The Berlin Stories (21 page)

“I write very quick,” he informed us. “For me, one glance is sufficient. I do not believe in the second impression.”

A couple of days ashore from a cruising liner had furnished M. Janin with the material for most of his works. And now Switzerland was disposed of, too. Looking for fresh worlds to conquer, he had fixed on the Nazi movement. He and his secretary were leaving next day for Munich. “Within a week,” he concluded ominously, “I shall know all.”

I wondered what part M. Janin’s secretary (he insisted, several times, on this title) played in his lightning researches. Probably she acted as a kind of rough and ready chemical reagent; in certain combinations she produced certain known results. It was she, it seemed, who had discovered Piet. M. Janin, as excited as a hunter in unfamiliar territory, had rushed, over-precipitately, to the attack. He didn’t seem much disappointed, however, to discover that this wasn’t his legitimate prey. His generalisations, formulated, to save time, in advance, were not easily disturbed. Dutchman or German, it was all grist to the mill. Piet, I suspected, would nevertheless make his appearance in the new book, dressed up in a borrowed brown shirt. A writer with M. Janin’s technique can afford to waste nothing.

One mystery was solved, the other deepened. I puzzled over it for the rest of the evening. If Margot wasn’t Janin, who was he? And where? It seemed odd that he should fritter away twenty-four hours like this, after being in such a hurry to get Kuno to come. Tomorrow, I thought, he’ll turn up for certain. My meditations were interrupted by Kuno tapping at my door to ask if I had gone to bed. He wanted to talk about Piet van Hoorn, and, sleepy as I felt, I wasn’t unkind enough to deny him.

“Tell me, please… don’t you find him a little like Tony?”

“Tony?” I was stupid this evening. “Tony who?”

Kuno regarded me with gentle reproach.

“Why, excuse me… I mean Tony in the book, you see.”

I smiled.

“You think Tony is more like Piet than like Heinz?”

“Oh yes,” Kuno was very definite on this point. “Much more like.”

So poor Heinz was banished from the island. Having reluctantly agreed to this, we said good-night.

Next morning I decided to make some investigations for myself. While Kuno was in the lounge talking to the van Hoorns, I got into conversation with the hall porter. Oh yes, he assured me, a great many business people were here from Paris just now; some of them very important.

“M. Bernstein, for instance, the factory-owner. He’s worth millions… Look, sir, he’s over there now, by the desk.”

I had just time to catch sight of a fat, dark man with an expression on his face like that of a sulky baby. I had never noticed him anywhere in our neighbourhood. He passed through the doors into the smoking-room, a bundle of letters in his hand.

“Do you know if he owns a glass factory?” I asked.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir. I wouldn’t be surprised. They say he’s got his finger in nearly everything.”

The day passed without further developments. In the afternoon, Mr. van Hoorn at length succeeded in forcing his bashful nephew into the company of some lively Polish girls. They all went off skiing together. Kuno was not best pleased, but he accepted the situation with his usual grace. He seemed to have developed quite a taste for Mr. van Hoorn’s society. The two of them spent the afternoon indoors.

After tea, as we were leaving the lounge, we came face to face with M. Bernstein. He passed us by without the faintest interest.

As I lay in bed that night I almost reached the conclusion that Margot must be a figment of Arthur’s imagination. For what purpose he had been created I couldn’t conceive. Nor did I much care. It was very nice here. I was enjoying myself; in a day or two I should have learnt to ski. I would make the most of my holiday, I decided; and, following Arthur’s advice, forget the reasons for which I had come. As for Kuno, my fears had been unfounded. He hadn’t been cheated out of a farthing. So what was there to worry about?

On the afternoon of the third day of our visit, Piet suggested, of his own accord, that we two should go skating on the lake, alone. The poor boy, as I had noticed at lunch, was near bursting-point. He had had more than enough of his uncle, of Kuno and of the Polish girls; it had become necessary for him to vent his feelings on somebody, and, of a bad bunch, I seemed the least unlikely to be sympathetic. No sooner were we on the ice than he started: I was astonished to find how much and with what vehemence he could talk.

What did I think of this place? he asked. Wasn’t all this luxury sickening? And the people? Weren’t they too idiotic and revolting for words? How could they behave as they did, with Europe in its present state? Had they no decency at all? Had they no national pride, to mix with a lot of Jews who were ruining their countries? How did I feel about it, myself?

“What does your uncle say to it all?” I counter-questioned, to avoid an answer.

Piet shrugged his shoulders angrily.

“Oh, my uncle… he doesn’t take the least interest in politics. He only cares for his old pictures. He’s more of a Frenchman than a Dutchman, my father says.”

Piet’s studies in Germany had turned him into an ardent Fascist. M. Janin’s instinct hadn’t been so incorrect, after all. The young man was browner than the Browns.

“What my country needs is a man like Hitler. A real leader. A people without ambition is unworthy to exist.” He turned his handsome, humourless face and regarded me sternly. “You, with your Empire, you must understand that.”

But I refused to be drawn.

“Do you often travel with your uncle?” I asked.

“No. As a matter of fact I was surprised when he asked me to come with him here. At such short notice, too; only a week ago. But I love skiing, and I thought it would all be quite primitive and simple, like the tour I made with some students last Christmas. We went to the Riesengebirge. We used to wash ourselves every morning with snow in a bucket. One must learn to harden the body. Self-discipline is most important in these times….”

“Which day did you arrive here?” I interrupted.

“Let’s see. It must have been the day before you did.” A thought suddenly struck Piet. He became more human. He even smiled. “By the way, that’s a funny thing I’d quite forgotten… my uncle was awfully keen to get to know you.”

“To know me?”

“Yes….” Piet laughed and blushed. “As a matter of fact, he told me to try and find out who you were.”

“He did?”

“You see, he thought you were the son of a friend of his: an Englishman. But he’d only met the son once, a long time ago, and he wasn’t sure. He was afraid that, if you saw him and he didn’t recognise you, you’d be offended.’”

“Well, 1 certainly helped you to make my acquaintance, didn’t I?”

We both laughed.

“Yes, you did.”

“Ha, ha! How very funny!”

“Yes, isn’t it? Very funny indeed.”

When we returned to the hotel for tea, we had some trouble in finding Kuno and Mr. van Hoorn. They were sitting together in a remote corner of the smoking-room, at a distance from the other guests. Mr. van Hoorn was no longer laughing; he spoke quietly and seriously, with his eyes on Kuno’s face. And Kuno himself was as grave as a judge. I had the impression that he was profoundly disturbed and perplexed by the subject of their conversation. But this was only an impression, and a momentary one. As soon as Mr. van Hoorn became aware of my approach, he laughed loudly and gave Kuno’s elbow a nudge, as if reaching the climax of a funny story. Kuno laughed too, but with less enthusiasm.

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. van Hoorn. “Here are the boys! As hungry as hunters, I’ll be bound! And we two old fogies have been wasting the whole afternoon yarning away indoors. My goodness, is it as late as that? I say, I want my tea!”

“A telegram for you, sir,” said the voice of a page-boy, just behind me. I stepped aside, supposing that he was addressing one of the others, but no; he held the silver tray towards me. There was no mistake. On the envelope, I read my name.

“Aha!” cried Mr. van Hoorn. “Your sweetheart’s getting impatient. She wants you to go back to her.”

I tore open the envelope, unfolded the paper. The message was only three words: Please return immediately.

I read it over several times. I smiled. “As a matter of fact,” I told Mr. van Hoorn, “you’re quite right. She does.” The telegram was signed “Ludwig.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Something had happened to Arthur. That much was obvious. Otherwise, if he’d wanted me, he’d have sent for me himself. And the mess he was in, whatever it was, must have something to do with the Party, since Bayer had signed the telegram. Here my reasoning came to an end. It was bounded by guesses and possibilities as vague and limitless as the darkness which enclosed the train. Lying in my berth, I tried to sleep and couldn’t. The swaying of the coach, the clank of the wheels kept time with the excited, anxious throbbing of my heart. Arthur, Bayer, Margot, Schmidt; I tried the puzzle backwards, sideways, all ways up. It kept me awake the whole night.

Years later it seemed, though actually only the next afternoon, I let myself into the flat with the latchkey; quickly pushed open the door of my room. In the middle of it sat Frl. Schroeder, dozing, in the best armchair. She had taken off her slippers and was resting her stockinged feet on the footstool. When one of her lodgers was away, she often did this. She was indulging in the dream of most landladies, that the whole place was hers.

If I had returned from the dead, she could hardly have uttered a more piercing scream on waking and seeing my figure in the doorway.

“Herr Bradshaw! How you startled me!”

“I’m sorry, Frl. Schroeder. No, please don’t get up. Where’s Herr Norris?”

“Herr Norris?” She was still a bit dazed. “I don’t know, I’m sure. He said he’d be back about seven.”

“He’s still living here, then?”

“Why, of course, Herr Bradshaw. What an idea!” Frl. Schroeder regarded me with astonishment and anxiety. “Is anything the matter? Why didn’t you let me know that you were coming home sooner? I was going to have given your room a thorough turn-out tomorrow.”

“That’s perfectly all right. I’m sure everything looks very nice. Herr Norris hasn’t been ill, has he?”

“Why, no.” Frl. Schroeder’s perplexity was increasing with every moment. “That is, if he has he hasn’t said a word about it to me, and he’s been up and about from morning to midnight. Did he write and tell you so?”

“Oh no, he didn’t do that… only… when I went away I thought he looked rather pale. Has anybody rung up for me or left any messages?”

“Nothing, Herr Bradshaw. You remember, you told all your pupils you would be away until the New Year.”

“Yes, of course.”

I walked over to the window, looked down into the dank, empty street. No, it wasn’t quite empty. Down there, on the corner, stood a small man in a buttoned-up overcoat and a felt hat. He paced quietly up and down, his hands folded behind his back, as if waiting for a girl friend.

“Shall I get you some hot water?” asked Frl. Schroeder tactfully. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked tired, dirty and unshaved “No, thank you,” I said, smiling. “There’s something I’ve got to attend to first. I shall be back in about an hour. Perhaps you’d be so kind and heat the bath?”

‘Tes, Ludwig’s here,” the girls in the outer office at the Wilhelmstrasse told me. “Go right in.”

Bayer didn’t seem in the least surprised to see me. He looked up from his papers with a smile.

“So here you are, Mr. Bradshaw! Please sit down. You have enjoyed your holiday, I hope?”

I smiled.

“Well, I was just beginning to…”

“When you got my telegram? I am sorry, but it was necessary, you see.”

Bayer paused; regarded me thoughtfully; continued: “I’m afraid that what I have to say may be unpleasant for you, Mr. Bradshaw. But it is not right that you are kept any longer in ignorance of the truth.”

I could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the room; everything seemed to have become very quiet. My heart was thumping uncomfortably against my ribs. I suppose that I half guessed what was coming.

“You went to Switzerland,” Bayer continued, “with a certain Baron Pregnitz?”

Tes. That’s right.” I licked my lips with my tongue.

“Now I am going to ask you a question which may seem that I interfere very much in your private affairs. Please do not be offended. If you do not wish it, you will not answer, you understand?”

My throat had gone dry. I tried to clear it, and made an absurdly loud, grating sound.

“I’ll answer any question you like,” I said, rather huskily.

Bayer’s eyes brightened approvingly. He leant forward towards me across the writing-table.

“I am glad that you take this attitude, Mr. Bradshaw… You wish to help us. That is good… Now, will you tell me, please, what was the reason which Norris gave you that you should go with this Baron Pregnitz to Switzerland?”

Again I heard that clock. Bayer, his elbows resting on the table, regarded me benevolently, with encouraging attention. For the second time, I cleared my throat.

“Well,” I began, “first of all, you see…”