Zugzwang (a short story) Read online

It was a busy night in Angel Wings.

  They watched the entrance, waiting for a signal from Frau Bruckmann. Glasser took pictures. They discussed the Hitler connection. Glasser felt there was nothing in it, nothing more than a coincidence. Unless the Kommissar was suggesting some connection between the Führer and a common prostitute! Saxon was happy to let Glasser win that argument for the moment. Tucking the lead away in his head like a precious jewel to be savoured later, he closed his weary eyes for a moment.

  Glasser woke him with a shout in the dead of night. “Wake up! Boss, wake up.”

  Saxon grasped at the fleeting memory of a dream, but it was gone, leaving nothing behind but an image of peroxide pigtails and a sensation of anxiety. His body was cold. He wiped his eyes and peered out through the misted windows. He saw no one.

  “Did we get a signal from the Madam?”

  “No, but you’ll never guess who just arrived!”

  “Tell me. And tell me you have his photograph.”

  “Only the highest ranking SS officer in the south of Germany, SS-Standartenführer Karl Kratschik.” He grinned like a skull. “And yes, I have his picture.”

  Chapter 2

  Saxon was surprised that Glasser knew Kratschik by sight. Saxon himself had never met him – Kratschik was based in the SS headquarters in Schellingstrasse, on the other side of the city – but he had a strong mental image of the man: tall, silver-haired, wearing the black SS uniform and carrying a riding crop. He’d spoken to him on the telephone. Karl Kratschik’s voice was always smooth as a baby’s bottom. He spoke a brand of perfect German that came only from a privileged background and an expensive education in a private gymnasium. Saxon fancied he might sport a duelling scar on his left cheek.

  Saxon wiped his eyes, stretched his limbs and offered to buy some food.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” said Glasser.

  Saxon bought Brötchen and Bratwurst for two from a street cart. “You’ve got to eat,” he said to Glasser.

  Glasser accepted the food. Saxon devoured his own, and watched his assistant pick at the bread. He never touched the sausage. The man was clearly an automaton. He needed no food – and no sleep.

  #

  As dawn broke, a suffocating fog descended on the city, making further photography impossible. Glasser drove Saxon home.

  Saxon opened the front door of his apartment quietly. Ruth was in bed, the baby in the crook of her arm. Both were sleeping like angels. He leant down and kissed the infant’s forehead. The child woke with a start, arms flailing, took one look at his father, opened his mouth, filled his lungs with air and screamed. And then all three were awake, Ruth chastising her husband for his stupidity while offering a breast to the infant.

  With the baby guzzling milk, peace returned to the Saxon household. The boy was a picture of health. Saxon imagined he’d put on weight in the past 24 hours. Ruth, on the other hand, looked exhausted, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  “Tell me why you couldn’t have come home last night. What was so important that you had to leave me to cope on my own?”

  “You’ve heard about the woman murdered in Schwabing? I’ve been given the case.”

  “Couldn’t they give it to somebody else?”

  “It’s a high profile case, Ruth. I could be famous if I solve it.”

  “And what if you can’t solve it? Not every case gets solved.”

  He made her breakfast, feeling guilty because he was neither hungry nor tired as he’d eaten and slept in the car. For Ruth’s sake he would eat something and feign sleep.

  Ruth put the sleeping infant back in his cot. Keeping her voice low, she said, “That man scares me.”

  “Who? Glasser? Because he’s a Nazi?”

  “Because he’s so thin!”

  Saxon nodded. “He eats like a bird. Sometimes I wonder what keeps him upright.”

  He dressed for bed and lay down beside Ruth. She rolled toward him, wrapping an arm across his chest. “I really needed you last night.”

  “I know. I’m sorry I left you alone with the baby.”

  She snuggled closer. He wrapped an arm around her and closed his eyes. Within minutes, Ruth was snoring on his chest. He remained wide awake.

  #

  The telephone rang early on Monday morning. Saxon leapt out of bed to answer it, afraid that it would wake the baby.

  It was Glasser. “Good morning, Kommissar. I’m sending a car around to collect you. There’s been another killing.”

  A small crowd had gathered at the junction of Moralstrasse and Glötzleweg, held back by two uniformed policemen.

  “This one’s a teacher,” said Glasser. “Her name’s Maxine Limburg.”

  “The method?”

  “The same.”

  The body lay under a mature fir tree in Glötzleweg, covered in a sheet. At a signal from Saxon, Professor Valachek, the Medical Examiner, pulled the sheet back to reveal the headless corpse of a young woman, naked, the stomach ripped open. Saxon’s Sunday night meal made a dash for freedom. He clamped his teeth shut and covered his mouth with a hand.

  “The head’s over there.” Valachek nodded to his left where a blood-stained towel covered something. He took a step toward it. “Do you want to see it?”

  Saxon swallowed his food for a second time. “No thank you. How do we know who she is?”

  Glasser answered. “She was discovered by her husband, Erik. They lived just around the corner.”

  Saxon tried to imagine the shock of discovering Ruth like this. He shivered.

  Professor Valachek gave an approximate time of death – no more than 2 hours earlier, between 5 and 6 am. “I may be able to tie it down more precisely when I get the body to the morgue.”

  Saxon and Glasser found the Limburgs’ house in Hofbrunnstrasse. Erik Limburg sat in the kitchen surrounded by concerned friends and neighbours. They’d made him tea.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Herr Limburg,” said Saxon. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

  Limburg’s hands shook so much he couldn’t pick up his teacup without help. He nodded to Saxon.

  “Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

  Limburg shook his head.

  “How long were you married?” asked Glasser.

  One of the neighbours answered. “Six months.”

  Barely past their honeymoon, thought Saxon. “When did you last see your wife?”

  Limburg found his voice. “Early this morning. There was a telephone call… She went out…”

  “Do you know who the call was from?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she had to leave early – before breakfast. She usually makes – made – breakfast before she left for work…”

  “What time was this?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Your wife was a teacher, I believe. Where did she work?”

  One of the neighbours answered again. “Altenadler School for Boys.”

  They found Altenadler School for Boys on Lochhamer Strasse, a brooding redbrick building, its entrance hall dominated by a massive portrait of Martin Luther hanging on a wall. They showed their police badges to the caretaker who led them to the headmaster’s office.

  Glasser did the introductions.

  Bart Freudl, the headmaster, a short man with a strong head of hair, dressed in coarse Bavarian tweed, looked at his watch pointedly. “I don’t have much time to spare. The morning is the busiest time of the day for me. What’s this about, anyway? I hope my seniors haven’t been causing mischief again.”

  “It’s nothing like that, sir,” said Glasser. He glanced at Saxon.

  Saxon said, “I’m afraid we have bad news, Herr Freudl. One of your teachers, Frau Limburg, has been found dead.”

  The headmaster’s hand shot to his mouth. “Maxine? Oh, no! What happened? Was it a car accident?”

  “Frau Limburg has been murdered,” said Saxon.

  The
headmaster blanched. “That can’t be. She was perfectly well yesterday.”

  “As I said, sir, she was murdered – early this morning.”

  “You mean someone killed her?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.”

  “But who would want to kill her? Maxine was well liked by everyone in the school – boys and teachers. I can’t believe anyone would want to kill her.”

  True to type, the headmaster’s first instinct was to question everything he was told.

  Glasser said, “When did you see her last?”

  “Yesterday evening, when she left the school at closing time.”

  “How did she seem?” asked Saxon. “Was she upset, anxious, in a hurry, anything like that?”

  “No, she was her normal happy self.”

  “Did you call her on the telephone this morning for any reason?”

  “No, although she is overdue. I would have called her number in the next half-hour if… if she hadn’t… if you hadn’t…”

  “How long has she worked here in the school?”

  “Eighteen months. Since October, 1931.”

  “Since before she was married.”

  “Yes. She was Maxine Weiss then.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  “I’m not sure. She had a private teaching position somewhere.”

  “You never asked where?” said Glasser, a little harshly.

  “I had no reason to.”

  Saxon asked for a photograph of Frau Limburg. Herr Freudl rummaged in his desk and found a picture of the senior class from 1932, taken in bright sunshine. He pointed out the smiling figure of Frau Limburg standing by his side to the left of the class. It seemed impossible that the bloody headless ruin Saxon had seen in Glötzleweg could be all that remained of this smiling woman.

  “Thank you. I’ll hold onto this,” he said.

  #

  Back at the office, Saxon found a stranger dressed in an expensive Italian suit waiting for him. His first thought was that this was a banking friend of Goldfarb’s, but when he saw the stranger’s full length leather coat draped across the back of a chair, he stiffened. What business could the Schutzstaffel have with him?

  “Kriminalkommissar Saxon?”

  Saxon recognized the honey voice immediately. The SS man was older and shorter than Saxon expected. His broad face and distinctive square chin looked nothing like Saxon’s mental picture, and there was no sign of a riding crop or a duelling scar on either cheek. “Herr Kratschik, good to meet you in person at last.” He offered a smile and a hand.

  Kratschik ignored the hand. “I was disappointed to hear that your killer has struck again so soon. And unfortunately the newspapers have connected the three deaths.” He dropped a rolled up newspaper on Saxon’s desk. It sprang open and Saxon read the headline:

  KILLER STALKS THE STREETS OF MUNICH

  3 WOMEN BRUTALLY MURDERED

  “I have decided to take personal charge of the investigation. Now that the story has broken, it is all the more imperative that we find the killer before he strikes again.”

  “Kriminaldirektor Mydas—”

  “— has been informed of my decision. For the remainder of the investigation, until the case has been resolved, you will report to me. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Herr Standartenführer.”

  Kratschik sat down. “You will start by briefing me on your progress so far.”

  Saxon sat at his desk, aware of an annoying tremor in his hands, its cause mostly anger, but there was a spoonful of fear mixed in there as well.

  “We have spoken to the owner of the brothel where Maria Kazinski worked and also with her roommate, Tania. We have also interviewed Frau Happeck’s employer, the banker Goldfarb.”

  “What of this latest victim?”

  “She was a young schoolteacher, I have spoken with her husband and her headmaster.”

  “How many suspects do we have?”

  “We have no obvious suspects, yet, sir, and nothing that might be called a positive lead.”

  “Have you spoken to the Medical Examiner?”

  “I met him at the crime scene this morning.”

  “Did you discuss the three cases?”

  “No, sir. There wasn’t time.”

  “I’m disappointed, Saxon. Should you not be there right now? I would have thought the Medical Examiner’s office would be at the very top of your list.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want your very best work on this case, Saxon, do you hear me? And if you need more resources, please ask.

  “Thank you, sir, but I have as much as I need for the moment.”

  #

  Kratschik left, and Glasser took his place.

  “What did he want?” said Glasser.

  “We are now reporting to him until the case is solved. We must work harder.”

  “How does Herr Mydas feel about that?”

  “The Kriminaldirektor has been informed. Is there anything in last night’s photographs?”

  “Nothing obvious, but I have a good clear picture of Standartenführer Kratschik.”

  “Keep that safe. It might be useful,” said Saxon. “Give me the school photograph that Freudl gave us.”

  Glasser handed the picture over, and Saxon examined it under a magnifying glass. He pointed to one of the boys in the middle row. “Who does this remind you of?”

  Glasser took the picture. “Kratschik! That chin is unmistakable. I’d bet a week’s wages that this is Kratschik junior.”

  “Check it with the headmaster. I have to visit the Medical Examiner’s office.”

  Glasser stopped at the office door. “You do realize if the boy in the picture is Kratschik’s son, that will give us links between Kratschik and two of the three victims.”

  #

  Professor Valachek had both hands inside Frau Limburg’s headless cadaver. The blood smears reached his elbows. Kommissar Saxon asked him if he could shed any light on the case.

  “What did you have in mind?” said Valachek.

  “Anything that would help us to identify the killer. His motive, perhaps.”

  “Sorry, Saxon. I can tell you what killed each of the three women, but I’m a medical man. I have no skills in reading entrails. Hire a spiritualist or buy yourself a Ouija board.”

  Saxon asked to see the other two victims, and Professor Valachek peeled back two sheets without ceremony, revealing two decapitated corpses on adjacent tables. Saxon looked them over. He was not unfamiliar with the sight of death, but each of these bloodless cadavers had been the subject of a frenzied attack, and the separation of the heads was not easy to look at. He thanked the professor, and asked, “What of the sequence of events?”

  “Frau Happeck was killed by a single blow to the back of the head. The mutilations were all post mortem. Fräulein Kazinski, on the other hand, was alive until the end.”

  “You mean the decapitation killed her?”

  “Most likely, yes. The initial blow to her head would have rendered her unconscious, but it didn’t kill her.”

  “What about our latest victim, Frau Limburg?”

  “She was lucky. The mutilations were all inflicted post mortem.”

  The professor gave Saxon a copy of the first autopsy report and promised to send on the second and third as soon as they were complete. As he was leaving, Professor Valachek said, “I hope there won’t be too many more like this.”

  The professor’s tone suggested that he held Saxon to blame personally for the three killings.

  #

  A thin vestige of the early morning fog lingered in Munich’s low-lying streets as Saxon drove toward the office the next morning, deep in thought. If Freudl confirmed that Kratschik’s son was a student at the school last year, then that would link Kratschik to two of the victims, making him a suspect, not that he could report the fact to his new supervisor! Any link between Kratschik and Frau Happeck, no matter how tenuous, would almost certainly close the case.
>
  Kriminaloberassistent Glasser had shown himself to be a customer of the Angel Wings brothel. If there was anything connecting him to either of the other two victims he too would have to be placed on the list of suspects and removed from the investigation.

  The murder of Frau Happeck was the most puzzling. The other two victims were young women while Frau Happeck was beyond middle age. If the killer was a crazed sex maniac, as seemed likely, then the murder of Frau Happeck made little sense. That killing was surely the key to the whole case.

  He turned the car around and headed back toward Prinzregentenplatz.

  #

  Saxon parked across the road from Prinzregentenplatz 16 and watched the comings and goings for a while. Two food vans and one from a flower shop made deliveries, and one Reichswehr dispatch motorcyclist delivered a parcel to the apartment building, but he thought that Adolf Hitler was not in residence. His personal SS guards were nowhere to be seen. Surely, the Führer was in the opera house in Berlin, where the Reichstag would be in session.

  Hitler’s armour-plated Mercedes Benz drove up and parked outside the apartment building. The driver got out and went inside. When he re-emerged carrying a bucket of water, Saxon got out of his car and walked across to talk to him.

  He showed his police badge to the driver. “You are the Führer’s driver?”

  “His chauffeur. What of it?” He ran a finger across his moustache, indistinguishable from his master’s. This was not a gesture of a nervous man, rather a signal of supreme assurance, as if the square on his upper lip possessed the spirit of the Führer himself.

  Saxon snapped his fingers. “Your papers.”

  The driver handed over his identity card. It bore the name Julius Schreck.

  Saxon said, “I am engaged in an active murder investigation. One of the victims, a Frau Happeck used to work here, I believe.”

  “I can’t help you,” said Schreck. He dropped a sponge into the bucket, splashing Saxon’s trousers.

  “Can you confirm that Frau Happeck worked as a housekeeper to the Führer until about 18 months ago?”

  “I haven’t been driving for the Führer that long. You need to speak with his previous driver, Emil Maurice.”

  “Where can I find Herr Maurice?”

  The driver shrugged. He turned his back to Saxon and began applying soapy water to the car.