for amusement swept people off their feet. He would stick it till he was relieved at ten o’clock.
He was sitting at his desk again. With some anxiety he noticed that, although the bilious attack and the pain had stopped, their place was taken by a state of utter irritation. Everything annoyed him, and he looked almost with hate at the pale spongy face of a street-vendor who, without having a license, had sold some toilet soap of dubious origin out of a suitcase and, when reprimanded by a policeman, had started a row. I must pull myself together, thought the secretary. I mustn’t let myself go. I’m not to look at him like that.
“It is forbidden to offer goods for sale in the street without a hawker’s license,” he said for the tenth time, as gently as possible.
“Everything is forbidden,” the hawker shouted. “You ruin a chap. Here you’re only allowed to starve to death.”
“I don’t make the laws,” said the secretary.
“But you’re paid to carry out the lousy laws, you and your fat job,” the man shouted. Just behind him stood a good-looking lad in a field-gray uniform, with an open, intelligent face. He gave the secretary strength to endure such abuse without exploding. “Where did you get the soap?” he asked.
“Find out!” the vendor bawled. “Why must you interfere with everything? You only want to ruin the likes of us, you corpse-maggot. When we’re dead you’ll have a good feed.” And his abuse did not cease even while a policeman was pushing him toward the cells.
The secretary shut the lid of the soap case sadly and put it on his desk. “Yes?” he said to the young man in the field-gray uniform, who, frowning and with his chin thrust out, had watched the hawker being taken away. His face, the secretary now noticed, was not so frank as he had first thought it; there was defiance in it and foolish obstinacy. The official was familiar with the expression which some men assume whenever a policeman uses force against a civilian. Such men, the born kickers against the pricks, see red, particularly when they have been drinking a little.
This young man had himself under control, however. With a sigh of relief he looked away as soon as the iron door closed on the corridor. He jerked one shoulder in the tightly fitting tunic, went up to the desk and said in a challenging but otherwise reasonable voice: “My name is Pagel. Wolfgang Pagel.”
The secretary waited, but nothing further was forthcoming. “Yes?” he said. “What do you want?”
“You are expecting me,” replied the young man angrily. “Pagel. Pagel from Georgenkirchstrasse.”
“Why, yes,” said the secretary. “Yes, of course. We sent a man along. We should like to have a talk with you, Herr Pagel.”
“And your man has compelled my landlady to make a charge against me.”
“Not compelled. Hardly compelled,” the secretary corrected. “We have no special interest in accepting charges. We’re stuffed up with them.” He was determined to keep on good terms with this young man.
“Nevertheless you’ve arrested my wife for no reason,” said the young man vehemently.
“Not your wife,” the secretary corrected again. “An unmarried girl, Petra Ledig, isn’t that so?”
“We wanted to marry at lunch time,” said Pagel flushing. “Our banns were put up at the registrar’s.”
“But the arrest didn’t take place till this evening. So you weren’t married at midday?”
“No. But we can soon change that. I had no money this morning.”
“I understand,” said the secretary slowly. “But an unmarried girl for all that!” his gall trouble made him add.
He looked at the green ink-stained baize before him, then selected a sheet from the pile of papers on his left. He avoided glancing at the young man, but again he could not resist adding: “And not arrested without a reason. No.”
“If you mean the charge of fraud, I’ve just paid the bill. In ten minutes the landlady will be here to withdraw her statement.”
“So this evening you have money,” was the secretary’s astonishing reply.
Pagel felt like asking the sallow man what business that was of his, but he refrained. “If the statement is withdrawn,” he said, “there will be nothing to prevent Fraulein Ledig from being discharged, then.”
“I believe there is something,” said the secretary. He was tired out, sick of all these things, and terribly afraid of a quarrel. He would have preferred to be in bed, a hot-water bottle on his belly, and his wife reading him the serial in today’s newspaper. Indeed, there would inevitably be a scene with this agitated young man whose voice was becoming more and more strained. Stronger, however, than his need for rest was the irritability which was oozing out of his gall-bladder and poisoning his blood. But he held himself in. Of all his points he chose the weakest, so as not to enrage this Herr Pagel any further. “When she was arrested she had no home and was dressed only in a man’s overcoat.” He watched Pagel’s face to see the effect of his words. “It was causing a public nuisance,” he explained.
The young man had become very red. “The room has been re-engaged and paid for,” he said hurriedly. “So she will have a roof. And with regard to her clothes, I can buy the necessary dresses and underclothes in a few minutes.”
“So you have enough money for that? Quite a lot of money?” The secretary was sufficiently a detective to pin a man down to anything he casually admitted under examination.
“Enough for that, anyhow,” said Wolfgang vehemently. “So she will be discharged?”
“The shops are now closed,” replied the secretary.
“Never mind. I’ll get her some clothes somehow.” And almost beseechingly: “You’ll discharge Fraulein Ledig?”
“As I said, Herr Pagel, we should like to have to talk with you, quite apart from this matter. That’s why we sent an officer along.”
The secretary whispered for a moment with a man in uniform, who nodded and vanished.
“But you’re still standing. Please take a chair.”
“I don’t want a chair. I want my friend to be discharged at once,” Pagel screamed. But he pulled himself together immediately. “Forgive me,” he said in lower tones. “This won’t happen again. But I’m very worried. Fraulein Ledig is a good girl. Anything you may have against her is my fault. I didn’t pay the rent, I sold her dresses. Do please set her free.”
“Sit down,” said the secretary.
Pagel wanted to flare up, but thought better of it. He sat down.
There is a method of examination by which criminologists can crush most men and certainly the inexperienced. This method is far removed from gentleness or humanity. It cannot be otherwise. The examiner has in most cases to discover a fact which the examined person does not want to admit, has to browbeat the questioned man till he admits the fact against his will.
The secretary had before him a man who was the subject of a vague accusation that he lived by card- sharping. This man would never confess to the truth of this accusation if he were in a calm and collected frame of mind; in order to make him lose his head he had to be provoked. Often it is difficult to find something which enrages the accused to the extent of making him lose his powers of reasoning. In this case the secretary had found the something which he needed: the man seemed to be genuinely concerned about his girl. That must be the lever to open the door to a confession. But such a lever could not be used gently; kindly consideration would not liberate the farmers of East Prussia from a three-card trickster. One had to attack him vigorously: the young man had self- control, he hadn’t flown into a rage, he had sat down. “I have a few matters to inquire about,” said the secretary.
“Certainly,” replied Pagel. “Ask what you like, as long as you promise me that Fraulein Ledig will be discharged this evening.”
“We can talk about that later.”
“Please promise me right away,” begged Pagel. “I’m worried. Don’t be cruel. Don’t torture me. Say yes.”
“I’m not cruel,” replied the secretary. “I’m an official.”
Pagel leaned back, discouraged and irritated.
Through the door came a tall, sad-looking man in uniform. He had heavy pouches under his eyes and an iron-gray sergeant major’s mustache. This man stepped behind the secretary’s chair, took a cigar out of his mouth and asked: “Is that the man?”
The secretary leaned back, looked up at his superior and said in an audible whisper: “That’s the man.”
The superintendent nodded slowly, subjected Pagel to a detailed scrutiny and said: “Carry on.” He continued
