“A slug?” Von Studmann could not help laughing. “Nonsense, Suskind, he’s pulling your leg. How could there be a slug in the champagne? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“But there
“You saw it?” Studmann suddenly became serious. He began to think. That there should be slugs in the champagne in this establishment was quite impossible. “We don’t sell adulterated champagne here. He must have put it in himself by a trick. Take him another bottle and don’t charge him. Here—for the butler.” And he scribbled a wine slip.
“Watch him, Suskind, see that he doesn’t play us a trick again.”
Suskind bowed his utterly perplexed head. “Wouldn’t you like to go yourself? I’m afraid.…”
“Nonsense, Suskind. I’ve no time for such rubbish. If you can’t settle it yourself, take the butler with you as a witness, or anyone else you like.”
Studmann was already gone. In the hall the famous iron magnate, Brachwede, was shouting that he had rented an apartment for ten millions daily, and on the bill he had been charged fifteen. The magnate had to be informed of what he already knew, that is, the rise in the dollar. Here Studmann had to persuade, there to smile, elsewhere to give a stern hint to a page to be more careful; he had to superintend the transportation of a crippled lady in the lift; to refuse three telephone calls.…
The mournful Suskind stood behind him again.
“Herr Director. Please, Herr Director,” he begged in a truly old-fashioned nerve-racking stage whisper.
“What’s the matter now, Suskind?”
“The gentleman in 37, Herr Director.…”
“What is it this time? What is it? Another slug in the champagne?”
“Herr Tuchmann (this was the butler) is just opening the eleventh bottle—there were slugs in all of them.”
“In all of them?” von Studmann almost shouted. Feeling that the hotel guests had their eyes on him he lowered his voice. “Have you gone mad too, Suskind?”
Suskind nodded gloomily. “The gentleman is screaming that he won’t stand black slugs, he’s screaming. …”
“Come along,” Studmann cried and rushed up to the first floor, heedless of the dignified demeanor which the assistant director of so distinguished an establishment ought to maintain in every situation. Suskind, the woe- begone, followed him. Together they sprinted through the puzzled guests—and at once the rumor circulated, whence nobody knew, that the coloratura soprano, Contessa Vagenza, who was to have appeared that evening in the big concert hall, had just given birth to a child.
They arrived simultaneously at No. 37. In view of the information he had received, Studmann was of the opinion that he need not concern himself with time-wasting formalities—he knocked and entered without waiting for an invitation, closely followed by Suskind, who was careful to shut the baize inner door so as to deaden the noise of a possible dispute.
The room was a large one, the electric light full on. The curtains of the two windows were closely drawn. The door leading to the bathroom was shut—also locked, as was to be discovered later. The key had been removed.
The guest was lying in the wide modern bed of chromium steel. The sickly yellow of his skin, which had so struck Studmann in the hall, looked more ghastly still against the white of the pillows. He wore crimson pajamas made of what looked like a costly brocade, its thick yellow embroidery seeming pale against the bilious face. One powerful hand, displaying a strikingly handsome signet ring, lay on the blue silk counterpane. The other was hidden beneath the cover. Von Studmann saw, too, on the table which had been pushed up to the bed, a display of cognac and champagne bottles which astounded him. A much larger number must have been brought up than the eleven mentioned by Suskind. At the same time he realized that the overanxious waiter had not been content with the butler as a witness; near the table stood a small but embarrassed group of people consisting of a page, the chambermaid, an elevator boy and a gray female who was probably in temporary employment as a charwoman.
For a moment Studmann wondered whether he should, as a preliminary, turn out these witnesses to a possible scandal, but a glance at the guest’s face, which was twitching uncontrollably, showed him that speed was called for. So he went up to the bed, introduced himself with a bow, and waited for results.
At once the twitching stopped. “Very unpleasant.” The guest spoke through his nose in that arrogant military manner which von Studmann thought had become extinct long ago. “Extremely unpleasant for—you. Slugs in the champagne—filthy.”
“I see no slugs,” said von Studmann after a glance at the champagne glasses and bottles. What perturbed him was not this silly complaint, but the look of unbridled hatred in the guest’s dark eyes, eyes which were impudent and cowardly at the same time, an expression Studmann had never seen before.
“They
On your guard, said von Studmann to himself. He’s up to something!
“They’ve all seen the slugs. Take this bottle; no, that one.”
With an appearance of unconcern Studmann held the bottle up to the light. He was convinced that the champagne was quite in order, and that the guest knew it as well as he did. For some reason which Studmann did not know yet, but would probably soon learn, he must have bamboozled the waiter and the butler.
“Look out, Herr Director,” Suskind shouted. Studmann wheeled round. But it was too late. Absorbed in looking at the bottle, Studmann had lost sight of the guest who, with incredible deftness, had slipped out of bed and locked the door. He stood now with the key in one hand, a revolver in the other.
Von Studmann had been some years at the Front—a weapon aimed at him was not unduly disturbing. What did frighten him was the expression of hatred and despair on the mysterious stranger’s face. At the same time this face was without a grimace, but it smiled, and a very sneering smile it was, too.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Studmann asked curtly.
“It means,” said the guest in low but distinct tones, “that the room is now under my control. Who disobeys will be shot.”
“Are you after our money? The result would be hardly worth your while. Are you not the Baron von Bergen?”
“Waiter,” said the stranger. He stood there, magnificent in the pajamas of crimson and yellow. “Waiter, pour cognac into seven champagne glasses. I shall count up to three and anyone who has not emptied his glass by then will stop a bullet. Now, hurry!”
With a look of entreaty toward von Studmann, Suskind obeyed.
“Why this unseemly jest?” von Studmann asked indignantly.
“You’re to drink,” said the hospitable one. “One—two—three—drink, will you. Drink up!”
He was shouting again.
The others looked at Studmann. Studmann hesitated.…
The stranger shouted again. “Empty your glasses!” He shot, and it was not only the women who screamed. Alone, von Studmann would have risked a struggle with the man, but he checked himself in consideration for the distracted people present and the hotel’s reputation.
He turned round and remarked calmly: “Drink, then,” smiling encouragement at the anxious faces; and himself drank.
There were several gulps of cognac in each glass. Studmann got rid of his quickly, but he heard the others behind him choking and panting.
“You must drink it all up,” said the stranger aggressively. “Who doesn’t is to be shot.”
Von Studmann couldn’t turn round, he had to keep an eye on the guest. He was still hoping that the man would look away for a moment and thus make it possible for him to snatch the weapon.
“You sent your bullet into the ceiling,” he said politely. “I must thank you for your consideration. May I ask why we’re to get drunk here?”
“I don’t want to shoot, though I don’t mind either way. What I do want is that you should get drunk. Nobody will leave this room alive until every drop of alcohol has been swallowed. Waiter, pour out the champagne.”
