“Well, it isn’t for myself, Tarlburg,” he said. “It’s for this fellow Hartenstein, the Staatspolizeikapitan here. He has something he wants done at the Ministry of Police, and I thought of you because I’ve heard you’re related to the Baron von Krutz. You are, aren’t you?” he asked, just as though he didn’t know all about who all his officers are related to.
“That’s right, colonel; the baron is my uncle,” I said. “What does Hartenstein want done?”
“Why, he has a prisoner whom he wants taken to Berlin and turned over at the Ministry. All you have to do is to take him in, in a coach, and see he doesn’t escape on the way, and get a receipt for him, and for some papers. This is a very important prisoner; I don’t think Hartenstein has anybody he can trust to handle him. The prisoner claims to be some sort of a British diplomat, and for all Hartenstein knows, maybe he is. Also, he is a madman.”
“A madman?” I echoed.
“Yes, just so. At least, that’s what Hartenstein told me. I wanted to know what sort of a madman—there are various kinds of madmen, all of whom must be handled differently—but all Hartenstein would tell me was that he had unrealistic beliefs about the state of affairs in Europe.”
“Ha! What diplomat hasn’t?” I asked.
Old Keitel gave a laugh, somewhere between the bark of a dog and the croaking of a raven.
“Yes, exactly! The unrealistic beliefs of diplomats are what soldiers die of,” he said. “I said as much to Hartenstein, but he wouldn’t tell me anything more. He seemed to regret having said even that much. He looked like a man who’s seen a particularly terrifying ghost.” The old man puffed hard at his famous pipe for a while, blowing smoke through his mustache. “Rudi, Hartenstein has pulled a hot potato out of the ashes, this time, and he wants to toss it to your uncle, before he burns his fingers. I think that’s one reason why he got me to furnish an escort for his Englishman. Now, look; you must take this unrealistic diplomat, or this undiplomatic madman, or whatever in blazes he is, in to Berlin. And understand this.” He pointed his pipe at me as though it were a pistol. “Your orders are to take him there and turn him over at the Ministry of Police. Nothing has been said about whether you turn him over alive, or dead, or half one and half the other. I know nothing about this business, and want to know nothing; if Hartenstein wants us to play gaol warders for him, then he must be satisfied with our way of doing it!”
Well, to cut short the story, I looked at the coach Hartenstein had placed at my disposal, and I decided to chain the left door shut on the outside, so that it couldn’t be opened from within. Then, I would put my prisoner on my left, so that the only way out would be past me. I decided not to carry any weapons which he might be able to snatch from me, so I took off my saber and locked it in the seat box, along with the dispatch case containing the Englishman’s papers. It was cold enough to wear a greatcoat in comfort, so I wore mine, and in the right side pocket, where my prisoner couldn’t reach, I put a little leaded bludgeon, and also a brace of pocket pistols. Hartenstein was going to furnish me a guard as well as a driver, but I said that I would take a servant, who could act as guard. The servant, of course, was my orderly, old Johann; I gave him my double hunting gun to carry, with a big charge of boar shot in one barrel and an ounce ball in the other.
In addition, I armed myself with a big bottle of cognac. I thought that if I could shoot my prisoner often enough with that, he would give me no trouble.
As it happened, he didn’t, and none of my precautions—except the cognac—were needed. The man didn’t look like a lunatic to me. He was a rather stout gentleman, of past middle age, with a ruddy complexion and an intelligent face. The only unusual thing about him was his hat, which was a peculiar contraption, looking like a pot. I put him in the carriage, and then offered him a drink out of my bottle, taking one about half as big myself. He smacked his lips over it and said, “Well, that’s real brandy; whatever we think of their detestable politics, we can’t criticize the French for their liquor.” Then, he said, “I’m glad they’re sending me in the custody of a military gentleman, instead of a confounded gendarme. Tell me the truth, lieutenant; am I under arrest for anything?”
“Why,” I said, “Captain Hartenstein should have told you about that. All I know is that I have orders to take you to the Ministry of Police, in Berlin, and not to let you escape on the way. These orders I will carry out; I hope you don’t hold that against me.”
He assured me that he did not, and we had another drink on it—I made sure, again, that he got twice as much as I did—and then the coachman cracked his whip and we were off for Berlin.
Now, I thought, I am going to see just what sort of a madman this is, and why Hartenstein is making a State affair out of a squabble at an inn. So I decided to explore his unrealistic beliefs about the state of affairs in Europe.
After guiding the conversation to where I wanted it, I asked him:
“What, Herr Bathurst, in your belief, is the real, underlying cause of the present tragic situation in Europe?”
That,
