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

by Marek Krajewski

  Zaremba slowly composed himself and pondered what to do. He could not leave his vantage point to call headquarters from Wassermann’s shop since this would involve a huge risk. Potok might in the meantime visit his neighbour and discover that his brother had come to see him – who knows whether he even had a brother – and simply run away. Zaremba could either wait for his replacement – Kacnelson was to come at half past ten – or arrest the Minotaur himself. He chose the latter. He felt for the Browning beneath his arm and began to take off his plumber’s overalls.

  At that moment he heard footsteps on the stairs. Popielski was on the small gallery, unshaven and strangely attired in his dress uniform jacket. On his neck flushed a raspberry-red patch. Zaremba opened the door and Popielski slipped into the toilet cubicle.

  “He’s here, Eddie, the Mino …” Zaremba began feverishly, forgetting that his colleague hated the diminutive “Eddie”.

  “Wait,” Popielski broke in. “Tell me where you saw Rita a couple of days ago when she left the church. Quick, I’ve had a dream, and she’s not at school. I’ve got to find her …”

  “Stop babbling.” Zaremba’s whisper sounded like a shouted order. “Potok’s home.”

  “Let’s go.” Popielski immediately calmed down but the red flush on his neck began to spread. “We’re going to get the beast.”

  They left the toilet and Zaremba buttoned up his overalls on the way. They stood silently for a moment at the door to number 12, and then Zaremba knocked.

  “Who’s there?” A strange, high-pitched voice came from the apartment.

  “The plumber,” said Zaremba. “Something’s broken in the lav. I’ve got to check your pipes.”

  Slowly, the door opened a little. One eye appeared – small, round and set far back in its socket. The upper part of the eye was surrounded by formidable eyebrows, the tortuous tufts of which curled over a swollen, red eyelid. Below, on the cheek, appeared stiff clusters of unshaven bristles among which erupted whitish seborrhoeic scabs. The eye rolled in its socket and caught sight of Popielski with his Browning.

  From the side, Popielski struck the eye with the barrel of his gun. His aim was inaccurate, but the sharp metal cut into the skin of Potok’s forehead. Potok clasped the wound with both hands and blood dripped from between his fingers. Just as in Popielski’s nightmare it had dripped from Rita’s eye. The commissioner pushed Zaremba aside and rushed into the apartment as Potok tried to escape, thrashing around between the narrow walls of the hallway, bleeding profusely. Popielski tripped on the partially torn-down curtain that separated the kitchen from the hallway, by which time Potok was already on the threshold. He turned to look at Popielski and grinned. Blood was running down his nose and cheeks and dripping from his lips onto his teeth. Popielski caught sight of bloodied gums and fangs. Potok gnashed his teeth, as if wanting to show the commissioner how it had been at the scene of crime – this is how I gnawed my victims, how I tore at their flesh, devoured the tissue in their cheeks.

  Popielski pulled down the oilcloth curtain. Metal rings rolled across the kitchen. In one swift move he kicked the beast between the legs with the tip of his brogue. Potok fell to his knees, grasping his testicles. Popielski wrapped the oilcloth curtain around his head as if to suffocate him.

  “Let him go, Eddie!” shouted Zaremba, grabbing Popielski by the arms. “You kill the swine and you’ll get locked up! Let him go, damn it!”

  Popielski caught a glimpse of Potok’s blood mixed with some sort of secretion on the sleeve of his jacket and moved away from the wheezing body in disgust. But he forced himself to grip Potok’s wrist and pinned his leg to the bed. Still wrapped in oilcloth, the beast’s head rose and fell with his broken breathing.

  Popielski sat on the bed and lit a cigarette.

  “Go to our communications centre, Wilek, and phone for a van,” he said, releasing a cloud of smoke. “I don’t want him fouling up our car with his gore. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “Best you go, Eddie,” said Zaremba with a smile. “If I leave you alone with him you might just kill him! Do you really want to move into Brygidki prison?”

  Popielski wiped his bloodied sleeve on the bed sheet and got up. The red flush on his neck had disappeared. He grasped the bed frame and shook it several times, laughing like a madman.

  “We’ve got him!” he yelled, and then said with a smile: “I’ll be back in a minute, you keep a good watch over him! So, how goes it, handsome sir?” He gave Potok a light kick and ran out to the stairwell.

  Potok tossed his head and threw off the oilcloth. He looked at his immobilized wrist. The handcuffs were certainly an obstacle, but the leg of the bed was not fixed to the floor.

  LWÓW, THAT SAME MARCH 20TH, 1937 A QUARTER PAST TEN IN THE MORNING

  In the dark tavern Rita sat alone by the window looking out onto Żulińska Street and wondered what to do. She could not even ask Beanpole’s advice, for Beanpole had run off home, scared by both the gloomy barman and the blind-drunk customer who had sucked the salty meat off yet another herring. Neither bothered Rita. The barman was drying a tankard and listening to Hanka Ordonówna’s hit “A kogo nasza miłość obchodzi?”† on the radio. The drunk snoozed, his forehead resting on his hands.

  Rita squeezed the glass of luke-warm tea standing in front of her. She had caught sight of her father, and he was walking in her direction. She felt weak at the thought of him finding her there, but instead he turned into the haberdashery twenty metres from where she was sitting. Rita stepped out of the tavern, crept up to the shop and from behind a corner peered in through the window with one eye. She glimpsed her father’s bald head. He was wiping his neck with a handkerchief adorned with a monogram she had once embroidered – in days gone by when, sitting on his knee, she had confided her childish secrets to him. She was saddened at the memory, and at the sight of her father’s helpless gesture as he wiped away the sweat. Shaking her head to dispel such sentimentality she ran quickly down the road; she had to discover whether her father was after her stranger.

  Once in the gateway she looked about her. There was no sign to indicate a billiard club. With a pounding heart, she began to climb the stairs, her shoes ringing out on the steps. She reached the small gallery on the top floor. One door was ajar. She pushed it open, and it squeaked a little. All at once she felt scared. She wanted to back out and run from there, but she could not. There was somebody behind her.

  LWÓW, THAT SAME MARCH 20TH, 1937 TWENTY PAST TEN IN THE MORNING

  Popielski dabbed his neck and tucked the handkerchief into his pocket.

  “Two uniformed men from Station IV will be there soon, as well as Kacnelson who’s going to relieve Zaremba,” he heard Aspirant Cygan’s voice over the phone.

  “Good, Stefan. I’m going back to Wilek.”

  “Wait a moment, Commissioner.” Cygan was excited. “I’ve got some important news for you from Breslau. The technicians there say the thesis was written on the same typewriter as that found near the murdered woman.”

  “Well, I’ll be …” Popielski was lost for words. “No parrot’s going to defend him now!”

  “And one last thing: Mock called. He’s got some sensational news about the brothel madame from Kattowitz … The old woman’s mixed up in human trafficking …”

  “Stefan,” laughed Popielski, “do you have to bother me now? We’ve got the Minotaur, understand, we’ve got him!”

  “But Mock’s going to phone in a moment. What shall I tell him?”

  “Tell him to come to Lwów! It’s time to celebrate the end of our investigation!”

  Cygan wanted to say something more, but Popielski had hung up. He winked cheerfully at the embarrassed shop girl and left, squinting in the bright sunlight. As he put on his sunglasses he saw Kacnelson enter the gateway at 10 Żuliński Street with two uniformed policemen. None of them had noticed Popielski.

  The small gallery echoed with the sound of heavy footsteps. A door on the top floor squeaked. The police had entered
Potok’s apartment. Holding on to the banister, Popielski went up the stairs with a smile. He was a floor beneath them. A dirty rug was hanging over the banister, and when he touched it he immediately wiped his hands. He looked down at his brogues, rested one foot on the step above and from the tip of his shoe wiped some cabbage in a thick sauce that someone had spilt on the stairs. He glanced upwards and felt distinctly uneasy. He heard no greetings or conversation, no jokes exchanged between police officers who, after two years, had finally succeeded in apprehending the beast. He rushed upstairs.

  Kacnelson burst out of the apartment.

  “Don’t go in there, I beg you!” Kacnelson extended his arms as if wanting to push Popielski away. “You mustn’t see this!”

  The commissioner shoved his colleague aside and ran in. The bed had been moved diagonally across the room and the window was wide open. One of the uniformed men was leaning out and, after looking upwards and down, shook his head. The other passed Popielski and made towards a side staircase and from there onto the roof. A moment later his heavy footsteps thudded over their heads and disappeared. Kacnelson grasped Popielski by the sleeve to lead him out of the room, but Popielski tore himself away. He stared and stared. Somebody was lying under the bed. The body was covered with the oilcloth up to its neck. The head remained uncovered. But it was not Potok’s.

  LWÓW, THAT SAME MARCH 20TH, 1937 ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  Zaremba’s head lay on Popielski’s knees, his cheeks resting in his friend’s hands. Popielski was afraid the head would sever from the neck completely. He was crying. Zaremba tried to smile. He opened and closed his eyes and even moved his head a little as if to say: It’s alright, Eddie.

  All of a sudden his cheeks shuddered, like those of a diving swimmer. He opened his eyes once more, but could no longer close them. Popielski did this for him.

  LWÓW, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24TH, 1937 SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING

  Eberhard Mock got out at Main Station, put down his suitcase and cast his eye along the platform. He was searching for a tall figure dressed in black – Popielski. But his bald head, dark glasses and white scarf were not to be seen. Porters, baggage handlers, newspaper and lemonade vendors loomed out of the smoke and steam bursting from the locomotive. The steam subsided, but still there was no Popielski. Mock pulled up his gloves and extracted a cigarette from his packet of Egyptians with his teeth. An obliging porter jumped to his side, lit the cigarette and took his suitcase.

  Mock followed, worried and deep in thought. He had not known Popielski for long, but he was absolutely certain that the Pole was one to keep his word, not only in important matters but in small things too. His absence at the station, even though he had assured Mock a few days earlier that he would be there to meet him, could indicate that something unexpected had happened, something bad. The tragedy that had befallen Popielski on Saturday circled in Mock’s thoughts. He had heard the story in detail: Zaremba’s death and Potok’s escape across the roofs. He knew that Kacnelson and two uniformed policemen had chased the murderer in vain, while Popielski had turned to stone over Zaremba’s dead body. Popielski had telephoned him that same evening. His voice had sounded strange even then; he seemed lost in thought, kept breaking off and searching for words as if he were only just learning German instead of speaking it like a native Viennese. Mock put Popielski’s unexpected difficulty with verbalization down to failure, and to the shock of Zaremba’s death. This too could have been the reason for his absence at the station. But for how long could one be in shock when the beast was still at large? How long could one brood over defeat when the animal was still hiding somewhere in the narrow streets and drinking-dens?

  He climbed into a droschka, paid the porter and thrust a card with Popielski’s private address on it under the cabby’s nose. The cab pulled away. Mock stopped admiring Main Station, whose harmony and perfect balance of architectural ornaments he felt outclassed its grandiose equivalent in Breslau. Nor did he study the churches or the façades of schools and colleges along the way. The only thing that drew his attention as they turned off the main road towards the park adjacent to Popielski’s apartment was the Latin inscription on a building which looked like a library. Hic mortui vivunt et muti loquuntur. Here the dead live and the mute speak. “If the dead could speak,” he thought bitterly, “there’d be nothing for me to do in this world.” Mock felt to some extent consoled.

  He recalled recent events in Kattowitz and still failed to understand the role of Zdzisław Potok. The investigation had kicked off after they had found the file from Klementyna Nowoziemska’s marriage bureau in Ernestyna Nierobisch’s apartment. Commissioner Zygfryd Holewa, sensing that he had a case which might seal his promotion, had immediately forgotten the injunction issued to Mock and instead launched a vigorous operation of the kind that Mock liked. He had not stood on ceremony when speaking to Nierobisch in the interrogation cell; within two days he had received all the information he needed from the woman, who would still be aching from the blows and kicks she had received. Mock and Popielski’s intuition had proved correct: the abortionist had turned out to be a bawd just like Nowoziemska, and both had worked hand in hand. Nierobisch had sought out desperate girls – servants who had allowed their masters to get too intimate, waitresses and dish washers whose employers had made them an offer they could not refuse, or ordinary prostitutes, for whom pregnancy would be a hindrance. Nierobisch knew full well that, for all these women, abortion signified an even greater devastation of their principles and values. She scrupulously noted down their details and passed them on to Nowoziemska who, after a suitable interval, would visit the girls posing as a respectable priestess of marriage and promise them an exotic journey to Argentina, or a less exotic one to Germany where a much older, wealthy man would be waiting for them, yearning for their Slavic beauty. This rich man would of course turn out to be the owner of a brothel, and the girls would sooner or later submit to their fate as slaves.

  After a time many of them proved surprisingly happy with this change in their lives and would send Nierobisch postcards with heartfelt greetings. Nowoziemska paid Nierobisch generously for each of the girls, and often gave her additional presents, for example a set of – admittedly second-hand – luxury binder files. She herself made an extraordinary profit on these dealings, although she did not always manage to deceive the women and send them off to Germany or Argentina. She had not succeeded with Maria Szynok. Nierobisch herself did not know what had happened to the girl, and was not apprised of the real or invented names of any of her betrothed. All she knew about this mad unfortunate on whom she had performed an abortion was that – for Nowoziemska – Szynok constituted valuable goods destined for marriage and not a brothel, and that she was to be matched for an enormous sum to a wealthy client who had taken a particular liking to her. Despite threats and beatings, Nierobisch had said nothing more.

  Having discovered all this, Mock had said goodbye to Holewa, Wybraniec and Silesia itself – later he was to think of the region with some fondness – and bought a ticket for the next train to Lwów. He was certain Popielski would now be needing him. Together they would find the beast and investigate this gang of human traffickers who must have international connections, seeing as the girls were landing up in Argentina and Germany. Potok was somehow tied up in all this, and this – in view of his last victim – led the investigation towards Breslau and Baron von Criegern. After all, he still hasn’t been found, thought Mock, this beau who brought Anna Schmidt to Breslau! The case appears to be a gigantic affair, on a European or even global scale! Popielski and I will think everything through over two or three days’ time; we’ll make a precise plan, and then I’ll be able to go to Breslau for Easter. And after the holiday everything will start anew! Investigo ergo sum!

  Mock paid the cabby and climbed out. In the gateway to the tenement, the caretaker blocked his way and asked him something politely. Mock showed him Popielski’s business card, and when he noticed the look of dismay on the man
’s face he hurried past him, ran up to the first floor and pressed the bell. Miss Leokadia Tchorznicka opened the door, her eyes swollen from crying. She left it ajar and retreated without a word. As he entered the apartment, Mock felt as though he had stepped into a crime scene, except that instead of the stench of a corpse the air was permeated with the smell of valerian. A sudden, sharp cry reached him from the kitchen, then a wrenching, choking sob. Somebody seemed to be choking, wheezing and coughing all at the same time.

  Mock was there in a flash. At the table sat the maidservant, her forehead resting on its surface and her body shaking with sobs. Mock looked about him, horrified. The door to Popielski’s study and bedroom was open; he approached it quietly and peered in.

  Edward Popielski was sitting in an armchair by a table on which stood a huge ashtray full of cigarette butts. He had several days of stubble and was wearing an unbuttoned pyjama shirt beneath the navy-blue jacket of his police uniform. He did not even glance up at Mock, but stared at his hands resting in front of him on the table.

  “Rita didn’t come home on Saturday,” he said in German. “And this is what was dropped onto my balcony on Sunday.”

  He waved his hand at the desk. There lay Rita’s school uniform, carefully folded, and on top of it her stiff, snow-white sailor collar.

  “Hanna had ironed the collar so beautifully.” Popielski raised his head and in his bloodshot, sleepless eyes there appeared tears. “She had ironed it as if for a funeral.”