beyond a joke. Meier, it seemed, hadn’t brought in the crops, but had drunk himself silly during working hours. The Rittmeister’s blood boiled at the thought. He was too easygoing with such fellows. Meier would go out on his ear.
His glance fell on his sleeping friend, and the Rittmeister’s sense of justice forced him to admit that the friend too had got drunk during working hours. But with Studmann it was, of course, quite different. There must be special circumstances, surely.
But in the end nothing stood in the way of assuming that special circumstances obtained in the case of the Bailiff Meier as well—he also was not accustomed to being drunk while on duty.
“Of course, just while I’m away!” said the Rittmeister to himself. But that didn’t sound right either, because he was often away without this kind of thing happening. And so he lost himself again in speculation about Studmann, on the one hand, and Meier on the other.
Thank heavens, there was a knock, and an elderly gentleman in dark clothes entered, who with a bow introduced himself as Dr. Zetsche, hotel physician.
Von Prackwitz in turn introduced himself and explained that he was an old army friend of Herr Studmann. “I happened to be in the hall when the accident occurred.”
“Accident, yes,” said the doctor, rubbing his nose thoughtfully and looking at the Rittmeister. “So you call it an accident?”
“If somebody falls downstairs, isn’t that an accident?”
“Intoxication!” stated the doctor. “Complete inebriation, alcoholism. The scratch on his forehead is not serious.”
“Do you know …” the Rittmeister began.
“Give him some Eumed or Aspirin or Pyramidon—anything which is handy when he wakes up.”
“But there’s nothing handy,” said the Rittmeister, glancing round the ironing room. “Couldn’t you arrange for my friend to be taken to his own room? It was a bad fall.”
“It is a bad case. There are six people upstairs just as drunk, all of them employees of the hotel. An orgy under your friend’s leadership. And the only participant who wasn’t drunk—Herr Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen, one of the guests—was knocked down by your friend.”
“I don’t understand it,” said the Rittmeister, dumbfounded by these revelations.
“I don’t understand it either,” said the doctor firmly. “And I don’t wish to understand it.”
“But do explain to me …”
“There’s no explanation,” said the doctor imperturbably. “A guest, a Reichsfreiherr, knocked down by a drunken reception manager!”
“There must have been special circumstances,” insisted the Rittmeister. “I’ve known Herr von Studmann for a long time and he’s always done his duty, even in the most difficult situations.”
“Doubtless,” replied the doctor politely, retreating before the other’s agitation. With his hand on the doorknob he also became agitated. “One of the females was half naked—in the presence of the Reichfreiherr!” he shouted.
“I insist,” cried the Rittmeister in a loud voice, “on Herr von Studmann being taken to a room fit for a human being.”
He hurried after the retreating physician.
“I hold you responsible, doctor!”
“I refuse to take any responsibility,” shouted the doctor over his shoulder, “for this orgy and its participants.” And he dashed down a side corridor, followed by the Rittmeister.
“He’s ill, doctor.”
But the doctor had reached his goal. In a most sprightly manner the old gentleman leaped into an ascending lift. “He’s drunk,” he shouted, his feet already level with the stomach of his pursuer, who would have liked to lead him back by force to his duties. But in vain; the defaulting physician had escaped.
Von Prackwitz, who despite all his energy had been unable to do anything for his friend except the insignificant task of ordering some Pyramidon, uttered a curse and made his way back to the ironing room. However, the confusion of white corridors, all with the same doors, rendered him helpless. Searching for the doctor, he hadn’t noticed into which particular hole he’d bolted. He looked hesitantly here and there, up and down all the corridors at least once. If he persisted he would find the right door. He remembered quite clearly having left it open.
Up and down he went—white doors, white corridors. His sense of direction led him to believe that he was farther and farther from his goal, but in the end even the number of cellars in a grand hotel must be finite. But there were the stairs. Had he passed them before? Should he go up or down? He went up, sure that it was wrong, and met an elderly female, with a rather severe look behind a pince-nez, who was putting clothes in a cupboard in total solitude.
The woman turned round at the sound of his footsteps and inspected the stranger.
Counscious that he was there quite illegitimately, von Prackwitz addressed her very politely. The laundry woman nodded her head gravely without saying a word. Von Prackwitz was decisive: “If you please, how do I get to the ironing room from here?”
His polite smile didn’t in the least soften the woman’s severe look. She seemed to reflect, then made a large gesture with her hands: “There are many ironing rooms here.…”
Von Prackwitz tried to describe this one to her, without having to mention Studmann. “There are wash baskets in the corner,” he said. “Oh, yes, and a chaise-lounge with blue flowers on the covering.” And he added, not without a little bitterness, “It was pretty threadbare.”
She reflected again. Eventually she said coldly, “I don’t think we have a chaise-lounge in disrepair. Everything is immediately repaired here.”
This was not exactly the information von Prackwitz wished to hear upon his inquiry. However, in his present and in his former jobs he’d always had to do with people, and the type who is never able to answer a question precisely was well known to him.
Despite this, he tried again. “So where is the hotel lobby?” he asked.
The answer was prompt: “Hotel guests are completely forbidden to enter the service rooms.”
“Totally,” said the Rittmeister seriously.
“What—?” she almost shouted, and quite lost her control and bearing, becoming a bit flustered, like a chicken.
“Totally or, better still, strictly forbidden,” corrected the Rittmeister. “Not completely. So, good evening and many thanks!”
He addressed her with dignity, as if she was the commander of a regiment and he a young lieutenant. He left. Completely or totally confused, she stayed.
The Rittmeister was now more comfortable being lost. He’d been enlivened by the little incident. It was true that he’d once again not been able to do anything for his friend. This he regretfully admitted. Nevertheless things like that do one good. Besides, he was now walking on carpets, and if he was perhaps farther and farther from Studmann, he seemed to be approaching inhabited regions of the hotel.
The Rittmeister stood before a row of doors in dull polished oak: massive doors, doors inspiring confidence.
“Cashier I,” he read. “Cashier II.” And went on. There came the Service Cashier, Buying Departments A and B, Staff Inquiries, Registrar, Physician. He looked disapprovingly at the physician’s plate, shrugged his shoulders and went on.
“Secretariat.” Still farther, he decided.
“Director Haase.”
The Rittmeister hesitated. No, not there. Farther along.
“Director Kainz.”
“Director Lange.”
“Managing Director Vogel.”
The Rittmeister knocked perfunctorily and entered.
Behind the desk sat a large man dictating to a very good-looking young secretary at the typewriter. He hardly looked up when the Rittmeister introduced himself.
