Wolf Among Wolves (50 page)

For the new event from which he so zealously fled came rapidly cycling between the lofty pines down a defile which no moonlight could brighten. Up this defile walked the forester, smoking.

The impact was violent. But while for Kniebusch there was enough soft sand to spare for his old bones, a large rock lay waiting for the cyclist, who struck it first with his shoulder, at which he let loose a powerful oath, although
he didn’t know then that his collarbone was fractured. Next his cheek passed over the rough stone so that the skin was scraped off and the raw flesh burned like fire. But this he hardly noticed, for his temple had made the acquaintance of a sharp-edged projection, and a temple is just as sensitive as sleep—both are easily wounded by disturbance. The cyclist, already lapsing into unconsciousness, groaned and was heard no more.

Worthy Forester Kniebusch sat in the sand rubbing the thigh which had borne the brunt of the collision. He would very much have liked to see the other man get on his bicycle and set off again. He, Kniebusch, would have raised no objection and asked no questions, so steely was his resolve not to poke his nose into things anymore.

In the darkness he peered at the other man. Since, however, it was too dark to see anything at all (only someone who knew the forest inside out would dare to cycle down this pitch-black defile) he gradually began to imagine that he saw something, a dark figure which, like himself, was sitting in the sand and rubbing its body.

Forester Kniebusch therefore sat still and peered, now quite certain that the other was also sitting still and peering, that the other was waiting only for him to go away. At first he was undecided, but, on considering the matter, he admitted that the stranger was right. The forester, being to some extent in an official position, ought to go first and thereby signify that he had no wish to pursue the case.

Slowly, quietly and cautiously he stood up, keeping his eye all the time on the black patch. He took a short step, and another, but at the third he fell over for the second time, and naturally right on top of the man from whom he was backing away. The black patch had been deceptive; the forester sat directly beside, even partially on top of, his latest discovery.

His greatest desire now was to jump up immediately and run away, but he had fallen on the bicycle, and this gave rise to some confusion of clothes, pedals, chain, gun strap and saddlebag, quite apart from the pain which his sudden collapse onto thin steel bars and jagged pedals had caused.

Completely shaken in body and spirit, the forester sat there, and if at first he still thought of getting away he yet could not help gradually noticing that the body on which his arm rested was somewhat more motionless than it would have been in the case of a conscious man.

Quite a little time passed, however, before Kniebusch could bring himself to switch on his electric torch. Once this had happened, though, and the beam discovered a pale unconscious face, skinned on one side, things moved more quickly. From the realization that this was the notorious rogue, Bäumer
of Altlohe, delivered into his hand as helpless as a lamb, to the resolve to take the wretched poacher and rowdy to the lock-up, was only a step.

With rope and straps the forester made Bäumer into a parcel such as no girl in a store could have tied better or more securely, and all the while he reflected that by this “arrest” he would gain much credit with the old Geheimrat and the young Rittmeister, seeing that Bäumer was an arch rogue, a ring leader, a master thief, a poacher, an absolute thorn in the flesh of every landowner—all of which was proved by the staggard in his rucksack and the gun on his bicycle. Much more important than this credit, however, was the fact that in this riskless manner he was disposing for a long time of his most dangerous enemy, one who had often threatened to give him a beating should the forester ever dare to search his little wood cart. It must truly have been an act of divine providence, that rightly upsets and softens every steely resolve, which had given, helpless into his hands, an enemy who was a match for three men. And thus the forester tied the knots with a feeling of satisfaction such as if he had just experienced the greatest stroke of luck in his life.

Fräulein Jutta, of course, could have told him that one should not praise the bacon until the pig has been slaughtered.

VII

Wolfgang Pagel looked up and down the dark street near Wittenbergplatz, deserted except for a few hurrying pedestrians. It was shortly after midnight. There, where the square broadened out, a man was leaning against the wall of a house; he wore a cap, smoked a cigarette and, despite the summer heat, had his hands in his pockets—everything as it should be.

“That’s him,” said Wolfgang nodding. He felt suddenly cold—he was so near to his goal. Excitement and expectation gripped him.

“Who’s that?” asked von Studmann without much interest. It was a boring business to be dragged through half Berlin at night, dog-tired, just to be able to look at a fellow in a cap.

“The spotter!” said Wolfgang, ignoring the weariness of his two companions.

“I admire your knowledge of Berlin,” grumbled Rittmeister von Prackwitz. “It’s undoubtedly most interesting that that fellow is called a spotter. Do you mind at last telling us what you really have on?”

“Soon,” said Wolfgang, continuing to peer ahead.

The spotter whistled and disappeared into the brightness of Wittenbergplatz. A key rattled in a street door very close to the three men, but no one appeared.

“They have locked the street door; it’s still the old house, No. 17,” explained Pagel. “Now the police are coming. Let’s take a stroll round the square in the meantime.”

But the Rittmeister turned rebellious. Stamping his foot he exclaimed heatedly: “I refuse to be a party to this nonsense any longer, Pagel, if you don’t explain to us at once what you are planning to do. If it’s anything shady, then no thanks! I openly confess that I’m longing for my bed, and Studmann probably feels the same.”

“What’s a spotter, Pagel?” Studmann asked quietly.

“A spotter is someone who keeps a look-out to see whether the police are coming and whether the air is clear in general. And the man who locked the door quickly just now was the tout, who persuades people to come up.”

“So it’s something illegal!” cried the Rittmeister still more heatedly. “Thanks very much, my dear Herr Pagel. Count me out! I don’t like having anything to do with the police, another point in which I’m old-fashioned.”

He broke off, for the two policemen had come up. They were strolling along side by side, one sturdy and big, one little and fat, the storm straps of their shakos under their chins. The chains on which their rubber truncheons hung clinked softly. The noise of their hobnailed boots was re-echoed by the walls of the houses.

“Good evening,” murmured Pagel politely.

Only the tall one who passed nearest to the three turned his head a little, but he did not answer. Slowly the two pillars of order passed down the street. Only the sound of their hobnail boots disturbed the silence of the three. Then they turned into Augsburgerstrasse, and Pagel made a gesture of relief.

“Yes,” he said and felt his heart beat more calmly again, since he had feared that there might be some hindrance at the last moment. “Now they are gone we can soon go up.”

“Let’s go home, Studmann!” said the Rittmeister irritably.

“What’s up there?” asked Studmann, nodding his head in the direction of the dark house.

“Night club,” said Pagel. He looked toward Wittenbergplatz. From its brightness reappeared the spotter, coming slowly down the street, hands in pockets, cigarette in mouth.

“Disgusting!” exclaimed the Rittmeister. “Undressed women, watery champagne, nude dancers! I said it the moment I saw you! Come along, Studmann!”

“Well, Pagel?” asked Studmann, paying no attention to the Rittmeister. “Is that so?”

“Not at all! Roulette. Just a little roulette.”

The spotter had stopped some five paces away from them under a lamppost. He was looking thoughtfully at the light, whistling “Mucki, call me Schnucki!” Pagel knew that the fellow was listening, knew that he, the worst patron of all gambling clubs, had been recognized, and trembled lest he should be refused admittance. Annoyed at the others’ hesitation he shook the packet of money in his hand.

“Roulette!” cried the Rittmeister in astonishment. He came a step closer. “But is that allowed?”

“Roulette!” Von Studmann, too, was surprised. “And with that sort of swindle you put questions to Fate, Pagel?”

“The game’s played fair,” murmured Pagel in protest, his eye on the spotter.

“There has never yet been anyone who admitted that he lets himself be cheated,” Studmann objected.

“I once used to play roulette, as a very young lieutenant,” the Rittmeister said dreamily. “Perhaps we can just have a look at it, Studmann. Of course, I won’t risk a penny.”

“I don’t know,” said Studmann hesitantly. “It must be crooked. The whole sinister atmosphere. You see, Prackwitz,” he explained with some embarrassment, “I’ve naturally also gambled from time to time. And I don’t like … Hang it, once you’ve tasted blood and are in the mood I’m in today …”

“Yes, of course,” said the Rittmeister, making no move to go, however.

“Well, are we going up?” Pagel asked the two undecided men, who both looked at each other inquiringly, eager and yet not eager, afraid of the swindle, but more afraid of themselves.

“You can take a look at it, gentlemen,” said the spotter, pushing his cap carelessly higher and strolling nearer. “Excuse me for butting in.” He stood there, his pale face lifted to them, his little dark mousy eyes darting critically from one to another. “Won’t cost you anything to look. No charge for playing, gentlemen, no cloak-room fee, no alcohol, no women.… Just pure gambling.”

“Well, I’m going up now,” said Pagel firmly. “I’ve got to play today.”

Unable to wait any longer, he went hastily to the street door, knocked, was let in.

“Wait a minute, Pagel!” the Rittmeister called after him. “We’re also coming.”

“You ought to go with your friend, really,” the spotter said persuasively. “He’s got his head screwed on all right; he knows how to play. Hardly an evening goes by without him clearing off with his winnings. We all know him.”

“Who? Pagel?” cried the Rittmeister, astonished.

“We don’t know what his real name is, of course. With us the gentlemen don’t introduce themselves. We just call him the Pari Panther, because he always gambles only on pari.… And you should see how! He’s a real gambler, he is! All of us knows him. Let him go on ahead; he won’t lose himself in the dark. I’ll show you the way up.”

“So he plays a lot, does he?” von Studmann cautiously inquired, for Pagel’s case was beginning to interest him more and more.

“A lot?” said the spotter with unmistakable respect. “The bloke never misses an evening. And he always skims off the cream! We get infuriated with him sometimes. But he’s cool, I tell you; I could never be as cool as that bloke. It’s a miracle the way he can stop when he’s got enough in his pocket. I really oughtn’t to let him go up at all, they dislike him so much. Still, it doesn’t matter today, since you gents are with him.”

Von Studmann began to laugh heartily. “What are you laughing like that for?” the Rittmeister asked, at a loss.

“Oh, sorry, Prackwitz,” Studmann said, still laughing. “I always like hearing pretty compliments of that sort. Don’t you understand? They let the cool cunning Pagel go up because he is bringing us two idiots with him. Come along. I feel like having a fling now. Let’s see whether we two can’t also be cool and cunning.” And still laughing, he took the Rittmeister by the arm.

The spotter also laughed. “I seem to have put my foot into it proper. Still, you gents ain’t offended. And seeing as you’re not, you might perhaps give us a tip now. I don’t know, but from the looks of both of you, you won’t be coming down them stairs again with a fortune in your pockets.” On the landing he adroitly shone a light on the wallet which Prackwitz was searching for a tip.

“He really believes we won’t have a penny when we come out, Studmann,” the Rittmeister said irritably. “What a bird of ill-omen!”

“Wishing people a bit of bad luck has always helped in gambling,” said the spotter. And in a soft, persuasive tone: “I say, Baron, just another little note. I see you don’t know our rates yet, and me always standing with one leg, so to speak, in Alexanderplatz police station.”

“And me?” The Rittmeister, very angry at being reminded once more of the unlawfulness of this enterprise, was on the verge of exploding.

“You?” said the spotter sympathetically. “Nothing will happen to you. The most that happens to players is to lose their cash. Those who entice them into gambling have to go to jail. You see, I’m enticing you, Baron.”

A dark figure came down the stairs.

“Psst, Emil! These are the two gents with the Pari Panther. Take them upstairs; I’m going to keep a look-out. I’ve got a queer feeling in my stomach as if something might happen!”

The three men ascended. In a hollow whisper the spotter called after them: “Hi, Emil! Listen!”

“What do you want? You know you’re not to make a row!”

“I’ve already touched ’em for a tip! Don’t milk ’em a second time!”

“Oh, get off with you—better keep your eyes skinned!”

“Trust me, Emil. I’ll keep a good look-out, even if the ship sinks!”

He disappeared into the dark regions.

VIII

Wolfgang Pagel was already sitting in the gaming room. In some mysterious way the news of the large sum of money which the Pari Panther had exchanged for counters had made its way from the vestibule to the vulture-like croupier and his two assistants, and had obtained for him a place near the head of the table. Yet Pagel had changed only a quarter of his money with the gloomy sergeant major. Carelessly and hastily he had stuffed away the rest of the notes and had entered with his hand burrowing about in the cool bone counters in his tunic pocket. They rattled softly, with a pleasant dry sound. And this sound at once called up the image of the gaming table: the somewhat indifferently spread green cloth with the embroidered yellow numbers, under electric light that always seemed very peaceful despite all the noise going on around; and the spinning and rattling of the ball, the soft hum of the wheel. Wolfgang sucked in the air with a deep, almost relieved, breath.