Their activities were not complicated. Hand in hand with Ernestyna Nierobisch, Klementyna Nowoziemska found the young women. They largely looked for orphans or women who mixed with the demi-monde; nobody would notice their disappearance, nobody would worry. Woroniecki contacted each of them, offering himself as a potential husband. Few could resist the seductive charms of the beautiful count, so they rarely refused to go on a romantic trip to Germany. There the enterprising Baron von Criegern awaited them.
The company prospered wonderfully. Von Criegern established international contacts, especially with his counterparts in the Argentine, many of whom came from his home town. A crack appeared in the blossoming business after two years, however, when the baron asked for his loan to be repaid. Woroniecki was earning such a large income that if he had put aside even a tiny amount of it, he would have accrued a large sum within a few months. But he did not understand the concept of “saving”; he threw his money about as indecently as he behaved, and when the baron asked for repayment of his loan, he had just gambled away all his monetary reserves at the casino in Kattowitz. The impatient baron kept pressing the young man. When Woroniecki applied for credit, the bankers, who knows why, turned up their noses at the solvency of the forwarding company of which he was owner. Meanwhile, von Criegern surreptitiously got in contact with Nowoziemska and confronted the young man with an ultimatum – if he did not return the money within one month, the baron would dissolve the company and look for another seducer. What was worse, the baron demonstrated his resolve very firmly. One day two Germans paid Woroniecki a visit and broke his hand. The men threatened to break the other too if he did not return the money. On top of that, Nowoziemska severed all contact with him and the young man was at rock-bottom. He was forced to sell his body once more, but circumstances had changed a great deal: now he was thrown out of elegant restaurants and cafés, and clients in the rougher localities – both male and female – did not pay so much. His hand healed badly and caused him considerable pain. One day Woroniecki learned from his cousin Janusz that his father was dying. Scattering ash over his head, he set off for Baranie Peretoki.
The father, who was surely nearing the end of his years, greeted the prodigal son with tears in his eyes, and without a murmur handed him a cheque for the sum demanded by Baron von Criegern. The young man was delighted, not only because he was finally going to repay his debt and free himself from the gangster, but above all because the revelries were coming to an end and a stable life was approaching. His father would die and he, as sole inheritor, would take over the administration of a prospering estate, turn over a new leaf, marry, settle down in Baranie Peretoki … well, with the occasional visit perhaps to some secret club in a large city … Count Juliusz Woroniecki saw through his son’s plans straightaway and showed him his will. A codicil specified that the estate would go to his offspring only if the latter obtained a Ph.D. in mathematics or logic within two years. ‘Your exceptional talent cannot go to waste’, were the count’s last words.
Woroniecki lifted both chair and Popielski without great effort. He stood it back on its legs and climbed once more onto the improvised stage. He turned his chair back to front and sat astride it, then rested his chin on its backrest and gazed at the commissioner’s purple ears.
“I was a broken man,” he said, “but there must be something of a priest in me, as you identified, because God was watching over me. One of my father’s former pupils, a country boy who had shown a great talent for mathematics, came to his funeral. He was one of those village pearls whom the noble count had fished out and provided with an education. Yes … it was then, at my father’s funeral, that I met the Minotaur.”
Woroniecki stood up and disappeared through a door which Popielski could not see, hidden as it was by the screen. A moment later the floorboards thudded and the count re-appeared on stage, but this time he was not alone: at his feet crouched a beast.
In his left hand Woroniecki wielded a thick chain, the other end of which was tied around Zdzisław Potok. The naked prisoner’s hands were bound at his stomach, his legs at the ankles, and a gag had been wedged into his mouth. A large helmet of thick hair was covered with some sort of unguent. Red abrasions, scabs and skin eruptions were visible on his pale, hairy body. Beneath the skin tensed powerful and well-defined muscles. Bent double, Potok scowled at Popielski. The gag moved a little in his mouth and the Minotaur let out a laugh. For a moment the commissioner forgot about Rita. He felt the blood pulse in his temples. He could stand it no longer and in a rage threw himself forward with his chair.
“Don’t get excited, Commissioner,” smiled Count Woroniecki, “the monster will soon be in your hands. But first the story of the young man whose life is proof of God’s providence. As I was telling you, I met Potok at my father’s funeral. His ugliness intrigued me – I like all sorts of freaks. I invited him to the wake and we had a long chat. I learned all there was to know about him: that he had studied mathematics in Kraków; that he had wanted to devote himself to the study of logic; that the scholars in Kraków had not appreciated him and had ridiculed his ideas. They did not want to step beyond their narrow field of learning. Potok, on the other hand, following Łukasiewicz’s school of thought, had intended to study the texts of ancient logicians while applying mathematical instrumentarium to his theories. The Kraków scholars had directed him to philologists. These, in turn, not knowing anything about mathematics, had not wanted to speak to him. Potok was greatly disappointed, broke off his studies, left Kraków and became a tutor at an estate near Brodów. But let’s get back to the matter in hand. After my father’s funeral I talked to Potok long into the night and suggested he write the doctoral thesis for me. I promised him heaps of gold, but he did not want it. All he wanted was women. MentalIy, I burst out laughing. This wasn’t going to be the slightest problem for me. But I stopped laughing a moment later. Potok only wanted virgins. He asked for three: one on starting the thesis, one halfway through, and one as a dessert, so to speak” – Woroniecki laughed at his joke – “once he had finished writing. Anyway, he did not explain these whims, but I’m tolerant. I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff in my life.”
He paused, sat in the armchair and lit a cigarette.
“I see you’re fascinated, Commissioner.” He smiled at Popielski. “Just listen. This is where things really get going! I rented some lodgings for Potok on Żuliński Street, not far from the bachelor flat where I held discreet meetings from time to time. My old acquaintance, Klementyna Nowoziemska, promised to help in the whole enterprise, but of course not for nothing. The price she demanded stunned me. But I didn’t haggle. A month later she had found me the truest of virgins from Tarnów. I met her several times and – I might as well be honest – I had her fall in love with me pretty quickly. I proposed we went together to the Carpathians Mountains and took her in my car. On the way there, near Mościska, I pretended the car had broken down. Evening approached. I sent her off to a hotel, telling her to register under a different name, for the sake of propriety. She was to wait there for me. But it was the Minotaur who turned up.”
Woroniecki’s expression changed. He leaped up, grabbed the golf club and began to beat Potok with it. The latter fell on his face. The blows pounded against his ribs, then the end of the club sank into his body as if into dough. Blood and froth appeared on the gag.
“A cannibal visited her, a monster, a man-eater!” yelled Woroniecki, striking Potok on the head. “And devoured her instead of just screwing her as he had promised! Right, you animal? Is that what you did, you freak, you eyesore?”
A good quarter of an hour passed before Woroniecki calmed down. Potok lay on his side, panting heavily into his gag. Red marks appeared on his naked, whitish body.
“I had no way out.” Woroniecki sighed deeply. “Of course I could have handed him over to the police. But who would have written my thesis for me then? Even if I had found somebody, there would always have been a shadow of doubt that he would give me away … But t
his swine would never give me away, or he’d be giving himself away. Whichever way you look at it, I was dependent on him.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “He soon brought me half the thesis and demanded another virgin. I no longer had any illusions. I knew what would happen to her …” Again he sighed. “And we repeated everything, the one difference being that the girl was from Kielce, and Potok … he killed her in Drohobycz. The whole of Poland was up in arms; everybody was looking for the Minotaur.” He smiled at Popielski strangely. “It’s you who thought up the name, am I right? Smart. Mythical. Anyway, that’s what happened. Meanwhile the Minotaur wrote the rest of the thesis and claimed his last victim. And here something jarred in our efficiently oiled machinery. Nowoziemska couldn’t find a virgin. Then Maria Szynok turned up at her office, sent there by old Nierobisch. Nowoziemska, as a former brothel madame, knew exactly how to simulate virginity. I met that Szynok woman… She wasn’t bad… I even fancied her … Ah, well. I offered her up as the next and – as I imagined – last sacrifice. And here a problem cropped up. Potok discovered her virginity was feigned … He could not possess her, because that would have gone against his principles” – Woroniecki’s laugh rippled – “so he only took a nibble!” Suddenly he grew serious, as if changing his mood were his speciality. “We were all terrified. The girl had survived, after all, remembered my face and Potok’s. We had to do away with her. Fortunately for us, she went mad. Well, sir, what do you say to that! Isn’t providence watching over me?”
For a moment he looked at Popielski, but the latter was silent.
“But the little pet wanted some more yummy-yummy.” Woroniecki smacked his lips as if blowing kisses. “The last girl really was a virgin. She came from Silesia. A ward from an orphanage. A timid, slightly tearful child … One to hug, to console …”
Woroniecki began to pace around Potok, now and then kicking him lightly with the tip of his shoe and jabbing him with the golf club, which amused him beyond measure.
“Nothing could stand in the way of the last sacrifice,” he said. “I had to anticipate absolutely everything. It couldn’t happen in Poland. That would have been too dangerous. I got in touch with Baron von Criegern and forgave him my broken hand. See how magnanimous I was! I took the virgin to Breslau in a private compartment, and a few compartments away from us sat Potok. As we approached Breslau I changed into a woman’s clothing – I don’t find it difficult to pass myself off as a woman.” Flirtatiously he adjusted nonexistent hair and pretended to make advances at Popielski. “I accompanied her to a hotel recommended by von Criegern and took the opportunity to get rid of the typewriter Potok used for my, or rather his thesis. Just in case … I had also been using it to write my idiotic letters to Nowoziemska as the fictional Count von Banach. Shrewd woman, she had instructed me to write those idiotic things to set any eventual investigations on the wrong track …” Suddenly he changed subject. “But it was extremely pleasant in Breslau. I spent the New Year at von Criegern’s, and Potok spent his with his last victim.”
Woroniecki started shaking his head and pulling childish faces like a poor actor.
“Oh, how frightened she was!” he said in a high voice. “She kept asking why I was dressed up as a woman … And I replied: ‘We’re going to a fancy dress ball, darling. Just wait for me at the hotel. I’ll come and fetch you shortly.’”
Popielski closed his eyes. He could not look at Woroniecki, could not listen to his modulated voice, which went from strangled bass to sheering falsetto.
“So I did my Ph.D. with Łukasiewicz,” he heard as if from afar. “But, but! Let’s get back to what we were reading!”
None of this would have come about without certain essential undertakings on the part of the doctoral student. Before initial talks with his supervisor he changed his name. He took the first that came to mind. In no way should it be associated with Count Juliusz Woroniecki, who was well known in scholarly circles and highly respected on account of the grants he had bestowed on impoverished youngsters. The son did not want to be linked to his father. It could have caused a sensation, aroused the interest of the press, and so on, while he wanted to obtain his degree on the quiet, without any publicity. First of all he had to eliminate the threat of disclosure, and so the sham doctoral student could not allow himself one-to-one discussions with his supervisor while his thesis was in statu nascendi. Such meetings could have betrayed his ignorance. In the few discussions he had with Professor Łukasiewicz in Warsaw, Woroniecki tossed his head, laughed to himself, clapped – in other words, he pretended to be eccentric and absent-minded. He said very little, but diligently noted down all his supervisor’s comments. “Let my work speak for itself,” he repeated. Since in these circles there was no shortage of eminent scholars whose behaviour was even stranger than his student’s, Łukasiewicz and the two examiners took the motto at face value, as the thesis was indeed excellent, and even groundbreaking.
And everything ended just as he had planned. Woroniecki became a Doctor of Philosophy in mathematical logic. The executor of his father’s will, a famous lawyer from Lwów, Doctor Przygodzki-Nowak, found no problem with the inheritor’s new identity, all the more so as the change of name had been processed at his office. The prodigal son became sole heir to a huge estate, therefore. He decided to settle in Baranie Peretoki and start a new life. And that’s what he probably would have done, had it not been for a fear which initially made itself felt as a slight tingle, then grew like a cancer. Woroniecki was terrified that the crimes would one day come to light. The greatest threat was posed by three people, the three most important dramatis personae: Nowoziemska, Nierobisch and Potok. First, he pierced Nowoziemska’s head with a deadly spike concealed in his walking stick. He intended to do the same to Nierobisch, but this wasn’t so easy; there were always people coming to see her. Somebody even broke into her apartment when she was out. And then finally, when Woroniecki had the perfect opportunity, a police van drew up outside Nierobisch’s tenement on Żogały Street and the would-be victim was arrested. The whole of Kattowitz hummed with rumours about the woman who had performed abortions in some hovel. Many women trembled at the thought of what she might reveal when interrogated. Woroniecki trembled too. But Nierobisch did not tell the police anything about him, for which he rewarded her handsomely by secretly transferring a substantial sum of money, thanks to which she saw that her time in prison was not too hard after all.
“I got a telegram from von Criegern recently.” Woroniecki’s voice was close by. “Your friend in Breslau, a certain Eberhard Mock, keeps pestering him. But von Criegern has dealt with harder cases; he will personally put this friend of yours off the investigation once and for all.” He waved his hand contemptuously. “The only danger that remained, therefore, was that hungry virgin-fancier. But here, too, God watched over me. When Potok killed that police officer in his room, he had one way of escaping the ambush: over the roof onto the neighbouring tenement, then a leap into a small gallery where I, in turn, was renting cheap lodgings. I just happened to be there since I’d arranged to meet a certain charming young lady. So I invited Potok into my bachelor flat and he stayed for two weeks without going out, not even to the toilet. He filled a bucket with his shit, and the sink with his piss. Yeuch! You can imagine how it stank! Germans say: ‘It stinks bestially.’ The beast stank bestially!” Again Woroniecki laughed. “After two weeks I moved him out under the cover of darkness and brought him here. He’s been living here for half a year now. And today I’m handing him over to you, Commissioner. End of story. It’s time for Theseus.”
After this long speech Woroniecki caught his breath and was silent for a while. He then went to the screen, moved it a little and directed the light at a chopping block with an axe embedded in it. The floor beneath the chopping block was laid out with rubber aprons.
“You know what I’ve worked out, Eddie?” The count looked first at one, then at the other bound man. “I’ve worked out how to resolve the Potok and Nierobisch problem in one
go. I am, after all, a Doctor of Mathematics, I can reason logically and inventively. Do you remember how Theseus killed the Minotaur in the myth? Yes, you do. He decapitated him, Eddie. And now we’re going to re-enact the myth. You’re going to be the new Theseus and I’m going to immortalize it on film.”
He went about excitedly lighting more spotlights, like a director before a stage premiere, and then switched on the camera. As it started to roll, he turned the lens now on Popielski, now on Potok.
The Minotaur's Head: An Eberhard Mock Investigation (Eberhard Mock Investigation 4) Page 26