But ten policemen could not dislodge the Professor. 'She's gone,' the caretaker encouraged him, and tipped his square head in the direction of the door. Kien said nothing. The Inspector looked hard at his fingers. They were insistent; they were moving his table. If this went on he would soon be in an empty room. He stood up; his cushion had been moved too. 'Gentlemen! he said,'this won't do!' Around dozen policemen surrounded Kien and persuaded him kindly to let go of the table. 'The saints help those who help themselves, one told him. The father promised him to drive all the bees out of his wife's bonnet that very night. 'You should only marry better-class people!' the man with a memory reassured him. He himself was only going to marry a wife with money, which was why he had none yet. The Inspector directed operations and thought: what do I get out of it? He yawned, and despised them all. 'Don t put me to shame, Professor!' bellowed Benedikt Pfaff, 'Come nice and quiet! We're going home now!' Kien stood firm.
But the Inspector had had enough of it. He commanded 'Out with him!' The twelve, until this moment merely persuasive, hurled themselves on the table and shook Kien off it, like a withered leaf. He did not fall. He remained alert. He would not be defeated. Instead of uttering useless words he pulled out his handkerchief and himself fastened it over his eyes. He drew the knots tight, until it hurt. His friend guided him by the arm, out into the street.
As soon as the doors had closed, the man with the memory laid a finger on his forehead and asserted: 'The real criminal was the fourth!' The sub-station decided from now on to keep a sharp eye on the lift-attendant of the Theresianum.
In the street the caretaker offered the Professor the hospitality of his little room. In his flat he might suffer annoyance; why expose himself to wrangling? He needed rest. 'Yes,' said Kien, 'I do not like the smell.' He would avail himself of the caretaker's offer until the flat had been cleaned.
CHAPTER X
THE BUTTON
In front of the Theresianum Fischerle, whose flight had proved successful, met with an unexpected reception. Instead of his employees, whose fate and whose garrulity he was anxious to forestall, a mass of excited people were pressing against the door. An old man, catching sight of him, wailed 'The cripple!' and ducked as quickly as his stiff limbs would allow him. He was afraid of the criminal, whom rumour had elevated into a dwarf of gigantic stature; when he ducked, he was about on a level with him. A woman took up the old man's feeble cry and made it loud. Then everyone heard it; the joy of wanting the same thing filled them all. 'The cripple!' echoed across the square, 'The cripple! The cripple!'
Fischerle said: 'Pleased to meet you!' and bowed. Among such a mass of people a mass of money might be made. Annoyed at the large sum he had had to put back in Kien's pocket, he hoped he might indemnify himself here. His mind was still on his recent danger and he did not sense the new one. The delighted acclamation which his presence had aroused pleased him too. Thus would he step out of his chess palace in America. Music will strike up, the mob will shout, and he wül be able to pick their pockets of all their dollars. The police would be on the look out, but look was about all they would do. Nothing could happen to him there. A millionaire's sacred. A hundred policemen will look on, and politely request him to help himself. Here the police didn't understand him so well. He had left them inside. There wouldn't be dollars; just small change. But he'd take anything.
As he surveyed the field, noted alleys through which he could slip, pockets at which he could reach, legs through which he could make his escape, the excitement of the crowd swelled menacingly. Everyone wanted his share in the robber who had taken the pearl necklace. Even the calmest lost control. What insolence to show his face among people who had recognized him. The men would pound him to powder. The women would raise him sky-high and then scratch him to pieces. Everyone was for utterly annihilating him, until nothing was left but a shameful blot, nothing else at all. But they had to see him first. For although thousands, inspired by him, were shrieking 'The cripple', those who had seen him numbered not more than a dozen. The road to the Helldwarf was paved with good fellow-beings. All wanted him, all panted for him. Anxious fathers lifted up their children. They might be trampled on, and they would learn something; two birds with one stone. Their neighbours took it ill that they thought of children at all at such a time. Many mothers had quite forgotten their children; they let them scream; they heard'nothing, they only heard: 'The cripple!'
Fischerle found them too rowdy. Instead of 'Long live the world champion!' they were shouting 'The cripple!' And why the cripple should be cheered, he could not quite see. He was josded on all sides. They ought to love him less and grudge him less. In this way, he'd never get anything. Someone crushed his fingers; someone else pushed him. He hardly knew which side his hump was. With one hand alone, stealing was too risky. 'Folks!' he screeched, 'you're too fond of me!' Only those nearest to him caught his words. His meaning not a soul understood. A shove taught him better, a kick convinced him. He had evidently started something, if only he could make out what. Had he been caught at it already? He looked at his free hand. No, it hadn't been in any pocket. He could never help picking up trifles; handkerchiefs, combs, mirrors. He used to take them and then throw them away for revenge. But this time, to his shame, his hand was empty. What were these people thinking of, to catch him at it when he wasn't? He hadn't taken a thing and now they were trampling on him. They hit him on top, they kicked him below, and of course the women were pinching his hump. It didn't hurt; these people didn't know the first thing about hitting; they could have learnt for nothing under the Stars of Heaven. But, because you never can tell, and apparent beginners often turn out at one blow to be experts, Fischerle began to wail piteously. Usually he croaked, but if he was put to it, at a time like the present for example, his voice sounded like a new-born child's. He also had the right persistence. A woman near by grew uneasy and looked round. Her child was at home. She was afraid it might have run after her and been trampled on. She sought it with eyes and ears in vain; clucked soothing noises, as she did over the pram, and in the end grew calm. The others weren't deceived into taking the murderer for a baby. They were afraid they would soon be pushed aside, so great was the crush, and they hurried. Their blows were less and less expert; more and more of them went wide. But newcomers joined the circle with the same intention. Altogether, Fischerle was far from satisfied. If he had wanted, escape would have been child's play. He had only to feel in his armpits and strew banknotes among them. Perhaps that was what they were aiming at. Of course — the hawker, the selfish brute, the snake in the grass, he must have worked the crowd up, and now they wanted his money. He pressed his arms close to his sides, indignant at the insolence which employees these days permit themselves towards their employers — but not to him, he'd throw the snake out on his ear, he'd give him the sack, he'd have done it anyway — and decided to sham dead. If these criminals searched his pockets, then he'd have proof of what they wanted. If they didn't, then they'd clear off, because he was dead.
But his plan was easier said than done. He took pains to fall down; the knees of the spectators held up his hump. His face was a death mask already, his crooked legs gave way, instead of his mouth, which was much too small, his nose breathed its last, his tightly closed eyes came open, stark and sightless. The preparations were premature, the plan ran aground on his hump. Fischerle heard the reproaches heaped upon him. It was a sin and a shame for the poor Baron. For a pearl necklace; as if it was worth it. The terrible shock to the young baroness. Poor woman, she'd never be the same again; no husband left. Maybe she'd marry again. No one could force her. A dwarf would get twenty years. Capital punishment ought to be re-introduced. Cripples ought to be exterminated. All criminals are cripples. No, all cripples are criminals. What's he got to look so silly for, like a hick come up for the day? Why can't he earn an honest penny. Taking bread out of people's mouths. What's he want with pearls, a cripple like him, and that Jew nose ought to be cut off. Fischerle was wild; all this talk of pe
arl necklaces, like blind men talking about colour! Ah, if he only ad one.
Then suddenly the strangers' knees caved in, his hump was released, at long last he sank to the ground. With his sightless eyes he soon ascertained that they had abandoned him. Even while they were abusing him, the crush had seemed less. The cry: 'The cripple!' sounded even louder, but now in the direction of the church. "There, look what you've done,' he said reproachfully, stood up and looked round at the few fans left to him. 'That's the one you want.' Their eyes followed his right hand, which indicated the church; with his left he rapidly gleaned three pockets, contemptuously threw away the comb, the only thing he found, and took to his heels.
Fischerle never discovered to whom he owed his miraculous escape. At the accustomed place, in company with the others, the Fishwife had waited for him, and to her alone the waiting had seemed too long.
For the sewerman never noticed at all how long his employer was away. He could stand on his two feet for hours at a time, and think of nothing whatever. Time never passed too quickly or too slowly for him. All other men remained strangers to him, for they were either dawdling or hurrying. His wife called him, his wife sent him off to work, his wife received him home again. She was his clock and time of day. He felt at his best when he was drunk, because then time was abolished for other people too.
The blind man whiled away his waiting-time like a king. The large tip yesterday had gone to his head; he hoped for an even larger one today. Moreover he was soon going to retire from the firm of Siegfried Fischer and, with the large sums he had earned, establish an emporium. It must be of vast dimensions, say for ninety saleswomen. He d make his own selection. None under thirteen stone stood a chance. He was the boss and could take on whom he liked. He paid the biggest salaries; he whisked away the heaviest ones from all competitors. Wherever a fat woman might be, she would be sure to hear the true rumour, at Johann Schwer's emporium you get the biggest pay. The proprietor, once a blind man, is a keen-eyed gentleman. He treats every single employee like his own wife. She can snap her fingers at other men and come to him. In his emporium you can buy everything: pommade, real tortoiseshell combs, hair nets, clean handkerchiefs, gent's hats, dog biscuits, dark glasses, pocket mirrors, anything you like. Not buttons. In the windows hang huge notices: NO BUTTONS SOLD HERE.
The hawker, on the other hand, was still hunting in the church for morphia drugs. Their proximity made him sleepy. At intervals he came across the secret parcel, but he knew he hadn't really got it, he was too clever.
All three men were silent.
The Fishwife alone expressed an increasing anxiety. Something's happened to Fischerle. He's not coming yet and he's such a little chap. He always does what he says. Five minutes, he said, he'd be back. There was an accident in the early papers this morning; she thought of Fischerle at once. Two steam engines ran into each other. One was killed on the spot. The other was taken to hospital, seriously injured. She'd better go and see. If he hadn't told her not to, she'd go. They've set on him because he's the chief. He makes a lot of money and carries it with him. She says, he's a big shot. His wife put them up to it, because he doesn't care for her. She's too old for him. Let him get a divorce, any girl under the Stars of Heaven would have him. It's black with people in front of the church. Fischerle must have been run over. She'll just go and have a look see. The others must stay where they are. He can create, proper. His eyes, she's frightened of them. He looks at her, she'd like to run away, she can't. What about the other three, he's the boss. They ought to be frightened too. Under the wheel he lies. His hump is squashed. Fischerle's lost his chessboard. He's looking for it in the Theresianum because he's the world champion. Then he gets in a rage and gets excited. She'll have him ill yet. She'll have to nurse him. This very morning she felt it in her bones. It was in the papers. He never reads them any more. Now she'll go see; now she'll go see.
After every sentence she stopped, and anxiously wrinkled her brow. She walked up and down, waggled her hump, and when she had collected up some more words, went up to her colleagues and whispered them loudly. She could tell that they were all as worried as she was. Not even the blind man said a word, and he knew how to talk when he was in a good temper. All by herself she wanted to look for Fischerle and was afraid the others would come after her. 'I'll be back at once!' she called two or three times as she made off, the further the louder. The men didn't budge; in spite of her fears, she was overjoyed. She would find Fischerle. He must not fret himself about his employees on top of his other fearful misfortunes. He had told them, they were to wait.
Softly she crept round to the square in front of the church. She had long since got round the corner; instead of hurrying, she slackened her naturally minute footsteps and twisted her little head anxiously, backwards. If the hawker or the sewerman or that button-fellow followed her, she'd stop dead, just like the car which had run over Fischerle, and say: 'I'm only looking.' When they went back she would move again. Sometimes she waited a minute: she thought she'd seen a pair of trousers behind the church, but there weren't any, so she crept on. Not for a long time had she seen so many people together. If everyone bought a paper she'd have money for a week. But the whole bundle was lying under the Stars of Heaven; she had no time for papers to-day because she'd got her job with Fischerle. He paid twenty schillings a day, of his own accord, he would have it that way because it was a big firm. She hid herself, so as to find him; she made herself even smaller; somewhere on the ground he'd be lying. She heard his voice. Why couldn't she see him; She stroked the ground with her hand. 'He's not as small as all that,' she whispered and shook her head. She was already in the midst of the crowd, and because she was stooping nothing but her hump could be seen. How would she ever find him among all these big people? All crushed her at once; they must be crushing him too; Fischerle had been crushed to death, they must let him go! He can't breathe, he suffocates, it'll be the end of him!
Suddenly somebody shrieks next to her: 'The cripple!' and hits her on the hump. Others shriek too, others hit her. The crowd falls upon her, they had been too far off to hit Fischerle, they pay with interest now. The Fishwife falls to the ground. She lies on her belly and keeps quite still. They mess her up terribly. They go for the hump, but hit her everywhere. From all over the place the crowd gathers together round her. No doubt about the genuineness of the hump. The crowd breaks over it. As long as she can, the Fishwife trembles for Fischerle's fate and gasps: 'He's all I've got in the world.' Then she loses consciousness.
All was well with Fischerle. Behind the church he found, of his four employees, three waiting for him; the Fishwife was not there. 'Where is she?' he asked and held out his hand, flat, just at the height of his stomach. He meant the little one. 'Absconded,' answered the hawker promptly; he slept light. 'Of course,' said Fischerle, 'a woman; she can't wait; she's got something to do; she's busy; she's lost her money, she's ruined, all women are abortions.' 'You leave my women alone, Mr. Fischerle!' interjected the blind man, threateningly. 'My women aren't abortions. Speak civil.' He almost began to describe his emporium. One glance at lus competitors convinced him of a cleverer way. 'At my place, buttons are prohibited, by order of the police!' he said, merely, and fell silent. 'Gone,' mouthed the sewerman. This powerful response, at length formulated, referred back to Fischerle's first question.
But the chief composed his face in perturbed folds. His head sank on his bosom and his wide-open eyes filled with tears. Disconsolately he gazed from one to the other and said nothing. With his right hand he smote, not his forehead, but his nose, and his crooked legs trembled as violently as his voice when at length he spoke. 'Gentlemen,' he whispered,'I'm a ruined man. My partner has — a spasm of indignation shook his expressive body — 'cheated me. Tell you what — he's stopped payment and taken my money to the police! The sewerman's my witness!' He paused for confirmation. The sewerman nodded, however, only after some minutes. In the interval the emporium collapsed, burying ninety saleswomen. The church fell in
ana whatever dangerous drugs were inside it, or ought to have been inside it, were destroyed. Sleep could no longer be thought of. When the debris was cleared away, they found in the cellars of the emporium a colossal collection of buttons.
Fischerle accepted the sewerman's affirmation and said: 'We're all ruined. You've lost your jobs and I've broken my heart. I thought of you at once. All my money's gone west and there's a summons out against me for unregistered trading. In a day or two the summons'U be delivered; you'll see, I've got it on good authority. I'll have to hide. Who knows where I'll turn up again, may be in America. If I'd only the passage money! But I'll make a getaway somehow. A chess player like me is never lost. Only I'm anxious about you. The police may snap you up. Two years nard labour for aiding and abetting. You help a fellow just because you're good friends, and the next thing is, two years in clink; why, just because you couldn't hold your tongue? Tell you what, you mustn't go to gaol! You be careful now, don't say a word. 'Where's Fischerle? ask the police. 'We haven't an idea,' say you. 'You were employed by him?' 'Where then?' say you. 'Certain rumours have reached our ears!' 'Permit me, all rumours are false.' 'When did you last see Fischerle?' 'The day he disappeared from the Stars; may be his wife'd know the date.' You tell them a real date, they'll get the wrong impression. You tell them no date at all, and they'll ask the wife: she can go to the police for her husband once in a while, it'll do her no harm. 'What business was done by the firm of Siegfried Fischer & Co' 'How would we know that, Chief Inspector.' You've hardly started denying everything and already they'll let you go. Stop, I've got a grand idea ! Something you've never heard before ! You needn't go to the police at all, not at ail! The police'll leave you in peace, they won't bother you, they won't express the least interest, you might as well not exist for them, you'll be disembodied, how shall I explain it? How's it done? Easy; you just hold your tongues. Don't breathe a word, not to a soul, not in all Heaven! Tell you what, how'd anyone think up a crazy idea that you'd had anything to do with me? Out of the question, I tell you, and you're safe. You go off to work as if nothing had happened. You go hawking and have your insomnia; you give your wife three-quarters of your pay and clean up the muck, I tell you, even a sewerman has his uses, what would a huge great town like this do with all that muck lying around; and you go off begging, you've got your dog and your dark glasses. If anyone gives you a button, you look away, if they don't give you a button, look at them. Buttons'll be your undoing, look out, you'll murder someone yet! That's what you must do; I've nothing for myself, but I'm advising every one or you for your own good! I'd like to have my money's worth for this advice; give away everything, I do, because I've got a soft spot for you!'