The Widow Killer (24 page)

The closely written leaves of Jitka’s family Bible suggested that they had lived a few steeples away for at least as long. In her family, the women held sway, since according to records the imperial and royal press-gangs had taken most of their men and never returned them.

What Morava now saw in Jitka seemed to be the reincarnation of her female ancestors. It was as if his future wife had in the course of several weeks taken on the combined strength of all of them.

When she overheard the men’s conversation in Beran’s office and stepped in to offer herself as human bait, Morava had counted on the superintendent’s refusal. Beran did try to dissuade her, but stopped short of forbidding her once he had heard her out.

“Gentlemen,” she addressed them in German, and Morava could not shake the feeling that she was playing for Buback’s support, “you knew the risks, and yet you decided to find a woman who would come forward in the interest of the cause. I’d hate to think you’d be less concerned for another woman than you would for me. Therefore I have to assume you’ll give your consent.”

You’re expecting a child, he thought, but did not dare say it aloud. Buback’s presence still discomforted him, even after his unexpectedly warm congratulations. As if in response, Jitka said, “It’s not as if I want to make a career of this; once you find someone else, I’ll stop, or we can alternate. You can count on me tomorrow, though, so start making preparations.”

Beran shrugged, Buback was silent, and Morava had to give in. He set to work even more intently on the details of his plan. It had to run at least twice daily, and at any time and place the unknown butcher might take the bait. That night he tested the most dangerous scene in the kitchen with Jitka, confirming for himself what she had known from the start: This trap could not fail.

As soon as his people gathered at the cemetery the next day, he ran a test. Jitka stood over the false burial site in the light April rain, dressed in a rubber raincoat; they were still hunting for black clothes and a mackintosh for her. The technicians and the sexton had placed the grave on one of the side paths, just like the ones where the murderer had snared his victims. The baby of the group, Jetel, played the killer; he followed her at a distance without even noticing that Sebesta kept him constantly in view from a safe remove. The slow walk home took Jitka nearly fifteen minutes. Once there, she opened the door with two pronounced turns of the key, emphasizing her solitude to the stalker.

When Jetel rang, he heard her answer that the door was open. Entering the unfamiliar hallway, he looked around. To his left he saw stairs leading up, and to the right three doors, the farthest a crack open.

“Where are you?” he now called out, as most people would have done in that situation.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Jitka responded. “Come on back!”

He took about a dozen steps and from the foot of the staircase glanced into the kitchen. Jitka stood at a large dining table, her back to him; she was pouring milk at the stove.

“One moment,” she said. “It’s almost ready for you, Mr. Roubal.”

Jetel drew his ruler, which they had armed him with instead of a knife, looked through the door again, and quickly crossed the threshold. Instantly he found himself in a lock from behind that immobilized him.

“Good work, Jitka; good work, gentlemen,” Beran said a moment later, satisfied.

Pinning Jetel were Morava and Matlak, the former freestyle wrestling champion of the St. Matthew’s Day carnival. Buback followed a step behind. The four of them had been packed into the dark alcove under the steps, and Jetel had not even noticed them. Less than a minute later, Sebesta, their last piece of insurance, barged in.

They thanked the somewhat shaken young man and evaluated the trial run. It had been a success. Even Morava was relieved to see that everything ran like clockwork and his dear decoy was in practically no danger. Still, he tried once more to dissuade her from her decision. As the others discussed the incident, he reminded her in lowered tones, “You’re not feeling well, after all…”

As if she had expected this objection, she answered just as quietly, “Both our mothers were right; I felt fine this morning when I got up. Maybe I needed this mission to stop me from being so preoccupied with myself. Believe me, it’ll be good for the little one as well.”

As had happened several times recently, the German then surprised them with an offer.

“The Reich’s criminal police will not be mere observers in this task. Miss Modra will share the role, on my authority, with Marleen Baumann, a member of the traveling German Theater of Prague who is willing to take part every second or third day.”

He then disappeared in his official car to return in half an hour with a creature everyone at first took for a young girl. However, a second close look told them otherwise. Marleen Baumann’s type always baffled Morava—he was still a country boy when it came to the fair sex—but he was grateful to her for bearing part of Jitka’s cross, and she flew through the test just as successfully. The few necessary Czech phrases she committed swiftly to memory, pronouncing them with an accent, but comprehensibly.

When Buback took her back, the remaining Czechs convened around the table for a last consultation.

“Children,” the superintendent began, once he had asked for a cup of the nettle tea Jitka had laid in last summer, “there are five—including the Brno woman possibly six—dead women and one young man, who was an accidental bystander. Our experience from the prewar years gives us hope that the compulsions driving this monster will work the same way next time. But since he has left so few traces behind so far, you must be on your guard constantly. We are dealing with an exceptional criminal intelligence. Never underestimate him, not even for a moment, or you will cause a tragedy, and this time, we will be the victims. The ladies helping us aren’t the only ones in danger; anyone the murderer thinks is in his way is at risk. He will kill him without hesitation, just as he killed that boy.”

For now, they left Jitka at home and found a rental shop which could round out her widow’s wardrobe. Morava returned with Beran to Number Four and quickly ran through all the investigations. Every suspect had a reliable alibi for most of the dates in question. He pulled some newly arrived reports for further investigation and came across a second note from the Klasterec priest requesting that they contact him about a stolen and returned (so what’s the problem then?) picture of a saint with the exceedingly odd name of Reparata.

He had the novice Jetel walk the letter down to the appropriate department, and on a whim stopped in at Buback’s office. When the German unlocked the door for him—these days he always kept it locked—Morava requested a short consultation and was amicably let in.

He wanted to thank Herr Oberkriminalrat for the moral and material support he had given the whole group—and especially him—in the last few days. Would it be possible to expand their cooperation? Morava saw, for example, that there was no interpreter present; had they failed to honor the agreement? Should he go over today’s reports personally with Mr. Buback?

No, Buback countered quickly, the translator was perfectly adequate. As Morava could see—the German pointed to the carefully stacked sheaf on the desk—he had finished with this lot and unfortunately had come to the same conclusion: The murderer had managed to steer clear of their net. It seemed, he mused (and Morava silently agreed with him), that it was precisely his inconspicuousness that made the widow killer a continuing danger: He was a dime-a-dozen type trying to make himself stand out. A baited trap did seem the most effective of ineffective methods.

Morava asked him to convey his thanks to Mrs. Baumann. Given the reaction of the female workers in the police department, he thought it was brave of her to volunteer. Of course, his gratitude had a purely personal motive as well, he admitted, since she was sharing the risk with his fiancee.

“Believe me, I know what you mean,” Buback said, closing the conversation. “After all, Mrs. Baumann is my close friend.”

“I just don’t know what to think about him anymore,” Morava reported to Jitka that evening, shaking his head. “I do believe Beran that Buback has other reasons for being in our department; a month ago I even feared him at times, but I don’t think his sincerity is entirely false. Any thoughts?”

“You said it yourself.”

“What?”

“A month ago he was alone; now he isn’t.”

“The phrase ‘close friend’ doesn’t have to mean…”

“I saw the way she looked at him this morning.”

“How was that?”

“Like this.”

Jitka’s adoring gaze warmed him, but only briefly.

“Meanwhile he looked here and there, just the way you do when other people are around.”

“Wait a minute, what are you trying—”

“Come on, Jan! Men are naturally ashamed to show their feelings in public. In any case, this Marleen has decided he’s hers. And in his loneliness, he’s taken a step in her direction, whether he knows it or not.”

All the while she gazed at him with her big brown eyes until he could no longer stand it and went around the kitchen table to kiss her. Then he asked her a favor: “For God’s sake, take off those widow’s garments. I’ll be crazy with fear every time anyway. If it works out, I’ll come guard you personally along with Matlak. But be awfully careful, my darling!”

“Don’t worry. You’ll protect me, and God will protect both of us; what could possibly happen?”

Kroloff’s behavior was merely the most graphic example of Bu-back’s fall from grace in the department. The skeletal figure had clearly noticed that at a certain point—after his confrontation with Buback, in fact—the colonel stopped calling personally and began sending all his messages through Kroloff.

Now Kroloff relayed another one: Buback was to report immediately to the head of the SS special units. The tone in his voice betrayed his glee at his superior’s evident humiliation. The detective could see that Kroloff had never truly reconciled himself to the way he had been shunted aside since Buback’s arrival; Buback sensed a rancor in him that at the first opportunity would erupt into revenge.

He forced himself to react casually, accepting the order and Kroloff’s behavior with apparent indifference. The mental discipline he had learned as an interrogator came as naturally to him as the multiplication tables. He pulled on his overcoat and directed Kroloff with a short glance to open the door for him as always. Then he turned around.

“Kroloff?”

“Yes… ?”

“Tell the colonel I said thanks for the fish.”

He watched the skeleton’s jaw drop, and hid his grin. Would Kroloff convey the message? And what about Meckerle? Would he swallow it, or explode? Grete insisted that despite all his bad qualities, the giant did feel a need to preserve his masculine honor. However, these were purely personal problems of the chiefs own making; there was nothing honorable about disgracing Buback publicly. It was high time the colonel realized who he was dealing with. Buback was, after all, a specialist; technically, he answered not to Prague but to Berlin.

His defiance grew stronger when the SS officer led him into the room on the second floor of the former Czech law faculty. Judging by the spaciousness and mahogany paneling, it had been the office of at least a university rector. Instead of standing up or motioning him to sit down, the pockmarked SS major snapped out his right hand in a greeting.

“Heil Hitler! Your orders were to determine and report locations from which the Prague police might direct a rebellion against the great German Reich. Is this correct?”

Buback knew the type. He would have to put a stop to this arrogance straightaway or the man would wipe the floor with him. After all, Buback’s borrowed rank made them equals. He put his hand on the nearest chair.

“May I?” he asked as he pulled it up to the table. Without waiting for a response, he sat down face-to-face with the major.

The scarred face twitched, but that was all.

“You are correct,” Buback affirmed, “and my report, as I see, is in front of you.”

The SS man knew he had met his master; he changed his tone.

“We have worked out a plan of action that will let us occupy communications hubs and potential foci of resistance within two hours of an alert. You are to give me crucial information on when we should put it into effect. Tomorrow, today, yesterday even?”

Now he whinnied, displaying a mouth tiled with gold.

“I warned the colonel,” Buback said, “that shutting down the city radio station prematurely will prevent us from warning the German population of air raids and passing on other information important for their survival.”

“We don’t intend to destroy the machinery,” his opponent objected, “just get the Czech workers out. Our men can broadcast in German.”

“And do you have twenty free radio technicians?”

“If we occupy the central office, one person can do it, right? Or two, to allow for bathroom breaks.”

“The Czechs can broadcast from any of the nineteen local stations.”

“We’ll lock and guard all of them.”

“But we should be using them to direct emergency operations; otherwise they’ll be totally crippled.”

“Fine, we’ll take forty technicians from some regiment or other.”

“And forty translators, so they can figure out what’s going on?”

The SS man grappled with this.

“You’re saying we should let them stab us in the back?”

“An uprising doesn’t come out of nowhere, Major—you know, by the way, that we have the same rank!—an uprising spreads, and it will take at least a couple of hours before things get out of hand. This country is thoroughly occupied and we have a powerful presence in Prague, both in the police and with the army. We couldn’t possibly miss the first signals. If you’re really capable of striking within two hours, we should wait. Otherwise we might bring an avalanche down on ourselves for no good reason. Will you take responsibility for this decision?”

Scarface was on the defensive again.

“Will you take responsibility for seeing we’re informed in time?”