“But we learn things. So, the case. Nineteen forty-eight. The Communists are in. Masaryk is still in the cabinet, but not one of them. To the whole world he represents the old republic, his father’s country. And every day in the cabinet, a new compromise. The death-how do you say it? — the death of a thousand bites. The Russians are taking over. So perhaps he feels despair. A way to end it all, the housemaid’s solution. But there is also the possibility that he was planning to leave.”
He looked at Nick. “An embarrassment for the Communists. Maybe even a government in exile, like during the war. His mistress had already gone-an American. So for them the jump was a convenient death. A public funeral. The end of the republic. But was he murdered? From the beginning there were inconsistencies. A more complicated case, let me say, than your own. The position of the body in the courtyard. A very wide jump. Violence in his room-even in the bathroom. Bottles broken, bedpillows on the floor. Even in the tub. Why, for sleeping? The window there had a high sill-not convenient. Scrapes. And his pajamas were soiled.”
He looked again at Nick. “So many inconsistencies. A car was heard pulling away in the night. Was someone there? We’ll never know. You see, Mr Warren, the mistake I made was thinking that a criminal investigation would tell us everything. But this was a political crime. We can reconstruct the evidence-what must have happened. But what I want to know is, was he planning to leave?”
Nick looked at him, quiet.
“You can’t ignore the passport,” Anna said.
“What must have happened?” Nick said.
Zimmerman rolled his cigarette against the ashtray, methodically tapping the ash. “Masaryk had had a full day. A meeting with Benes, the President, his father’s old friend. Very depressing, I’ve no doubt. Benes may have told Masaryk he was going to resign. But that would work either way, as the last straw or an incentive to go. Either way. He had a meeting the next day with a Polish delegation, a speech to write. So he goes to bed early to work on the speech. He frequently did that, worked in bed. A bottle of beer and a sandwich. These details we know. The servants retired. Very heavy sleepers, unfortunately. Of course, the Czernin Palace is a large building and their quarters were not close. No one heard the lift being used. The guard at the front door reported no visitors. There is a side door for deliveries, unguarded. This much we know as fact.”
“Go on,” Nick said. Had they used the elevator at Holeckova? He thought of the milky light through the glass brick on the landing, enough to see by, even at dawn.
“Masaryk was a big man. There must have been two, perhaps more, a team. The side door, the stairs. Quiet. Perhaps they were surprised to find him still up, working so late. There must have been fighting. The room is knocked about, papers all over. In the bathroom, more smashes. They must have been angry at his resistance. But he’s fighting for his life and he’s strong. He must have knocked against the medicine chest, causing the bottles to fall on the floor. Then he is pushed, or falls, into the bathtub. And there someone must have held him down with a pillow over his face. He must have kicked, trying to get out, while they held him down. Until he stopped kicking.” Zimmerman looked up from the ashtray, his voice dropping, almost husky now. “Of course, he was a vigorous man. Had he been older, it would have been easier. Not such a struggle.”
Nick turned away, sick.
“Then they must have pulled him out-he would have been heavy-and dragged him over to the window, perhaps stepping on the bottles, kicking them out of the way. A high sill, the men grunting, propping him up. From the angle of the fall, they must have pushed him out back first. That was the first inconsistency. No one jumps backward. In its own way it’s a brave thing, suicide. His fingers scrape the sill as they push him out. It’s possible that the scraping happened earlier-that they tried to force him out the window and he resisted, holding on while he kicked them away. Then the same fight. No matter. He went out. That is the criminal evidence. That is what must have happened.”
For a moment, no one spoke. “How do you know it was a pillow?” Nick said quietly.
“There were no signs of strangulation. Were there marks on your father’s neck?” Zimmerman said, no longer pretending to be in the past.
“No.”
“But he soiled himself. That’s very rare in someone who jumps.”
“If he was frightened-” Nick began.
“So rare as to be almost nonexistent. It is, however, a common occurrence in cases of suffocation. It happens most frequently when people are hanged-that’s why we have connected losing control of the bowels to fear. But jumpers don’t do that. They are not afraid. But it would happen if he were smothered. During the struggle.”
