man really did see someone, and if it’s true he was questioned by a policeman, then how do we know that is what he told him and not something entirely different?”
“I am not lying, madam,” Gurwitsch raised his voice. “I know that ferret. He once locked me up at the police station even though I wasn’t all that drunk. I know him. He’s called Bednorz or Ceglorz. That’s what the other policemen called him.”
“Smolorz, perhaps?” Sophie suddenly grew pale, losing a great deal in the eyes of the caretaker who favoured large, rosy women.
“Yes, indeed, Smolorz, Smolorz,” the caretaker said, quickly slipping the money into his canvas trousers.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
HALF PAST THREE IN THE AFTERNOON
Three men occupied a large table in the window of Schaal’s chocolatier at the corner of a block in the centre of Ring. This was where, having just bought their sweet delicacies, Schaal’s customers generally gave free rein to their greed, and Mock’s cohorts were doing just that – washing down sugary specialities with coffee and smoking excessively. Schaal had congratulated himself on having such important customers, and when one of them had complained about the lack of a skat club in the neigh-bourhood, he proposed that they play in his shop. The card-players greeted the proposal with delight, and ever since had played bridge or skat over chocolate and liqueurs while the owner rubbed his hands. And so it was now. Counsellor Herbert Domagalla, an old friend of Mock’s and Head of the Vice Department – that is, Department II of the Police Praesidium – executed a dovetail shuffle and the cards fell into an orderly pile. Commissioner Klaus Ebners, a Sipo official, † concertinaed the cards from one hand to the other. Only the astrologer and clairvoyant Helmut Völlinger – derided by many, but whose exceptional abilities were sought by practically every policeman – was not shuffling or cutting cards. Hishands were busy turning the stem of a large wine glass around its axis, and his eyes were fixed on the window that gave on to the western side of Ring.
Mock greeted his friends effusively, hung up his coat and hat on a modern hat-stand, and took his place at the green baize table. A moment later he was presented with a glass of nut liqueur, and thirteen cards lay in front of him, dealt by the efficient hand of Völlinger, his partner in the first rubber.
“One spade,” began Völlinger. Ebners, sitting to the right of Mock, politely called “no bid” while Mock, seeing four spades in his own hand plus the ace and jack of hearts, raised his partner’s bid to four spades. Domagalla’s “no bid” brought the bidding to an end. Ebners led with a trump. Völlinger quickly drew trumps, finessed with Mock’s jack of hearts, and then laid down his cards.
“As a reward for allowing me that brilliant finesse, I’ll give you the expert advice you asked for.” Völlinger pushed a dark-blue envelope decorated with the stamp h. völlinger – astrological services and consultations towards Mock.
“Thank you,” Mock smiled, “for the praise and the expertise.”
Völlinger did not respond; he stared out of the window and drummed his fingers uneasily on the green felt of the card-table. Mock stashed the envelope in his briefcase alongside the material evidence from both crimes and the cardboard folder containing his subordinates’ reports. Ebners quickly dealt. A moment later he had to do so again when Völlinger picked up two of Domagalla’s cards, mistaking them for his own.
Three “no bids”.
“Two no trumps,” Völlinger said. There was a murmur of authentic admiration.
“I haven’t had cards for a bid like that in ages. All I can say to such a challenge is ‘no bid’,” Ebners sighed.
Mock studied his three kings and jack of spades. “Six no trumps,” he said, provoking a loud double on his left. After two “no bids” Mock redoubled, and that was the end of the
“I am not lying, madam,” Gurwitsch raised his voice. “I know that ferret. He once locked me up at the police station even though I wasn’t all that drunk. I know him. He’s called Bednorz or Ceglorz. That’s what the other policemen called him.”
“Smolorz, perhaps?” Sophie suddenly grew pale, losing a great deal in the eyes of the caretaker who favoured large, rosy women.
“Yes, indeed, Smolorz, Smolorz,” the caretaker said, quickly slipping the money into his canvas trousers.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME NOVEMBER 29TH, 1927
HALF PAST THREE IN THE AFTERNOON
Three men occupied a large table in the window of Schaal’s chocolatier at the corner of a block in the centre of Ring. This was where, having just bought their sweet delicacies, Schaal’s customers generally gave free rein to their greed, and Mock’s cohorts were doing just that – washing down sugary specialities with coffee and smoking excessively. Schaal had congratulated himself on having such important customers, and when one of them had complained about the lack of a skat club in the neigh-bourhood, he proposed that they play in his shop. The card-players greeted the proposal with delight, and ever since had played bridge or skat over chocolate and liqueurs while the owner rubbed his hands. And so it was now. Counsellor Herbert Domagalla, an old friend of Mock’s and Head of the Vice Department – that is, Department II of the Police Praesidium – executed a dovetail shuffle and the cards fell into an orderly pile. Commissioner Klaus Ebners, a Sipo official, † concertinaed the cards from one hand to the other. Only the astrologer and clairvoyant Helmut Völlinger – derided by many, but whose exceptional abilities were sought by practically every policeman – was not shuffling or cutting cards. Hishands were busy turning the stem of a large wine glass around its axis, and his eyes were fixed on the window that gave on to the western side of Ring.
Mock greeted his friends effusively, hung up his coat and hat on a modern hat-stand, and took his place at the green baize table. A moment later he was presented with a glass of nut liqueur, and thirteen cards lay in front of him, dealt by the efficient hand of Völlinger, his partner in the first rubber.
“One spade,” began Völlinger. Ebners, sitting to the right of Mock, politely called “no bid” while Mock, seeing four spades in his own hand plus the ace and jack of hearts, raised his partner’s bid to four spades. Domagalla’s “no bid” brought the bidding to an end. Ebners led with a trump. Völlinger quickly drew trumps, finessed with Mock’s jack of hearts, and then laid down his cards.
“As a reward for allowing me that brilliant finesse, I’ll give you the expert advice you asked for.” Völlinger pushed a dark-blue envelope decorated with the stamp h. völlinger – astrological services and consultations towards Mock.
“Thank you,” Mock smiled, “for the praise and the expertise.”
Völlinger did not respond; he stared out of the window and drummed his fingers uneasily on the green felt of the card-table. Mock stashed the envelope in his briefcase alongside the material evidence from both crimes and the cardboard folder containing his subordinates’ reports. Ebners quickly dealt. A moment later he had to do so again when Völlinger picked up two of Domagalla’s cards, mistaking them for his own.
Three “no bids”.
“Two no trumps,” Völlinger said. There was a murmur of authentic admiration.
“I haven’t had cards for a bid like that in ages. All I can say to such a challenge is ‘no bid’,” Ebners sighed.
Mock studied his three kings and jack of spades. “Six no trumps,” he said, provoking a loud double on his left. After two “no bids” Mock redoubled, and that was the end of the
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