HS01 - Critique of Criminal Reason

by Michael Gregorio

  ‘Nevertheless, he did not seem to share your theory about a revolutionary conspiracy being the cause of these crimes,’ Koch went on.

  ‘Professor Kant is neither a magistrate nor a policeman,’ I explained. ‘He did concede that it seems to be the most obvious explanation. He is the supreme theorist of Rationalism in Prussia. He wants a hypothesis that can be confirmed by solid evidence. When we meet him again this afternoon, I intend to provide the definitive proof that he seeks.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Koch. He did not sound entirely convinced.

  ‘And the other matter?’

  Koch placed a hand on his vest as if to calm the beating of his heart or apologise in advance for what he was about to say. ‘It concerns your brother, sir,’ he said. ‘Herr Kant spoke of him in connection with that boy this morning. Was your brother murdered, sir?’

  I half turned away, opening my bag, pretending to look for something.

  ‘Not murdered,’ I snapped. ‘As I told him, Sergeant, it was an accident. A most unfortunate accident.’

  I rifled through the contents of my bag to avoid his gaze. When I looked up again, I thought I caught an expression of bewilderment on Koch’s plain face. Brushing past him, I strode through to the connecting room.

  ‘Where are the prisoners?’ I asked.

  ‘Officer Stadtschen is waiting on your orders before he brings them up, sir,’ Koch replied, straightening his jacket, his face a neutral mask once more.

  ‘Ask him to step in on his own first, would you?’

  As if I had called the Devil, the Devil came. There was a sharp rap on the door, and Stadtschen presented himself with a stack of papers in his hands. He was an enormous man with a bloated red face, resplendent in an immaculate dark blue uniform with white stripes on his sleeves and along the seam of his riding-breeches. ‘Foreign visitors in Königsberg, sir,’ he said with a bow, handing me a copy of the list of names that had been drawn up for General Katowice.

  I took the paper from him and scanned the names.

  ‘Twenty-seven persons? In the whole of Königsberg?’

  ‘We don’t get many outlanders these days, sir,’ the Officer replied. ‘There are sailing-ships, of course, but they come and go the same day, most of them, or the crews sleep aboard. Casual visitors avoid the city, sir. No sensible man wants to get himself murdered.’

  ‘Are any of the names on the list known to the police?’

  ‘No, sir. I checked them myself.’

  I noted the names of the three gem-traders who had been at The Baltic Whaler the night before. ‘You searched the inn, did you not?’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ he said, placing a large bundle of papers on the desk before me. ‘This is a sample of the material we discovered there.’

  ‘Where was it hidden?’

  ‘In a secret room, Herr Procurator. A trap-door beneath the carpet in one of the upstairs bedrooms.’

  The image of Morik spying came back to me. Was that what he had been trying to communicate to me the night before? That a seditious meeting was going on in that room opposite my window?

  ‘Papers and maps, sir,’ Stadtschen went on.

  ‘Maps?’

  ‘Of Königsberg, sir, and other places, too. And pamphlets written in French. The name of Bonaparte figured large in the texts.’

  ‘Did you find any weapons?’

  ‘None, sir,’ Stadtschen replied with a grin, ‘except for an old pistol in the bedchamber of Totz. It’s as rusty as a lost anchor and would blow up in the face of anyone rash enough to fire it.’

  ‘How many persons did you arrest?’

  ‘The landlord and his wife only. Those tradesmen that Sergeant Koch said you were interested in had left the city early this morning. They may have left by sea. The gendarmes are trying to trace them now.’

  ‘Did Totz or his wife say anything at the moment of their arrest?’

  ‘I didn’t pay them much attention, sir,’ Stadtschen replied. ‘I had more important business to attend to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Stadtschen wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘The lads have been under a lot of pressure since these murders started up. I had a tough time keeping them in order. I didn’t want them taking justice into their own hands, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘We may as well begin.’

  Stadtschen snapped to attention. ‘First, sir, General Katowice wants the prisoners in Section D to be separated from the rest.’

  ‘Section D?’ I queried.

  ‘The deportees, sir. The General wants them to be moved to Pillau port, sir. Ready for immediate embarkation. If there is a French plot, the prison will start to fill up with political agitators and terrorists. Königsberg Fortress could turn into the Prussian equivalent of the Bastille, sir. That was how the General put it. Sixty deportees left Swinemunde jail yesterday aboard the Tsar Petr. It should dock in Pillau some time tomorrow, sir. Procurator Rhunken had drawn up a provisional list’ – Stadtschen took a deep breath, and dropped his eyes – ‘but, well, he didn’t have the chance to sign or seal it, sir.’

  He handed me a document written in italic script on heavy parchment. I knew the Royal Edict referred to in the title. A copy of the original had been sent to my office in Lotingen some months before. Fear of a Jacobin revolution had taken hold in Prussia; all prison governors had been ordered to compile a list of ‘men who pose a threat to the security of the commonwealth, using every violent expedient to free themselves from captivity, having frustrated the mission of the penal institutions to reform and chastise them.’

  ‘Procurator Rhunken had selected six names for deportation, sir. General Katowice has added two more. He requests you to finalise the procedure.’

  I took a rapid glance at the names inscribed on the parchment.

  Geden Wrajewsky, 30, deserter

  Matthias Ludwigssen, 46, forger of coin in base metals

  Jakob Stegelmann, 31, evil disposition, 53 convictions for drunkenness and brawling

  Helmut Schuppe, 38…

  ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed with horror as I read the charges against him. ‘The wolves of Siberia won’t have much of a chance with men like these.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Stadtschen said with a grim smile. ‘They’re a bad lot, all right.’

  Andreas Conrad Segendorf, murder and abduction

  Franz Hubtissner, 43, cattle thief

  Anton Lieberkowsky, 31, murdered his brother with an axe…

  My heart began to race. How many years of hard labour, flogging, ice and biting wind would be needed to punish such a Cain?

  ‘If you want to add Totz and his wife to the list, sir,’ Stadtschen added, ‘I’ll have them moved to Section D straight away.’

  I dipped the pen in the inkwell and drew a line beneath the names. As I wrote my signature, I asked myself how many extra days of life this decision would grant to the murderer, Ulrich Totz, and his partner in crime. Prisoners condemned to hard labour in Russia were unlikely to last more than two or three months.

  ‘I wish to complete my investigation before deciding what to do with them. Excellent work, Stadtschen. You have done well,’ I said, handing him back the document. His face flushed with pride. Winning my favour, he could hope to accelerate his advancement. ‘Now, we’ll have Gerta Totz in first.’

  I was eager to begin. Had the landlady known of Morik’s fate that morning when she declared herself to be so concerned for the boy’s safety? Would she be so keen to smile now that Morik was dead, and she found herself facing a charge of murder?

  The prisoner was ushered into my office some minutes later.

  ‘Come forward, Frau Totz,’ I said, pointedly ignoring her, shuffling through the papers Stadtschen had left upon the table: red rags intended to foment political discontent, intermingling Bonaparte’s name and catchphrases I had heard in France – Liberty, Equality and barbarous violence. ‘Now, let us…’

  I looked up. What I saw froz
e the words on my tongue. The woman had been more roughly handled than Stadtschen had admitted. Her face was swollen, bruised and puffy, the lower lip split and bloody. Nevertheless, she still managed a lopsided version of the sugary smile with which she had greeted me earlier that morning.

  ‘Herr Procurator?’ she said, clasping her hands together in a servile manner, as if waiting for me to order my food and drink.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said, avoiding her eyes.

  Stadtschen placed a heavy hand on her shoulders and sat the woman down with such force that it made the chair creak. I was about to reprimand him, but the memory of the crushed skull of Morik, the eye dangling at the corner of his mouth, flashed through my mind.

  ‘Well, Gerta Totz, what have you to say for yourself?’

  She looked up with a pitiful grimace of hideous concern. ‘Herr Stiffeniis, I humbly beg your pardon,’ she mumbled, stifling tears with bunched fists. ‘They closed the inn, sir. What will you do now? Where will you stay?’

  ‘That is the least of your worries,’ I replied. ‘You told me this morning that you were looking for Morik. Did you know that he was dead?’

  ‘Oh, Herr Stiffeniis! What are you saying, sir? I was fretted out of my mind. That boy’s a blessed nuisance. I thought he might be bothering you…’

  ‘Why should he bother me?’ I interrupted.

  ‘He knew you were a magistrate. He…’

  ‘Is that why he was killed?’

  ‘What an idea, sir!’ she mumbled. ‘I was right to worry, was I not, sir?’

  ‘There have been some devious goings-on in your house,’ I continued. ‘Morik uncovered the plot. He knew that the murders in Königsberg had been planned and carried out by you, your husband, and other persons who frequented the inn.’

  She did not contest what I said. Not directly.

  ‘Is that what Morik told you, sir?’ she replied. She joined her hands like a child at prayer and leaned towards my desk, struggling against the restraining hand of Officer Stadtschen, blood trickling freely from the split in her lower lip and running down her chin and throat. ‘My Ulrich feared as much. He saw Morik hovering around your table last night. We both did, sir. I warned him off. And then I warned you too, sir, didn’t I?’

  I did not trouble myself to respond.

  ‘I did, sir. Really, I did. But that boy had a wild imagination,’ she went on. ‘He was a danger. Who could tell where the truth started and the lies ended with him? When my husband was told of your coming, the first thing he said was this: “We’ll have to send that lad away, Gerta.” Ulrich was afraid no good would come of it if Morik got to know about your business in Königsberg. But we couldn’t afford another lad.’

  ‘The Baltic Whaler is a notorious haunt for foreign conspirators,’ I pressed on. ‘There were three of them present at dinner yester-night, two Frenchmen and a man of German origin, who claimed to be merchants in precious gems. What have you to say about them?’

  ‘Those travellers, sir? It’s not the first time they’ve stayed at the inn. Very righteous, hard-working gentlemen they are. Always paid their bills on time.’

  ‘They are Jacobins,’ I insisted. ‘French spies.’

  The woman blinked at the violence of my reaction. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, sir,’ she protested. ‘They’re honest men, I’d swear!’

  ‘You and your husband plotted with them, Frau Totz,’ I persisted. ‘That is why Morik was murdered.’

  ‘It isn’t true, sir,’ she whined. ‘It isn’t. My Ulrich was glad about what happened in France, I won’t deny it. Who wasn’t? The Revolution was what the French went and done because they had that terrible king of theirs, not a gentleman with fair laws and respect for the people like our dear King Frederick. Them French ideas aren’t so very terrible, sir. Liberty, Equality, Frat…’

  ‘We are not talking about ideas,’ I insisted. ‘There was a plot against the government, Frau Totz.’

  ‘A plot, sir?’ she whimpered, raising her hands to heaven and shaking her head from side to side in denial. ‘Is that what Morik told you?’

  ‘I told you that I had seen Morik in a room across the courtyard from my own. You denied the fact this morning. Yet, in that room, the very same room, the gendarmes discovered this hoard of subversive material.’

  ‘It’s nothing but a storeroom, sir!’ she cried. ‘I denied its existence, ‘cause I didn’t want you worrying over the silly things in that boy’s head.’

  ‘The boy is dead!’ I shouted. ‘Murdered for those silly things!’

  ‘We all use that cellar, sir,’ she moaned desperately. ‘All of us. Me, my husband, Morik. Yes, Morik, sir! It’s crammed with broken furniture and all the summer linen for the inn, plus stuff that people leave behind without thinking. We never throw nothing away in case they come and ask for them back. Whatever was found, if it isn’t used in the inn, it isn’t ours, sir. I swear to you.’

  ‘Stadtschen, where exactly was the subversive material found?’

  ‘Well hidden in a trunk beneath some blankets, sir,’ the officer confirmed.

  ‘Those papers aren’t ours, sir,’ Gerta Totz protested. ‘I’ve never seen them. And as for Morik, I only took him in to help my sister. He wasn’t right in the head. And these murders didn’t do him any good at all. It’s quite possible that he believed the murderer was hiding in our house, but surely you don’t think so? Not you, Herr Stiffeniis? Ulrich and me have been as scared to walk the streets as any innocent souls in all these months. It hasn’t been easy, we’ve had a dropping-off in trade. Since that man was found dead out on the quay, we’ve been hard-pushed to keep the place going.’

  All of this came out in such an impetuous rush that I had difficulty in writing it down. The brazen woman was lying, but I would need to break her resistance if I hoped to incriminate her and Totz.

  ‘These lies are enough to condemn you,’ I stated, staring at her coldly.

  I saw a different Gerta Totz before me, a perverse, criminal version of the homely, comforting and all too inquisitive landlady I had met for the first time the night before. It was the fixed grin on her face that did it. Its mincing falsity gave me the shivers. She was accused of murder, yet she insisted on smiling, as if that smile were her most tried and proven resource. It haunts me still.

  ‘You’re going to torture me, aren’t you, sir?’

  I froze.

  Had she read my thoughts, interpreted some malign expression on my face? Though King Frederick Wilhelm III had formally prohibited its use, the Royal Decree had not put an end to the practice. Karl Heinz Starbeinzig, a prominent Prussian jurist, had recently published an essay in favour of its reintroduction, which had been extremely well received at Court. ‘Torture is fast and cheap,’ he argued. ‘It embodies those two essential principles of the modern state: economy and efficiency.’ To obtain precise details of how and why Morik had been killed, torture might prove to be useful.

  Frau Totz let out a whimper of fear. ‘You have the power to kill me and Ulrich, sir. But what’s happening in Königsberg won’t end with us.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. Do you have anything more to add at this time?’

  She wept aloud and tore her hair, but said not a word. I nodded to Stadtschen to take her out of the room. But as he tried to pull her to her feet, the woman threw herself forward onto my table. The bloody slobber from her lips dripped onto my notes. She stared up at me with defiance, the hideous smile still there, but twisted now with rage.

  ‘Why did you come to The Baltic Whaler?’ she snarled. ‘What did you want from us?’

  I pushed back from the spray of blood and bile.

  ‘Somebody sent you. To catch us in a trap.’

  Stadtschen had her by the neck and attempted to drag her from my desk.

  ‘Somebody who holds the city dear,’ I snapped.

  ‘Someone who wants to destroy us,’ she screeched back, hanging on by her nails to the desk. ‘The Devil sent you! The Devil!’

&nbs
p; ‘You’ll never know how wrong you are.’

  ‘You killed Morik!’ she spat the words into my face. Blood splattered my hands and the linen cuffs of my shirt. ‘You, and whoever sent you to the inn!’

  ‘Stadtschen, take her out,’ I shouted, but Frau Totz grasped the table like a fury, and pushed towards me.

  ‘I knew you’d bring destruction on us. The instant I saw your face. You started Morik off! He told his stupid stories, and you believed them. There was nothing to discover in our inn. You came, and Morik died. You slaughtered him, Herr Stiffeniis. And now you’re going to butcher us…’

  It happened so quickly, I took myself by surprise. Before I knew it, my bunched fist shot out and hit the woman square on the nose. It was not a terrible blow, but sufficient to make the blood spurt from her nostrils. Her body jerked with pain as she slid to the floor.

  ‘Take her down,’ I ordered.

  Both Koch and Stadtschen stared at me in silence.

  ‘Stadtschen, take her down to the cells,’ I repeated.

  Officer Stadtschen blinked, then stepped forward and lifted the woman up from the floor. He cuffed her on the back of the head as he pushed her out of the door. ‘They ought to string you up, you shameless whore!’ he shouted. ‘We’ll give you a welcome here you won’t forget!’

  I sat down at my desk, took a long, deep breath, then carefully wiped away the spots of blood from my person and my papers with a bit of rag cloth I used to clean my pens.

  ‘They’ll hurt her, sir,’ Koch warned in a low voice. ‘The guards will do her serious harm.’

  I did not look at him. Nor did I reply. What cruel thoughts passed through my mind in that instant? What punishment did I believe she merited for what she had done to Morik?

  I picked up my quill, dipped it deep into the inkwell, then signed and dated the woman’s deposition with great deliberation. I melted wax in the candlelight and carefully affixed my seal.

  Then, and only then, I turned to Sergeant Koch.

  ‘Tell Stadtschen to bring up the husband,’ I said.