“That’s it,” said von Studmann, who was determined to keep the conversation going. “That’s what I understood. But I am interested to know why you want us to get drunk.”
“Because I like my little joke. Now drink.”
Someone from behind pushed a champagne glass into Studmann’s hand. He drank. “Oh,” he said, “because it amuses you? All right.” And then as nonchalantly as possible: “I presume you know that you’re insane?”
And the other just as imperturbably: “For six years I’ve been declared incapable of managing my own affairs and have been put into a loony house. Waiter, now let’s have say half a glass of cognac. I don’t want to hurry you. I want the pleasure to last longer,” he explained. And again imperturbably: “I couldn’t stand the shooting at the Front. They were shooting only at me. Since then I shoot alone. Drink!”
Von Studmann drank, and felt the alcohol rising like a fine mist into his brain. Without turning his head, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Suskind at the other end of the room stealing toward the bathroom door. But the Baron had also seen him. “Unfortunately locked,” he said, smiling, and Suskind, with a regretful movement of his shoulders, vanished out of the assistant director’s range of vision.
Von Studmann heard a woman behind him gasp and the men whispering. “Look out, look out!” something was saying within him. Then his head was quite clear again.
“I see,” he said. “But how do we come to have the honor of drinking with you in this hotel if you are put away in an institution?”
“Cleared out,” the Baron laughed. “They’re such fools. Won’t the old chap curse when he fetches me back! I made a fine job of it, apart from the attendant whose nut I cracked. It’s going too slowly,” he muttered peevishly. “Much too slowly. Another cognac, waiter. A full glass.”
“I’d prefer champagne,” Studmann hazarded.
It was a mistake.
“Cognac,” the visitor screamed. “Cognac! Who doesn’t drink cognac will be shot. It’s all the same to me!” he shouted significantly to Studmann. “Under paragraph fifty-one I can’t be punished. I’m the Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen. No policeman can touch me. I’m insane. Drink!”
This is going badly, thought von Studmann desperately as the oily stuff trickled down his throat. The women are already laughing and giggling—in five minutes the lunatic will have got me, too, where he wants to have us, the sane groveling like crazy animals before the insane. I must see if …
But there was nothing to see. With undivided attention the fool stood by the door, the pistol in his hand, his finger on the trigger, very much on guard.
“Pour out,” he ordered again. “A full glass of champagne to refresh the palate.”
“Right-o, mister, right-o,” someone called, probably a page, and the others laughed their assent.
“You’re a gentleman.” Studmann made another attempt. “I suggest we let the two ladies go. None of the others will try to get out. I give you my word of honor.”
“Ladies out—nothing doing!” someone bawled from behind. “Isn’t that so, kitten? We don’t get a treat like this every day.”
“You hear?” the Baron answered. “Another drink—cognac this time. And sit down. That’s right—on the sofa. Come, on the bed, too. You will also sit down, Herr Director. Come on! Do you think I’m joking? I’ll shoot! There!” The revolver spoke again. There were screams. “So—another drink. And now make yourselves comfortable. Coats and collars off—you over there, take off your apron, girl. Yes, you can take off your blouses if you like.”
“Herr Baron,” remonstrated von Studmann, “we’re not in a brothel. I refuse to …” But he realized that, under the influence of alcohol, will and deed were no longer running parallel; his frock coat now hung over the back of a chair, and he was fumbling with his tie. “I refuse,” he objected once more, feebly.
“Drink,” shouted the visitor. With a sneer: “In five minutes you won’t refuse any longer. Champagne this time.”
There was a crash and clatter of breaking glass. Suskind had fallen across the table, then dropped to the floor. Now he lay there, gasping, obviously unconscious.
The giggling butler, his fat paw clasping the girl’s breast, sat on the bed. The elderly charwoman held a boy in each arm; she was as red as a turkey-cock and no longer aware of the world around her.
“You’re to drink,” screamed the madman. “You, mister, it’s your turn to pour out. Champagne!”
In three minutes I’m lost, thought Studmann, reaching for the champagne bottle. In three minutes he would be as far gone as the others.
In his hand the bottle felt cool and firm, and suddenly his head cleared. It’s quite simple, he thought.
The bottle changed into a bomb. He pulled out the pin and threw it at the other’s head. He leaped after it.
The Baron dropped key and pistol, and flopped to the floor. “You mustn’t touch me,” he shouted. “I’m insane. I’m protected by paragraph fifty-one. Don’t hit me, please don’t, or you’ll make yourself criminally liable. I’m immune.” And while, in a drunken fury, von Studmann thrashed the miserable creature, he thought angrily: I’ve been taken in by him, after all. He’s only a coward, like those who messed their trousers at every barrage. I should have punched his mug the first minute.
Then his stomach turned against beating the soft cowardly whimpering thing on the floor. Catching sight of the key, he picked it up, staggered to his feet, opened the door and stepped outside.
The large gathering of people who had sought shelter from the storm in the big hall of the hotel were startled at the appearance on the first-floor landing of a man with bleeding face and torn shirt sleeves, reeling along the gorgeous red stair carpet. At first only a few saw him, but soon an expectant silence caused others to turn round, too, and they in their turn stared as if they could not believe their eyes.
The gentleman stood swaying on the top of the stairs, glaring down into the crowded hall. He seemed not to know where he was. He mumbled something which no one could understand, but the silence spread until the music from the adjoining cafe could be clearly heard.
Rittmeister von Prackwitz got up from his chair and gazed at the apparition with amazement.
The hotel employees looked up, stared, wanted to do something about it, but were at a loss.
“Fools!” shouted the drunkard. “Mad! They think they’re immune. But I thrash them.”
He called down again to those staring up at him. “I’ll thrash you, you fools.”
He lost his balance. “Upsey,” he chirped and managed the next six steps. Then he tumbled forward, rolled down the staircase and came to rest at the feet of the visitors, who fell back. He lay motionless and unconscious.
“Where shall we take him?” Rittmeister von Prackwitz muttered, gripping him under the armpits.
Suddenly the staff surrounded the casualty. The guests were edged away, and Studmann—Prackwitz with him—was taken down the stairs to the corridor leading to the storerooms and kitchen quarters. Preliminary rumors circulated. “A young German-American. Not used to alcohol; prohibition, you know. Dollar-millionaire, dead drunk.”
Three minutes afterwards everything was normal again; people gossiped, were bored, asked for their letters, telephoned, had a look at the storm.
VIII
Between six and seven o’clock in the evening, when Wolfgang Pagel stepped out of the art dealer’s in Bellevuestrasse, it was still raining, though not so heavily. He looked up and down the street, uncertain. Taxis were available at the Esplanade Hotel as well as by the Rolandsbrunnen; they would have taken him quickly enough to Petra, but an obstinate caprice forbade him to touch money which was dedicated to her.
He pulled the old army cap firmly on and set out. He could easily be with Petra in half an hour. A little while ago, although penniless, he had had a free ride by tram to Potsdamerplatz. Although the picture he carried made him conspicuous to any conductor, the evening rush heightened by the weather had enabled him to travel without paying his fare. Now, with an incredible sum in his pockets, he dared not risk such a free trip; if he were caught he would be forced to take a ticket and thus break in upon his millions.
Pagel whistled contentedly as he walked along the endless garden wall by the Reich Chancellor’s palace. He knew quite well that this deliberation about fares or no fares was ridiculous and that it was more important (and also more decent) to bring Petra speedy help—but he shrugged his shoulders. He was once more the gambler. He had made up his mind, come what might, to stake only on red; and he would stake only on red. The devil might come for him, the chances might be against him as much as they liked. But red would win through. Petra’s case
