“Is Spoerri still there?” he asked. “Spoerri, you need not go to Zürich. Ebenhügel will take the portfolio with him. We will go back to Schachen together.”
Upon the return journey Mabuse could not remain still in one place. He was constantly backwards and forwards on the small deck. The three convoys were again throbbing in their neighbourhood, their sounds drowned in the ghostly darkness. Suddenly Mabuse called through the speaking-tube to George, demanding brandy. Spoerri heard the order and shrank in terror.
In the half-hour which the passage took, Mabuse drank the bottle empty. He was drunk when they landed, and he staggered through the darkness towards the house in front of them, having issued orders that they were not to follow for five minutes.
“We want more drink,” said he, when they were in the dining-room. “George, bring drinks!”
George shuddered, for he knew that the more the doctor drank, the more violent and unreasonable he became. Spoerri himself was always obliged to drink till he lost his senses. They drank champagne and brandy mixed in equal parts.
“This is liquid gold,” stuttered Mabuse thickly. “Here, George, bring bigger glasses! Let’s have the goblets. Spoerri, take a draught. You fool of a courier, drink; drink it down, you dog. Down with it into your currish throat! Now then, another! Drink till you can’t hold any more in that carcass of yours. I love to see you drink till you’re sick!”
Spoerri drank until everything swam round him and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
“And you, my lord Wenk! A State Attorney in Munich! Your notebook! Your orders to the Criminal Investigation Department, forsooth! Just wait a moment, my fine gentleman! We’ll begin with Herr Hull, for he was the first. … (Drink, Spoerri, can’t you, you miserable country bumpkin, drink; drink as I do!) Let me see—Hull, yes, Edgar Hull, 34, Hubertusstrasse. Away with him, his turn first. George will look after it, and you can help him. The Carozza girl can contrive it. Find your accomplices. Write it down, it is the order of the … Prince. (Drink it down, now!) Of the Prince, have you written that? Which prince, do you say? The Prince, the Emperor of Citopomar, in Southern Brazil. A word from his mouth and a thousand women lie bathed in their blood, five hundred men are reduced to impotence. One single word and a whole edifice totters! Don’t simper, you fool, or I’ll dash your brains out with this goblet!”
He flung the vessel down, shattering it in pieces, and with the fragments he threatened Spoerri.
“I … I am writing it,” stammered Spoerri.
“A thousand women and five hundred men,” shouted Mabuse.
“Doctor,” said Spoerri hesitatingly, struggling with the intoxication overcoming his senses, “I did not hear; I do not know this Hull. What am I to do with him? 34, Hubertusstrasse. … Do you really mean me, Doctor?”
Then Mabuse all at once stood upright, intoxicated as he was. “Yes, you!” he thundered, and then gave Spoerri a heavy blow with his fist, full on his forehead, knocking him senseless to the floor. “I am going to bed, George,” he shouted, overcome with rage. He left Spoerri lying where he was, and went out.
When he came into the dining-room again next morning, Spoerri was sitting there. Mabuse had breakfasted in bed.
“Show me your notes!” he ordered in a harsh voice. He ran through them quickly, found Hull’s address traced in drunken characters, and returned the book to Spoerri. “That’s all right,” said he, and Spoerri fawned upon him like a cur watching to avoid a kick.
That attitude of his did Mabuse good; it soothed and reconciled him, and he became talkative. Spoerri was quietly delighted to find the master friendly towards him, to know that the dread will of this imperious man inclined him to be amiable, as if recognizing his devotion.
“Spoerri,” said the Doctor, “I shall go to Constance with you. We mustn’t let those young men do anything stupid!”
Spoerri brightened up. “Oh, when they once see you, Doctor, there’ll be no trouble at all.”
The two men remained all day long at the villa. Mabuse drank, but no longer compelled Spoerri to do so. By midday he was already intoxicated. Spoerri, tired out by the carousal of the previous night, watched over Mabuse devotedly. He tried many simple devices to persuade him to stop drinking, but Mabuse soon saw through them, and ordered full bottles to be brought and no tricks to be played. Alcohol was a necessity to him; it inflamed his wild and evil spirit, and in the fantasies of intoxication he found all his great ideas. There was no thwarting of his will from without, and when drunk he felt himself enclosed as in a castle of the Arabian Nights. Nobody could understand that to him alcohol was the bringer of magic, the stream which intensified life and gave him creative power. He bathed in it as he might do in the love of some fair woman, yielding himself to it wholly, bridging chasms, attempting new feats, working unrestrainedly and overcoming all obstacles. … He became a law unto himself, a world of which he was the sun.
“Spoerri, how do you like Europe?” he stuttered.
“Oh, very much, Doctor,” answered Spoerri unreflectingly.
Then Mabuse broke out vehemently, “You shall not go to Citopomar, to my Empire! Europe is a filthy, lousy country, fit for none but grubs and earthworms. It is the home of parasites, of all creepy, crawly creatures, but when I am in Citopomar—Citopomar … Spoerri, I shan’t take you with me. I am going to sleep now, and will see you later.”
He staggered out, and lying in his bedroom on his bed, fully dressed, he felt for a few moments as if he were himself the universe, beyond and above all bounds and limits, the power of his will surging over him as a stream of molten lava, bearing him with it towards the day when, in his distant kingdom, his power would be supreme over man and beast, and all Nature be
