“But there is a slug in it,” Süskind continued, worried. “I saw it with my own eyes. A great big black slug.”
“You saw it?” Studmann suddenly became serious. He began to think. That there should be slugs in the champagne in this establishment was quite impossible. “We don’t sell adulterated champagne here. He must have put it in himself by a trick. Take him another bottle and don’t charge him. Here—for the butler.” And he scribbled a wine slip.
“Watch him, Süskind, see that he doesn’t play us a trick again.”
Süskind bowed his utterly perplexed head. “Wouldn’t you like to go yourself? I’m afraid.…”
“Nonsense, Süskind. I’ve no time for such rubbish. If you can’t settle it yourself, take the butler with you as a witness, or anyone else you like.”
Studmann was already gone. In the hall the famous iron magnate, Brachwede, was shouting that he had rented an apartment for ten millions daily, and on the bill he had been charged fifteen. The magnate had to be informed of what he already knew, that is, the rise in the dollar. Here Studmann had to persuade, there to smile, elsewhere to give a stern hint to a page to be more careful; he had to superintend the transportation of a crippled lady in the lift; to refuse three telephone calls.…
The mournful Süskind stood behind him again.
“Herr Director. Please, Herr Director,” he begged in a truly old-fashioned nerve-racking stage whisper.
“What’s the matter now, Süskind?”
“The gentleman in 37, Herr Director.…”
“What is it this time? What is it? Another slug in the champagne?”
“Herr Tuchmann (this was the butler) is just opening the eleventh bottle—there were slugs in all of them.”
“In all of them?” von Studmann almost shouted. Feeling that the hotel guests had their eyes on him he lowered his voice. “Have you gone mad too, Süskind?”
Süskind nodded gloomily. “The gentleman is screaming that he won’t stand black slugs, he’s screaming.…”
“Come along,” Studmann cried and rushed up to the first floor, heedless of the dignified demeanor which the assistant director of so distinguished an establishment ought to maintain in every situation. Süskind, the woe-begone, followed him. Together they sprinted through the puzzled guests—and at once the rumor circulated, whence nobody knew, that the coloratura soprano, Contessa Vagenza, who was to have appeared that evening in the big concert hall, had just given birth to a child.
They arrived simultaneously at No. 37. In view of the information he had received, Studmann was of the opinion that he need not concern himself with time-wasting formalities—he knocked and entered without waiting for an invitation, closely followed by Süskind, who was careful to shut the baize inner door so as to deaden the noise of a possible dispute.
The room was a large one, the electric light full on. The curtains of the two windows were closely drawn. The door leading to the bathroom was shut—also locked, as was to be discovered later. The key had been removed.
The guest was lying in the wide modern bed of chromium steel. The sickly yellow of his skin, which had so struck Studmann in the hall, looked more ghastly still against the white of the pillows. He wore crimson pajamas made of what looked like a costly brocade, its thick yellow embroidery seeming pale against the bilious face. One powerful hand, displaying a strikingly handsome signet ring, lay on the blue silk counterpane. The other was hidden beneath the cover. Von Studmann saw, too, on the table which had been pushed up to the bed, a display of cognac and champagne bottles which astounded him. A much larger number must have been brought up than the eleven mentioned by Süskind. At the same time he realized that the overanxious waiter had not been content with the butler as a witness; near the table stood a small but embarrassed group of people consisting of a page, the chambermaid, an elevator boy and a gray female who was probably in temporary employment as a charwoman.
For a moment Studmann wondered whether he should, as a preliminary, turn out these witnesses to a possible scandal, but a glance at the guest’s face, which was twitching uncontrollably, showed him that speed was called for. So he went up to the bed, introduced himself with a bow, and waited for results.
At once the twitching stopped. “Very unpleasant.” The guest spoke through his nose in that arrogant military manner which von Studmann thought had become extinct long ago. “Extremely unpleasant for—you. Slugs in the champagne—filthy.”
“I see no slugs,” said von Studmann after a glance at the champagne glasses and bottles. What perturbed him was not this silly complaint, but the look of unbridled hatred in the guest’s dark eyes, eyes which were impudent and cowardly at the same time, an expression Studmann had never seen before.
“They are there!” screamed the guest so suddenly that everybody started. He was sitting up in bed, one hand clawing at the quilt, the other still covered.
On your guard, said von Studmann to himself. He’s up to something!
“They’ve all seen the slugs. Take this bottle; no, that one.”
With an appearance of unconcern Studmann held the bottle up to the light. He was convinced that the champagne was quite in order, and that the guest knew it as well as he did. For some reason which Studmann did not know yet, but would probably soon learn, he must have bamboozled the waiter and the butler.
“Look out, Herr Director,” Süskind shouted. Studmann wheeled round. But it was too late. Absorbed in looking at the bottle, Studmann had lost sight of the guest who, with incredible deftness, had slipped out of bed and locked the door. He stood now with the key in one hand, a revolver in the other.
Von Studmann had been some years at the Front—a weapon aimed at him was not unduly disturbing. What did frighten him was the expression of hatred and despair on the mysterious stranger’s face. At the same time this face was without a grimace, but it smiled, and a very sneering smile it was, too.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Studmann asked curtly.
“It means,” said the guest in low but distinct tones, “that the room is now under my control. Who disobeys will be shot.”
“Are you after our money? The result would be hardly worth your while. Are you not the Baron von Bergen?”
“Waiter,” said the stranger. He stood there, magnificent in the pajamas of crimson and yellow. “Waiter, pour cognac into seven champagne glasses. I shall count up to three and anyone who has not emptied his glass by then will stop a bullet. Now, hurry!”
With a look of entreaty toward von Studmann, Süskind obeyed.
“Why this unseemly jest?” von Studmann asked indignantly.
“You’re to drink,” said the hospitable one. “One—two—three—drink, will you. Drink up!”
He was shouting again.
The others looked at Studmann. Studmann hesitated.…
The stranger shouted again. “Empty your glasses!” He shot, and it was not only the women who screamed. Alone, von Studmann would have risked a struggle with the man, but he checked himself in consideration for the distracted people present and the hotel’s reputation.
He turned round and remarked calmly: “Drink, then,” smiling encouragement at the anxious faces; and himself drank.
There were several gulps of cognac in each glass. Studmann got rid of his quickly, but he heard the others behind him choking and panting.
“You must drink it all up,” said the stranger aggressively. “Who doesn’t is to be shot.”
Von Studmann couldn’t turn round, he had to keep an eye on the guest. He was still hoping that the man would look away for a moment and thus make it possible for him to snatch the weapon.
“You sent your bullet into the ceiling,” he said politely. “I must thank you for your consideration. May I ask why we’re to get drunk here?”
“I don’t want to shoot, though I don’t mind either way. What I do want is that you should get drunk. Nobody will leave this room alive until every drop of alcohol has been swallowed. Waiter, pour out the cha
mpagne.”
“That’s it,” said von Studmann, who was determined to keep the conversation going. “That’s what I understood. But I am interested to know why you want us to get drunk.”
“Because I like my little joke. Now drink.”
Someone from behind pushed a champagne glass into Studmann’s hand. He drank. “Oh,” he said, “because it amuses you? All right.” And then as nonchalantly as possible: “I presume you know that you’re insane?”
And the other just as imperturbably: “For six years I’ve been declared incapable of managing my own affairs and have been put into a loony house. Waiter, now let’s have say half a glass of cognac. I don’t want to hurry you. I want the pleasure to last longer,” he explained. And again imperturbably: “I couldn’t stand the shooting at the Front. They were shooting only at me. Since then I shoot alone. Drink!”
Von Studmann drank, and felt the alcohol rising like a fine mist into his brain. Without turning his head, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Süskind at the other end of the room stealing toward the bathroom door. But the Baron had also seen him. “Unfortunately locked,” he said, smiling, and Süskind, with a regretful movement of his shoulders, vanished out of the assistant director’s range of vision.
Von Studmann heard a woman behind him gasp and the men whispering. “Look out, look out!” something was saying within him. Then his head was quite clear again.
“I see,” he said. “But how do we come to have the honor of drinking with you in this hotel if you are put away in an institution?”
“Cleared out,” the Baron laughed. “They’re such fools. Won’t the old chap curse when he fetches me back! I made a fine job of it, apart from the attendant whose nut I cracked. It’s going too slowly,” he muttered peevishly. “Much too slowly. Another cognac, waiter. A full glass.”
“I’d prefer champagne,” Studmann hazarded.
It was a mistake.
“Cognac,” the visitor screamed. “Cognac! Who doesn’t drink cognac will be shot. It’s all the same to me!” he shouted significantly to Studmann. “Under paragraph fifty-one I can’t be punished. I’m the Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen. No policeman can touch me. I’m insane. Drink!”
This is going badly, thought von Studmann desperately as the oily stuff trickled down his throat. The women are already laughing and giggling—in five minutes the lunatic will have got me, too, where he wants to have us, the sane groveling like crazy animals before the insane. I must see if …
But there was nothing to see. With undivided attention the fool stood by the door, the pistol in his hand, his finger on the trigger, very much on guard.
“Pour out,” he ordered again. “A full glass of champagne to refresh the palate.”
“Right-o, mister, right-o,” someone called, probably a page, and the others laughed their assent.
“You’re a gentleman.” Studmann made another attempt. “I suggest we let the two ladies go. None of the others will try to get out. I give you my word of honor.”
“Ladies out—nothing doing!” someone bawled from behind. “Isn’t that so, kitten? We don’t get a treat like this every day.”
“You hear?” the Baron answered. “Another drink—cognac this time. And sit down. That’s right—on the sofa. Come, on the bed, too. You will also sit down, Herr Director. Come on! Do you think I’m joking? I’ll shoot! There!” The revolver spoke again. There were screams. “So—another drink. And now make yourselves comfortable. Coats and collars off—you over there, take off your apron, girl. Yes, you can take off your blouses if you like.”
“Herr Baron,” remonstrated von Studmann, “we’re not in a brothel. I refuse to …” But he realized that, under the influence of alcohol, will and deed were no longer running parallel; his frock coat now hung over the back of a chair, and he was fumbling with his tie. “I refuse,” he objected once more, feebly.
“Drink,” shouted the visitor. With a sneer: “In five minutes you won’t refuse any longer. Champagne this time.”
There was a crash and clatter of breaking glass. Süskind had fallen across the table, then dropped to the floor. Now he lay there, gasping, obviously unconscious.
The giggling butler, his fat paw clasping the girl’s breast, sat on the bed. The elderly charwoman held a boy in each arm; she was as red as a turkey-cock and no longer aware of the world around her.
“You’re to drink,” screamed the madman. “You, mister, it’s your turn to pour out. Champagne!”
In three minutes I’m lost, thought Studmann, reaching for the champagne bottle. In three minutes he would be as far gone as the others.
In his hand the bottle felt cool and firm, and suddenly his head cleared. It’s quite simple, he thought.
The bottle changed into a bomb. He pulled out the pin and threw it at the other’s head. He leaped after it.
The Baron dropped key and pistol, and flopped to the floor. “You mustn’t touch me,” he shouted. “I’m insane. I’m protected by paragraph fifty-one. Don’t hit me, please don’t, or you’ll make yourself criminally liable. I’m immune.” And while, in a drunken fury, von Studmann thrashed the miserable creature, he thought angrily: I’ve been taken in by him, after all. He’s only a coward, like those who messed their trousers at every barrage. I should have punched his mug the first minute.
Then his stomach turned against beating the soft cowardly whimpering thing on the floor. Catching sight of the key, he picked it up, staggered to his feet, opened the door and stepped outside.
The large gathering of people who had sought shelter from the storm in the big hall of the hotel were startled at the appearance on the first-floor landing of a man with bleeding face and torn shirt sleeves, reeling along the gorgeous red stair carpet. At first only a few saw him, but soon an expectant silence caused others to turn round, too, and they in their turn stared as if they could not believe their eyes.
The gentleman stood swaying on the top of the stairs, glaring down into the crowded hall. He seemed not to know where he was. He mumbled something which no one could understand, but the silence spread until the music from the adjoining café could be clearly heard.
Rittmeister von Prackwitz got up from his chair and gazed at the apparition with amazement.
The hotel employees looked up, stared, wanted to do something about it, but were at a loss.
“Fools!” shouted the drunkard. “Mad! They think they’re immune. But I thrash them.”
He called down again to those staring up at him. “I’ll thrash you, you fools.”
He lost his balance. “Upsey,” he chirped and managed the next six steps. Then he tumbled forward, rolled down the staircase and came to rest at the feet of the visitors, who fell back. He lay motionless and unconscious.
“Where shall we take him?” Rittmeister von Prackwitz muttered, gripping him under the armpits.
Suddenly the staff surrounded the casualty. The guests were edged away, and Studmann—Prackwitz with him—was taken down the stairs to the corridor leading to the storerooms and kitchen quarters. Preliminary rumors circulated. “A young German-American. Not used to alcohol; prohibition, you know. Dollar-millionaire, dead drunk.”
Three minutes afterwards everything was normal again; people gossiped, were bored, asked for their letters, telephoned, had a look at the storm.
VIII
Between six and seven o’clock in the evening, when Wolfgang Pagel stepped out of the art dealer’s in Bellevuestrasse, it was still raining, though not so heavily. He looked up and down the street, uncertain. Taxis were available at the Esplanade Hotel as well as by the Rolandsbrunnen; they would have taken him quickly enough to Petra, but an obstinate caprice forbade him to touch money which was dedicated to her.
He pulled the old army cap firmly on and set out. He could easily be with Petra in half an hour. A little while ago, although penniless, he had had a free ride by tram to Potsdamerplatz. Although the picture he carried made him conspicuous to any conductor, the evening rush heig
htened by the weather had enabled him to travel without paying his fare. Now, with an incredible sum in his pockets, he dared not risk such a free trip; if he were caught he would be forced to take a ticket and thus break in upon his millions.
Pagel whistled contentedly as he walked along the endless garden wall by the Reich Chancellor’s palace. He knew quite well that this deliberation about fares or no fares was ridiculous and that it was more important (and also more decent) to bring Petra speedy help—but he shrugged his shoulders. He was once more the gambler. He had made up his mind, come what might, to stake only on red; and he would stake only on red. The devil might come for him, the chances might be against him as much as they liked. But red would win through. Petra’s case would come to a satisfactory end only if he carried out his intention to place the 760,000,000 marks intact in her hands. But if 10,000 marks or only 1,000 were missing, then the black consequences could not be foreseen.
Perhaps silly, certainly superstitious—but how could you be sure? This life was so complicated, turned up so unexpectedly, contradicted every rule of logic, every careful calculation—was there not a chance of catching it out by means of superstitions, wild ideas, absurdities and follies? Very well then, Wolfgang, it was all right; and if it wasn’t, it would work out just the same. Whether one made a mistake according to logic or folly was the private amusement of each individual. He, Wolfgang Pagel, plumped for folly.
As I am, so I remain, forever and ever. Amen.
Seven hundred and sixty million marks. A good round thousand dollars. Four thousand two hundred prewar marks. A nice little sum in the evening for one who at midday had had to beg Uncle for a single dollar. For whom two rolls and a very battered enamel can of adulterated coffee were beyond hope in the morning.
Pagel arrived at the Brandenburger Tor. He would have liked to pause for a moment to get out of the everlasting rain and dry his face, but it was not possible—the arches were thronged with beggars, hawkers and war-wounded. The rain had driven them from the entrances of the Tiergarten and the Pariserplatz into this shelter, and if Pagel were to place himself among them his inability to say no would endanger the inviolable treasure. He therefore fled from himself and the entreaties of the beggars into the rain again—hard-hearted out of weakness not hardness, like many another.