investigation yourself? How quickly can you put a team together?”

A fellow detective, that’s why. He tried to explain it to him again.

“Our department is only authorized to investigate criminal acts committed by Czechs…”

“This one will be transferred to you.”

“But the victim is German,” Morava objected.

“Unfortunately so. Except the murderer is Czech. The building’s caretaker met him.”

Morava was dumbfounded. Privately he had been betting on a refugee or a deserter hoping to extort money and jewelry from a fellow German. But that was no motive for butchery like this.

“Well, hello,” he whispered in Czech.

In addition to years of experience in the field, Chief Inspector Buback brought an extra qualification to his new post in Prague. He was a Praguer by birth and had an excellent command of Czech.

The young detective’s involuntary gasp amused him.

Buback imagined all the things he would overhear in the near future. Hanging this case around the neck of the Czech Protectorate’s police was one of the masterly moves Colonel Meckerle was known for.

The tactic had nothing to do with the nationality of the criminal or the victim. The von Pommeren clan had a problematic reputation: in addition to the government’s general distrust of the German aristocracy, there were doubts about this particular family’s loyalty to the Fuhrer.

In the eyes of the Czechs, however, the baroness represented the German elite; her murder could prompt another bloody reprisal. Of course, at the moment that wasn’t a possibility. It would be unwise to inflame the natives when this land would soon be the site of Germany’s decisive battle with its enemies.

Meckerle knew that until they could deploy the nearly completed ultimate weapon, they would need perfect order in the Protectorate. And for this he needed absolute control of the police. Now that the small and unreliable Protectorate Army had been disbanded, the gendarmes were the only Czechs with an arsenal—even a small and militarily insignificant one—and, more importantly, a good communications system.

The murder investigation would be transferred to the Czech police: a matter of the utmost importance, they’d be told. They’d be hostages! Finding this sort of criminal was like looking for a needle in a haystack, Meckerle had assured Buback. We’ll run them ragged! We’ll dig in the spurs and pull the reins at the same time! And then, using you, he explained to Buback, we’ll get our hands around their throat!

“Elisabeth von Pommeren,” the superintendent now told the Czech, “was a member of the oldest noble family in Germany; her husband was a general of the Reich’s armed forces and was posthumously awarded the Knight’s Cross. For this reason, we are invoking the Security Decree of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia, signed on first September 1939, section two, paragraph twelve, according to which—and I quote—‘the police departments of the Protectorate are required to act on the instructions of the Reich’s criminal police,” end quote. What’s more, the imperial protector will no doubt offer a reward for the capture of this criminal. The murderer must be found. Lack of diligence will be treated as sabotage.“

Buback watched the youth scribbling in his notebook, concentrating so hard his tongue nearly hung out. The kid wasn’t their intended audience, but he would convey the message accurately to his superiors. Thirty-three months ago, thousands of Czech hostages had paid with their lives for the assassination of the Nazis’ acting imperial protector, Reinhard Heydrich. The boy could certainly imagine the carnage to come if Germany decided that this murder had a political motive.

“Do you want your people to keep the evidence?” the youth asked with surprising practicality.

“I’ll tell you what we want,” Meckerle thundered. “I want that monster’s head. How you get it is your business! Detective Buback will be watching your every move. Unless he finds incredibly good reasons for your mistakes and delays, I will personally bring them to the attention of the Prague Castle and Berlin.”

The colonel’s explosions always rattled his own men; therefore, it irritated Buback when the kid merely cleared his throat again.

“I understand. May I use the telephone?”

Meckerle gestured with a glove.

“Tell your supervisor that his absence today is quite exceptionally excused. Tomorrow at eight hundred hours I expect to see his personal status report on my desk at Bredovska Street. Even”—and here he raised his voice again—“if it’s thundering and bombs are falling!”

More bombs were falling on his beloved Dresden as they spoke, Buback remembered. Was his old home still standing? Anyway, what was the difference… ? Once the others had trooped off, Buback took his anger out on the Czech.

“Is there a problem? The telephone is in the entrance hall; hop to it and look smart. We haven’t touched anything here, it’s your neck on the line now.”

The kid rushed off and was heard asking a Jitka to get him an autopsy team quickly. Buback was alone in the apartment for the first time. He looked at the unbelievable object, which someone had created not long ago from a human being, and shivered.

He described in a whisper how he had done the deed and, as expected, heard praise. He left the church a new man; the unbearable tension of the previous days was behind him. He had done it! He’d erased the shame of Brno. He had proved he was worthy of trust, and now he, and no one else, would carry out the rest of the assignment. This morning he had still doubted himself; would it be humanly possible? But incredibly she had calmed his fears and confirmed him as her judge on earth.

For the first time in years, his spirits were high. However, he had a new problem. He had less and less control over his body. Even after a long rest, he felt as if he’d been marching all day. But even when doing it he’d just stood there; there had been no resistance. Why this stupor; why did even a light bag weigh him down?

The answer he received was so simple he had to laugh. A woman rolled her bicycle out of a nearby courtyard; as she walked she bit into the heel of a loaf of bread, and his stomach immediately cramped up. Of course, he realized; with all the excitement, he’d had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday.

He placed his satchel on the sidewalk and pulled his wallet from the inside pocket of his raincoat. Sure, he had tons of ration coupons left, even halfway through the month; he’d neglected himself completely the last few days. This would have to stop. If he was to succeed and fulfill the highest obligation, he needed strength.

He looked around the unfamiliar street and wasn’t the least bit surprised to find a restaurant directly opposite. “Angel’s.” How appropriate. His spirits revived immediately and he could feel his saliva start to flow.

Superintendent Beran had an excellent alibi. At the ruins of a building in Pankrac that had housed German bureaucrats’ families, he had met the entourage of State Secretary Karl Hermann Frank. Frank was the Protectorate’s eternal second fiddle, but he had outlived all the first fiddles; he ordered Beran to accompany him as he toured the path of the raid. When the messenger from Police Commissioner Rajner delivered Colonel Meckerle’s command, Frank had merely shaken his head briefly.

However, the report, which reached them less than an hour later, roused the impassive Nazi to anger.