Death in Breslau

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The July heat was unbearable. Director Ernst Bennert of the Psychiatric Hospital slid his hand over his enormous bald skull. He examined his wet palm with care — like a palmist. The mound of Venus was sticky with sweat, tiny drops glistening in the life line. Two flies dug convulsively into a stain left by a glass of sweet tea on the oilcloth. The light of a merciless, setting sun flooded the window of his consulting room.

The heat did not seem to trouble the man with a shining black mane who was also sitting there. He turned his chubby face — adorned with a moustache and sprouting stubble — to the sun with evident pleasure. He rubbed his cheek with a hand on which flexed the tattoo of a scorpion. The man looked at Bennert. His eyes, dimmed by the sun’s glare, became suddenly attentive.

“We both know, doctor,” he said with a distinct foreign accent, “that you cannot refuse the institution I represent.”

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