Hmm… maybe the murderer could help…?
“She says that naturally, under the circumstances, she’ll find someone else.”
Meckerle lightly swirled the remains of the viscous liquid in his goblet, stared at the letter, and melancholically nodded.
“And do you know what the strangest thing is?”
Here it comes, Buback thought. Why had she put him in such an impossible situation?
“The strangest thing,” the giant answered himself, “is that I feel relieved. I do! I’ve always been lucky with women, but she was a colossal mistake, do you believe me?”
Buback did not respond, but no response was needed; Meckerle had to talk through this to get it off his chest.
“Before she chased me down — and she did the chasing, that cunning beast! — I noticed her in the troupe. She looked like a schoolgirl in a bunch of Brunhildes, but I sensed she’d be a passion bomb. Before she was firmly in the saddle — and yes, eventually she was — she’d heat me up white-hot, but wouldn’t give it to me, the vixen; every German in Prague knew I was sleeping with her, only I wasn’t. Till she got the apartment keys. And then it happened….”
He waved his hands and fell into a reverie.
“The first time was sensational. Like drumfire!”
By now Buback’s stomach was definitely hurting.
“But then it was over. A fish.”
“Fish?” Buback repeated involuntarily.
“A Pisces. By sign and by nature — a spoiled kitten. In public, by my side, she’d make eyes at everyone and anyone until I… well, I was mad with jealousy. Then back in the apartment she was a wet rag. Each time I had to prove myself again, or so she said. She smoked exclusively Egyptians, drank champagne like it was going out of style, listened only to that crazy nigger music, which I’d get for ungodly sums from Switzerland, and wanted her feet massaged every evening. Yes, she turned me into a masseur. It was unbelievable the way she pushed me around. When she disliked something I did — and often she wouldn’t even tell me what, I was supposed to guess — she’d turn into an icicle.”
It was too much for Buback to accept.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” Meckerle continued. “Pretty soon I had to ask myself: Why do I keep her, especially in this city, where all I have to do is.. ”
He snapped his fingers loudly.
“But each time I wanted to slam the door behind me, she’d sense it a moment earlier and find a way to make me stay on. She’s a truly fateful woman, Buback, a femme fatale. The glow that tempts you to love her is real, but then she expects the same in return. With me she finally realized that she would always be third: after my work and my wife. So she held me like a hostage until she could find the man who’d give her what she lacked___”
The head of the Gestapo sighed. “That bitch! That goddamned bitch! And I can’t even destroy her, that beautiful little bitch!”
He downed the rest of the cognac.
“Or you, Buback….”
His gaze pierced the detective, sharp as an interrogation. As chills and hot flushes raced through him, Buback decided silence was still the wisest option. Meckerle raised the hand with the letter in it.
“That’s right, she presents you as my replacement. Handpicked, with my own stamp of approval. Because she guessed — correctly — how furious I would have been if my men had reported you to me. Of course it makes my blood boil, but…”
He rose, towering over Buback, and angrily shred the paper into tiny pieces.
“Get the hell out of here! Go hunt that pervert with your Czechs, snoop around in their drawers, and stay out of my sight. Heil Hitler!”
Morava ran into Bartolom
jská Street breathless, but in time to catch Beran before he sent off his message.
“Mr. Beran,” he pleaded, “I know you want to cover for me, but please, hold off for a while. This is a demanding plan; it’ll be hard for you to find time for it.”
When he finished his brief explanation, he heard the words that made his heart soar.
“Good work, Morava.”
A minute before two, Chief Inspector Buback arrived with today’s interpreter; now they had a political quorum as well. They were all there, even the Vy
ehrad team, and Jitka was taking notes.
“Bait!” Morava announced to the assembled men. “We’ll throw it to him day in, day out, until he bites. And then we’ll reel him in.”
In his typical style, he laid it out for them, point by point.
Point A: Tomorrow, in a convenient free spot in the Vyehrad cemetery, a false grave would be installed, where the technicians would place a marker with the name of a newly deceased man.
Point B: An apartment under the same name would be designated appropriately close to the cemetery.
Point C: Several female volunteers would be chosen from the ranks of the Prague police staff to play the role of a grieving widow who visits the cemetery twice daily.
Point D: During her visits, the apartment would be occupied by two men, armed with pistols.
Point E: The “widow on shift” would not lock the front door, and if someone rang or knocked, she would call from the kitchen that it was open.
Point F: As soon as the perpetrator entered the kitchen, he would be seized and disarmed by the hidden policemen.
Morava snapped his notebook shut.
“Of course, we will continue to review any reports that come in, but this trap should be flawless. There must be a compelling reason behind the killer’s routine, since so far it has outweighed the risks he’s taken. We have good reason to think he’ll take the bait. If any of you have a lady colleague in mind, please bring her to me.”
He turned to the German.
“Does the chief inspector have any objections or comments?”
When it was translated, Buback shook his head.
Morava then opened his notebook again and read out the roster of tasks.
“Any questions?” he asked in closing.
The technician in charge of the grave plaque spoke up.
“What about the name on the grave?”
“Whatever occurs to you.”
“Nothing occurs to me,” the man insisted.
“How about Jan Morava?”
He noticed Jitka’s sudden start and tried to reassure her.
“Superstition says grave owners live the longest.”
The technician had already written it down.
“Where will we find an apartment?” 
ebesta wanted to know.
Morava’s eyes once again met Jitka’s, this time questioningly. It buoyed him to see her nod back immediately.
“Jitka Modrá rents a room in a house in Kav
í Hory that fits the requirements quite well. The owners are away from Prague; if they return, we’ll show that it’s in the public interest and possibly pay them.”
The technician wrote down the address for the plaque on the door.
“Anything else?”
The team already looked like runners crouched at the starting line. Beran, however, spoke up for the first time in that half hour.
“Be sure to tell your lady colleagues the whole truth: We’ll give them the best protection we can, but at certain points the murderer will be closer to them than any assistance we can give, and his behavior might unexpectedly change. Any women who volunteer in spite of this will immediately be elevated to a higher service grade, but they must be aware that they are voluntarily exposing themselves to a degree of risk. I’ll want to speak with all of them personally at four as well;’
These three sentences instantly deflated their hunters’ euphoria. They dispersed in a pensive mood. Beran asked Buback to remain behind with Morava. He dismissed the interpreter and led the discussion in German.