Murder in Bizarre Circles
Prologue

Whatever noble intentions the planners of the Lenné and Persius Game Park may once have harboured, in the end it remained what it had always been: a stretch of woodland lying southwest of Sanssouci Palace. Encompassing no fewer than eight hundred and seventy-five hectares and encircled by a formidable fence, the deer and stag of more complacent times had been prevented from escaping the purely sporting diversions of their superiors. Yet the Great Patriotic War brought that pleasant arrangement to an abrupt conclusion. And still one might ask — what, or rather whom, can a corpse fail to elude in our present age?

The old garrison town possessed a history steeped generously in military distinction; yet where criminal investigation in the year 1924 was concerned, Potsdam dared not compare itself to Berlin. Even there, it would take several more years before a proper Murder Squad came into being. For the present, there existed merely a duty roster for homicide. And in Potsdam… in Potsdam there was, to speak plainly, nothing at all. Nothing, that is, save two solitary combatants: Inspector Richard Stein and Dr. Gernot Hermlich. Long before the era of celebrated names, they laboured quietly together to ensure that no murderer should slip through the net unchallenged.

And then there was Villa M, situated in the very heart of the game park — though its singular and rather disquieting history must, I fear, be discovered by the reader himself.

Dawn had only just begun to pale the sky, and young Wilfred could discern but a handful of blurred outlines through the persistent drizzle as he left his parents’ farm and, as was his habit, took the shortcut through the game park towards the town. Yet he knew the path well enough, even in half-light.

Suddenly he perceived something lying in the damp grass beneath a wild rose bush. At first glance it resembled a bundle of discarded clothing — perhaps even a child’s abandoned doll. Or was it a human form? Possibly a forestry labourer sleeping off the excesses of the previous evening? But why so far out here? The fellow would surely curse his misfortune upon waking to find himself soaked to the bone, Wilfred reflected.

He leaned his bicycle against a tree and approached cautiously, his uncertain steps illuminated by the dull gleam of his carbide lamp. It was no bundle of clothes. It was no doll. It was a man.

And the man was dead.

A dark and spreading stain disfigured the front of his coat.

Still trembling with shock, Wilfred seized his Achilles bicycle and pedalled towards town with all the speed he could muster, where he promptly notified the police.

Inspector Richard Stein disliked murders committed on rain-soaked days; they lent the entire affair an added melancholy. His disposition, at the best of times, tended already towards the sombre. On this particular morning, it was destined to deteriorate considerably further ...

 

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