The Widow Killer by Pavel Kohout Read Free Book Online

traces) to Jitka yesterday in the office—a century ago, he smiled to himself, before that magnificent radiance had descended on them… The superintendent had managed to have the report translated into German overnight, and left it for Meckerle.
    In Buback’s office, a bulletin was being sent by telegraph or courier to all the police stations in the Protectorate. It ended with a directive to review all the old police blotters; any cases with even a distant resemblance should be brought to Prague’s attention. At this point Morava fell silent and looked inquiringly at his boss.
    The superintendent turned to the German. “I request your permission to examine the blotters from the former Czechoslovak Republic; we will be looking for any leads in this case.”
    The German answered without hesitation.
    “I will permit it—as long as an agent from the appropriate German security detachment is present at all times; afterward the logs will be resealed immediately.”
    He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and the authority to back it up, Morava evaluated. He finished by asking if the chief inspector had any additional suggestions.
    “For now, the press is not to report on this item.”
    “The censor’s office has already been alerted, but it only reviews the Czech press,” Morava said, pleased that he had anticipated this demand.
    “I’ll deal with the German office myself,” the man behind the desk snapped.
    The upholstered doors opened noiselessly. A young man with a shaven skull handed Buback a sheaf of paper and disappeared. The German looked over the report and turned to Beran again; my first goal, Morava thought, will be to get this man to stop ignoring me.
    “Why are your people at the house on the embankment?”
    “I ordered them to watch the caretaker,” Beran said, taking responsibility. “He’s a potential witness for the prosecution; the perpetrator might try to eliminate him.”
    “Call them off. There are German organizations housed in the building; we’ll take care of it ourselves.”
    Beran nodded again genially. Morava could sense what he was thinking: We’ll save on overtime, and now we have a good idea where their counterespionage is.
    Buback abruptly stood up. Social graces were clearly not his strong point.
    “I expect your reports daily at eight hundred, fourteen hundred, and twenty hundred hours. At an appropriate point I’ll join the investigation. Prepare an office for me in your building with two telephone lines.”
    He did not wish them well, but neither did he say Heil Hitler. From his position at the side of the desk, Morava spotted the faces of two women in a picture frame. Unbelievable, he thought. Despite the events of the last twenty-four hours, Jitka was still on his mind. But could Germans still feel love, after everything they had done?
    As they walked down past three checkpoints to the ground floor of the Gestapo fortress, a wave of antagonism rolled over him. These run-of-the-mill sergeants with the skull and crossbones on their caps behaved with incredible arrogance toward the highest officer and best detective of the Protectorate police. They were infinitely worse, he thought, than any Czech guard in Bartolomejska would dare be even to a prisoner. It filled him with a chilling sense of his own insignificance. Only a couple of steps separated them from the infamous basement that had swallowed several of his colleagues, among them Beran’s right-hand man. The only way out of there was via the concentration camps or the military firing range in Kobylisy.
    Morava believed that Meckerle, who was in charge of all this, was dead serious. If they did not bring him the murderer’s head, he’d take one of theirs, and Morava had no doubt which of the three of them would be least missed and would thus suit them best as a general warning.
    At times his people’s humiliation and degradation had infuriated Morava so much that he would gladly have given his life for their freedom.