“I saw you come in this morning, you slut! Creeping by the window, with your head bent, and your bonnet on the back of it. Creeping in like a thief, with the guilt on your face. Do you not know this is a respectable house—?”
“Nein,” said Irmgard, very quietly, looking the woman in the eye, “I did not know.”
Matilda uttered a brutal cry, took a step towards Irmgard. But her expression became at once congested and furtive, and full of murder. Mrs. Flaherty seized the opportunity then to wrench the tray from the other’s hand, and to set it down with a loud bang on the wooden boards of the sink. Matilda, her hands freed, took a step towards Irmgard, clenching her fists. The color was dark red to the very edge of her fair curled hair. Irmgard did not retreat. It was not possible that they would strike each other! she thought, incredulously. But she was prepared.
“Slut! Trollop!” spat Matilda. The saliva fell in droplets on Irmgard’s cheek. She wiped it away with loathing, but did not look away from this maddened creature, who was crying with greater fury: “I shall tell the master! He will have no creature like you in this house!”
“Why not?” asked Irmgard, calmly. “He has you.”
Mrs. Flaherty turned on both of them, then. “You two!” she snorted. “Jabberin’ like heathens. Why don’t you talk English. Irmgard, it’s part of your work to help prepare the missus’s breakfast. God knows, I’ve got enough work of my own. Lively there, Miss!”
At this moment Gillespie came, his long pale face alight with expectation. He had heard the loud and angry voices, and he hoped for “a jolly good row.” However, he had expected only Matilda and Mrs. Flaherty in the kitchen. When he saw Irmgard, so grim and white, so immovable, he was surprised. “Why!” he exclaimed, “I was told you had not come back all night, and that you would not return! I am happy to see you again, Irmgard.”
She turned her head a little, and smiled at him. “I was with relatives,” she said. “The storm, it was very bad. I could not come home. I am glad no carriage was sent for me, and no trouble caused by any one.”
She waited. She concealed her burning anxiety. Gillespie regarded her with open admiration. He coughed. “It was suggested to send the carriage. I did so, myself, to Mrs. Schmidt. But she said that you were so tired, and it was too bad a night to send for you. I hope you had a pleasant visit with your relatives, your good aunt and uncle, Irmgard?”
“Yes,” she said, “I—I had a very pleasant visit.”
Gillespie ignored Matilda delicately. He regarded the white girl sympathetically, his light eyes warming with a new shyness and hope. Such a pretty thing, this girl, even if she was a German. And such a lady. One could see she was wellbred. He had been looking for a girl like this for years.
Mrs. Flaherty brought him to himself with a tart reminder that it was time to lay the silver for the master’s breakfast. Irmgard went to the stove, to prepare Mrs. Schmidt’s tray. As for Matilda, she might not have been present. They heard her high heels tapping on the stone floor, heard her slam the door violently behind her. Gillespie, in his journeying between the scullery and the dining-room, paused and touched the side of his nose with his finger. “Wind up,” he said.
“A bad one,” agreed Mrs. Flaherty, nodding her head vigorously. When Gillespie had again left the kitchen, she turned smartly upon Irmgard, and looked at her with kindly shrewdness. “Men are good in their place, my girl. But a woman’s got to keep them there. Never let them get the upper hand. They’ll leave you weepin’ and wailin’ in the chimney seat if you do.”
Irmgard smiled a little, as she bent over the stove, and poked the red coals. The smile felt rigid and painful on her lips. “Yes,” she said.
“A fine colleen like you!” said Mrs. Flaherty. “It’s the pick of all of ’em you have! Take your time. And no foolishness.”
Irmgard carried the tray upstairs. She had almost reached Mrs. Schmidt’s door when a small spectral shadow loomed up suddenly before her in the thick dusk of the corridor. It was Baldur.
“Did I startle you, Irmgard?” he asked, gently.
“No, sir. I am afraid I was thinking of something else,” she replied, her voice trembling.
There was a little silence, then, pulsing with unspoken things. Irmgard could see his large heroic face more clearly now. It was sad and brooding, heavy with melancholy. He was looking at her with an almost passionate intensity. And then, gravely inclining his head, he went on.
CHAPTER 26
By the time Franz Stoessel had reached the gates of the Schmidt Mills, everything else but the immediate present had been eliminated from his mind. He had folded, indexed, and filed everything extraneous away into neat drawers and pigeonholes for future reference. There was nothing now but the hour ahead, and the other hours, parading behind each other in military and correct formation, still faceless, but the sound of their marching footsteps becoming clearer in his ears. He had the methodical German mind, not the mechanical mind hinted by enemies of the German personality, but the sort which will take up but one thing at a time, finish it, put it away, and proceed to the next. Irmgard had left his thoughts as completely as though she had never existed. There was nothing but now. Not being possessed of intuition and inspiration, as he well knew, he studied each hour, each minute, each situation, minutely and carefully, extracting from it every small and large advantage. Let the brilliant, the inexact, the irrational and the inspirational fly vaguely and feverishly about: this was not for him. Without direction, without mathematical judiciousness, without methodical summing-up, he knew he was completely lost. “The genius can afford to bumble around, alighting on opportunity by sheer instinct and inspiration,” he would think. “I am no genius. I can only see clearly, without too much imagination.” Imagination, he thought, was a blazing light, which showed pits and chasms as well as glories and heights, and so frequently paralyzed its exalted possessor. Not being hampered so, what heights he saw, he saw coldly, saw the laborious steps needful to ascend to them. He had no wings. But he had a good pair of tireless and sturdy and ruthless feet. He saw no rainbows, heard no music, saw no golden arches and white colonnades. He saw no colors. But he saw the grim cold outlines of reality.
I am color-blind, he would think. But colors were distracting. He had sufficient imagination to know this. If a man saw no colors, and so had no exaltations, he saw all the traps and the mud. He saw he could make good use of the inspirational.
He now had Jan Kozak’s secret. It had taken him months of flattery, of friendly approach, of lies and hypocrisies, of bland sympathy which was as cruel as death. The secret was disgustingly simple. Even I, he thought, might have thought of it. It was as simple as the larding of a pie-plate by a housewife, before she inserts the pastry, which can then be easily removed after baking. Jan had merely hit upon the idea of smearing the inside of moulds with tar, or pitch, which released the mould thereafter without breakage and spoilage. A simple thing! Yet, a thing of genius. This almost illiterate peasant had had inspiration. The inspirational, Franz reflected, were usually quite stupid, fit only to be prey for the clever and the predatory. Look at Brahms, for instance. He had attained fame by using Beethoven. His imitations were so clever that he had caught glory from a greater glory, and fools believed him as great as the genius he had so ruthlessly exploited. But sometimes imitation struck some spark in the imitator, and at rare intervals he had flashes of true inspiration, himself. Franz, after securing the secret from Jan, had had a few vague flashes, and egotistically wondered if he had needed but an impetus.
He had promised Jan everything. Promises, he knew, were a glittering coin. They tarnished quickly. When he had been a child he had covered coins of small denomination with gilt paper which his mother had used to decorate Christmas trees. They had taken on a spurious aspect of great worth and brilliance. But under the gilt, they had been practically worthless. Thus were promises. He had covered their intrinsic nothingness with shining cheap paper of lies and falsenesses. Jan had accepted them simply, be
lieving them valuable, believing them good, believing that the dull clink he had heard was the ring of gold and silver.
The clever man, Franz would think, smiling, dispenses promises without restraint, and thus attains a reputation for generosity and integrity. Promises cost nothing. But they yielded power and prestige for the man ruthless and courageous enough to issue them. When the time came for reckoning, the deceived discovered the gilded and chipping paper. But he had accepted them. His was the fault. He had only his stupidity to blame. It was his eyesight, his knowledge, his trust, which had betrayed him, not the issuer of the dull copper coin.
Franz was now ready to accept the position mysteriously offered him by the Superintendent, Dietrich. He had taken a giant stride. He was prepared. He decided not to put on the extra pair of overalls which he kept at the mills. He would go direct to Dietrich. He had everything he needed.
He was crossing the mill where he worked, when he was hailed by Tom Harrow. He paused, frowning, then instinctively smiled his usual friendly and charming smile. He now had no further use for Tom, but it was his nature to greet every one with that bland frank smile, which meant nothing, and which deceived every one, even Tom at times. Besides, in his way, he really liked the Englishman.
Tom came hurrying, his long dark face wrinkling with gravity. He paused, stared at Franz’s Sunday finery. “Eh! A toff! Think you can work like that?’ He was momentarily distracted from his purpose, and grinned in surprise.
“I was out all night, and could not get home in time to change,” said Franz, easily. He was annoyed. He had not wanted to encounter Tom, who must soon become his enemy. Tom was no use in the new order which he, Franz, contemplated in the mills. It was very bad, and he had a slight regret. But an agitator and a disturber had no place in the new order. Docility and obedience and fear must be the new whips. These necessary virtues of the poor, the impecunious and the helpless, were not the virtues of Tom Harrow. Franz suspected that Tom would never be helpless. He was a blazing torch which would soon burn down any structure. He must be put out. For an instant, Franz saw little Mary, his favorite and his pet. Well, he had some hundreds saved. He would send one hundred dollars anonymously to little Mary. But Tom would have to leave Nazareth. That was certain. He would have to be driven out of the town, where his dangerousness would no longer be a menace. He and his damned embryo union!
Tom grinned, and winked. “A lass, eh? A young chap can’t have enough of a piece, can he? Mind, I’m not blamin’ you. I was a corker once, myself. Until I met Dolly.” He rubbed his long Punch-and-Judy chin, and frowned again. “Bosh Things in their place. I’ve got to talk to you.”
Franz fumed internally. He felt something like hatred and disgust for Tom, but under it glowed his real liking for the man, like a live coal slowly choking to death under a heap of cold ashes. He kept the bland smile on his face.
“What is it, Tom? I’m late. I must get my overalls.”
“I’m goin’ into the bloomin’ mill for the rest of the day, Fritzie. So I can’t wait.” He came closer to Franz. The roar and boom and clamor of the mills covered his low voice. His small black eyes pierced the blue opaque eyes so close to his. “We got a meetin’ tonight.”
“I thought it was next week?” Franz’s smile became impatient. The idiot union, with its mumblings of a strike! He would attend to that, himself!
Tom shook his head. He came still closer. Now his face was hard and grim. “It’s now or never. You never can tell with these foreign chaps. Like rabbits, they are. Got to get ’em in hand. I’m goin’ to call the strike, tonight. Tomorrow,” and he chuckled grimly, “these damn mills’ll be closed tighter than a fist.”
Franz’s smile disappeared. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Internally, he raged, and was filled with cold murder. He said: “Isn’t that too sudden? Will the men follow?”
Tom nodded his head shortly, with a dark smile. “They will. They’re keyed up to it. Next week will be too late. I know. I call the strike tonight.”
Franz paused. He had his hands in the pockets of his checked coat. They clenched slowly and murderously. Tomorow, his first day as assistant to the superintendent! And a closed mill, silent and deserted. It was not to be borne.
“Can we talk?” he asked, quickly, looking about him.
“We can go into the—house,” said Tom.
Franz, with rare humor, thought this might be an appropriate place for discussion. But he said: “I know a better and quieter place, where there will not be so much coming and going. Wait for me a moment.”
He waited until Tom had returned to his station, then quickly made his way to the Superintendent’s office. Dietrich looked up with sly sharpness as Franz entered. But before he could speak, Franz said rapidly: “Herr Dietrich: I have only a moment or two. But this is very serious. Tom Harrow is calling a strike tonight—”
Dietrich’s slyness disappeared into an expression of consternation and amazement. Franz lifted his hand with impatient authority, which made Dietrich draw his thin lips together in anger.
“Please let me finish, Herr Dietrich! I must find out the details. I have been spying on the men for some time. I did not speak of it to you, because matters had not come to a head.” He paused. Schmidt’s door was ajar. Franz saw one fat black arm, a hand, and a section of watch-chain through the slit. Hans, at his desk, was listening alertly. Franz knew this clearly.
“I joined the union,” Franz went on. Dietrich leaned back in his chair, listening with his closed Saxon face, which Franz loathed. His hand played with the objects on his desk. His light blue eyes were glazed and expressionless. But there was a twitching around the pale fight mouth.
“I joined the union,” Franz repeated. “I had to discover everything. You understand, Herr Dietrich? It was necessary. Tonight is extremely important. The strike must be prevented, in some way. Therefore, I must still be in the mills, today, in order not to excite suspicion. I must attend that meeting tonight.”
Dietrich had not glanced behind him at the partly opened door. But he knew Schmidt was listening with rigid attention. He made himself smile briefly, with assumed approbation.
“You have been clever,” he said, speaking in German, as Franz was speaking, but with the softer accent that Franz despised. “It is well, then. Do what you think best.” He paused, and said, with a wry twist of his mouth: “I can see that you will be very valuable, here.”
There was a scraping of a chair, a hoarse and infuriated grunt. Hans Schmidt, empurpled and swelling, appeared at his door. Dietrich rose. Franz stood at rigid attention, like a soldier, his face wearing that indescribable look of military expressionlessness which only a Teuton can adequately summon. Hans glared at him, from the doorway, his little blue eyes fiery and ferocious.
“A strike!” he exclaimed. “What is this nonsense?”
Franz did not reply. He left that to his superior officer, Dietrich. Dietrich explained softly, the wry twist still on his lips. “Herr Schmidt,” he ended, respectfully, “I have reason to believe this report of—of Stoessel’s. I have heard rumblings. I did not think it serious.” He paused, and added sourly, with a keen respectful glance at Schmidt: “Stoessel is to be congratulated.”
But Schmidt was momentarily obsessed with his rage and fury. His eyes took on more fierceness. They shot out red sparks. His blond-gray hair bristled on his pink skull like the bristles of a hog. He breathed heavily, and a film of sweat burst out over his fat broad face. He regarded Franz with savagery.
“It is not possible! A strike, now! Who put this nonsense among the men? Now, now when I have been able to secure a government contract right out from the hands of Sessions, in Windsor! My first good order in months! I will not stand it! It shall not happen!” He snorted, as though strangling. “There has never been a thought of a union in my mills! I will not have it! It must be stopped.” He doubled up his small fat hands and waved them in the air with a gesture of smothering, hatred and madness.
“I shall stop it, H
err Schmidt,” said Franz, softly.
The sound of that quiet firm voice halted Schmidt. Slowly, the thick purple tide began to recede from his face. He stared. He seemed to see Franz fully for the first time.
“How?” he asked, shortly.
“I will find a way,” said Franz. “A day or two of disturbance. But there shall be a way. In the meantime, may I respectfully suggest that you send for a large force of detectives? There is an office in Windsor. The Barbour-Bouchard and Sessions interests use them frequently. Let them arrive, tonight, if possible. There is no time to waste.”
There was a silence. Hans lifted his right hand and savagely chewed the nail of his index finger. Above his hand, his reddened and infuriated eyes had become calculating, and thoughtful, as they stared fixedly at Franz. Then, to Dietrich’s surprise, the formidable fat little man began to smile. He dropped his hands, as though suddenly relaxing.
“I know you,” he said to Franz, with a cunning intonation in his rough voice. “I trust you. I knew what you were, from the beginning.” He turned to Dietrich, with brisk hard purpose. “A telegram immediately, to Windsor.” He turned back to Franz, and smiled again. “I must have a word with you, before you leave tonight. In the meantime, return to the mills.”
He said nothing else. He had attained power and wealth by not wasting time, by not asking involved and useless questions. His intuition precluded these. He knew whom to trust. He knew he could trust Franz. The Superintendent, who was cautious and slow, always, was bewildered, enraged, and astounded. He never did things without an immense amount of consultation and discussion. He had a high respect for red tape and judiciousness and consideration. He invariably suspected speed and lightning decisions. Yet these two men, Schmidt and the detestable Prussian with his Slavic eyes, wasted no time, but were almost indecently precipitous. It was ridiculous.