Wolf Among Wolves

But what, after all, could such a copy prove? Anyone might make up a thing like that on the typewriter. It mentions no name that refers to anybody.

All the same, this business could upset an inexperienced young girl. But perhaps she already knew that this letter had been intercepted and copied. Its intended recipient must have known about it—how else would Meier have been so frightened that night by a rustling at the window? Yes, thought Pagel, if I only knew exactly what Meier cried out then. Was it “He wants to shoot me” or “He wants to shoot me again?” Shooting again would mean that Herr Meier had already attempted something like blackmail—one doesn’t copy a letter of this sort for purely literary reasons—and that he had received a rather violent answer, perhaps with gun in hand.…

Pagel racked his brains, but he could not remember what Meier had actually called out.

Herr von Studmann entered, returning from his meeting with Frau von Prackwitz. Pagel glanced at Studmann’s face. Even Herr von Studmann looked rather lost in thought. Now he could ask him what Meier had shouted back then, but he thought better of it. Such an inquiry would provoke counter-questions. Perhaps he would have to reveal the copy of this letter—and he didn’t want to do that. Its recipient, whoever that might be, had been warned, and Fraulein Vi presumably too. So Pagel decided for the moment to say nothing at all. He had no wish to get into trouble by letting himself be sucked into love intrigues. Nothing would be missed if this letter stayed hidden for the moment, namely, in his pocket.

IX

Studmann was so lost in thought that he did not notice Pagel had not yet eaten, and when the young man poured himself out a cup of tea and took some bread, he looked up. “Eating a second supper, Pagel?”

“I’ve not eaten yet, old man.”

“Oh, so I see. I’m sorry! I was just thinking about something.” Studmann relapsed into thoughtfulness.

After a while Pagel asked cautiously: “What’s on your mind?”

Studmann answered with surprising violence. “The peace of the fields is a bigger fraud than we supposed, Pagel. These people have their troubles. But I expect you’d rather I didn’t bother you with them—” He broke off.

Herr von Studmann also had a letter in his pocket, a letter which Frau von Prackwitz regarded as a rather harmless business communication. To Herr von Studmann, however, it seemed crafty and underhanded—he would rather have been carrying a hand grenade in his pocket. But he was much more preoccupied with something else. Frau von Prackwitz was still a good-looking woman; she had very beautiful eyes, and there had been tears in those eyes, tears which had not made them any the less beautiful. A woman who must always control herself in the presence of a hot-headed husband and a wayward daughter, who must never let her household notice anything, must be able to let herself go before a chosen confidant. This absence of restraint had only made Frau Eva the more charming. A warm sweetness, a helplessness which was all the more seductive in so mature a woman, had captivated von Studmann.

I must help the poor creature! he thought. What does that kid think she’s doing, carrying on in this way! Why, she can’t be more than fifteen!

At this moment Pagel, likewise wrapped in thought, looked up from his cheese. “How old do you reckon Fraulein Violet is?”

“What?” cried Herr von Studmann, dropping his knife and fork with a loud clatter on his plate. “What makes you ask, Pagel? What’s it got to do with you?”

“Good Lord!” said Pagel, taken aback. “I can ask, can’t I? All right, then—not!”

“I was just thinking of something else,” explained Studmann, a little embarrassed.

“It looked damn well as if you had just been thinking of her age, too!” grinned Pagel.

“Not a bit. Little girls like that don’t mean a thing to me—I’m not twenty-two, like you, Pagel.”

“Twenty-three.”

“All right. Well, it’s now just after eight. I think it’ll be a good idea if we toddle along and indulge in a drink at one of the two local inns.”

“Fine. And how old do you think Fraulein Violet is?”

“Sixteen. Seventeen.”

“Much too high! She’s got such soft curves, it’s deceptive. Fifteen at the most.”

“Anyway, keep your hands off her, Herr Pagel!” cried Studmann with a fierce glint in his eyes.

“Why, of course,” said Pagel with astonishment. “Heavens, Studmann, you’re getting like the sphinx itself. Well, about the inns?”

Somewhat more calmly Studmann outlined his plan of getting to know the innkeeper, of becoming regular patrons, and thus trying to discover as much as possible from the village gossip. “Neulohe is much too big. Even if we were to run round night after night looking for field thieves, we might still never find one. And our Rittmeister wants to see results. So a hint from the innkeeper would be worth its weight in gold.”

“True!” agreed Pagel. “Are we taking a gun with us?”

“No use doing that tonight; tonight we just want to get pally. But if you’d like to take one along! You still want to be in full war paint. I dragged one of those things around for over five years.”

It was half-past eight when the two finally set off. The sun had gone down, but it was scarcely dusk even in the shade of the trees. The road to the village was full of people: children ran about, old people sat on little benches outside their doors, the younger folk hung about in groups, a girl dragged a restive goat into its shed. When the two men passed by, the people fell silent, the children stopped running about, everyone stared after them.

“Come along, Studmann,” suggested Pagel, “let’s go on the outside of the village. We’ll find our way somehow. This being stared at gets me down. And anyway they don’t all have to know that the farm officials are going boozing.”

“Very well,” said Studmann, and they turned into a narrow path between the windowless gable walls of two laborers’ houses, and came to a ridge. To the left lay deserted orchards, to the right stretched a flourishing potato field. They came to a churned-up cart track; on the right it led straight into the fields, on the left it approached the last houses in the village. The air was turning gray, one could feel the darkness coming on, the birds had become silent. From the village echoed a laugh which died away.

As Pagel and Studmann strolled along, each in a rut of the track, they encountered a troop of people, some six or seven, men and women, who went by quietly in single file, baskets on their backs, along the grassy strip between the ruts.

“Good evening!” said Pagel loudly.

There was a muffled response, and the ghostly procession was gone.

The two went on a few steps, uncertain, then stopped as if by agreement. They turned round and gazed after the silent wanderers. Yes, it was true, they hadn’t gone to the village, but had turned into the path between the fields.

“Well!” said Pagel.

“That was queer!” replied Studmann.

“Where are they going to at this hour?”

“With baskets?”

“To steal!”

“They might be going over there into the forest to gather wood.”

“Gather wood—at night!”

“Well, let’s give up our drink and errand, and follow them.”

“Yes, but wait a moment. Let them get over the crest first.”

“I didn’t recognize any of them,” said Pagel thoughtfully.

“It’s getting dark; you could hardly distinguish their faces.”

“It would be marvelous if we caught six first go.”

“Seven,” said Studmann. “Three men and four women. Well, let’s go.”

But after the first few steps Studmann stopped again. “We haven’t thought this out, Pagel. Even if we catch the people we won’t know them. How are we to find out their names? They can tell us what they like.”

“While you’re holding a general staff meeting here, Studmann, the people will slip through our fingers,” urged Pagel impatiently.