Paul flinched as the pawnbroker at last showed his hand: it was clear he wanted to get as much out of the transaction as he could. But Paul was resolved to recover the object, whatever the cost.
“Very well.”
“Wait here,” said the other man with a triumphant smile.
The old man disappeared and returned half a minute later with a moth-eaten cardboard box marked with a yellowing ticket.
“Here you go, lad.”
Paul held out his hand to take it, but the old man grabbed him tightly by the wrist. The touch of his cold, wrinkled skin was repulsive.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“First the money.”
“First you show me what’s inside.”
“I’m not having any of that,” said the old man, shaking his head slowly. “I’m trusting that you’re the legitimate owner of this box, and you’re trusting that what’s inside is worth the trouble. A double act of faith, as it were.”
Paul wrestled with himself a few moments, but he knew he had no choice.
“Let go of me.”
Metzger opened his fingers, and Paul dug his hand into the inside pocket of his coat. He took out his wallet.
“How much?”
“Forty million marks.”
It was equivalent to ten dollars at that day’s rate, enough to feed a family for many weeks.
“That’s a lot of money,” said Paul, pursing his lips.
“Take it or leave it.”
Paul sighed. He had the money on him, as the next day he was supposed to go make some payments for the bank. He’d have to take it out of his next six months’ wages, the little he earned after diverting all the profits from the business to Herr Ziegler’s charity shop. To cap it all, share prices had recently been stagnating or falling, and the investors had dwindled, making the queues at the welfare food halls longer each day, with no end to the crisis in sight.
Paul took out the enormous stack of recently printed banknotes. Paper money never grew old in those days. In fact, the notes from the previous quarter were already worthless and fueled Munich’s chimneys, as they were cheaper than firewood.
The pawnbroker snatched the notes from Paul’s hand and began to count them slowly, studying them one at a time against the light. Finally he looked at the young man and smiled, showing his missing teeth.
“Satisfied?” Paul asked sarcastically.
Metzger drew back his hand.
Paul opened the box carefully, raising a cloud of dust that floated around him in the light of the bulb. He lifted out a flat, square box made of smooth, dark mahogany. It had no decorations, no varnish, only a clasp that opened when Paul pushed on it. The lid of the box rose slowly and silently, as though nineteen years hadn’t passed since the last time it was opened.
Paul felt an icy fear in his heart as he looked at the contents.
“You’d best take care, lad,” said the pawnbroker, from whose hands the banknotes had disappeared as if by magic. “You could find yourself in enormous trouble if they find you on the streets with that toy.”
What were you trying to tell me with this, Father?
On a padded red velvet base lay a gleaming pistol and a magazine containing ten bullets.
34
“This had better be important, Metzger. I’m extremely busy. If it’s about the fees, better come back some other day.”
Otto von Schroeder was seated by the fireplace of his study, and he didn’t offer the pawnbroker a seat or anything to drink. Metzger, obliged to remain standing, hat in hand, contained his fury and contrived a servile tilt of the head and a fake smile.
“The truth is, Herr Baron, I’ve come about another matter. The money you’ve invested all these years is about to bear fruit.”
“Has he come back to Munich? Has Nagel come back?” asked the baron, tensing.
“It’s more complicated than that, Your Lordship.”
“Well, then, don’t make me guess. Tell me what it is you want.”
“The truth is, Your Lordship, before conveying this important information, I would like to remind you that the objects whose sale I have put on hold for all this time, at great cost to my business-”
“Get on with it, Metzger.”
“-have increased in value a great deal. Your Lordship promised me an annual sum, and in return I was to inform you if Clovis Nagel redeemed any of them. And with all due respect, Your Lordship hasn’t paid this year or last.”
The baron lowered his voice.
“Don’t you dare blackmail me, Metzger. What I’ve paid you over two decades more than makes up for the junk you’ve kept in that dump of yours.”
“What can I say? Your Lordship gave his word, and Your Lordship hasn’t kept it. Well then, let us consider our agreement to be concluded. Good afternoon,” said the old man, donning his hat.
“Wait!” said the baron, raising his arm.
The pawnbroker turned, stifling a smile.
“Yes, Herr Baron?”
“I have no money, Metzger. I’m ruined.”
“You surprise me, Your Lordship!”
“I have treasury bonds, which might come to something if the government pays the dividends or restabilizes the economy. Till then they’re only worth as much as the paper they’re written on.”
The old man looked around him, his eyes narrowed.
“In that case, Your Lordship… I suppose I could accept as payment that little bronze and marble table you have beside your chair.”
“This is worth much more than your annual fee, Metzger.”
The old man shrugged but said nothing.
“Very well. Talk.”
“You would of course have to guarantee your payments for the years to come, Your Lordship. The embossed silver tea service on that little table would do, I imagine.”
“You’re a bastard, Metzger,” said the baron, giving him a look of undisguised hatred.
“Business is business, Herr Baron.”
Otto was silent for a few moments. He saw no other way but to give in to the old man’s blackmail.
“You win. For your sake, I hope it’s worth it,” he said at last.
“Today someone came to redeem one of the objects pawned by your friend.”
“Was it Nagel?”
“No, not unless he’s found some way of turning the clock back thirty years. It was a boy.”
“Did he give his name?”
“He was thin, with blue eyes, dark-blond hair.”
“Paul…”
“I’ve told you, he didn’t give his name.”
“And what was it he collected?”
“A black mahogany box containing a pistol.”
