result of their syphilis. Contradictory statements can be made and accepted. The mood varies between euphoria and apathy, and there is general emotional instability. The classic type is characterized by a demented euphoria, delusions of grandeur and bouts of extreme paranoia.’
‘Christ, the only thing you left out was the crazy moustache,’ I said. I lit a cigarette and puffed at it dismally. ‘For God’s sake change the subject. Let’s talk about something cheerful, like our mass-murdering friend. Do you know, I’m beginning to see his point, I really am. I mean, these are tomorrow’s young mothers he’s killing. More childbearing machines to produce new Party recruits. Me, I’m all for these by-products of the asphalt civilization they’re always on about — the childless families with eugenically dud women, at least until we’ve got rid of this regime of rubber truncheons. What’s one more psychopath among so many?’
‘You say more than you know,’ she said. ‘We’re all of us capable of cruelty. Every one of us is a latent criminal. Life is just a battle to maintain a civilized skin. Many sadistic killers find that it’s only occasionally that it comes off. Peter Kurten for example. He was apparently a man of such a kindly disposition that nobody who knew him could believe that he was capable of such horrific crimes as he committed.’
She rummaged in her briefcase again and, having wiped the table, she laid a thin blue book between our two glasses.
‘This book is by Carl Berg, a forensic pathologist who had the opportunity of studying Kurten at length following his arrest. I’ve met Berg and respect his work. He founded the Diisseldorf Institute of Legal and Social Medicine, and for a while he was the medico-legal officer of the Düsseldorf Criminal Court. This book, The Sadist, is probably one of the best accounts of the mind of the murderer that has ever been written. You can borrow it if you like.’
‘Thanks, I will.’
‘That will help you to understand,’ she said. ‘But to enter into the mind of a man like Kurten, you should read this.’ Again she dipped into the bag of books.
‘Les Fleurs du mal,’ I read, ‘by Charles Baudelaire.’ I opened it and looked over the verses. ‘Poetry?’ I raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, don’t look so suspicious, Kommissar. I’m being perfectly serious. It’s a good translation, and you’ll find a lot more in it than you might expect, believe me.’ She smiled at me.
‘I haven’t read poetry since I studied Goethe at school.’
‘And what was your opinion of him?’
‘Do Frankfurt lawyers make good poets?’
‘It’s an interesting critique,’ she said. ‘Well, let’s hope you think better of Baudelaire. And now I’m afraid I must be going.’ She stood up and we shook hands. ‘When you’ve finished with the books you can return them to me at the Goering Institute on Budapesterstrasse. We’re just across the road from the Zoo Aquarium. I’d certainly be interested to hear a detective’s opinion of Baudelaire,’ she said.
‘It will be my pleasure. And you can tell me your opinion of Dr Lanz Kindermann.’
‘Kindermann? You know Lanz Kindermann?’
‘In a way.’
She gave me a judicious sort of look. ‘You know, for a police Kommissar you are certainly full of surprises. You certainly are.’
7
Sunday, 11 September
I prefer my tomatoes when they’ve still got some green left in them. Then they’re sweet and firm, with smooth, cool skins, the sort you would choose for a salad. But when a tomato has been around for a while, it picks up a few wrinkles as it grows too soft to handle, and even begins to taste a little sour.
It’s the same with women. Only this one was perhaps a shade green for me, and possibly rather too cool for her own good. She stood at my front door and gave me an impertinent sort of north-to-south-and-back-again look, as if she was trying to assess my prowess, or lack of it, as a
‘Christ, the only thing you left out was the crazy moustache,’ I said. I lit a cigarette and puffed at it dismally. ‘For God’s sake change the subject. Let’s talk about something cheerful, like our mass-murdering friend. Do you know, I’m beginning to see his point, I really am. I mean, these are tomorrow’s young mothers he’s killing. More childbearing machines to produce new Party recruits. Me, I’m all for these by-products of the asphalt civilization they’re always on about — the childless families with eugenically dud women, at least until we’ve got rid of this regime of rubber truncheons. What’s one more psychopath among so many?’
‘You say more than you know,’ she said. ‘We’re all of us capable of cruelty. Every one of us is a latent criminal. Life is just a battle to maintain a civilized skin. Many sadistic killers find that it’s only occasionally that it comes off. Peter Kurten for example. He was apparently a man of such a kindly disposition that nobody who knew him could believe that he was capable of such horrific crimes as he committed.’
She rummaged in her briefcase again and, having wiped the table, she laid a thin blue book between our two glasses.
‘This book is by Carl Berg, a forensic pathologist who had the opportunity of studying Kurten at length following his arrest. I’ve met Berg and respect his work. He founded the Diisseldorf Institute of Legal and Social Medicine, and for a while he was the medico-legal officer of the Düsseldorf Criminal Court. This book, The Sadist, is probably one of the best accounts of the mind of the murderer that has ever been written. You can borrow it if you like.’
‘Thanks, I will.’
‘That will help you to understand,’ she said. ‘But to enter into the mind of a man like Kurten, you should read this.’ Again she dipped into the bag of books.
‘Les Fleurs du mal,’ I read, ‘by Charles Baudelaire.’ I opened it and looked over the verses. ‘Poetry?’ I raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, don’t look so suspicious, Kommissar. I’m being perfectly serious. It’s a good translation, and you’ll find a lot more in it than you might expect, believe me.’ She smiled at me.
‘I haven’t read poetry since I studied Goethe at school.’
‘And what was your opinion of him?’
‘Do Frankfurt lawyers make good poets?’
‘It’s an interesting critique,’ she said. ‘Well, let’s hope you think better of Baudelaire. And now I’m afraid I must be going.’ She stood up and we shook hands. ‘When you’ve finished with the books you can return them to me at the Goering Institute on Budapesterstrasse. We’re just across the road from the Zoo Aquarium. I’d certainly be interested to hear a detective’s opinion of Baudelaire,’ she said.
‘It will be my pleasure. And you can tell me your opinion of Dr Lanz Kindermann.’
‘Kindermann? You know Lanz Kindermann?’
‘In a way.’
She gave me a judicious sort of look. ‘You know, for a police Kommissar you are certainly full of surprises. You certainly are.’
7
Sunday, 11 September
I prefer my tomatoes when they’ve still got some green left in them. Then they’re sweet and firm, with smooth, cool skins, the sort you would choose for a salad. But when a tomato has been around for a while, it picks up a few wrinkles as it grows too soft to handle, and even begins to taste a little sour.
It’s the same with women. Only this one was perhaps a shade green for me, and possibly rather too cool for her own good. She stood at my front door and gave me an impertinent sort of north-to-south-and-back-again look, as if she was trying to assess my prowess, or lack of it, as a
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