An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (32 page)

“Crook?—” asked the Professor.

“Oh, just an expression we use nowadays—a burglar, I mean, Herr Professor. I will myself go and see your godchild today, and tell her everything. But you must take the next train to Berlin, go round to the bank the first thing tomorrow morning and draw out some money—say two thousand marks—and then come back here with the money and the bankbook.”

“Two thousand marks,” said the Professor. “I must make a note of that.”

“Do so at once. Here is a sheet of paper and a pen. But, my dear Professor, pray promise me to be careful. Don’t let anyone see your bank book. . . .”

“But at the bank? . . .”

“Well, certainly, they must see it at the bank, of course. Excuse me just a moment, but have you any holes in your pockets?”

Until half-past four in the afternoon, when the train left, the magistrate did not let the old gentleman out of his sight. Professor Kittguss had to listen to more talk
about money than he had ever heard in his life—the way in which money should be kept, the way in which it may be lost, and the way in which a man may be defrauded of it. And yet—in spite of all this earnest instruction—it fell to Magistrate Schulz to observe his white-haired pupil ask gravely at Kriwitz station for a ticket to Berlin, and then depart to the platform without any attempt to pay for it. And when the clerk yelled at him, and he felt in his pockets for money, there was none—neither teacher nor pupil had remembered that there could be none, since Rosemarie—

The little magistrate came to the rescue, while the Professor, imperturbable as ever, got into the train which had already been waiting three minutes for him and was carried off to Berlin.

“Well,” said the magistrate to himself, “I have two people to look after now; and I know which is going to give me the most trouble.”

The Professor entrains for Berlin
.

In which Rosemarie loses all her friends

W
E MUST PUT BACK OUR CLOCK:
in Unsadel it is still early afternoon. But it has seemed a very long time to Dr. Kimmknirsch since that cowardly little creature, Rosemarie Thürke, ran away. It was so easy, thought the young doctor, to trust a person and so hard to sacrifice that trust. However, he had lost his trust in Rosemarie forever. There could be no excuse; it
was
shameful to abandon a sick woman, it
was
shameful and it
was
cowardly, and no rain could ever wash that off. He was finished with her once and for all, and that was that.

The sick woman stirred and muttered something; he felt her pulse, which, as he expected, was normal. Her trouble lay elsewhere—in her head, in her brain, and the trouble was fear. Her spirit was straying in search of refuge from a life that seemed past all bearing. He did not need to understand, he knew what lay upon her mind, and some of her mutterings he understood only too well. Kimmknirsch would have something to say to the husband when he came back. Bromide and luminol,
by all means, but what she needed was a quiet careful life in the shelter of the wind. And he thought of her husband as he looked round at that filthy room.

Dr. Kimmknirsch sat at the bedside of his first patient, and the limits of a doctor’s powers were brought home to him already. Luminol and bromide, rest and temporary oblivion, but a word from the husband carried more weight than all Dr. Kimmknirsch’s knowledge and youthful enthusiasm.

He heard a door slam, a quick footstep, and Rosemarie stood in the room, flushed and breathless.

He looked up at her, then checked himself and glanced at his watch. “Ah, back again, are you? I suppose you’ve thought better of it. Will you relieve me for a bit?”

At these curt words her face changed as though she had been struck. She grew pale, her lips parted and her eyes widened. “I—” she began in a whisper.

“Someone must be with her all the time; when she wakes she very likely won’t be quite conscious, and she might do anything and in any case she must not be let out of bed. If she gets very restless, give her these tablets toward evening. Not before.” He got up and eyed her coldly.

“Herr Doctor,” she said imploringly, “I was so frightened about the Professor. I
had
to see what had happened to him.”

“As far as I can gather, the Professor is in perfect health and this is a very sick woman,” said the young doctor coldly. “I will come round the first thing tomorrow morning.”

He thought for a moment, but he felt so bitter that he would not spare her the hardest stroke of all. “May I
count on your being here still, or will you have run away again?” He almost glared at her as he spoke.

She quivered under the blow, but recovered in an instant; she was not weak or feeble, she could stand up when she was struck. “I can’t say definitely, Herr Doctor,” she answered in a low but level voice. “In any case, thank you for all your kindness.”

She looked at him steadily—and turned away.

Dr. Kimmknirsch—who was twenty-six years old—stood silent for a moment and then hurried from the room.

She stood motionless, her pale face bowed. A long, long time passed, hope came back into her heart, she began to think he could not have gone forever, he was waiting outside for a word from her.

Then she heard the car start with a roar, the rasp of the gears and then the hum of the engine fading into the distance. She was alone.

She picked up her cloak, went into her room and hung it up in the cupboard. When she saw the empty shelves, she thought for an instant of the parcel of underclothes hidden in the sand pit. She would have to fetch it some time that day, as she was going to take up her abode here again. But she had one trump in her hand; at last she could prove to the incredulous magistrate that Schlieker was a thief, and she would be rid of his authority—but what then? The Professor?—yes, there was the Professor. He had vanished, but he would turn up again, and perhaps he might even be prepared to settle down on the farm. But all her radiant dream of yesterday had faded.

“Yes, and what then?” It was the first time Rosemarie had asked this question of herself. She wanted more than
quiet and security and friends and a farm restored to prosperity—but what was it?

She shut the cupboard door and went into the kitchen. Schlieker could not arrive before at least another half hour. She had far outstripped his halting progress, but she still had a great deal to do. Sad and disconsolate, she set to work.

She made a fire, put on the potatoes for the pigs, and also peeled some potatoes for their own meal. She prepared everything for a bacon stew which would serve for dinner. Now and again she walked to the window and looked out for Schlieker. She wanted him to walk unsuspecting into the kitchen, with his pillowcase on his back, and find her there; his evil conscience might make him easier to unmask. The contents of the pillowcase, the food, would be something of a weapon in her hand.

The more formidable weapon, the stolen money, she could not use just yet. She had thought it all over with great care. If she mentioned it then and there, he would say that the money was lying in an open stable and that he had merely taken charge of it to return it to its lawful owner. But in three or four days he could no longer tell that story. She must be wily; the trap was set and her task now was to get the fox inside.

Her thoughts turned involuntarily to Schlieker’s trap by the dog kennel into which Philip had stepped. Once again she saw the blood-stained foot. There was something sinister about a trap—but she did not falter. It depended on who set the trap.

He would soon arrive. Once again she glanced out the window, poured some hot water into a basin, and began to wash.

Now and again she ran in to look at the invalid. Mali’s face had changed, her nose had grown peaked and prominent, the flesh about her mouth had sagged, her closed eyes had sunk in darkened sockets. She tossed her head from side to side, and muttered something. Rosemarie had to bend down close to hear.

“Let us go—let us go—let us go,” moaned the sick woman.

Rosemarie took the restless head between her hands. It lay still, and the lips were silent. But no sooner would she take her hands away than the restless muttering would begin again.

She went back into the kitchen to go on with her washing. Bitter as she felt, she could not help being moved by the transformation of her cruel adversary into this pitiful and helpless creature.

Rosemarie had a plate in her hand when Schlieker suddenly appeared in the kitchen without a word or a greeting and looked at her. She gripped the plate so tight that her fingers quivered—or were they quivering for another reason? He was no longer carrying the bundle.

Paul stood still and looked at her, gloating over her terror. “Didn’t the doctor tell you that you were to stay with Mali?—Go back to her at once! Look here, Marie,” he said softly, and walked right up to her, “don’t you think you’ll fool me because you’ve got some fine friends. I’m your master, and don’t you forget it!”

He stood so near her that his contorted face was barely an inch or two away. One eye glared at her, the other, almost closed, peered out of its slit. She could not meet his eyes, and as she looked away she caught sight of the
corner of the pocketbook in the breast pocket of his jacket. So he had the money on him! She hurriedly turned away in order not to betray herself.

“That young fellow can say what he likes,” he went on, “I know you’re up to something. You came back for some reason. Look at me.”

She looked at him—the baleful eye blazed.

“Now mark this, Marie: if I’m in for it, then you’re in for it too. And you can bet on that.” He lifted his hands, crooked his fingers into claws, and laid them round her neck. “I’ve got you and I’ll keep you.”

His two thumbs pressed against her larynx, softly first and then gradually harder. Rosemarie stared at him. “I mustn’t scream,” she thought, “I simply mustn’t scream—he’s only trying to frighten me.”

Outside, the hum of a motor approached and passed. The doctor must have met him and told him everything, she thought. She had not one friend left. The pressure was almost more than she could bear, the breath began to rattle in her throat. Had he told him that she had been in the hut? If so, she was done for!

“So now you know,” said Schlieker, gloating over her terror and suddenly releasing her. “Go in to Mali. Dinner? There won’t be any dinner today.”

She crept softly to the invalid’s bedside and sat down. Mali lay quite still, she seemed asleep. Rosemarie sat beside her, and time went on so slowly that it seemed an age before the sun gleamed in the corner of the window. And then, slowly, very slowly, the radiance slid across the floor. . . .

Schlieker busied himself about the house, in her room and at her windows. Very gently, in stockinged feet,
Rosemarie crept occasionally to the door, looked and listened. If only she could find out where he had put the money, the police would have an easier task. But he had hung up his jacket, and was working in his shirtsleeves. The money might be anywhere.

She soon discovered what he was about; indeed, he took little trouble to conceal it. He was fixing a bolt outside her door. He then proceeded to nail up the window sashes. He meant to imprison her. Well, only two or three days more, and she would be out of his clutches and beyond his threats. Then she would tell the magistrate about the money.

When she came back, the sick woman was watching her with open eyes. “What is he doing?” she asked softly.