The Widow Killer (3 page)

“How repulsive—disgusting!” he screamed at the superintendent, as if he had suddenly discovered the Czech to be responsible for the murder. “I expect you to find the murderer immediately. And I hope, for your people’s sake, that it’s some deviant and not a bloody Resistance fighter trying to frighten the Germans in Prague. Otherwise you Czechs will pay for it from now till doomsday.”

Beran proceeded immediately to the scene of the crime but found only a locked building. The single policeman out front was on his way home. The on-site investigation had just ended, he told Beran, and they’d taken the remaining pieces back to the pathology lab. What pieces? The officer hadn’t seen them himself and his secondhand description sounded like the product of a sick imagination. The superintendent returned to the Bartolomejska Street office, wondering whom he could put on the case. The Germans had shot his best homicide detective in the Heydrich affair—for “condoning” the assassination—and his senior detectives, both aces, were ill with the flu. He was glad it was the ever-diligent Morava who’d stepped in in a pinch, but his country-born assistant could be as stubborn as a mule; he hoped the kid hadn’t made waves.

The assistant detective was now sitting on the other side of his desk. The photos had not yet arrived, so Morava was reading his notes from the scene to Beran. They were far beyond anything even Beran had ever witnessed.

“Point A: The victim, forty-five, a well-bred woman in good physical condition, evidently offered no resistance. Apart from the mutilations listed below, there are no scratches on her skin, and her nails show no traces of a struggle;

“Point B: Using several strips of wide tape (the sort used at post offices and to protect windows against bomb blasts), he taped over her mouth and genitals; the doctor’s preliminary investigation suggests that she was not raped;

“Point C: The perpetrator tied the victim to the dining-room table with straps—judging by the cuts on the skin—on her back, so that her head fell back over the edge; he tied her arms at the elbow to her legs underneath the tabletop;

“Point D: The perpetrator cut off both breasts just above the chest and placed them next to the victim on an oval serving dish, which he apparently took from the sideboard;

“Point E: The perpetrator sliced open the victim’s belly from chest to below the waist, pulled out her small intestine, twisted it skillfully into a ball, and placed it in a soup tureen;

“Point F: The perpetrator cut the victim’s throat almost through to the spinal cord; however, he did not cut the cord itself, so the head remained hanging beneath the body and the blood ran into a brass container, which he had taken from under a potted ficus tree;

“and finally, Point G: Not even the doctor could determine in his first examination when the victim died. But the panic in her eyes,” Morava added, closing his notebook, “leads us to conclude that unfortunately she did not die immediately.”

His boss reacted much as Morava had at the scene of the crime.

“Good job, Morava. Is it the dream of a mad butcher?”

“Or a surgeon…”

“And the Germans think it’s the Resistance?”

“The perpetrator was Czech; that’s all they needed.”

The superintendent studied the closely written notes he had made during the presentation.

“Was anything missing?”

“The victim had precious stones on her hands and neck. More valuables and a considerable sum of cash were found in her handbag and in a small air-raid suitcase by the apartment door.”

“How did the murderer get into the apartment?”

“She must have opened the door for him herself. The keys were in the lock, inside. When he left, he just pulled the door shut.”

Morava watched tensely as Beran worked his way down the feared list of question marks. For years now it had been his goal to answer all of them correctly. So far he had never made it; today he sensed he was the closest yet. An idea popped into his head: if he did it today, he’d go talk to Jitka too, before someone else beat him to it.

“Was the front door of the building unlocked?”

“No, but every occupant has a key.”

“Who could have let the perpetrator into the building?”

“Apparently the victim herself did it.”

“Arguments for.”

“From his apartment, the caretaker saw her come in and heard the elevator going up. Soon after that the sirens sounded; he wanted to make his usual rounds to see that everyone was in the shelter. But the bombs were already falling, and he ran out onto the embankment in a panic—as he realized later, not just in his slippers, but without his keys. If the door had been locked, he wouldn’t have gotten out. So she was the one who forgot to lock up, and the murderer took advantage of it.”

“Unless he was waiting in the apartment.”

Morava gulped.

“How could he… ?”

“Can we rule out the possibility that he got into the building before she did? Say, as a repairman? Or that he got the keys from her?”

Morava saw both his goals recede into the distance.

“No…”

“So we can’t determine how long the slaughter took him.”

Slaughter! His boss had found the precise word for it. And at the same time was testing him.

“That we can. After all, he couldn’t have started without her.”

Beran grinned in agreement and Morava’s confidence grew; at least he hadn’t fallen for a trick question. His instructor plowed on through his thicket of notes.

“The caretaker says he began his rounds a quarter hour after the raid.”

“I’d say half an hour after.”

“Why?”

“I went back along the route with him. He waited under the bridge in case there were more bombs. He was already in a state of shock.”

“Even half an hour isn’t much for such a complicated vivisection. We can draw some conclusions from that.”

“One thing’s clear as day.” Morava excitedly put forward his theory. “He was prepared in advance; he knew exactly what he wanted to do and how to do it. He had everything with him, like a master craftsman. I doubt we’ll even find his fingerprints. And he must be incredibly skillful; the caretaker didn’t notice anything odd about him, even after that butchery.”

“What did he think when he met him?”

“Outside all hell had broken loose; men from the gas and electric companies were going building to building to assess the damage…”

“And have you simply ruled out,” Beran asked, with obvious incredulity in his voice, “that it might be a false lead?”

Morava was shocked.

“You mean that the caretaker did it himself? Mr. Beran, you’d have to meet the man! When he found the apartment open and saw the butchery, he knew he’d met the murderer. He was sure the guy would be back soon to kill him too, and he lost control of his bowels right there.”

“Morava, don’t exaggerate.”

So Morava described the incredible picture of the witness pulling down his long underwear during the interview.

“He can’t remember anything. He was still walking around in his slippers when I got there. Even our doctor couldn’t get anything out of him. He insisted that the raid took down the building right next door, and he’d even begun to persuade himself that the bomb did it to her. He remembers that he met a man on the steps, but that’s all.”

“Is it really?”

Morava was on guard because Beran’s expression announced he had missed something crucial.

“Except that it was a man…”

“So how did he know the man was Czech?”

Uh-oh, Morava thought, his heart sinking. I should have been a postman instead…

“I don’t know…” he admitted humbly.

“Which of the Germans said so? The head?”

“No, their detective. Of course, he could have been bluffing.”

“Where’s the caretaker?”

“At home, I guess…”

“Have Jitka get us a car.”

Thank God for the “us,” Morava consoled himself as he left the office; he could have just sent me packing on a burglary case. The girl smiled warmly at him as always and his heart began to thump. Does she feel sorry for me, he wondered; has Beran told her what a loser I am? It was depressingly clear he would never impress either of them.

As he wiped the plate with the last bit of dumpling he felt so wonderful that he remembered her again. Something yummy for your tummy, she used to say. Their Moravian cabbage really hit the spot; how had they learned to make it in Prague? He wasn’t a beer man, but even this fairly weak stuff had a kick to it—astonishing in wartime—that spoke of kegs stored deep underground and well-maintained pipes. The pub was nearly empty; a pair of regulars huddled by the tap. Their loud argument triggered his memory. The raid! There had been an air raid…

He racked his brain, trying to recall what had happened. Yes, he could see himself doing it, wading through glass shards which appeared out of nowhere to cover the carpet. There he was, passing a house recently leveled by aerial bombardment; how could he not have heard anything? Strange. No matter how hard he tried, everything that happened just before and after it was gone; the only thing remaining was it itself.

The cemetery—yes, that he still remembered. His act had even drowned out the bombs. No coincidence that they began falling here today.

Of all conceivable feelings, only relief and pride made sense. So why was he suddenly uneasy? And why was his stomach still growling so unpleasantly? Why was the tension he’d released at noon building up inside him again? What was his brain trying to tell him? After all, he’d done the deed, gotten the approval. Suddenly he knew. The man!

The one who’d appeared out of nowhere on the staircase. He’d been so surprised he’d just let him pass—even said hello to him! This was the one person who could ruin everything. How could he have let him go? To fulfill the mission he had to remain anonymous. He’d have to get rid of his comfortable army coat and his favorite bag before he went a step further. And what if this man had a good memory for faces?

What could he have been thinking? The man must have been going to see her; where else could he have been headed? She had no husband; they had been seeing each other. Yes, of course he’d have wanted to drop by after that scare. Like a pig in rut. And people like that deserve punishment!

But who was it? Where would he find him? Now that he knew the source of his discomfort, the fog lifted and he could think clearly. The fellow had been in slippers and a shirt, no jacket, in February. Probably from the same building, then. But those apartments were for the wealthier classes; the man certainly didn’t belong there. And why trudge up the stairs instead of taking the elevator?

Of course. The caretaker.

He rose to pay and perform the deed.

The building’s service apartment consisted of a tiny kitchen and a small living room. Small details revealed the caretaker to be a widower who tried to maintain order and cleanliness. They could see him from the sidewalk, repairing the shattered windowpanes with tape—the same kind the murderer used, Morava remembered. The old man opened the door for them with the light off, and then shuffled away to pull down the shades. Morava was intrigued by the way Beran was sniffing. Could he smell the underwear?

The caretaker was still unable or unwilling to remember what the man on the staircase had looked like. To distract him, the superintendent asked a few questions about the baroness. He gleaned only a couple of superficial observations; no one in the von Pommeren family knew Czech, and the caretaker’s German consisted of barely two dozen indispensable expressions. The general had been transferred here from Berlin just after the occupation of Czechoslovakia. Both he and his son had fallen on the front, and the baroness had had both urns buried at the Vysehrad cemetery nearby, where she visited them every day.

Morava followed studiously as Beran reeled in his line, bringing the conversation back around to the morning’s events.

“You greeted the man first, right?”

“Yep,” said the caretaker without hesitation.

“How?”

“Well… ‘dobrej den,” I guess. Just ’hello.“ ”

“And he said?”

“The same. He said, ”Dobrej den.“ Yep, I’m sure of it.”

“So that’s exactly what you remember?”

“Well, he said it sort of strange like…”

“Strange in what way?”

“I dunno…”

“Did he stutter? Hesitate? Mumble? Mutter? Did he have a lazy r? A hoarse voice? Or a high one?”

Morava was amazed at the stream of possibilities his boss poured forth, but the caretaker kept shaking his head.

“What was so strange about it?”

“Dunno… something just wasn’t right.”

Morava dared to enter the game.

“Something about his clothes?”

“Maybe…”

Beran lunged into the gap.

“So how was he dressed?”

“If I knew, I’d tell ya… Look, I had enough for today; did this young feller tell ya what happened to me? Crapped in my pants.”

He sounded almost proud of it. The superintendent decided to call it a day and stood up. Morava had a flash of inspiration.

“So you definitely said to him… how was it?”

“I said, ”Dobrej den.“…”

“And he said…”

“The same thing.”

“And could he have said it slightly differently, maybe ‘dobry den’? So, ”dobry‘ instead of ’dobrej‘?“

“Yeah. That’s what he said. Just like you said it. Like how they teach us in school, in books, you know?”

Beran’s gaze suddenly turned respectful. Morava warmed to his task.

“And something about his appearance didn’t fit with how he spoke?” I suppose…

“What would have fit?”

“Urn… what you’re wearing: a hat, a winter coat…”

“And what wouldn’t have?”

Morava was encouraged by Beran’s continued silence.

The caretaker looked briefly down at his thermals.

“What I’m wearing…”

“So was he dressed in something similar?”

Morava had noticed long ago that when people of low intelligence were forced to think hard, the exertion made them suffer almost physically. When the man finally spoke, there was a pained expression on his face.

“Look, lemme sleep on it, I’m worn out today.”

The superintendent had the caretaker let them into the baroness’s apartment. A bitter cold welcomed them. They pulled the brocaded drapes closed over the blown-out windows and turned on the lights in the now darkened apartment. Beran walked around the table, the glass crunching under his feet as he sniffed, doglike.