Once a Jailbird

  He slipped on his coat, put on his hat and stopped doubtfully in the centre of the room.

  The flush of greed faded for a moment, his desire for vengeance ebbed. ‘This may go wrong,’ he thought. ‘It may go very wrong.’

  However, he went, again hesitated in the passage, heard Frau Fleege about her business in the kitchen and suddenly felt almost touched at the thought of that old and wrinkled face.

  She was the only person who had been really kind to him.

  He moved in a world of enemies. He must be wary and he must be bold. But here he needed to be neither.

  He opened the kitchen door.

  ‘Frau Pastorin,’ he said, ‘I’m going out for a few hours. But I may be longer.’

  She smiled at him kindly from under her bead cap. ‘Is it about an engagement?’ she asked discreetly.

  ‘Not exactly—I may not be back again today at all. Well, my things are quite safe with you.’

  ‘Herr Lederer,’ said the old woman, and took his hand between her two old, quivering hands, ‘I wish you the best of luck.’

  IV

  ‘The jewel robbery at Wossidlo’s, eh?’ asked one of the officers, looking appraisingly at Kufalt. ‘Well, what about it?’

  ‘I wanted to ask,’ said Kufalt, ‘whether there’s a reward offered yet.’

  ‘No,’ said the officer curtly.

  ‘And won’t there be one?’ asked Kufalt again.

  ‘That depends,’ said the officer.

  Kufalt found the searching glances of the two officers very unpleasant. Any moment either of them might remember the descriptions. If only he had got himself another coat and hat before coming here. But he had not thought of anything. He had gone out blindly after the money, and perhaps there would be none.

  ‘OK then,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I’ll come back another time.’ And he got up.

  ‘Stop, stop,’ said the officer more informally. ‘Not so fast. Have a cigarette.’

  He had concluded his scrutiny of Kufalt, and, having reached a pretty accurate conclusion, he thought a little further conversation might prove profitable.

  ‘If a reward actually was offered, could you tell us anything about this robbery?’

  ‘I don’t yet know,’ said Kufalt coolly. ‘That depends on the reward.’

  ‘Look,’ intervened the second officer; ‘I don’t need to tell you, young man, that if you know anything about a crime, you have to report it. Otherwise you are liable to prosecution.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Kufalt. ‘But I know no more than there has been in the papers. All the same, perhaps I could find out something because I’m in touch with certain people . . . ’

  ‘Don’t you listen to him,’ interceded the first officer. ‘He can’t help bellowing like that. Yes, the reward will be all right, the insurance company is sure to offer one. But we may have got the blokes by then. So you’d much better trust us and tell us anything you can now. We shan’t let you down.’

  And he looked at Kufalt with frankness.

  ‘No,’ said Kufalt decisively. ‘I know nothing yet. I just meant to find out what I could, if it was worth my while.’

  The officers sat thoughtfully observing Kufalt.

  ‘Would you object,’ resumed the first, ‘to leaving your name and address? We might want you urgently. We’ll see you don’t lose out.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Kufalt. ‘I’ll call again soon.’

  ‘Well,’ said the second officer angrily, ‘if that’s the case . . . ’

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said the first quickly. ‘We wouldn’t be mean over a big job like this. And we can also turn a blind eye when a bloke gives us a tip or two—come on, out with it.’

  ‘That doesn’t help me,’ said Kufalt agitatedly. ‘But I won’t have the police coming to where I live.’

  He added more calmly: ‘Landladies are funny about some things.’

  But he was thinking of the handbags in his trunk and cursed himself for not having got rid of them. He must have been demented these last few days.

  ‘So you won’t give us the address,’ said the officer gloomily; ‘well, we haven’t got much out of you today.’

  He sat and thought. Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind. He got up and said quickly: ‘Wait, I’ll be back in a second.’

  And he departed.

  ‘But I’m in a hurry,’ Kufalt called out after him.

  The first officer had already gone, and Kufalt was left sitting there with the second officer, an offensive person who never took his eyes off him.

  ‘I want to go,’ he said helplessly. He was afraid that the other officer would come back with a warrant for his arrest. He cursed himself for coming. He saw that he had made a very foolish start.

  ‘I want to go,’ he repeated.

  The second officer said nothing, but kept on staring at him. Beneath the thin, reddish moustache a smile appeared . . .

  ‘He’s found me out,’ thought Kufalt.

  ‘Well, I’ll go now,’ he said once more, and got up.

  ‘Where have we met before?’ asked the officer.

  ‘Nowhere. You’re confusing me with someone else,’ said Kufalt, much relieved. For he was quite sure that he knew no police officer in Hamburg except Herr Specht.

  ‘My dear man,’ said the officer in a very condescending tone, ‘I’ll soon find out. Just stay, stand as you are for a minute.’

  ‘An hour if you like,’ said Kufalt. ‘But I want to go home now.’

  He did not go. The other officer returned, beaming with satisfaction.

  ‘Now listen, my lad,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been making some inquiries. There are still a few formalities to settle. But ten thousand marks will be offered for the recovery of the stuff.’

  He took a chair and sat down.

  ‘And, you know,’ he said pleasantly, ‘we’ll have to act pretty quick, so that they don’t have time to scatter the swag all over Europe. They’ll be sharing it out now, and we ought to get the whole pile at a stroke. That would mean ten thousand marks for you; we police officers don’t get any pickings. How about it?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ said Kufalt slowly.

  ‘That won’t do, my dear man,’ said the officer briskly. ‘I’m not going to let you go off like that.

  ‘But fair’s fair, and I’ll make you an offer. You needn’t tell me your name, nor who you are, nor where you live. And I’ll give you my word of honour as an official that I won’t have you followed. But . . . ’

  He drew a deep breath. Kufalt looked at him intently.

  ‘ . . . But you’re to have a look at our photograph album. You know what I mean. And if you see the man in it who did this job, just shut the album and say, “He’s in it.” Nothing more. That’s all we want you to do. Then I’ll let you go, and you’ll get two hundred marks as well, on account . . . ’

  ‘But I don’t know the man yet,’ protested Kufalt.

  ‘You leave that to us,’ said the officer. ‘You might enjoy looking at a few of the photographs. They’re very interesting.’

  ‘But there’s no sense in it,’ said Kufalt helplessly.

  ‘Sense or not,’ said the officer with sudden sternness, ‘if you won’t, you’ll stay here.’

  But he was soon smiling again, and quietly placed two hundred-mark notes on the table. Kufalt looked at them hesitatingly.

  ‘Now get on with it,’ said the officer. ‘Don’t take all that time to think it over. Surely it’s a good enough bit of business, isn’t it? Which volume shall I send for?’

  ‘I know nothing,’ said Kufalt obstinately.

  ‘You’ll let the blokes get rid of the swag,’ said the officer indignantly; ‘and you could make such a stash of money. You’re not asked to say anything. Now then—“A”? “B”?’

  ‘Hmm—hmm.’

  ‘Aha! But B is in several volumes. Well, you might look through them all. You don’t need to say a word.’

  Kufalt sat in sullen
silence. He had the feeling he was caught. He was stuck in a cul-de-sac and there was no way out. He was never a match for anyone. Neither for Batzke nor for these men here.

  What was the use of two hundred marks? However, he must do it, or they would not let him go.

  ‘All right, B,’ he said, and swore to himself that he would betray nothing. He would shut the volume, whether Batzke’s photograph was in it or not, say, “He’s there,” and shut it quite at random. Then he would take the two hundred marks, so as to get something out of the transaction, and go. And he would take every sort of transport and go to all the department stores on his way home. At the China House on the Mönckebergstrasse he would go up and down in the continuous lift so that they lost all trace of him, and that would be the end of it.

  He carefully chose the volume that began with ‘Bi’, turned over the pages and looked at the countless faces, with the strained, grimacing features and set lips of all compulsory photographs.

  And as he looked at them all, commonplace faces, good and evil faces, he was overcome by curiosity to see whether Batzke really was the crook he had always made himself out to be. And he picked up the ‘Ba’ volume, turned over the pages and on the third he saw his friend, in profile and full-face, from the right and from the left, in the company of other ‘Ba’s.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said the officer pleasantly. ‘Here are your two hundred marks. All above board, you see. Well, goodbye. You’re quite free to go home.’

  Kufalt looked at the two policemen’s faces; they were grinning with satisfaction. He wanted to say something, to bellow with rage at having been so utterly fooled. But he snatched up his notes from the table and ran out of the room, hearing the officers’ idiotic laughter as he fled . . .

  V

  A hundred marks of his newly earned money Kufalt spent at once on an overcoat and hat. His was an ordinary black overcoat. So he bought himself a light brown loose raglan. His hat was a small blue-grey felt one, so he got a large black slouch hat. He had them packed and sent to his lodging.

  As he walked on—it was now late in the afternoon—it occurred to him for the first time how thoughtless he had been. The police now knew him in his black Ulster and his felt hat. They would immediately wonder why he had bought a new coat.

  It was even more stupid to have given his name and address at the shop. If he had been followed they would now know all about him. The handbags were still in his trunk.

  However, he did not go home. He felt as though everything was going wrong and that no effort on his part would be of any use. Either he would emerge unscathed from this business, or he would not. He must accept both outcomes; there was little he could do.

  He really ought to have eaten a meal at midday but he had not felt like eating; his appetite had gone. He would sooner drink a couple of schnapps.

  He drank them. The world at once looked different. He had a lot of money on him, quite unexpected money, and he could always get fresh money when he needed it. Now at last for once he could do what he liked with his money. He had not been out with a girl for a long time, not since he had been in prison. No, not since he had been arrested nearly six years ago—he would really make an evening of it.

  And he made his way in the direction of the Reeperbahn.

  As he walked along it occurred to him that he had, in fact, been with girls, with Liese, Hilde and Ilse. But somehow that seemed to mean nothing, or rather to mean something different. He could not quite understand why, but when he thought of girls he couldn’t help thinking of handbags as well; though there was really no connection.

  There were no suitable places on the Reeperbahn. They all seemed to him like tourist traps or too refined. And then, odd as it was, the girls who prowled about the streets and whispered endearments as they passed suddenly seemed meaningless. It was as if here too his nocturnal ways had set up barriers. He was furious when they spoke to him. Yet surely it was up to him to speak first.

  Finally he found himself on the first floor of a café on the Grosse Freiheit. It was just the right sort of place, with alcoves lit by shaded lamps, and little girls not too dolled up.

  With them he could talk at his ease. He asked how business was. He asked after their pals and their pimps. And then they talked about the bad weather, and wondered whether they should go on anywhere else that evening, and whether they should spend the night together. And he drew up a plan, with supper and a cinema to follow.

  In the meantime they drank a great many liqueurs, and the girl grew amorous and began to kiss him, which he did not like; and she cried out in a shrill, silly voice, ‘Oh you’re so sweet! . . . No, you’re so funny!’

  He chatted away to her, tried to impress her and told her jokes and laughed, but all the time he kept on thinking how stupid and boring it all was, and how much more he had enjoyed his solitary walks by night; he did not want her, nor any other girl. Once he got up, went to his overcoat and took out his cigarettes and handkerchief and keys. And the black overcoat now hung empty on its hook.

  Shortly afterwards the girl wanted to go out for a moment, and he teased as to whether she would come back. He pretended he did not trust her—she just wanted to give him the slip after he had stood her ten or twelve liqueurs. And in the end she left him her bag as a pledge and said with a laugh, ‘Well, that won’t make you rich!’

  As he came up he had noticed that the lavatories were on the half-landing. Scarcely was she out of the room than he got up (he had slipped the bag under his jacket) and said to the waiter, ‘Look after my overcoat for a moment’; and went down the stairs.

  But he passed the lavatories, hurried out into the street, ran the short distance to the Reichenstrasse, took a taxi and went home.

  He hoped they would be pleased with the bag snatcher’s coat and hat. Now they would have yet another description of him to publish in the papers. By the end of this week he would either be out of Hamburg or all would be at an end.

  VI

  The bag was a poor, shabby object, made of black stuff, with no money inside it. But it smelt strongly of some sort of scent; and that brought him the dreams and the desires that the girl had not been able to arouse.

  He had gone to bed very early. No, he would not go out again. It was too risky. He must soon decide what he was going to do, but not that evening. Perhaps tomorrow; he had drunk too much that evening. There was a pleasant slow rotation in his head. He laid his cheek on the bag, and felt as though he were in the cabin of a ship, steaming to distant lands. The ship rolled gently, and he thought he could hear the waves gurgling faintly against the portholes and could smell the fragrance of those distant coconut islands whither he was bound.

  And he fell fast asleep.

  Then he thought he heard men’s voices outside. He did not know exactly whether he was on board ship, or where he was—ah, of course; he was in prison, and the night guard was talking outside his door. But he could go on sleeping.

  That, however, he could not do. For a voice, which woke him up fully said, quite close to his ear, ‘Get up, please!’

  He tried to put off opening his eyes, but the bedclothes were ruthlessly torn off him and he saw the police officer of the previous day standing by his side. The more pleasant of the two. But at the moment he did not look at all pleasant.

  ‘Come on—wake up, lad! We’ve got a lot to do.’

  Kufalt looked at him. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked. ‘You gave me your word of honour . . . ’

  ‘Word of honour be damned,’ said the officer. ‘Read that.’

  And he held a newspaper under Kufalt’s nose.

  Kufalt thought at first it was his latest theft of a handbag. But it was a large advertisement with the headline: ‘To The Burglars’. And in it Herr Wossidlo announced his desire to get in touch direct with the burglars. He gave his word of honour he would not betray them to the police, and declared himself ready to pay them ten per cent of the value of the stolen goods. ‘More than any receiver would give. With a furt
her assurance of inviolable secrecy, for which I pledge my word as an honourable Hamburg merchant. Hermann Wossidlo.’

  ‘Now,’ said the officer, ‘where does Batzke live?’

  ‘Batzke?’ asked Kufalt slowly.

  ‘Now don’t you start again with your nonsense,’ said the officer angrily. ‘It’s a matter of minutes now. They may even meet this morning. We’re having the telephones and the post and the shops watched. And we aren’t going to lose sight of Wossidlo. But who knows how they may get in touch.’

  ‘Do you really think,’ said Kufalt with astonishment, ‘that Batzke will accept?’

  ‘Of course he will,’ roared the officer. ‘No fence will give him more than three or four thousand marks. He’ll accept right enough—it’s a low trick of Wossidlo’s. And he’ll make the police the laughing stock of Hamburg, if he can say he got his rings back in twenty-four hours. Now then, where does Batzke live?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ faltered Kufalt. ‘He lives with a different girl every night.’

  ‘But you know him?’

  ‘Yes, I know him.’

  ‘How do you stand with him? Come on, for heaven’s sake, you can get dressed while we’re talking.’

  ‘We’re on bad terms,’ said Kufalt, and began to put his clothes on.

  ‘Dropped you out of the job, eh? Well, I won’t ask any questions. Get after him at once, you know where he’s to be found, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kufalt in a low voice.

  ‘Well then, in three hours at the latest we must have his address. Ring me up at once. My number is 274. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll find you all right.’

  The officer was quite excited. ‘Think of the fuss if it’s announced in the evening papers that Wossidlo has met the burglars and got back his stuff. Do your best. You’ll be well in with us. And there’ll be a bit of money in it for you. You won’t need to complain. What’s your name, by the way?’

  ‘Lederer,’ said Kufalt. ‘Ernst Lederer.’

  ‘Oh come off it,’ said the officer angrily. ‘You don’t suppose I’m going to swallow all that nonsense you told your Frau Pastorin about being an actor. I want to know your name.’