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Anywhere else and at any other time this arrest, which at long last had come his way, would have turned his head. When he was still on the active list he arrested specially to create a disturbance and was in the worst odour with authority on account of his methods. Then he used to proclaim his action so long and loud that a crowd of gaping people gathered round him. Born to be an athlete, he daily created a circus tor himself. Finding people chary of applause, he clapped himself. To show his strength he made use of the arrestee instead of his other hand. If the arrestee were strong he dropped hitting him and stung him to a boxing match. Out of contempt for the creature's defeat he used to say in evidence that he had been attacked. Weaklings he thus favoured with an increased sentence. If he came up against some one stronger than himself—with real criminals this was the case sometimes—his conscience bade him accuse them falsely, because undesirable elements must be put away. Only since he had had to confine his activities to a single house, he who had once had charge of a whole beat, did he become more discreet. He selected his partners among wretched hawkers and beggars, and even for these he had to he in wait for days. They feared him and warned each other; only greenhorns came his way; and yet he prayed for them to come. He knew that they grudged themselves to him. His circus was limited to the tenants of the block. And he lived in hopes of a real, noisy arrest in circumstances of the utmost difficulty.

Then recent events had interrupted him in his pursuits. Kien's books brought him in money. He did most of the work and safeguarded himself on every side. All the same, he had an uncomfortable feeling he was getting money for nothing. When he was in the force he had always felt that his muscular exertions were being paid for. True he took good care to make his book list a heavy one, and selected the books by weight. The fattest and oldest tomes bound in pigskin were the first to go. All the way to theTheresianum he would balance his parcel heading it every now and again, taking Therese's away from her, ordering her to fall back and then tossing it into her arms. She suffered from such treatment and once she complained. But he persuaded her he had to do it on account of the passers-by. The more insolently they handled the books, the less likely was it to occur to anyone that they were not their own. She had to agree, but she didn't like it. All the same he was discontented, felt himself a mere weakling and often said he'd be a Jew next. This tiny twinge, which he took for his conscience, made him forgo the fulfilment of his ancient dream and arrest Kien quietly.

Furious and hurt she waved the money tins way and that. She held it right under his nose. He was considering. All joy in the arrest had left him. As soon as she had manipulated the wallet, he foresaw the consequences. He wouldn't see the inside of a gaol for her. She was clever, but he knew the law. He had been in the force. What did she know about it? He wished himself back at his post; she was repulsive to him. She had upset him. For her sake he had lost his gratuity. He had long since learnt the true story. Only for the sake of their partnership did he officially continue his hatred for Kien. She was old. She was demanding. She wanted him to come every night. He wanted to knock her about, she wanted something else. She only let him pinch her first. He hit her once or twice and she screamed the place down. The devil she did! He'dsh—on a woman like that. It would all come out now. He'd lose his pension. He'd sue her. She'd have to pay him the equivalent. He'd keep his share. The best thing now would be to inform against her. The old cow! As if the books were hers! Not on your life. God help the Professor. He was too good for her. You wouldn't find another like him. To think he'd married the filthy bitch. Housekeeper indeed ! Her mother died in the gutter. She'd told him so herself. If she were forty years younger .. . His daughter, God rest her, she had a heart of gold. She had to lie down beside him while he watched out for beggars. He used to look and pinch. Pinch and look. Those were the days! If a beggar came, he had something to knock about. If none came, there was always the girl. Cry, she used to. Didn't do her no good. You can't do anything against a father. Ah, she was a love. All of a sudden she died. Her chest, that little room. But he couldn't spare her. If he'd known, he'd have sent her away. The Professor remembered her. Never did her no harm. The other tenants bullied the poor kid. Just because she was his daughter. And this filthy bitch here never even said 'Good morning' to her! He could murder her!

Filled with hate, they faced each other. One word from Kien, even a friendly one, would have brought them together again. His silence kindled their hate; it flamed to heaven. One of them had hold of Kien's body, the other of his money. He himself was lost to them. Ah, if they only had him! His body swayed like a blade of grass. A violent storm bowed him down. The banknotes crackled like lightning in the air. Suddenly the caretaker bellowed at Thérèse: 'Give back that money!' She couldn't. She released Kien's head from her embrace, it didn't shoot up, it remained in the same position. She had expected a movement. As none occurred she flung the notes in her new man's face and shrieked piercingly: 'You knock a man down, you! You're afraid. A doormat, you are! It isn't fair! A coward like you! Scum, you are! Soft, you are! I ask you!' Her hatred supplied her with the precise words to rouse him. With one hand he began to shake Kien out. A coward he wouldn't be called. With his other he laid about Thérèse. Get out of his way, there. She'd know him better soon. That's not what he was like! This was what he was like. The banknotes fluttered to the ground. Thérèse sobbed: 'All the beautiful money!' Her man seized her. The blows weren't hard enough. Better shake her. Her back pushed open the glass door. She clutched tight at the round door-knob. He dragged her back, grabbing her by the collar of her blouse, dragged her close up to him and beat her hard against the door — close up to him — hard against the door. With his other hand he dealt with Kien. Kien was a wrung-out rag in his hand; the less he felt there, the more vigorously he went to work on Thérèse. 

At this moment Fischerle came running up. The sewerman had reported Kien's refusal. He was fuming. What was the meaning of this? A fuss about 2000 schillings ! That was the last straw! Yesterday he paid up 4500 at a time, and now he stops payment. His employees can wait. He won't be a minute. From the entrance hall he nears a voice shrieking! 'The beautiful money! The beautiful money!' That's his business. Someone must have forestalled him. He could have cried. All that trouble, and someone else is getting the advantage. A woman too. You can't put up with that. He'll catch her. He'll make her give it all back. Then he saw the glass door banging to and fro. Horrified he stood still. There was a man there too. He hesitated. The man was beating the door with the woman. A heavy woman too. The man must be strong. The flagpole wouldn't have been strong enough. Maybe it was nothing to do with the flagpole. Why shouldn t a man beat up a woman, if she didn't hand over the money? Fischerle had his firm to sec to. He would sooner have waited until the two had finished, but it would take too long. Cautiously he edged his way through the door. 'Permit me,' he said and grinned. It would be impossible not to tread on somebody's corns. So he grinned in advance. The couple were to notice that he meant no harm. People sometimes overlooked his laughter, so he preferred to grin. His hump intervened between Thérèse and the caretaker and prevented him from dragging the woman as close to him as was essential for a real blow. He kicked the hump. Fischerle toppled over Kien and clutched tight hold of him. So thin was Kien and so slender the bodily part he played in all this that the dwarf only noticed him when he collided with him. He recognized him. Thérèse was screaming again: 'The beautiful money!' He sniffed out the old relation between them, pricked up his ears six times as much as before, and at a glance took in Kien's pockets, those of the stranger, the woman's garters — unhappily her skirt impeded the view — the stairs, at the foot of which were two gigantic parcels, and the floor at his feet. There he saw the money. Quick as ightning he stooped to gather it. His long arms twisted in and out jetween six legs. Now he shoved a foot vigorously to one side, now le twitched delicately at a banknote. He made no sound when they stamped on his fingers, he was used to such inconveniences. Nor did he treat all feet alike. Kien's he hurled out of his way, the woman's he gripped firmly, like a cobbler, as for the man, he avoided all contact; it would have been as useless as it was dangerous. He rescued fifteen banknotes; as he worked he counted, and knew precisely which figure he had arrived at. Even his hump he manoeuvred skilfully. Above his head the fight went on. He knew from his experience in Heaven that a fighting couple must not be interrupted. If you manage to avoid this, you can meanwhile get anything you like out of them. Fighting couples are mad dogs. Of the five missing banknotes, four were further off, and one was under the man's foot. While he crept after the others, Fischerle never took an eye off this foot. It might be lifted, and the split second must not be missed.