Adolf Hitler had been enraged when he read about the murder of Elisabeth Grettin. In fact, while reading, he had crumpled the bottom corners of the Wiener Morgenpost, even though the paper actually belonged to the hostel’s library. When he realized what he’d done, he looked around and then furtively tried to smooth out the pages with the flat of his hand.
After reading a few more accounts of the crime, Hitler decided it was time for him to take a more active role. The police did not seem to be doing enough. He was starting to think that they didn’t believe him about having seen the killer. Maybe they just didn’t take him at all seriously. He would have to rectify that.
That same evening, he showered, slicked down his hair, put on his good jacket and set out for Spittelberg. Being perhaps the only one in Vienna who had seen the killer face-to-face and lived to tell about it, he was now determined to find that man, to confront him, and to help bring him to justice.
His plan was to wound the criminal, probably by stabbing him in the leg, and then run off and report the catch to the nearest police officer. Before leaving the hostel, he reached into the pocket of his jacket to check that the knife was still there. It was. He rearranged it so that the handle was standing up, ready to grab. He was determined to be a hero tonight, and he knew that a certain amount of preparation always helps when you want to be a hero.
As soon as he reached Spittelberg, he began searching diligently. He had been there for about 15 minutes, covered many of the streets, peered into several doorways and was starting to feel frustrated when he saw him.
The man was about twenty meters ahead of Hitler on the Bandgasse. Hitler could only see him from the back, but he was tall and burly and he had the ominous gait of the man he’d seen when the killings began. This, he felt, was indeed the man he was looking for. Now it was his task to stop him before he struck again.
Hitler increased his stride, quickly closing the distance between himself and his prey. Then, chance stepped in: the man was approached by the lone prostitute on that street, and he seemed interested in what she had to offer. He planted himself in front of the hooker and started to discuss business terms.
Within seconds, Hitler was upon him. By this point, the woman was leaning against the wall and smiling seductively. The man put his hand out and started rubbing her shoulder. Hitler was sure this was just the preliminary to strangling the girl. Having already slipped the knife out of his pocket, he positioned himself right behind the fiend.
“Stop! Take your hands off her. You’re finished!”
The man spun around, obviously irritated at being interrupted just as he and the girl were about to close the deal. As he spun, he brought a large hand forward. Hitler reacted with great speed, swinging the knife at the man.
As he did, the blade sliced the palm of the hand. Within a second or two, blood started flowing profusely from the wound. The man clutched the lower part of his hand and glared at it with fear and shock. He then turned back to Hitler with rage in his face.
Even with his features distorted like that, one thing became clear to Hitler: this was not the man he had seen coming out of that alley. In fact, this face was completely different. He actually looked like a foreigner, probably a southern Slav or an Oriental. Hitler had made a rather unfortunate mistake.
Despite his wound, the man started to move towards Hitler. In response, Hitler lunged the knife at him; not far enough to pierce the man, but enough to frighten him. The man backed off, slowly edging further away from his assailant. He again checked his hand and saw that the lower part of his shirtsleeve was a deep red. Also, he started to feel faint.
At that moment, the whore, having recovered from the shock of the assault, started screaming. It was time for Hitler to leave. Seeing a passageway not too far away, he moved there as quickly as he could. He then headed for the Burggasse. He kept thinking that he could hear heavy footsteps pursuing him, possibly police or even the wounded man himself. But it was just his fear-fueled imagination. There was no one behind him, and he was fortunate enough to make a clean escape.
As he approached a tram stop, he pulled out his handkerchief, wiped off the blood, then squeezed the bloody cloth through a sewer grating. He thought of tossing the knife into the sewer as well, then decided not to. He knew he was taking a major risk keeping the weapon, but he was sure he would need it again sometime soon. He slipped it back into this jacket pocket, as deep as it would go, and trotted to the tram stop.
Within a minute, a tram arrived. He wasn’t even sure where it was going, but he boarded nonetheless. The only important thing now was to get as far away from the scene as he could, as quickly as he could.
* * *
Dörfner walked into the office the next day reading a one-page police report.
“There was another attack last night in the red-light district.”
“Mein Gott, nein! Two nights in a row? He’s getting more determined now.”
“No, it wasn’t the Strangler this time. An ordinary knifing. Some guy slashed another guy’s hand. The victim … was rushed to General Hospital where he was treated to fifteen stitches.”
“And what did he do to earn the slashing?”
Dörfner was silent as he started reading further in the report. A minute later, he nodded. “OK, here it is: the victim claims he was just out for a pleasant evening stroll, somehow got lost, suddenly noticed he was in the streetwalkers’ district, and tried to get out as quickly as possible.”
“I don’t doubt a single word,” Stebbel said with swirling dose of sarcasm.
“Who could?” Dörfner replied. “So while this poor innocent was trying to find his way out, he was attacked by some wild-eyed, knife-wielding madman who set upon him for no reason at all.”
“Of course. Happens all the time.” He sighed. “So … another jealousy drama. Some fool saw that fool with a girl he considered his own and tried to make his point with a knife.”
“You know, I really miss those days of jealousy stabbings. They were so understandable, easy to solve.”
Stebbel then thought a moment. “Wait a minute – didn’t the Turk promise to put a lot of men on the streets in that district? Why didn’t they step in to stop the knife-wielder, or at least apprehend him right after his assault?”
“He said it would take a few days. They should be on the streets tonight.”
“Well, I’m sure the press is going to have a great old time fitting this tale into the Strangler saga.”
Dörfner then looked at his partner sympathetically. “Are you alright?”
Stebbel stopped his sorting of papers. “If I were alright, that would be a matter of some concern. But at least I’m better than what I was yesterday.”
“Well, that is really good to hear.”
“Still … I’m sure we’re going to hear about this stabbing when we go upstairs to see Schollenberg.”
“Oh yes; our beloved District Commander is going to see this as another one of our failures in this case.”
“The question is: how many failures will it take before the people upstairs decide it’s been one failure too many?”