Phantoms of Breslau by Marek Krajewski Read Free Book Online

Ollenborg smiled. “But allow me, Officer sir, to give you one piece of advice. Barba non facit philosophum . † Why are you looking at me like that? Because I’ve studied Latin? Once, on a voyage to Africa, I avidly read Georg Büchmann’s Geflügelte Worte ; ‡ I practically know it by heart.”
    Mock said nothing. He did not feel like talking. Today it seemed hard to find the right words. Lost in thought, he watched the young blonde woman in the long blue dress and veil. She was on her way to the table but suddenly changed direction, approached the ice-cream and lemonade vendor and smiled at him. As she did so, she stuck out her neck which had been hidden by a high lace collar held in place with hooks; it was covered with dark, scaly patches. The vendor handed the woman some lemonade without her having to queue. “Where have I seen that girl before?” Mock asked himself. “In some brothel, no doubt,” was his own response. Trapped in a tedious existence, between booking prostitutes, alcoholic delirium and the superhuman effort it took to continue to show his father respect, Mock realized that he saw a harlot in every woman. But this is not what horrified him. He was already used to unhappy thoughts and his own partially feigned cynicism, and he was well acquainted with his own demons. But all of a sudden he was afraid for his future. What would he do if he had a wife who, faithful up to now, suddenly started coming home late at night, her lips concealing alcohol fumes, deceit lurking in her eyes, satiation slumbering in her body, and on her breasts the marks of passionate bites? What would this brave conquerer of indifferent prostitutes and venereal pimps do then? Mock did not know how he would behave. How much easier it would be if the entire female kind was made up of harlots! Then nothing would surprise him.
    Sergeant Smolorz interrupted these dismal thoughts.
    “The port’s director was in his office,” he said loudly, trying to shout above the orchestra which was now playing “Der Präsentiermarsch”, a tune from the time of East African colonization.
    “And what, was he irrigating his wife?” Ollenborg said, spitting out his cigarette butt.
    “Probably,” Smolorz muttered and pointed to the blonde who was drinking lemonade from a thick glass. Her scaly blotches were not visible. “She looks quite happy, doesn’t she?”
    “That’s the port director’s wife?” asked Mock.
    “I found his office. Went in. He and that woman were there. Iintroduced myself. He said goodbye to her nervously: ‘Bye, my little wifey. I’ll be there in a minute.’”
    “Take me to his office,” Mock said, springing to his feet and talking more fluently now. “Now that he’s irrigated his wife, and before he launches the ship, the port director has some questions to answer.”
    “I’ve already asked them,” Smolorz said as he pulled out a notebook. “And I showed him the photographs. He didn’t recognize the murdered men. But he gave me a list of all the agents in Breslau who recruit river-boat sailors.”
    “How did you know I wanted to ask that?” Mock secretly admired the terseness and love of hard facts which distinguished his colleague.
    “Ah well, I just guessed. I do know you a little.” Smolorz reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of dark beer with the Biernoth Tavern label. “I guessed this too. I do know you a little.”
    “You’re irreplaceable,” Mock said as he spontaneously squeezed Smolorz’s hand.
    The orchestra began to play “Marsch der freiwilliger Jäger”. From behind the building strode a red-faced, fifty-year-old man in a top hat. His cheeks looked fit to burst with a surplus of blood, and the buttons on his waistcoat strained under the pressure of excess fat. He approached the table, picked up a glass of champagne with his plump fingers, and raised it in a toast.
    “That’s Wohsedt, the director of Wollheim’s shipyard,” Ollenborg informed them.
    The buzzing