The Berlin Stories (17 page)

We dined with Kuno several times and had tea at his flat. He was sentimental and preoccupied by turns. The intrigues which were going on within the Cabinet probably caused him a good deal of worry. And he regretted the freedom of his earlier bohemian existence. His public responsibilities debarred him from the society of the young men I had met at his Mecklenburg villa. Only their photographs remained to console him now, bound in a sumptuous album which he kept locked away in an obscure cupboard. Kuno showed it to me one day when we were alone.

“Sometimes, in the evenings, I like to look at them, you see? And then I make up a story to myself that we are all living on a deserted island in the Pacific Ocean. Excuse me, you don’t think this very silly, I hope?”

“Not at all,” I assured him.

“You see, I knew you’d understand.” Encouraged, he proceeded shyly to further confessions. The desert island fantasy was nothing new. He had been cherishing it for months already; it had developed gradually into a private cult. Under its influence he had acquired a small library of stories for boys, most of them in English, which dealt with this particular kind of adventure. He had told his bookseller that he wanted them for a nephew in London. Kuno had found most of the books subtly unsatisfactory. There had been grown-ups in them, or buried treasures, or marvellous scientific inventions. He had no use for any of these. Only one story had really pleased him. It was called The Seven Who Got Lost.

“This is the work of genius, I find.” Kuno was quite in earnest. His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “I should be so very happy if you would care to read it, you see?”

I took the book home. It was certainly not at all bad of its kind. Seven boys, of ages ranging from sixteen to nineteen, are washed ashore on an uninhabited island, where there is water and plenty of vegetation. They have no food with them and no tools but a broken penknife. The book was a matter-of-fact account, cribbed largely from the Swiss Family Robinson, of how they hunted, fished, built a hut and finally got themselves rescued. I read it at a sitting and brought it back to Kuno next day. He was delighted when I praised it.

“You remember Jack?”

“The one who was so good at fishing? Yes.”

“Now tell me, please, is he not like Günther?”

I had no idea who Günther was, but rightly guessed him to have been one of the Mecklenburg house-party.

“Yes, he is, rather.”

“Oh, I am so glad you find this, too. And Tony?”

“The one who was such a marvellous climber?”

Kuno nodded eagerly: “Doesn’t he remind you of Heinz?”

“I see what you mean.”

In this way we worked through the other characters, Teddy, Bob, Rex, Dick: Kuno supplied a counterpart to each. I congratulated myself on having really read the book and being thus able to pass this curious examination with credit. Last of all came Jimmy, the hero, the champion swimmer, the boy who always led the others in an emergency and had a brainwave to solve every difficulty.

“You didn’t recognise him, perhaps?”

Kuno’s tone was oddly, ludicrously coy. I saw that I must beware of giving the wrong answer. But what on earth was I to say?

“I did have some idea…” I ventured.

“You did?” He was actually blushing.

I nodded, smiling, trying to look intelligent, waiting for a hint.

“He is myself, you see.” Kuno had the simplicity of complete conviction. “When I was a boy. But exactly… This writer is a genius. He tells things about me which nobody else can know. I am Jimmy. Jimmy is myself. It is marvellous.”

“It’s certainly very strange,” I agreed.

After this, we had several talks about the island. Kuno told me exactly how he pictured it, and dwelt in detail upon the appearance and characteristics of his various imaginary companions. He certainly had a most vivid imagination. I wished that the author of The Seven Who Got Lost could have been there to hear him. He would have been startled to behold the exotic fruit of his unambitious labours. I gathered that I was Kuno’s only confidant on the subject. I felt as embarrassed as some unfortunate person who has been forcibly made a member of a secret society. If Arthur was with us, Kuno showed only too plainly his desire to get rid of him and be alone with me. Arthur noticed this, of course, and irritated me by putting the obvious construction on our private interviews. All the same, I hadn’t the heart to give Kuno’s poor little mystery away. .

“Look here,” I said to him once, “why don’t you do it?”

“Please?”

“Why don’t you clear out to the Pacific and find an island like the one in the book, and really live there? Other people have done it. There’s absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t.”

Kuno shook his head sadly.

“Excuse me, no. It’s impossible.”

His tone was so final and so sad that I was silent. Nor did I ever make such a suggestion to him again.

As the month advanced, Arthur became increasingly depressed. I soon noticed that he had less money than formerly. Not that he complained. Indeed, he had become most secretive about his troubles. He made his economies as unobtrusively as possible, giving up taxis on the ground that a bus was just as quick, avoiding the expensive restaurants because, as he said, rich food disagreed with his digestion. Anni’s visits were less frequent also. Arthur had taken to going to bed early. During the day, he was out more than ever. He spent a good deal of his time, I discovered, in Bayer’s office.

It wasn’t long before another telegram arrived from Paris. I had no difficulty in persuading Frl. Schroeder, whose curiosity was as shameless as my own, to steam open the envelope before Arthur’s return for his afternoon nap. With heads pressed close together, we read: Tea you sent no good at all cannot understand why believe you have another girl no kisses.

Margot.

“You see,” exclaimed Frl. Schroedet, in delighted horror, “she’s been trying to stop it.”

“What on earth…”

“Why, Herr Bradshaw,” in her impatience she gave my hand a little slap, “how can you be so dense! The baby, of course. He must have sent her some stuff… Oh, these men! If he’d only come to me, I could have told him what to do. It never fails.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Frl. Schroeder, don’t say anything about this to Herr Norris.”

“Oh, Herr Bradshaw, you can trust me!”

I think, all the same, that her manner must have given Arthur some hint of what we had done. For, after this, the French telegrams ceased to arrive. Arthur, I supposed, had prudently arranged to have them delivered to some other address.

And then one evening early in December, when Arthur was out and Frl. Schroeder was having a bath, the doorbell rang. I answered it myself. There, on the threshold, stood Schmidt.

“Good evening, Mr, Bradshaw.”

He looked shabby and unkempt. His great, greasy moon-face was unwholesomely white. At first I thought he must be drunk.

“What do you want?” I asked.

Schmidt grinned unpleasantly. “I want to see Norris.” He must have read what was in my mind, for he added: “You needn’t bother to tell me any lies, because I know he’s living here, now, see?”

“Well, you can’t see him now. He’s gone out.”

“Are you sure he’s out?” Schmidt regarded me smiling, through half-closed eyes.

“Perfectly. Otherwise I shouldn’t have told you so.”

“So… I see.”

We stood looking at each other for some moments, smiling with dislike. I was tempted to slam the door in his face.

“Mr. Norris would do better to see me,” said Schmidt, after a pause, in an offhand, casual tone, as though this were his first mention of the subject. I put the side of my foot as unostentatiously as possible against the door, in case he should suddenly turn rough.

“I think,” I said gently, “that that’s a matter for Mr. Norris himself to judge.”

“Won’t you tell him I’m here?” Schmidt glanced down at my foot and impudently grinned. Our voices were so mild and low-pitched that anybody passing up the staircase would have supposed us to be two neighbours, engaged in a friendly chat.

“I’ve told you once already that Mr. Norris isn’t at home. Don’t you understand German?”

Schmidt’s smile was extraordinarily insulting. His half-closed eyes regarded me with a certain amusement, a qualified disapproval, as though I were a picture badly out of drawing. He spoke slowly, with elaborate patience.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be troubling you too much to give Mr. Norris a message from me?”

“Yes. I’ll do that.”

“Will you be so kind as to tell Mr. Norris that I’ll wait another three days, but no longer? You understand? At the end of this week, if I haven’t heard from him, I shall do what I said in my letter. He’ll know what I mean. He thinks I daren’t, perhaps. Well, he’ll soon find out what a mistake he’s made. I don’t want trouble, unless he asks for it. But I’ve got to live… I’ve got to look after myself the same as he has. I mean to have my rights. He needn’t think he can keep me down in the gutter….”

He was actually trembling all over. Some violent emotion, rage or extreme weakness, was shaking his body like a leaf. I thought for a moment that he would fall.

“Are you ill?” I asked.

My question had an extraordinary effect on Schmidt. His oily, smiling sneer stiffened into a tense mask of hatred. He had utterly lost control of himself. Coming a step nearer to me, he literally shouted in my face: “It isn’t any business of yours, do you hear? Just you tell Norris what I said. If he doesn’t do what I want, I’ll make him sorry for the day he was born! And you too, you swine!”

His hysterical fury infected me suddenly. Stepping back, I flung the door to with a violent slam, hoping to catch his thrust-forward, screaming face on the point of the jaw. But there was no impact. His voice stopped like a gramophone from which the needle is lifted. Nor did he utter another sound. As I stood there behind the closed door, my heart pounding with anger, I heard his light footsteps cross the landing and begin to descend the stairs.

CHAPTER TWELVE

An hour later, Arthur returned home. I followed him into his room to break the news.

“Schmidt’s been here.”

If Arthur’s wig had been suddenly jerked from his head by a fisherman, he could hardly have looked more startled.

“William, please tell me the worst at once. Don’t keep me in suspense. What time was this? Did you see him yourself? What did he say?”

“He’s trying to blackmail you, isn’t he?”

Arthur looked at me quickly.

“Did he admit that?”

“He as good as told me. He says he’s written to you already, and that if you don’t do what he wants by the end of the week there’ll be trouble.”

“He actually said that? Oh dear….”

“You should have told me he’d written,” I said reproachfully.

“I know, dear boy, I know….” Arthur was the picture of distress. “It’s been on the tip of my tongue several tirqes this last fortnight. But I didn’t want to worry you unnecessarily. I kept hoping that, somehow, it might all blow over.”

“Now, look here, Arthur; the point is this: does Schmidt really know anything about you which can do you harm?”

He had been nervously pacing the room, and now sank, a disconsolate shirtsleeved figure, into a chair, forlornly regarding his button-boots.

“Yes, William.” His voice was small and apologetic. “I’m afraid he does.”

“What sort of things does he know?”

“Really, I… I don’t think, even for you, that I can go into the details of my hideous past.”

“I don’t want details. What I want to know is, could Schmidt get you involved in any kind of criminal charge?”

Arthur considered this for some moments, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

“I don’t think he dare try it. No.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said. “He seemed to me to be in a pretty bad way. Desperate enough for anything. He looked as though he wasn’t getting much to eat.”

Arthur stood up again and began walking about the room, rapidly, with small anxious steps.

“Let’s keep quite calm, William. Let’s think this out together quietly.”

“Do you think, from your experience of Schmidt, that he’d keep quiet if you paid him a lump sum down to leave you alone?”

Arthur did not hesitate: “I’m quite sure he wouldn’t. It would merely whet his appetite for my blood… Oh dear, oh dear!”

“Suppose you left Germany altogether? Would he be able to get at you then?”

Arthur stopped short in the middle of a gesture of extreme agitation. ť “No, I suppose… that is, no, quite definitely not.” He regarded me with dismay. “You aren’t suggesting I should do that, I hope?”

“It seems drastic. But what’s the alternative?”

“I see none. Certainly.”

“Neither do I.”

Arthur moved his shoulders in a shrug of despair.

“Yes, yes, my dear boy. It’s easy enough to say that. But where’s the money coming from?”

“I thought you were pretty well off now?” I pretended mild surprise. Arthur’s glance slid away, evasively, from beneath my own.

“Only under certain conditions.”

“You mean, you can only earn money here?”

“Well, chiefly…” He didn’t like this catechism, and began to fidget. I could no longer resist trying a shot in the dark.

“But you get paid from Paris?”

I had scored a bull. Arthur’s dishonest blue eyes showed a startled flicker, but no more. Perhaps he wasn’t altogether unprepared for the question.

“My dear William, I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.”

I grinned.

“Never mind, Arthur. It’s no business of mine. I only want to help you, if I can.”

“It’s most kind of you, dear boy, I’m sure.” Arthur sighed. “This is all most difficult; most complicated….”

“Well, we’ve got one point clear, at any rate… Now, the best thing you can do is to send Schmidt some money at once, to keep him quiet. How much did he ask for?”

“A hundred down,” said Arthur in a subdued voice, “and then fifty a week.”

“I must say he’s got a nerve. Could you manage a hundred and fifty, do you think?”

“At a pinch, I suppose, yes. It goes against the grain.”

“I know. But this’ll save you ten times as much in the end. Now what I suggest is, you send him the hundred and fifty, with a letter promising him the balance on the first of January….”