him. “Benzine,” he muttered. “Wait for me here, forester,” he said hastily.
And with that he went into the house again.
Less than five minutes afterwards the forester was called inside. Haase sat at the table and wrote a confirmation that he forewent his right of extinguishing the mortgage and that he pledged himself to pay an interest of forty hundredweights of rye in two half-yearly installments. The magistrate was inscrutable, and the Lieutenant was inscrutable, too. The forester could have sobbed with joy, but was afraid to, lest the agreement be rescinded. So he hid his feelings, with the result that he made a face like red lacquer nutcrackers.
“So that’s that,” said the Lieutenant and scrawled his name as witness. “And now go and call the people together, Kniebusch. Here, of course! Farmer Bentzien? Benzine doesn’t come into consideration now!”
And he laughed maliciously. The magistrate, however, remained silent.
The conversation between Lieutenant and magistrate had been very brief.
“Tell me, Haase,” the Lieutenant had said on re-entering, “it has just occurred to me—what about the fire insurance?”
“The fire insurance?” asked Haase dumbfounded.
“Yes, of course.” The Lieutenant spoke impatiently, as if a child ought to understand the reason for his question. “How much are you insured for?”
“Forty thousand.”
“Paper marks, what?”
“Ye-e-e-es.” Very long drawn-out.
“I think that’s about forty pounds of rye?”
“Ye-e-e-es.”
“Isn’t that damnably careless? With a barn full of dry hay and straw?”
“But there isn’t any other insurance,” the magistrate had cried despairingly.
“Oh, yes there is, Haase,” the Lieutenant had said. “That is, when you’ve called in Kniebusch and written down what I tell you.”
Whereupon the forester was called in.
VII
Retired Oberleutnant von Studmann, reception manager, had a very unpleasant experience that afternoon in the hotel. About three o’clock, at a time when travelers do not arrive by train, there appeared in the entrance hall a rather tall, powerfully built gentleman, faultlessly dressed in English cloth, a pigskin case in his hand. “A single room on the first floor, with bath but no telephone,” he demanded.
He was told that all the rooms in the hotel had telephones. The gentleman, who seemed to be a little over thirty, could contort his pale, clean-cut face into most horrifying grimaces. This he did now to such effect that the porter started back.
Studmann came closer. “If you wish it, the telephone could of course be removed from the room. At any rate …”
“I do wish it!” the stranger barked. Then, without any perceptible change of mood, he asked gently that the electric bell in his room should also be disconnected. “I dislike modern technical apparatus,” he added frowningly.
Von Studmann bowed without speaking. He was expecting a demand that the electric light be cut off, but the gentleman either did not regard electric light as belonging to modern technical apparatus, or he had overlooked the point. Preceded by the bedroom waiter with the registration form, he went upstairs muttering, followed by a page with the pigskin case.
Von Studmann had been in a metropolitan caravanserai long enough not to be surprised at any request from a visitor. His composure was not easily ruffled; there had been the South American lady, traveling alone, who had screamed for a commode for her little monkey; there had been the distinguished elderly gentleman who, emerging from his room in pajamas at two o’clock in the morning, had requested in a whisper that he be furnished with a lady, at once, please. (“Don’t pretend; we’re all men.”) Nevertheless something about this new visitor warned Studmann to be careful. Ordinarily the hotel was patronized by ordinary people, and ordinary people prefer rather to read of scandals in the newspapers than to experience them. The reception manager’s instinct warned him. He was not affected so much by the silly requests as by the grimacing and shouting, and the man’s restless glances, now arrogant, now furtive.
However, the reports which von Studmann received a little later were satisfactory. The page had been given in tip an entire American dollar; the visitor’s pocketbook had been extremely well lined. The bedroom waiter brought the registration form. The gentleman had inscribed himself as “Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen.” Suskind, the waiter, had also taken the precaution of asking to see the stranger’s passport, which he was entitled to do in accordance with a regulation issued by the police. The passport—an internal one, issued by the district authority at Wurzen—seemed to be in order. The Gotha Almanac, which was then consulted, confirmed at once that there were really Reichsfreiherren von Bergen; they were domiciled in Saxony.
“So everything is all right, Suskind,” said von Studmann and shut the Gotha.
Suskind shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not sure,” he hazarded. “The gentleman is queer.”
“What do you mean by queer? An impostor? If he pays it doesn’t matter to us, Suskind.”
“An impostor? Certainly not. But I think he’s cracked.”
“Cracked?” repeated von Studmann. Suskind had had the same impression as he himself. “Nonsense, Suskind. Perhaps a bit nervous. Or drunk?”
“Nervous? Drunk? Certainly not. He’s cracked.”
“But why? Has he behaved in an extraordinary way?”
“Not at all,” admitted Suskind readily. “That grimacing and tomfoolery mean nothing. Some people think they can impress us that way.”
“Well, then?”
“One has a hunch, Herr Director. When the woven-fabric merchant hanged himself in Room 43 I had a feeling …”
“For God’s sake, Suskind, don’t talk of the devil or you’ll see his imps. Well, I must get on. Keep me informed, and be sure to keep an eye on the gentleman.”
Von Studmann had a very strenuous afternoon. The new dollar rate had not only necessitated refixing all the prices, but the entire budget had to be calculated anew. Studmann sat on pins in the directors’ boardroom. Vogel, the managing director, debated laboriously and at length, whether they should not, as a precaution against further dollar increases, add a certain amount to the present charges so as not to become “impoverished.”
“We must maintain our stores and establishment, gentlemen. Maintain them.” And he set forth that the stock of alabaster soft soap, for instance, had fallen in the past year from seventeen hundredweights to half a hundredweight.
In spite of his superior’s disapproving glances, Studmann kept on dashing out into the hall. From four o’clock onwards the whole staff had to deal with the reception of a rush of incoming guests, and this stream met and blocked another stream of people who had suddenly made up their minds to depart.
Studmann gave only a brief nod when Suskind whispered that the gentleman in No. 37 had taken a bath, gone to bed, and had then ordered a bottle of cognac and one of champagne to be taken to his room.
So he’s a drinker, he thought. If he starts a row I’ll send the hotel doctor up to give him a sleeping draught.
And he hurried away.
When he next left the boardroom again, the managing director was holding forth on the ruinous effect preserved eggs were having on the hotel trade. Nevertheless, under present conditions, it should be considered whether or not a certain stock … since the supply of new-laid eggs … and unfortunately also of chilled eggs …
Idiot, thought von Studmann, rushing away, and was surprised to find himself so irritable. He ought to be used to all this dawdling by now. It must be the storm.
Suskind stopped him. “It’s starting, Herr Director,” he said, his face lugubrious above his black tie.
“What’s starting? Be quick about it, Suskind. I’ve no time to waste.”
“The gentleman in No. 37, Herr Director,” said Suskind reproachfully. “He says there’s a slug in the champagne.”
