Wolf Among Wolves (36 page)

“Herr von Studmann is lying on a worn-out sofa in an ironing room,” complained the Rittmeister. “There’s not a soul to look after him.”

“Very regrettable,” admitted the director. “A mistake which I must ask you to excuse owing to the momentary confusion created by the occurrence. Fräulein, telephone that Herr von Studmann is to be taken to his room without attracting any attention. Without attracting any attention, Fräulein, please. Without attracting any attention!”

“You want to sack Herr von Studmann,” cried the Rittmeister indignantly, pointing to the notebook. “You can’t condemn a man without hearing his defense.”

The managing director spoke without any show of feeling. “Herr von Studmann will be taken at once to his room.”

“You can’t dismiss him straight away,” cried von Prackwitz.

“We’re not dismissing him,” contradicted the other. Von Prackwitz had the impression that this gray giant could not be touched by any emotion, any entreaty, any human feeling. “We’re granting Herr von Studmann an extended holiday.”

“Herr von Studmann doesn’t need a holiday,” the Rittmeister assured him, intimidated by this unassailable man.

“Herr von Studmann does need a holiday. His nervous system has gone to pieces.”

“You judge without hearing him,” the Rittmeister declared with less conviction.

“In the room occupied by Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen,” said the managing director as monotonously as if he were reading from a statement, “we found nineteen champagne bottles, of which fifteen were empty. Four cognac bottles—empty. Two hotel pages—completely intoxicated. Two adult male employees—also completely intoxicated. An insufficiently clad chambermaid—dead drunk. A charwoman in our temporary employ—dead drunk. The guest, Herr Baron von Bergen, quite sober but with a black eye and almost unconscious as the result of several brutal blows on the head. Doubtless you know how we discovered your friend Herr von Studmann.”

Abashed, Rittmeister von Prackwitz bowed his head.

“On the one hand,” said the managing director a little more cordially, “your loyalty to your friend does you honor. On the other hand, I would ask—does a cultured man with a sound nervous system share in such a bacchanalia?”

“But there must have been some reason for it,” von Prackwitz cried despairingly. “Otherwise Herr von Studmann would never …”

“Can you think of any reason which would have made you take part in such an orgy, Herr von …?”

“Prackwitz,” prompted the Rittmeister.

“Herr von Prackwitz. You will understand that we cannot any longer employ in our organization a man so compromised, if for no other reason than the bad example to our staff.”

There was a curt, important knock. The door flew open and in stormed a little bowlegged old man with a tall forehead, shining blue eyes and a faded beard, which no doubt had once been fiery. He was followed slowly by a thickset man whose jacket fitted so tightly across his shoulders that he looked like a prize-fighter.

“Have you still got him?” croaked the fiery old man. “Where is he? For God’s sake don’t let him get away. Türke, see about it! Make haste! Don’t let him escape. Run! I’ve been chasing this boy all over Berlin for the last twenty-four hours. I don’t believe there’s a haunt in this wretched town into which I haven’t stuck my nose, damn it!”

He took hold of the above-mentioned nose and looked breathlessly at the dumbfounded people round him. The thick-set man in the tight jacket, presumably Herr Türke, stood behind.

Probably because his profession had accustomed him to the most extraordinary examples of the human species, the managing director was the first to emerge from stupefaction.

“Vogel,” he introduced himself. “I presume I’m speaking with Dr. Schröck?”

“No, I’m speaking with you,” shouted the old man, letting go his nose. The transition from calmness to rage was so sudden that all—except the imperturbable Herr Türke—were startled. In that bowlegged body a fiery temperament must be concealed. “I’ve been asking you for the last three minutes whether that fellow’s still here.”

“If you mean Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen,” began the managing director, “I know he’s in Room 37.”

“Türke,” screamed Dr. Schröck, “did you hear that? Room 37! Go and fetch the young rotter, alive or dead! Look out—you know how tricky he is. Don’t forget he locked your colleague in his room!”

The thick-set one nodded. “He won’t get away with it this time. He couldn’t have done such a thing to me, sir.” Leisurely he departed.

“An excellent male nurse,” muttered Dr. Schröck. “A man without a trace of sentimentality.” Suddenly his anxiety returned. “He can’t have got away by any chance?”

“No, no,” the managing director reassured him. “He can’t get away. Things have happened, unfortunately.” He gave a glance at the Rittmeister. “I’ll report to you as soon as I’ve dealt with this gentleman.”

With a sigh of relief Dr. Schröck sank into a chair, and mopped his forehead. “He can’t get away then, thank God. Something’s happened. Wherever that fellow goes something happens.” He gave a sigh of resignation. “Police? Public prosecutor?”

“No, no,” the managing director assured him. “The gentleman is sure to apologize.” He glanced with annoyance at the Rittmeister. “We’ll make good any damage. One of our employees unfortunately so far forgot himself as to strike the Baron.”

The old man leaped out of his chair. “Where is he? Who is it?” He pointed to the Rittmeister. “Did you?”

“He apparently threw a champagne bottle at his head,” wailed the managing director.

“Splendid,” cried the old man. “A champagne bottle! Magnificent! Not you? Your friend? Let me meet him. I must thank him. It isn’t possible? Why isn’t it possible?”

“Your charge seems to have made my friend—and half a dozen other people—mysteriously drunk.”

“There you are,” said Dr. Schröck. “The usual dirty business.” He sat down resigned. “I’ll arrange everything, nobody shall suffer. You, my dear managing
director, seem to have been dazzled by the title of Reichsfreiherr and so on. Let me tell you this Reichsfreiherr is the most irresponsible, pampered, vulgar, sadistic little beast in the world. And a coward at that.”

“Dr. Schröck!” implored the managing director.

“That’s the truth! He imagines that because he’s been put under restraint as a result of his extravagance, and was acquitted in some scandal because of paragraph fifty-one, he can do what he likes. He’s lazy and without respect, without a trace of human feeling.” Dr. Schröck flared up. “The fellow ought to be whipped morning and evening; he ought to be put in prison or at least in a State asylum. There they’d cure him of his nasty tricks!”

“But he’s in your sanatorium—this poor fellow.”

“Unfortunately,” grumbled Dr. Schröck. “Unfortunately. I offer him to my colleagues as if he were sour beer, but they won’t take him, although he pays more than any other patient. Patient! My goodness, he’s just a vicious monkey. When I take him back to my institution, behind bars and locked doors in the ward for troublesome cases, of course, he’ll be tolerable for a month or two—especially if your friend has given him a good hiding.”

“A quarter of an hour ago he was nearly unconscious,” interposed the managing director.

“Excellent! But he’ll soon be overbearing again. He teases harmless patients into a frenzy, annoys the attendants, steals cigarettes, drives me and my assistants mad.… And he’s by no means stupid, he’s devilishly cunning. He’s always escaping. Watch him as much as we like, he always finds some fool. Borrows money or steals it.… And I can do nothing,” said the old man gnashing his teeth. “I can’t get rid of him. As he’s not in full possession of his mental faculties, the law’s on his side.” He sat there, grown suddenly older and exhausted. “For twenty-four hours I’ve been chasing him in my car.” He looked round. “If only I could get rid of him,” he groaned despairingly. “But then, as likely as not, he’d regain his freedom—no, I couldn’t take the responsibility. However, let’s at least try the ultimate remedy—expense. Perhaps his mother—he has only one mother, unfortunately—will get tired of paying for him. Herr Director, may I ask you for a bill, a detailed account?”

“Yes,” said the managing director, hesitating. “There’s been a lot of alcohol consumed, champagne, cognac …”

“Nonsense.” Dr. Schröck grew angry. “Those are trifles. Champagne, cognac! No, every person the fellow’s harmed is entitled to damages. I hear of half a dozen persons whom he’s made drunk.… Your friend, for instance, I think?”

“I don’t know whether my friend …” began von Prackwitz awkwardly.

“For Heaven’s sake,” cried the incensed Schröck, “don’t be a fool! Excuse me, I shouldn’t say that, of course, but really don’t be a fool! The greater the expense the sooner there’s a chance of his mother locking him up one of these fine days in a well-guarded lunatic asylum. You’re doing a service to mankind.”

The Rittmeister looked at the managing director, then at the typewriter in which the testimonial was still inserted. “My friend, who is assistant director and chief receptionist here, is to be discharged by the hotel management because he was intoxicated while on duty,” he said.

“Excellent,” cried Dr. Schröck, but this time the managing director interrupted him.

“I must contradict Herr von Prackwitz,” he said hastily. “We’re granting Herr von Studmann a long holiday, say three months, even six months. During that time Herr von Studmann, in view of his efficiency, will easily find another position. We do not dismiss him for drunkenness on duty,” he explained firmly, but without emotion. “We simply ask him to look round for another field of activity because in no circumstances must a hotel employee make himself conspicuous. Unfortunately, Herr von Studmann, when he fell down the hall stairs insufficiently clad and completely intoxicated, made himself very conspicuous in front of many employees and still more guests.”

Dr. Schröck was satisfied. “Together with an indemnity for a lost position we must consider the question of damages. That pleases me immensely; I see light. I shouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t put paid to young Bergen. How do I find your friend? At your place? Many thanks. I’ll make a note of your address. You’ll be hearing from me in two or three days’ time. Splendid. By the way, we pay, of course, in stable currency. I assure you that you can’t put in for too much in the way of expenses. Oh, don’t worry. Do you think I mind? Not a bit. It hurts nobody, I only wish it did.”

The Rittmeister rose. Life was a strange thing. Somebody had actually fallen downstairs for once and got rid of his troubles. Herr von Studmann could come to Neulohe as a man free from worry, as a paying guest if he liked. He, Prackwitz, would be no longer alone.

He took his leave, Dr. Schröck once again regretting that he was not allowed to shake Studmann’s hand for knocking the Baron down.

As von Prackwitz approached the door it opened and there stumbled in, guided and supported by the attendant Türke, a creature bedizened in red and yellow, exceedingly wretched to look at, with his black eye and swollen face, contemptible with his hang-dog glance.

“Bergen!” said Dr. Schröck in a voice like a crow’s. “Bergen, come here!”

The coward broke down, fell on his knees. His gorgeous pajamas were in strange contrast with his miserable appearance. “Dr. Schröck,” he begged, “don’t punish me, don’t send me to a lunatic asylum. I’ve done nothing. They drank the champagne quite willingly.”

“Bergen, to begin with, you are deprived of your cigarettes.”

“Please don’t do that, Dr. Schröck! You know I can’t bear it. I can’t live without smoking. And I only shot into the ceiling when the gentleman didn’t want to drink.”

Von Prackwitz closed the door softly, and the miserable creature’s wails, a child without a child’s purity and innocence, died away. If only I were back in Neulohe, he thought. Berlin makes me vomit. No, it’s not only the printing of money which has gone mad. He looked down the clean corridor with its dark polished oak doors. It all had the appearance of soundness, but inside it was rotten. Was the war still in everybody’s bones? I don’t know, and anyway don’t understand.

Walking slowly along the corridor he came into the hall and inquired for his friend’s room. A lift took him up to just beneath the roof. There von Studmann sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.

“I’ve a rotten hangover, Prackwitz,” he said, looking up. “Have you time to come with me into the open air for half an hour?”

“I’ve all the time in the world,” said the Rittmeister, suddenly cheerful. “Both for you and the open air. But first let me put on your collar.…”

II

The little bailiff, his head thick and muddled with drink, had thrown himself on his bed just as he was, with mud-stained boots and clothes soaking wet with the rain. Through the open window he could see that it was still pouring down, and he could hear someone scolding from the direction of the cowhouse and the pigsty. What are they doing? he thought. What’s the matter with them? My God, I want to sleep. I must sleep and forget; when I wake up I shall find out it’s not true!

He put his hand over his eyes and it was dark. Ah, this darkness was good! Darkness was the void; where the void is, nothing is; nothing has happened, nothing has been messed up.

But the darkness lightened into gray and the gray became brighter. Out of the brightness appeared the table, the bottle, the glasses … the letter!

Oh, God, what was he to do? Little Meier pressed his hand more firmly against his eyes. It grew dark again. But flaming wheels of many colors were circling in that darkness, faster and faster, till he felt giddy and sick.

He sat up and stared about the room, which was still light. He loathed it. How familiar it all was! The stinking slop-pail beside the washstand! The photos of nude girls around the mirror! He had cut them out of magazines and pinned them on the wallpaper, and he was sick of the sight of them. How he loathed his present life and what had happened! He would like to get out of this situation; to be something quite different. But what could he do? He sat there with protruding eyes and a swollen face. There was nothing that he could do. Everything was going to collapse about him. He must just stay still and wait—and he hadn’t wanted to do anything bad! If only he could sleep …