The Minotaur's Head: An Eberhard Mock Investigation (Eberhard Mock Investigation 4)

by Marek Krajewski

  “Was he ugly?”

  “Must have been, because he even frightened one of the female students who was taking a test with me at the time.”

  “Why did you send him the hat and not give it back straightaway, when he came to return yours?”

  “It was summer and I didn’t have it with me.”

  “I have one last question.” Popielski felt something tear in his body and he himself grow lighter and lighter, as if he had been on an exhausting diet. “Why didn’t you tell me about this ugly man when we spoke at the Scotch House?”

  “Because you didn’t ask about the hat, you asked about some repulsive monster” smiled Auerbach. “The word ‘hat’ can be defined whereas ‘repulsive monster’ cannot. Goodbye, Commissioner. I’m going to go and ask my question.”

  He shook hands with Popielski and turned towards the door. As he was pressing the handle he felt the commissioner’s hand on his arm.

  “This really is going to be my last question.” Popielski’s face was as full of joy as those of Auerbach’s students when they passed a difficult exam. “What is this anecdote about the wrong hat, where you played the hero?”

  “Oh, that.” Auerbach took his hand off the handle. “I wore Potok’s old hat for almost a year and didn’t clean it once. One of my colleagues asked why I never cleaned it. ‘Why should I clean it for a thief,’ I answered.”

  KATTOWITZ, THAT SAME MARCH 13TH, 1937 SIX O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  Mock patted some eau de cologne onto his freshly shaven cheeks, poured a few drops into his hand and smoothed down his hair. He twanged his braces against his belly and left the bathroom, whistling quietly. Despite the early hour he had had enough sleep and felt relaxed. He put on his shirt, slipped on his amber cufflinks and fastened his tie in front of the mirror. He sat down at the table in the little parlour and pulled out his notebook. On the first page in a woman’s neat writing were the words: Ernestyna Nierobisch, 4 Żogała, apt 1. He tore the following page from the notebook. Squinting against the cigarette smoke, he wrote: I’m not going to wake you because you sleep so beautifully … Make yourself at home. Trust in exchange for trust.

  He approached the bed and placed the note on the pillow where there was still a warm impression of his head. The blonde he had met the previous day muttered something in her sleep. Mock wanted to stroke her damp forehead, but abandoned the thought for fear of waking the girl.

  He turned off the bedside light, silently closed the door, stepped out into the corridor and pressed the button for the lift. The liftboy, familiar with his generosity, greeted him humbly and profusely.

  “Here’s two zlotys.” Mock handed him the coin. “Buy a zloty’s worth of roses and the other zloty’s for your trouble.”

  “And what shall I do with the flowers, sir?”

  “Take them to my room and stand them next to the bed.” He wagged his finger threateningly. “But make sure you don’t wake the lady!”

  KATTOWITZ, THAT SAME MARCH 13TH, 1937 HALF PAST SIX IN THE MORNING

  Mock went to the address jotted down by the girl with whom he had spent the night. Żogała Street was in Bogucice, the district where Borecki lived. The door was opened by a stout, slovenly woman of about sixty. She wore a pink dressing gown and a dirty-yellow velvet belt encircled her prominent stomach. Above her forehead, at what was almost a right angle, her long hair stood on end. It looked as if someone had gathered it from the back of her neck and thrown it over her head. Traces of mascara were lodged in the wrinkles around her eyes.

  “What is it?” she growled.

  Mock took a two-hundred-zloty note from his pocket and showed it to the woman.

  “I’ve come on an important practical matter.” He waved the note in front of her eyes. “I’m a rich industrialist from Germany, and I’m looking for a pretty girl for a few days!”

  “Don’t understand!” she yelled. “This ain’t Germany any more! Speak our language!”

  She slammed the door in his face. Mock sighed and went out into the dark street. He walked away slowly, and then suddenly spun on his heel. A net curtain stirred in Ernestyna Nierobisch’s apartment. He went back to the main road and whistled down a passing droschka, then climbed inside and told the cabby to go down Żogały and make a U-turn. The latter did as he was asked. As they were nearing the doorway to Nierobisch’s apartment, Mock ordered him to stop and wait. The cabby made sure his client was aware of the fact that he would have to pay for the wait and settled down to nap in the box.

  Mock lit a cigarette and pulled up the collar of his overcoat. His good spirits had evaporated. The commissioner had of course considered that he might meet with such a reception from the abortionist, but he was so pleased with himself that morning that he had not worked out an effective strategy and eventually had decided to act ad hoc. And now he did not know what to do. He was angry that he had approached the situation so casually. No woman who performed abortions and procured clients would be so gullible; she wouldn’t be taken in by some shady referral or a large banknote and she would be risking too much if she revealed her business. All this Mock knew perfectly well. He also knew that for lack of any other avenues he would have to do the rounds of the clandestine abortionists, put the fear of God into the right madame and force her to reveal Maria Szynok’s probable client. He did not want to allow the thought of failure to enter his head, but his great satisfaction at having got to the first bawd was eclipsed by his usual scepticism. Only then did he realize that there was no tool he could use to force her to disclose the name of Szynok’s client. Mock had no vice to hand in Kattowitz. “But have I got anything better to do?” he thought bitterly. “Go back to Breslau and present myself to my angry superiors? Or to Lwów, to track down some alleged mathematician? I might as well sit in this cab and see whether that old witch goes out. And then search her apartment …”

  The cabby yawned. Żogały Street was utterly deserted. This was the dead hour of the morning when the men had long since gone to work in the mines and their wives had not yet woken the children for school. Mock felt tired to the bone, proof of his considerable physical activity in the night. He adjusted his collar. He did not even notice when his cigarette slipped out of his fingers and his heavy eyelids closed.

  “Hey, my good man!” The cab driver shook Mock awake. “Are we going or aren’t we? This isn’t a hotel, you don’t sleep in here!”

  “Did an ugly fat woman go out through that doorway?” Mock rubbed his eyes, angry at himself.

  “That she did!” The cab driver stared at him in surprise. “A good ten minutes ago.”

  Mock pressed a coin into the cabby’s hand and ran across the muddy pavement. He stood at Nierobisch’s door and listened. Minutes passed. A woman’s angry shouting resounded on the first floor along with the high-pitched entreaties of a child. Mock took out a pick-lock from his outer coat pocket and turned it at various angles in the lock. More minutes passed. The old bag could return at any moment if she had just popped out to the shop, for example. Despite the cold, Mock’s head grew damp beneath his bowler hat. The building became noisier and noisier. Plates clattered, children bickered. The steel pick-lock caught against something and he heard the lock click. Somewhere upstairs a door opened, and children thumped quickly down the stairs.

  The hall gave straight onto the kitchen, just like in Borecki’s lodgings. Mock moved carefully between various obstacles on the floor. There was a powerful stench and an indescribable mess. Woodchips and coal lay scattered on the floor beneath a stove on which stood a saucepan. Mock lifted the lid and sniffed. Even though he had not yet eaten, he would not have tasted the soup in that pan for anything in the world. Not only was there a pungent reek of soggy garlic, but the vessel itself looked as though it contained dishwater. On its sides, glistening with grease, a thick liquid had hardened into hideous tongues. The smell of the dishcloth thrown over the stove reminded Mock of the Great War, when in the trenches of Dyneburg he had wrapped rags around his feet for want of socks
. On the floor was a basin full of dirty water. As he passed it, Mock leaned on the table and felt his hand stick to the oilcloth. He was furious.

  “I have the luck to get in here,” he said to himself, “then … shit, what a hole! All of Holewa’s men put together wouldn’t be able to search it!”

  Panting with anger, he looked around for a cabinet or a chest, without knowing what he was supposed to find there. He walked past a bed on which lay a red duvet without a cover. He pressed the handle of the door leading to the other room.

  It was probably here, with windows looking out onto the brick wall of a small courtyard, that Ernestyna Nierobisch carried out her procedures. In the centre of the room stood a single couch, and from beneath it poked a dustpan. Mock pulled out the Kattowitzer Zeitung from his pocket and laid it out on the stained carpet littered with strips of cotton wool. He lifted the edge of a throw that covered the couch and saw a small, chipped basin shaped like a kidney. Its sides were encrusted with dried, rusty-coloured liquid. He straightened up quickly, held his nose and took a moment to breathe rapidly through his mouth.

  Just then he thought he was experiencing déjà vu. Facing him in the glazed cabinet stood a file. It was black and its corners were adorned with elaborate gilded ferrules. Mock raced to the cabinet and seized the file. In it were thick sheets of cardboard to which postcards from exotic locations had been affixed. One of them, with the caption “Greetings from Breslau”, showed zoological gardens familiar to Mock. He shuddered with excitement and looked at the file’s spine. Information as to its contents had disappeared from beneath the elastic band but an imprint of the writing which had probably appeared there remained on the soft spine.

  “Gen-tle-men,” syllabized Mock.

  It was one of the few words he knew in Polish. It appeared in lots of places to convey important information about gender, for example at the entrance to the men’s toilets. Or on the files in murdered Klementyna Nowoziemska’s marriage bureau.

  LWÓW, THAT SAME MARCH 13TH, 1937 A QUARTER TO FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON

  Popielski was well acquainted with the area around Żuliński. He used to frequent the tavern on Ochronki, which was full of veterans and prostitutes so old the streets of Lwów sang about them:

  A genital louse

  Roams thro’ this house

  And is good for nought else

  ‘cept Babiczek’s dripping

  Popielski remembered the song and it was no secret to him – or to anyone else from Lwów – that Babiczek sold horsemeat and cured meats of the worst quality. To compare anyone to this butcher’s produce was, therefore, an insult. Although the song still rang in his ears, once he found himself in Łyczaków he thought of nothing but the course of action which was to be the culmination of a complex and time-consuming investigation.

  Żuliński, a street on the outskirts of Łyczaków, was short and started at Łyczakowska, a hundred metres from the Church of the Order of St Clare. Its gateway was formed by two corner taverns – Einstein’s and Krebs’ – and the road ended at Piekarska. It was lined with two- and three-storey houses and was almost devoid of trees. The two-storey tenement numbered 10 and 10A was in the middle of the street and very run-down, with flaking plaster here and there; its owner must have saved a great deal of money on caretaking, because in front of the doorway lay all kinds of kitchen waste which some heedless housewife or mischievous child had thrown out of the window. Disgusted, Popielski pushed aside the potato peelings and apple cores with the tip of his brogue and entered. Stefan Cygan and Herman Kacnelson followed right behind. Popielski directed Kacnelson to the courtyard, where the dull thump-thump of carpet-beating could be heard; then he nodded to Cygan and they made their way upstairs, passing a door from which emanated the sounds and smells of Saturday chores: pans clattering, water sploshing as it dripped from rags into buckets, and the penetrating smell of turpentine floor polish. Intermittently they heard the cry of a baby or an irate voice fortified by alcohol.

  They climbed to the second floor. There was no door marked 12, but Popielski did not appear concerned. He knew the mathematician could not have mistaken the number. Access to the lodgings must be by way of the courtyard. Popielski looked through a window. Kacnelson, standing by the carpet horse, caught sight of his boss and pointed at the garret. A moment later they were at the place he had indicated, the highest gallery in the courtyard. The door to number 12 was warped and in several places there were large gaps between the door and its jambs. Popielski knocked lightly. Silence. He knocked again. Still no sound from within. Popielski grasped the door handle and pressed. The door was locked. He peered through one of the gaps. Darkness.

  “Go and ask the neighbours, Stefan,” he whispered. “One of them might have a key. That’s often the case where there isn’t a caretaker. Pretend you’re Potok’s brother. He mustn’t know the police have been enquiring about him.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cygan turned and made towards the neighbouring door.

  Popielski stepped aside into the semi-circular stairwell and observed the whole scene. He realized that with the appearance of a film star, Cygan was not an especially credible brother to Potok, whose striking resemblance to an ape was general knowledge. Popielski would have been even less credible in the role, however, with his dandy looks, or Kacnelson with his Jewish heritage engraved on his face.

  The door was opened by a short man in a jacket, whose lack of teeth was apparent to Popielski even at that distance.

  “Good afternoon.” Cygan tipped his hat.

  “Aye, a good one, a good one,” replied the man, looking warily at the stranger.

  “I’m extremely sorry, sir, my name is Kazimierz Potok and I’m Zdzich Potok’s – your neighbour’s – brother. He’s not home at the moment and I’ve come a long way. Do you know where he might be?”

  “He never said he had a brother.” An unkempt woman leaned out from behind the man’s shoulder.

  “He never says much,” laughed Cygan.

  “That’s right enough,” answered the neighbour. “He doesn’t talk much. But he’s not here, he left today, didn’t say where for… He’ll be back next Sunday.”

  “I knew he was leaving today but didn’t know what time … And I didn’t make it,” said Cygan with a concerned expression. “Oh well … Next Sunday, you say … That’s not very good … I thought I’d spend some time with him before my train for Przemyśl. It doesn’t leave for another two hours …”

  “Well then, come inside.” The man opened the door wide. “We don’t have much but we can always find some tea, bread and onions for Mr Zdzisław’s brother.”

  “I wouldn’t like to put you to any trouble … Maybe you know who’s got the keys to his apartment … I can wait there …”

  “Oh, what a dunce!” The neighbour slapped himself on the forehead. “I’ve got the keys! Come on, I’ll let you in.”

  The man returned with the keys and opened the door to Potok’s apartment. He accompanied Cygan in. Popielski heard the hospitable neighbour do the honours by telling Cygan to “take off his coat, hang up his hat” and “sit at the table”. A moment later he returned to his apartment. As he was closing the door his wife said:

  “That fellow’s far too handsome to be Mr Zdzisław’s brother.”

  “Maybe it’s his stepbrother,” Popielski heard, and the door clicked shut.

  Silence fell. A minute later Popielski was in Potok’s apartment. It was an ordinary bachelor’s flat with a dark kitchen separated from the hallway by a thin oilcloth curtain hanging on a wire. In the main room was an iron bed, a table, two chairs and a small wardrobe. All these were buried beneath sheets of paper covered in untidy writing. Here and there the ink had run on the poor-quality paper and the annotations were totally illegible. But it was clear that the pages were covered in mathematical notes and calculations.

  Apart from this scholarly mess, the apartment seemed neat and tidy. There was nothing in the kitchen besides a cast-iron sink, a spirit burner, small work
surface fixed to the wall, a cupboard for plates and provisions and a bucket for waste. Popielski checked the cupboard and saw a few scraps of bread and a jar with the remains of some dripping. He went into the other room and opened the wardrobe, in which he found a few dirty shirts and some removable collars. Evidently Potok had only one suit and one coat, and that was what he had been wearing when he left. At the bottom of the wardrobe stood a thick cardboard binder. Popielski untied the ribbons and took out a wad of about a hundred pages covered in typewriting. It was a thesis on logic, written in French. Popielski was astonished to see that it contained numerous Ancient Greek quotations. He thought hard; a vein pulsed in his temple. The work was typed in French, in French. He browsed a few pages. Neither the accents nor any other French diacritical marks or abbreviations had been written by hand.

  He handed Cygan the binder. “Please send this to Breslau for them to establish whether this paper was written on the typewriter found next to the murdered woman on New Year’s Eve. Phone me at home in an hour and I’ll give you the exact address.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cygan was rummaging absent-mindedly through Potok’s bedclothes. “Oh, naughty, naughty,” smiled the young police officer as he reached under the pillow. “Keeping some pretty dirty things here, I believe …”

  Cygan tossed some rolled-up photographs onto the bed. They were not what he had expected, not pornographic postcards at all. The play of light and shadow as well as accessories such as a fan, sabre and sombrero indicated that the photographs had been taken in a photographic studio. They showed a face – always the same – taken in profile and en face. Teeth bared, pouting or with pulled-back lips.

  “Commissioner, sir,” Cygan was no longer smiling, “he really isn’t very good-looking.”