preliminary results to Beran.
The superintendent did not interrupt with his usual treacherous questions; he followed Morava’s conclusions without taking notes, and with every page of his notebook Morava’s self-confidence grew.
“It can be asserted with almost complete confidence that the perpetrator is the very person who in 1938 committed the sadistic and still unexplained murder of a widowed seamstress, Maruska Kubilkova, in Brno. Regardless of differences in the implements used”—Morava raised his voice to drown out his nervousness, for this was the point where he felt his theory was most vulnerable—“it seems probable that the same perpetrator has attempted again what he failed at seven years ago, whether because of inexperience or because the first victim defended herself ferociously.”
Even now the superintendent made no objections and took no notes. Morava was already regretting that he had closed the connecting door for fear of exposing himself to ridicule. Jitka could have witnessed his first genuine success; she could have heard his superior appreciatively pronounce that magic phrase, “Good work, Morava!”
“I conclude,” he therefore continued at an undiminished volume, “that it would be appropriate to reopen the Kubilkova case. Its investigation was interrupted in March 1939 when the two officers assigned to it on the Brno criminal police fled to England after the establishment of the Bohemian and Moravian Protectorate. The file ends with the statement that all significant suspects produced alibis and no crime remotely like it has occurred since then in this country, from which they deduced that the murderer managed to escape abroad as well. Our recent investigation, however, forces me to raise the possibility that he was here the whole time and should be sought first among the ranks of the original suspects.”
He finished and, in a new wave of doubt, expected his suspiciously inactive boss to shoot him down with a glance or an observation that would reduce his careful argument to nonsense. Instead, Beran stood up, surprising him with an odd question.
“Would you like to go for a walk? The papers have been claiming for a week already that spring’s here.”
As he followed Beran out through the anteroom, Morava tried to signal Jitka with a shrug of his shoulders that he had no idea what was happening. The superintendent walked so fast that in spite of his height Morava could barely keep up. He let himself be led as far as Strelecky Island, in the middle of the Vltava River, without daring to break the silence. As the stone steps led them down from the bridge to the park path, he decided that his superior had merely wanted a breath of fresh air, and that there was no harm in asking a question.
“Chief Inspector Buback is waiting to hear what time we’re to leave for Brno.”
“I know,” Beran reassured him. “That’s why we’ve gone for a little stroll.”
Morava must have had a somewhat silly expression on his face. The superintendent smiled in amusement.
“You thought I wanted to show you the pussy willows blooming? Jitka can take care of that, I think.”
The assistant detective felt his burning cheeks betray him again. But Beran—uncharacteristically—clapped him on the shoulder.
“You can’t seriously think I only have eyes for corpses. My congratulations; I’m very happy for both of you. Now all you have to do is survive the war.”
“Exactly. She’s terribly afraid for her father. He’s been locked up for that illegal pig slaughter.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll get to it.”
The circular path led them to the tip of the island pointing toward the Charles Bridge. In the clear air the Prague castle rose up before them, from this angle unmarred by the occupiers’ flag—not the sarcophagus of an inferior people destined for extermination, but the undying symbol of a metropolis whose glory, according to the old Czech legend, would reach the stars. Even
The superintendent did not interrupt with his usual treacherous questions; he followed Morava’s conclusions without taking notes, and with every page of his notebook Morava’s self-confidence grew.
“It can be asserted with almost complete confidence that the perpetrator is the very person who in 1938 committed the sadistic and still unexplained murder of a widowed seamstress, Maruska Kubilkova, in Brno. Regardless of differences in the implements used”—Morava raised his voice to drown out his nervousness, for this was the point where he felt his theory was most vulnerable—“it seems probable that the same perpetrator has attempted again what he failed at seven years ago, whether because of inexperience or because the first victim defended herself ferociously.”
Even now the superintendent made no objections and took no notes. Morava was already regretting that he had closed the connecting door for fear of exposing himself to ridicule. Jitka could have witnessed his first genuine success; she could have heard his superior appreciatively pronounce that magic phrase, “Good work, Morava!”
“I conclude,” he therefore continued at an undiminished volume, “that it would be appropriate to reopen the Kubilkova case. Its investigation was interrupted in March 1939 when the two officers assigned to it on the Brno criminal police fled to England after the establishment of the Bohemian and Moravian Protectorate. The file ends with the statement that all significant suspects produced alibis and no crime remotely like it has occurred since then in this country, from which they deduced that the murderer managed to escape abroad as well. Our recent investigation, however, forces me to raise the possibility that he was here the whole time and should be sought first among the ranks of the original suspects.”
He finished and, in a new wave of doubt, expected his suspiciously inactive boss to shoot him down with a glance or an observation that would reduce his careful argument to nonsense. Instead, Beran stood up, surprising him with an odd question.
“Would you like to go for a walk? The papers have been claiming for a week already that spring’s here.”
As he followed Beran out through the anteroom, Morava tried to signal Jitka with a shrug of his shoulders that he had no idea what was happening. The superintendent walked so fast that in spite of his height Morava could barely keep up. He let himself be led as far as Strelecky Island, in the middle of the Vltava River, without daring to break the silence. As the stone steps led them down from the bridge to the park path, he decided that his superior had merely wanted a breath of fresh air, and that there was no harm in asking a question.
“Chief Inspector Buback is waiting to hear what time we’re to leave for Brno.”
“I know,” Beran reassured him. “That’s why we’ve gone for a little stroll.”
Morava must have had a somewhat silly expression on his face. The superintendent smiled in amusement.
“You thought I wanted to show you the pussy willows blooming? Jitka can take care of that, I think.”
The assistant detective felt his burning cheeks betray him again. But Beran—uncharacteristically—clapped him on the shoulder.
“You can’t seriously think I only have eyes for corpses. My congratulations; I’m very happy for both of you. Now all you have to do is survive the war.”
“Exactly. She’s terribly afraid for her father. He’s been locked up for that illegal pig slaughter.”
“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll get to it.”
The circular path led them to the tip of the island pointing toward the Charles Bridge. In the clear air the Prague castle rose up before them, from this angle unmarred by the occupiers’ flag—not the sarcophagus of an inferior people destined for extermination, but the undying symbol of a metropolis whose glory, according to the old Czech legend, would reach the stars. Even
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