‘Who’s got to do a bunk?’ he asked.
‘Oh, someone,’ she said.
Kufalt gazed thoughtfully at the bedspread on which the bag still lay.
‘A pretty little bag,’ he said invitingly.
‘What’s your friend doing these days?’ she asked.
‘Which friend?’ he asked.
‘The tall, dark, horrid-looking man,’ she said.
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘I just asked,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Well, I’d better be off,’ she said indignantly.
‘Why?’ he asked, with an air of great surprise. ‘Have I offended you?’
‘Offended?’ she said. ‘Takes more than that to offend me.’
‘Why are you so funny, then?’ he asked.
‘I’m not funny,’ she said. ‘It’s you that’s funny.’
‘Isn’t Batzke funny?’ he asked.
‘Who’s Batzke?’ she asked.
‘Oh, don’t you know him?’ he asked. ‘Sending young narks around, is he?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘As long as I do.’
‘Well, then I’m off,’ she said.
But she did not go.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘And what about those diamond rings?’ She laughed.
He felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach.
‘What diamond rings?’ he asked.
‘There aren’t so many!’
‘Nothing doing,’ he said. ‘Gone dead,’ he said. ‘Your Batzke’s got the wind up,’ he said. ‘Get lost,’ he said. ‘D’you suppose I’m going to pull the job off for you? Not such a fool,’ he said. ‘It’s no go, little girl,’ he said. ‘Not this trip,’ he said. ‘Love to the boyfriend,’ he said. ‘Never fooled me,’ he said. ‘And never would,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Ilse,’ he said. ‘Give me a kiss,’ he said. ‘No, the bag’s much too lousy for you,’ he said. ‘Well, till we meet again,’ he said. ‘And that’s it!’ he said.
He was furious and drank a great deal of rough German brandy.
XV
In the year 1904 the local agricultural society at Wilster had held an exhibition, at which more than three hundred head of cattle had been shown. By some happy chance Herr Pastor Fleege, then in the prime of life, had won a first prize for his bull calf Jaromir, born of Thekla, sired by Conquistador.
This first prize took the form of a charging bull in bronze.
Frau Pastorin Fleege had an acute sense of the honour conferred by the award of this work of art. Nonetheless, in all the years that had passed, she had never got to like that bull, rampant on its hind legs and butting its clumsy horns into an invisible foe.
Among all her possessions—and they were many—she treated this bull with noticeable step-motherly neglect. Indeed, it was never dusted until the need became extreme. Softly as she whisked her feather brush over all the other objects in her household, she dealt rather briskly with the bull. Nasty rearing creature . . .
Often she did not remember until late in the evening, about nine or ten o’clock, how dusty the poor wretch must be.
That was what happened on that particular evening, as she remembered very clearly later on. Herr Lederer had received a visit from his unpleasant friend’s wife and had slept unusually late. It was not until eight or half past in the evening that he had got up, when his friend’s wife had long since left, and she had really hoped that Herr Lederer would come and talk to her for at least ten minutes after such a quiet day.
But he had crossed the passage and disappeared without a word. And then she had discovered that the bull with the silver plaque was thick with dust, and had set about knocking and dusting it . . .
Meantime Herr Lederer had gone out into the streets, a little tired, a little hungry, and with an unmistakable craving for alcohol.
Well, that was that. Ilse had been to see him again. She had wanted to be affectionate. She would certainly have been satisfied with five or ten marks—what was it she had asked?
‘What is your friend Batzke doing?’
No, that wasn’t it. She hadn’t put the question quite like that. Why was she interested in Batzke, anyway?
In any case, the evening hours provided an inconspicuous background. The Alster avenues could be darker and more deserted at about eight o’clock than at midnight. Still, he must get another overcoat and hat immediately. Why he had not done so before, no one could say; not even Kufalt.
There was plenty of money in the house!
It was a motorcyclist with a sidecar, returning home from a short excursion with his wife. On the ground floor of the house in which he lived there was a tavern. The February night was rather chilly, so they both had a grog before taking the motorcycle and sidecar through the gate to Scholtheiss the taxi-driver’s garage on the third yard.
But that, as it happened, they never did. When they had drunk their grog and come out onto the street again, the motorcycle and sidecar had vanished. As a result of which there was no small disturbance.
Such disturbances did not worry Frau Pastorin Fleege. Pussi was at home. The door was securely closed; Herr Lederer liked talking to his former colleagues, and seldom came home before two or three in the morning. So she got out of her tight stays and into her bedjacket, and took up the Bible. She read the passage for the day and tried, as her dear husband had done for her so many, many years ago, to meditate on it. But she found this rather hard. It was easier to spot that there was still some dust remaining on the bull’s left hind leg, though she had dusted the creature only an hour and a half before.
‘Understandest thou what thou readest?’ she read, and wondered whether the feather brush was still in the sitting room—or had she put it back in the kitchen?
*
A man who walks for an hour can cover a long distance in a city. Many faces, and girls’ faces too. Faces of pretty girls, and pretty girls unaccompanied—Kufalt had looked at them as he went on his way. What did it matter? Was he a bag snatcher? He was walking so that he could sleep when he got tired. After all, he did not depend on snatching bags: he could let them go in peace, daughters of the fat citizens of Hamburg, and then stop the last tart who had nothing in her bag but a lipstick. He was committed to nothing.
It was ten minutes past nine; are there people anywhere who watch the ticking of time and measure its passage? Time is meaningless. A great deal of time slips past, and with little profit to anyone.
The watchman at the jeweller’s shop usually stood behind a pillar in the Alster arcade. He had a great deal of time. He was on duty for twelve hours. For twenty-two and a half years he had done his twelve hours’ duty, and nothing had ever happened. He hardly had the sense that he was watching over such precious wares. There he stood, twelve hours out of the twenty-four, every day that God made; and, in return, he could spend the other twelve at home, raise children and quarrel with his wife. There he stood behind his pillar and watched. But he did not watch for any potential trouble; there was nothing to watch for—nothing ever happened. Everything was too well organized.
Seen another way, little Ilse was no more than a slut. She was content with the smallest offerings, and she understood nothing except the fact that she wanted some particular thing. A new bag, or three pairs of silk stockings, or a smart dress from Robinsohn’s. It was on the impulse of such cravings that she went away and told Batzke all about it. And Willi knew nothing, and a rascal in a peaked cap appeared and he too said Kufalt knew nothing, and then there was a clatter outside the front door—but the problem is, how to get two men into a sidecar? How long did it take to get to the Jungfernstieg? If all the traffic lights were red, thirty-five minutes, but if they were green, twenty minutes. Eleven forty-two is the time, and they must on no account attract attention.
/> Time ticks on, and brings harm to all men, and to all men profit. They stand with bent heads, then they look up, and between the inner and the outer Alster runs a bridge. It is called the Lombard’s Bridge. And the trams go over it. It is really quite a lively thoroughfare, and not three minutes as the crow flies from the Jungfernstieg. On the bridge a young man says:
‘Well, Fräulein, how about it?’
But before the blow falls, before fear has stricken the shrinking, lovely face, a motorcycle has long since clattered past, a window has been smashed, an old man with a walrus moustache is at his wits’ end, that ancient, bird-like, fairy-tale creature, the Widow Fleege, has crept between the sheets, and a starburst of 151 diamond rings, worth 153,000 marks, has sparkled over the street—but the delicate, lovely face is disfigured, and all the lamps are dimmer . . .
Was there no one, man or woman, who sat up in their beds? Time passed, the clock on the silent, dark wall ticked on, loud and persistent.
Was there no one, man or woman? There are so many houses and such countless beds; but who thinks of those without, who cannot sleep, and must tramp the streets at night?
Another girl struck down; she will never sleep again as once she did, when she thought herself safe. And you, go home with your spoils; you too will never sleep again as once you did, when you were still at home and had a mother.
The motorcycle rattled on and on and on, throbbing like the heart of the city. It sped into the distance until, suddenly, its noise seemed to be swallowed up by the wind, blowing up from the country, where there are lakes and forests. And all is still.
The city is at rest.
9
Ripe for Arrest
I
‘Now I am going to tell you something,’ said Herr Wossidlo, looking angrily at the two police officers. ‘You have spent several hours questioning me, my manager and all my employees. You have received my statements regarding the value of the stolen diamonds with barely concealed mistrust. You have suspected every employee in turn of being involved in this robbery, even my poor watchman, who has been with us for more than twenty years. Then you spent several hours investigating the robbery, both in and outside the shop. You have examined that absurd paving stone, which looks like any other paving stone, with as much care as if it had been a remarkable burglar’s tool you had never seen before.
‘All this is no doubt part of your professional methods. I, however, as a layman in these matters, may perhaps express the opinion that it would be rather more important to make some attempt to catch the thieves. The six or seven hours you have spent in my shop are so many hours’ start for the criminals. I should like to be permitted to ask whether any of your colleagues have made any effort to catch them?’
‘As to that I can give you no information,’ growled one of the officers.
‘And may I further ask,’ said Herr Wossidlo with a nod, as though that were exactly the answer he expected, ‘may I further ask whether you are following up any definite lead?’
‘I cannot make any statement on that point either,’ replied the same official.
‘Very well,’ said Herr Wossidlo. ‘And what is going to be done now?’
‘You will be informed in due course.’
‘I will tell you something more,’ said Herr Wossidlo, raising his voice. ‘What you have been doing here was simply done to do something—to reassure me.
‘Well, I am not reassured, gentlemen. I know nothing of police methods. But it is obvious to me that you are groping in the dark, just as I am, and waiting for something to turn up. But I have no notion of waiting until something turns up. I hereby inform you that I shall proceed independently and make an independent attempt to discover the thieves and recover my rings.’
‘Detectives?’ asked the second officer.
‘On that point, I regret to say, I can make no statement,’ observed Herr Wossidlo. ‘In any case you will soon see news of me in the daily papers.’
‘But what are you going to do?’ said the first officer quickly and anxiously. ‘We must work hand in hand.’
‘All of a sudden?’
‘And if you propose to offer a reward, no doubt we could offer one too.’
‘I refuse to say anything,’ said Herr Wossidlo emphatically.
‘They may have been professional burglars,’ said the second officer thoughtfully, now becoming more communicative. ‘But they may be people who happened to hear about those three minutes when the shop is practically unguarded. That is why we had to question your staff as well. It must have required some pretty sharp observation to find out about those three minutes without any sort of hint from inside.’
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Herr Wossidlo. ‘I read detective stories, but I don’t believe that crimes are such complicated affairs. It doesn’t need a professional criminal and weeks of observation to throw a stone through a shop window.’
The officers shook their heads; they plainly disagreed.
‘Very well, then,’ said one of them in conclusion; ‘we must ask you to send us as exact a description as possible of the stolen rings, and any further information, to the town hall today. Then we will circulate it at once.’
‘I will certainly do so,’ said Herr Wossidlo. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’
II
‘A bloody awkward business,’ said one officer.
‘Pompous old fool,’ agreed the other.
‘He’ll play tricks on us before he’s done,’ said the first darkly.
‘I’m sure he will,’ agreed the second.
‘Nothing to be done at the moment,’ said the first.
‘No,’ said the second, ‘we must wait till the swag turns up somewhere.’
‘Yes, and by then Wossidlo will have infuriated all Hamburg with his gossip about the police.’
‘I don’t think it looks like one of the old hands. Besides, none of them are in Hamburg.’
‘It’s odd that we haven’t heard a thing about it. There must have been at least four men in it. And I never heard of four crooks that could hold their tongues.’
‘It must have been a bloody quick job.’
‘But the tip-off!’ cried the other. ‘That detail of the three minutes—someone must have watched for at least a fortnight ahead.’
‘The watchman saw no one, of course,’ said the first man angrily.
‘What are you going to say to the boss?’
‘I’ll propose a round-up. We can get hold of twenty or thirty of the lads and put them through it. Perhaps one of them heard something, and we can make him squeal.’
‘Yes, that’ll be best.’
‘People seem to have funny ideas about the police,’ said the first man angrily. ‘As if we could find out everything at once! Of course we’ll nab the blokes one day—but when?’
‘Let’s hope for a bit of luck,’ said the second. ‘That’s the best chance.’
‘Yes, if it wasn’t for a bit of luck sometimes . . . ’ agreed the first.
III
The bit of luck was called Kufalt, and while the two officers were tramping the wintry streets of Hamburg in their broad, worn-out boots, Kufalt was already sitting on a bench in the town hall waiting for them.
When he saw in the paper that the robbery had taken place, that his friend Batzke had got away with his spoils, he was first afraid and then possessed by fury.
Suddenly he realized why he had been trailed by the little ruffian in the peaked cap. It was not the police who were after the bag snatcher but Batzke, who wanted to know whether Kufalt was still watching the window in the Jungfernstieg. That was why Ilse had visited him the evening before, just to check out how the land lay—for Batzke.
Fear was his first emotion. He had given the tip-off. He was in it. He had hung about the shop for weeks; perhaps his face was known there and someone would remember him. His description might even already have been forwarded to the newspapers.
But that was not all: he, the bag snatcher, whose d
escription had appeared each time more clearly in the newspapers, could hardly move around at all.
The anger within him overcame his fear. Batzke it was who had brought him to that pass. Batzke had betrayed him again. The rendezvous under the horse’s tail, the tobacconist’s shop and the dud twenty-mark note, his wasted four hundred marks . . . Batzke had always betrayed him.
He paced up and down his room, brooding. Yes, he would sit down and type an anonymous letter on the spot. That would settle Batzke.
And he sat down and typed—and stopped. Five thousand marks from the fence, that would be all, Batzke had said. But rewards were always offered in the case of burglaries of this kind. Ten per cent would be the least, fifteen thousand marks, and money justly earned. Justly earned!
In a deep chamber of his brain still lurked the dream of the little tobacconist’s shop, and a wife and children. Now it could be transformed into truth and reality.
He got up. He tore the typed sheet into tiny fragments, opened the door of the stove and did not shut it until he was sure the last fragment of paper was burnt to ashes.
No; he must wait until the reward was offered. In doing so, there was certainly a risk that the cops might go after him; but nothing could be achieved without some risk. They would never track him down. They would be even less likely to if he went to them.
He began to pace up and down again. He could no longer wait until the evening papers came out. The reward would certainly be advertised in the evening papers. He would go straight along to the town hall, and Batzke would be caught. Perhaps Kufalt would get the reward by the end of the week and be shot of it all.
Suddenly his fear returned. But fear of another kind. The police knew their job, and all crooks were traitors. Perhaps there were others who knew of Batzke’s scheme. Perhaps they had not waited so long; perhaps they were already sitting in the town hall and would rob Kufalt of his fifteen thousand marks.
After all, what information had he to give? A single name—Batzke. He did not know who had helped him, nor who the fences were. He did not even know where Batzke lived, he only knew that one name. The name was his capital; it stood for his tobacco shop and his future. He must not let himself be robbed of that name. He must go at once.