II
The pawnbroker sat on a high stool writing in his account books, while an assistant negotiated in an undertone with two women, one of whom grasped a bundle of feather beds wrapped in a sheet, the other holding a black dummy figure like those used by dressmakers. Both had sharp faces and the elaborately unconcerned look of those who only rarely visit a pawnshop.
The shop itself, situated on the mezzanine floor of a busy building, looked, as always, dirty, dusty and disorderly, although it was scrupulously tidied. The light filtering through the frosted windows was gray and dead. As usual, a huge safe stood wide open, revealing a heap of small packets wrapped in white paper, suggesting costly jewels. As usual, the keys were in the lock of the little wall-safe which held the pawnshop’s cash. From dozens of errands it was so familiar that Wolf took it in without looking. It was quite usual, too, for Uncle to glance at him over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and then continue writing.
Wolfgang Pagel turned toward the assistant, who apparently could not come to terms with the woman wishing to pawn her tailor’s dummy. Lifting his suitcase onto the table he said in a low voice, but lightly: “I’m bringing the usual. Just have a look.” And he unlocked the case.
Everything was really there as usual, everything they possessed—a second pair of trousers very worn in the seat, two white shirts, three dresses of Petra’s, her underclothing (scanty enough), and the gem of the collection, a small real-silver handbag of hers, probably the gift of an admirer—he had never asked.
“Three dollars as usual, isn’t it?” he added, just to say something, for he thought the assistant was looking rather hesitatingly at the things. The man, however, replied: “Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”
And then when everything seemed settled, a high-pitched voice from the office stool exclaimed, quite unexpectedly: “No.”
Both Wolfgang, who was known there only as the Lieutenant, and the assistant, looked up surprised.
“No,” said Uncle once more, and shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant, but this time we can’t oblige you. It doesn’t pay us. You always come and fetch the goods the next day, and we have all that bother—and, besides, these dresses are going out of fashion. Perhaps another time, when you have got something … more up to date.”
He glanced once more at Pagel, pointed his pen at him—at least it seemed so—and went on writing. Without looking up, the assistant slowly closed the suitcase, snapping the catches. The two women looked at Wolfgang, embarrassed and yet somewhat malicious, like schoolboys with a fellow pupil who has been reprimanded by the master.
“Listen, Herr Feld,” said Pagel briskly and crossed the pawnshop toward the man, who calmly went on writing. “I’ve a rich friend in the West End who’s sure to help me out. I only want the fare. I’ll leave the things here and on my way back this evening, before you close, I’ll drop in and pay back the money. Fivefold if you like. Or tenfold.”
Uncle looked reflectively at Wolfgang through his glasses, frowned and said: “I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant. We don’t lend money here, we only advance money on pledge.”
“But it’s only the miserable few thousands for my fare,” insisted Wolf. “And I leave you the things.”
“I am not allowed to retain the articles without a pawn ticket. And I don’t want to take them in pawn. I’m sorry, Herr Lieutenant.” And the pawnbroker looked at Wolfgang with a puzzled frown as if he wanted to judge from his face the effect of his words; then he nodded slightly and returned to his books. Wolfgang, too, had frowned and nodded slightly as if indicating that he didn’t take the refusal too badly. But, turning toward the door, he was struck by an idea, and once more went up to Herr Feld. “Look here, Herr Feld,” he said. “Buy the things from me. For three dollars. Then the poor mind will be at rest.” It had occurred to him that the rich Zecke was sure to help him out with a largish sum, and it would be a huge joke to surprise Peter with an entirely new outfit. What would be the use to her then of the old rubbish? No, away with the lot.
Herr Feld went on writing for a while. Then he stuck the pen in the inkpot, leaned back a little and said: “One dollar—with the case, Herr Lieutenant. As I said, the things are not up to date.” He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten minutes to twelve. “And at yesterday’s dollar rate.”
For a moment Wolfgang felt like flaring up. It was the most impudent swindle in the world; and he ought to consider Peter, too, her only possessions at that moment being some toilet articles and his very ancient summer overcoat. But just as quickly came the thought that Zecke would give him money. And if he didn’t, he had always managed to get some, somehow. With a quick gesture which was to show how little it mattered, he said: “All right, then. Hand out the dough. Four hundred and fourteen thousand.” It was really nothing when he considered that yesterday evening he had gambled away almost thirty millions on zero. And one had to laugh at such a microbe as this Feld, who toiled for such muck, for such ridiculous amounts.
Uncle, wicked tough Uncle, the microbe, slowly climbed down from his office stool, went to the safe, rummaged in it for a while, and then paid out Wolfgang four hundred thousand marks.
“But where are the fourteen?”
“It’s usual to deduct four per cent for cash payment,” said Herr Feld. “Really, only three hundred and ninety- eight thousand are due to you, but I make a present of the two thousand because you’re an old customer.”
Wolfgang laughed. “You’re smart, Uncle. You’ll get on, you see if you don’t. Then I’ll be your chauffeur. Yes?”
Herr Feld took it seriously. “Me be driven by you, Herr Lieutenant?” he protested. “No, not even free, since nothing matters to you, not even your things. Oh, no.” And once again the pawnbroker: “At your service when you have something else, Herr Lieutenant. Till then!”
Pagel rustled the notes and said laughingly: “Perhaps this will help me to get a car of my own.”
The pawnbroker still looked uneasy, and returned to his writing. Smiling, Wolfgang stepped into the street.
III
After the loathsome negotiations at the Harvesters’ Agency the Rittmeister felt that he deserved a little repose. But where could he go so early in the morning? This was an hour at which he had not hitherto been about in Berlin. Finally he thought of a hotel cafe in the Friedrichstadt where one could sit comfortably and perhaps see a few well dressed women.
And the first person whom he met in the hall of the hotel was, of course, an acquaintance. (Prackwitz always met acquaintances in the parts of the town he frequented—of course not at Schlesische Bahnhof. Or acquaintances of acquaintances. Or relatives. Or acquaintances of relatives. Or comrades from his regiment. Or comrades from the war. Or mere privates. He knew all the world.)
This time it was actually someone from his own regiment—Oberleutnant von Studmann.
Herr von Studmann stood in the hall, irreproachably dressed in a frock coat and brilliantly polished shoes (at such an early hour). He might have seemed momentarily embarrassed at the meeting; but the Rittmeister, in his pleasure at having found a companion for the two hours he had to wait, noticed nothing.
“Studmann, old chap—splendid to see you again. I’ve got two hours to spare. Have you had your coffee? I’m just going to—for the second time, that is; the first at Schlesische Bahnhof didn’t count—it was ghastly. When did we meet last? In Frankfurt, at the officers’ reunion? Well, never mind; in any case, I’m glad to see you again. But do come along; it’s quite comfortable here, if I remember rightly.”
Oberleutnant von Studmann replied in a low voice, distinct yet somewhat troubled: “With pleasure, Prackwitz—as soon as I’m free. I’m—er—reception manager in this joint. I must first attend to the guests coming by the nine-forty train.”
“Damn!” exclaimed the Rittmeister, just as softly, but quite downcast. “The inflation, I suppose? These swindlers! Well, I know all about it myself.”
Von Studmann nodded gloomily, as if he were past words. At the sight of that long, smooth, energetic face, Prackwitz was reminded of a certain evening when they had celebrated Studmann’s Iron Cross, First Class, at the beginning of 1915; actually the first I.C. First Class which had been allotted their regiment.… He would have liked to recall the face, laughing, cheerful, gay, and eight years younger, of this same Studmann, but the latter was already saying: “Certainly, porter, at once.” With a regretful gesture he turned from von Prackwitz and advanced on a rather bulky lady in a dust-colored silk coat. “Please, madam?”
For a moment the Rittmeister watched his friend standing there, leaning toward the lady and listening with a
