But if von Zecke had not yet learned to read books he had learned to control himself (and in this respect he was far ahead of Pagel). He behaved as if he had heard nothing, put the angel slowly down, gently stroked the probably restored arm, and said: “Yes, yes, the pictures. You must still have some very fine ones at home, of your father’s.”
Aha, so that’s what you’re after, thought Pagel, completely satisfied. “Yes, some very fine specimens are still there,” he replied.
“I know,” said Zecke, pouring out another schnapps, first in Pagel’s glass, then in his own, and seating himself comfortably. “So, if you’re in need of money—I buy paintings as you can see …”
That was a facer, a belated reply to his impertinence, but Pagel did not show it. “I don’t think we’re selling any.”
“You’re not quite informed there.” Zecke smiled charmingly. “Only last month your mother sold ‘Autumn Trees’ to the art gallery in Glasgow. Well, your health!” He drank, leaned back satisfied and said innocently: “Well, what’s the old woman to live on nowadays? What she had in stocks and shares is worth less than nothing today.”
Zecke didn’t grin, but Pagel felt very strongly that the designation of “good friend” which only that morning he had applied to him was an overstatement. He had already been stung by two darts, and he wouldn’t have long to wait for the third. True, von Zecke had always been a snake, a bad enemy, so it would be better to advance to the attack himself—then the matter would be settled and finished with. Trying to speak as easily as possible, he said: “I’m a bit hard up, Zecke. Could you help me out with a little money?”
“What do you call a little money?” asked Zecke.
“Well, not much, a trifle to you. What do you say to a hundred millions?”
“A hundred millions,” murmured Zecke dreamily. “I didn’t make as much as that on all the variety tarts.”
The third blow, and this time it really seemed a knockout. But Wolfgang Pagel did not so easily take the count. He started to laugh, heartily and unconcerned. “You’re right, Zecke. Splendid! I talk big and then it turns out I only want to touch you for money. But, you know, something put my back up immediately I came in. I don’t know whether you understand what I mean … I live in a kind of hole in Alexanderplatz, you know!” Zecke nodded as if he knew. “With nothing at all … and then to come here amidst all this splendor! Not at all like the parvenus and profiteers, but really well done, and I don’t believe the arm’s restored either.”
He stopped to look scrutinizingly at Zecke. He couldn’t say more, he simply couldn’t bring himself to say another word. But when Zecke didn’t make a move, he added: “All right, don’t give me any money, Zecke. I don’t deserve any; I’ve behaved like an idiot.”
“I don’t necessarily say no,” explained Zecke. “I only just want to hear what you have in mind. Money is money, and you don’t want it as a present, do you?”
“No, as soon as I can you’ll get it back.”
“And when will that be?”
“Under favorable circumstances, if all goes well, tomorrow.”
“Really,” said Zecke, not particularly enthusiastic. “Really. Well, let’s have another schnapps. And what do you need the money for?”
“Oh,” said Pagel, getting confused and annoyed, “I’ve got a few debts with my landlady, trifles really—you know, a hundred millions sounds a tremendous lot, but one way and another it’s not much more than a hundred dollars, not so alarming.”
“So, debts with the landlady,” said Zecke quite unmoved, his dark eyes looking attentively at his friend. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” replied Pagel vexed. “I’ve also got a few things in pawn.” In the same moment it occurred to him that this was really not quite true, but in speaking he hadn’t considered the distinction between what’s sold and what’s pawned, and so he left it at that. It really didn’t matter one way or the other …
“So, a few things in pawn,” said von Zecke, still scrutinizing him. “You know, Pagel, I must ask you something else—you must excuse me. Money’s money after all, and even a very little, a hundred dollars, for instance, is to some people quite a lot—for instance, to you.”
Pagel had made up his mind to take no notice of these pin-pricks, for, after all, the main thing was to get the money. “On with your questions!” he said peevishly.
“What are you doing? I mean, what are you living on? Have you got a job which earns you something? Are you a traveler on a commission basis? Employee with a salary?”
“At the moment I’ve got nothing,” said Pagel. “But at any moment I can get a job as a taxi driver.”
“Indeed.” Zecke seemed quite satisfied. “If you want another drink please take one. I’ve had enough for one morning. A taxi driver, then …” And this shady profiteer, this vampire, this criminal (sand instead of Salvarsan!) started to prod him again. “Taxi driver—a good job and handsome earnings, no doubt.” (How the venomous monkey sneered!) “But surely not so much that you can return my money tomorrow? You said, tomorrow if all goes well, you remember? But taxi driving doesn’t pay so well, does it?”
“My dear Zecke,” said Wolfgang getting up, “you want to torment me, isn’t that it? But the money’s not so important as all that.” He was almost shaking with fury.
“But, Pagel!” cried Zecke, startled. “I torment you? Why should I? Look here, you purposely haven’t asked me for a gift—otherwise you would have got a couple of notes long ago. You want a loan and you made statements about repayment—so I ask you how you figure it out, and you start a row. I don’t understand.”
“I spoke without thinking,” said Pagel. “In reality I could only pay the money back in weekly installments, perhaps about two millions a week.…”
“That’s of no consequence, old boy,” cried von Zecke cheerfully. “That’s of no consequence with old friends like ourselves. The chief thing is that you don’t lose the money gambling. That’s the position, isn’t it?”
The two looked at each other.
“It isn’t the slightest use shouting,” said Zecke, at once hurriedly and softly. “I’m so often shouted at that it has no effect. If you want to assault me you’d better do it very quickly—you see, I’ve already rung the bell. Yes, Reimers, the gentleman would like to go. Show him out, will you? So long, Pagel, old friend, and if you want to sell a painting of your father’s I’m always at home to you, always.… What’s the matter, have you gone crazy?” For Pagel had started to laugh with unrestrained amusement.
“Good God, what a swine you are, Zecke,” he said laughing. “It must have hurt you damned hard about the tarts if you have to discharge your venom in this way. Your chief used to trade in music-hall tarts,” he told the man behind him, a cross between master and servant. “He doesn’t wish to acknowledge it anymore, but it still hurts if it’s mentioned. But, Zecke,” went on Pagel, with the dead earnestness of the expert, “I’m inclined to the view that this torch-angel’s arm is stuck on, and badly, too. I should like to do—this …”
And before Zecke or his man could prevent him, the figure had lost its arm. Von Zecke screamed as if he himself felt the pain of amputation, and the servant made to attack Pagel, who, despite inadequate nourishment, was still a powerful young man. With one hand he warded off the manservant, in the other he held the angel’s amputated arm with its lamp socket. “This gross forgery I would like to keep in remembrance of you, my old friend Zecke,” said Wolfgang pleasantly. “You know—The Light That Failed—and so on. So long, and do enjoy your lunch, both of you.”
Pleased and satisfied, Pagel made his exit. If von Zecke really wished to enjoy the the thought that he had not given him any money, he would also have to remember the angel’s arm now in Pagel’s pocket. And the pain would outweigh the pleasure.
VIII
Unmolested he arrived at the gate of Zecke’s villa, and as he pulled it open, saw a girl standing outside, a girl with a terrier straining at its leash, a girl with a very red face.
“Good heavens, Fraulein, you’re not still standing here!” he cried in dismay. “I had completely forgotten all about you.”
“Listen,” said she, and her anger had lost none of its heat through her long wait in the sun. “Listen,” and she held out the notes, “if you think I’m that sort of a girl, then you’re wrong. Take your money.”
“And so little!” said Pagel quite unconcerned. “It wouldn’t buy even a pair of silk stockings.… No,” he added quickly, “I don’t want to pull your leg any longer. In fact, I want your advice.”
She stood there gaping at him, the notes in one hand, the leash with the fox terrier in the other—utterly
