An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (30 page)

And to fill the measure of her fear to overflowing she found the second trap in the yard beside the empty dog kennel. Its open jaws with their sharp iron fangs looked so malignant that she fetched a log of wood and thrust it between them. The teeth closed with a crash, and holding the trap by the log, she flung it over the wall into a patch of weeds. For a moment she stood panting, but she knew only too well that even more evil fangs were menacing one who belonged to her and whom she loved.

So she promptly darted into the forest and ran in the direction of the old cowshed. Being light and a good runner, she could keep up a brisk trot without getting out of
breath. But it was a long way, and even the best runner could not have trotted the whole distance.

While running she kept her eyes on the ground, lest she might stumble over a root or stone; but when she dropped to a walk, she peered at the trees and the edges of the path, as though in search of something. Rosemarie’s eyes were not city eyes like those of the Professor, which looked at the forest but saw nothing. Rosemarie noticed the tiny punctures made by Schlieker’s stick, and in a clayey patch she recognized the impression of Schlieker’s shoes, which she had so often cleaned. It was quite clear that he had made for the shed, and she, for all her craven fear, ran after him. Herr Schulz and his friend, Herr Doctor Kimmknirsch, might scorn her terror—and they were right, she was indeed afraid. Nevertheless, she was running in pursuit of Schlieker.

But something inside her mastered that terror. Even three years of Schlieker tutelage had not turned her into a fawning creature like Bello. She acted in fear—but she acted.

Did she know Schlieker’s mood as he made his way along that forest path? Was he marching like a conqueror, gloating at the prospect of bringing back his prisoner to jail? No, the trail he left behind him ruled out any such idea; ferrule holes would be missing for a space during which Paul had clearly laid about him with his stick. There were patches of weeds where the stick had worked havoc with the lush autumn herbage; a beech branch ruthlessly smashed; a young and sturdy spruce, with its lovely, tapering, needled point lopped off forever by a stroke of Schlieker’s stick.

Rosemarie trotted on. At last she approached the shed
in the forest. Here, where the trees were older, there was little undergrowth, and she had to walk more warily; the enemy might be right ahead of her. She glided from trunk to trunk, holding one hand against her throbbing heart; then the forest dimness lifted and she saw the little clearing, the old gray low-roofed shed, bathed in yellow sunlight. The half-open door creaked faintly in the breeze.

From behind a silver birch she looked and listened, listened and looked. The sun and wind, the silence and peace could not deceive her; the enemy was at hand, and being quiet he was doubly dangerous. She longed to hear a word, a cry, even the sound of a struggle—that would have made it easier to muster up courage and go in. From far off a jay screeched, like a burst of scornful laughter, and then all was still. Cautiously she crept round the clearing, and when she was opposite the blank rear wall of the old shed, she darted resolutely out of the shadow of the trees, ran across the clearing, and flattened herself against the wall.

Not a sound: she pressed her ear against the bricks—not a sound. And in that deep, mysterious, agonizing silence she could hear the heavy thudding of her heart; slow at first, as though gathering strength to face what lay before her, then quicker, until her limbs throbbed and her ears rang, as though she were in the church tower at Kriwitz while the bells were ringing. Then a mist settled upon her eyes, slowly dissolving into the frightful vision of an old man lying on the floor. An evil foxy face bent over him, with glittering eyes and bared yellow teeth.

Then the visions faded, her heart beat more lightly and her eyes cleared—a dry cough came from within the stable: Schlieker.

So he was alone. She recognized that dry cough, he always coughed like that when he was alone and thinking.

She edged round the corner of the shed, and slunk very softly along the wall keeping her eyes on the ground, watching for every pebble and every twig.

Under the window, she stopped and listened, but it was shut and she heard nothing. She crept on, not relaxing her caution for one instant. Noiselessly she approached the next corner, and glided round it. Right in front of her, not two yards away, the door stood half open. If Schlieker came out, he could not fail to see her.

But she went on. Her mood had changed strangely. The silence and the cough had convinced her that Schlieker was alone in the hut, there was no Professor in need of help, and she could run away. But she did nothing of the kind. She crept on, for her curiosity outweighed her fear.

Now she had reached the door. Slipping behind it, she could see into the shed through the gap between the wall.

She could take in barely more than a corner of the room, including the wooden chair and the head and middle of her bed. The rest of that part of the room was empty, but she could hear Schlieker moving where she could not see.

If she had moved to the farther side of the doorway, she could have seen him: but then she would no longer be covered by the door, and her shadow would fall across the threshold. No, she was better where she was.

She noticed, too, that the chair by the bed was not empty—on it lay the provisions the children had brought: bread and eggs, some paper bags and a sausage. Then—and her heart began to throb once more—a
shadow stepped into her field of vision! It was Schlieker. She caught a brief glimpse of a ravaged face, a blackened eye, a split and battered lip. Then the man turned his back and a bony hand laid some more paper bags and a slice of ham on the chair.

Rosemarie realized that even though Schlieker had found neither the Professor nor herself, he did not mean to have the journey in vain. His greed never flagged and all this food might come in useful. As he stood up, his face twitched, he clapped a hand to his chest and muttered a curse—he was clearly in pain. For a moment he lingered, looking toward the doorway out into the clearing. Then he stepped on to the threshold.

He was now so near that but for the door between them, he could have touched her. Yet she could see only the blue stripes on his jacket. She was terror-stricken—surely he must feel her eyes upon him. She shut her eyes tight, but at once she realized with horror that she could no longer tell what he was doing. He might discover her at any moment, seize her, and beat her. A shriek rose into her throat, she could hardly hold it back. Would he never move?

At last she heard a sound. The footsteps moved away. Slowly, but still weak with fear, she opened her eyes. Before her she saw the gray blistered timber of the door and she stared at it with parted lips. Gradually she realized that the danger was past, and again she peered through her gap.

She was thankful to notice that the corner was clear, he was occupied somewhere out of sight. She turned her head, and looked gratefully at the sunlit clearing, the rich foliage, and gradually grew calm once more.

After a while Schlieker came back into view, with the Professor’s bag in his hand. Again she was afraid, and this time it was no mere flush of panic. Perhaps the Professor had gone for a walk and might be back at any moment. Again she glanced out at the clearing: it was empty. She turned, and looked back at the man. He was now emptying out the bag on to the floor. He eyed the little heap—spotless white shirts, socks, underwear, and a spectacle case. Rosemarie had an excellent view of Schlieker’s face; it was grinning. This was the Schlieker of her dreams and fears, this was the Schlieker known to her alone, a devil who worked evil, not because it brought him gain, but because he loved it.

Schlieker raised a leg, and trampled on a spotless shirt-front, until Rosemarie heard the rip of tearing linen. She felt she must have shrieked aloud, but the man had clearly heard nothing. He stamped and kicked at the Professor’s belongings, flinging them about in a kind of ecstatic fury—this was a world of ruin that he understood. His face was flushed, his teeth glittered, and as his antics grew still wilder, a fit of dry, sharp coughing seized him. He stopped and leaned against a chair back. When the attack had passed, he looked with a vacant and abstracted air at the wreckage beneath his feet. Then he began to repack the bag.

It was time for her to go. Soon he would be finished and the risk of discovery increased with every minute. But she did not leave for, well as she knew the man, she was baffled. Surely he would not take the bag with him? The food was no proof against him, it could not be identified; the torn linen might be ascribed to a passing tramp;
but the bag? She knew him—for all his greed he never let it make him reckless.

As though their thoughts had met, he suddenly looked up from his packing, glanced at the door, pursed his lips into a whistle, and pondered.

It is dreadful to look at such a man when he believes himself alone. All that has been so carefully concealed comes suddenly to light; the mask slips off. She saw into his very brain and heart, and shuddered.

The man took the things out of the bag again, flung them to the ground and looked about him, apparently in search of something. Then he went to Rosemarie’s bed and picked up the pillow. She realized at once that he was going to stuff the things into the pillowcase, and she was terrified: he could hardly fail to see it now!

He had already begun to unbutton the pillowcase when he happened to glance at the bed, dropped the pillowcase and stretched out a hand.

He had seen the hidden money!

Rosemarie was wild with rage—she ached to leap upon the thief: but she did nothing. She stared at him—at that evil and triumphant smile, those narrow lips, those greedy, hard, and glittering eyes. She watched him count the money, first with greedy haste, then slowly and with relish. The pocketbook vanished inside his coat, and then, with a clink of silver, the purse vanished too.

The man looked round with quite a different expression, a sly, quick, furtive glance that yet was full of menace. Rosemarie shivered. And she knew that a murderer looked like this when he has resolved upon his deed.

But Schlieker thought himself alone. Then, in sudden
haste, he began to bundle the things into the pillowcase.

Rosemarie, too, had no time to lose. Slowly and softly at first, and then more quickly, she slipped out of her hiding-place, crept round the corner of the house, past the window and ran at top speed into the forest. She kept out of sight among the trees until she had almost reached the path to Unsadel, where she stood and waited until she saw Paul Schlieker pass her, carrying the pillowcase. He limped as he went, but it was not merely the bundle that made him do so. And he coughed continually.

Then she dashed off, keeping well away from Schlieker, and running as fast as she could so as to get to Unsadel, to the sick woman, and to the doctor before he could arrive.

She had Schlieker in the hollow of her hand, she thought triumphantly.

In which the Professor travels with empty pockets to Berlin to see about some money

T
HREE HOURS OF PATIENT INVESTIGATION
in the village of Porstel, interspersed with a good deal of shouting on the part of the magistrate, had been needed to illuminate the local gossip. Finally the Widow Radefeldt had to admit that her observations on Frau Tamm’s antecedents, marriage, character and capacity had no foundation in fact. And, as a result, eighteen distinct slanders by other villagers collapsed.

Magistrate Schulz, enthroned behind his desk, had had to threaten and implore, cajole and warn, use all the resources of guile and bluff. Above all, he shouted as he never had before, until he had fairly cowed the assemblage into subjection. And now he could glimpse the prospect of a compromise, which is so much more of a triumph for a magistrate than a dozen actions for slander.

He wiped his forehead, his voice grew soft and unctuous, as the scapegoat—if she can be so described—the
Widow Radefeldt, fought a final rearguard action over the signature of the statement for the local newspaper, recording her fine and her apology.

At that moment the door opened gently and Sergeant Thode, with only the faintest clink of his saber, tiptoed up to the judge’s desk.

“Thode!” muttered Schulz reproachfully, and renewed his efforts to mollify the Widow Radefeldt.

“There’s a gentleman outside,” muttered Thode mysteriously.