An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (35 page)

Kimmknirsch had not replied to this dark threat, nor indeed did he say much on the subject. He too had been bitterly disappointed in Rosemarie Thürke, and found it hard to forgive her. But perhaps he ought to have made some further inquiries. It appeared from what Schulz said that by Schlieker’s account Rosemarie had run away in the afternoon—but in that case when had she thrown the fork? Before she ran away? Schlieker had not reported such an outrage to the magistrate. That sounded very improbable! But if she had not thrown it till evening, after the magistrate’s visit, then Schlieker had lied to Schulz, and she had been in the house while Schulz was there. But in that case why had she not appeared?

Something was wrong, that was obvious enough, and Kimmknirsch made up his mind to have a talk with the magistrate as soon as he reached Kriwitz.

But in the meantime he had another interview before him, for which, indeed, he had just reached the appointed place, though this was the open road between Unsadel and Kriwitz and there was neither hut nor house nor man nor woman in view. But there was a gate in the hedge where the dog had attacked the car on the previous day.

Kimmknirsch leaned his motorcycle against the gate and climbed over it. After all, she had called Hütefritz her friend, and he might well know a few things of which the magistrate and the doctor were still ignorant.

Hütefritz watched Rosemarie’s grand friend stalking across the damp stubble. This was clearly an excellent opportunity
to convey Rosemarie’s message, and save himself a long walk that evening. But it was also clear that this opportunity would not be used. This conceited puppy with a car and motorcycle, who had sat so familiarly beside Rosemarie on their journey to the farm, should learn nothing from him. Far better walk all those miles to see the judge!

Hütefritz considered the situation; he might pretend to be half-witted, but it would be better to keep out of the way. He called to the dogs (Bello was very efficiently helping him mind the cattle), and promptly drove the cows into Gau’s clover. There they would stand and eat, and whether he was there or not, they would not stray.

The doctor watched the enemy’s retreat. He did not pursue, but merely called out, “Hi—boy!”

Now Dr. Kimmknirsch ought to have known better. He had been born on a sheep run, he had lived ten or twelve years in the country, and he should have known that one does not address a lad of fourteen as “Hi—boy!” These were town manners. He had heard the boy’s name, and could have remembered it if he had tried. Hütefritz, or Fritz, would have been more effective.

The cows plunged with enthusiasm into the forbidden clover, the boy vanished behind a hedge. Dr. Kimmknirsch began to run, but as he dived behind the hedge, he saw the boy disappear round the farther end of it. He dashed back with a curse—he had hardly taken a doctor’s degree to play tag with village lads!

He had almost caught the boy, but Fritz knew a hole in the hedge and eluded him and Dr. Kimmknirsch could not bring himself to crawl through the hedge on all fours. So he shouted. The dogs who were guarding the cows
broke into a volley of barks. The doctor shouted again and darted round the end of the hedge. Just as he did so, he saw a jacket vanishing round the other end.

Then, to add to his discomfiture, a gust of wind flung a pattering shower into his face. Damn that boy—how on earth was he to catch him? The doctor dropped savagely on all fours and crawled through sloe bushes and briers and hazels.

There was the boy—a couple of paces away, but before the doctor could get up, the wretch was off. Kimmknirsch ran behind him over a fallow field, yelling “Hi! You’re wanted—to help—Rosemarie—against Schlieker!”

He might more easily have made an impression on a boy who was paralyzed and deaf and dumb; Fritz dived into a dripping wilderness of shrubbery, into which the doctor did not intend to follow him.

He turned, and walked back to his motorcycle in a towering rage. His shoes were squelching with moisture and caked with clay. His knees ached from crawling and his hands were filthy. If he could have got hold of Hütefritz, he would have given the lad a sound Upper Pomeranian thrashing. But that was just the trouble, he couldn’t get hold of the boy; he could neither question him nor thrash him. There seemed to be something fatal about this Rosemarie Thürke affair; whatever he attempted went wrong.

Hardly had he started the motorcycle than the boy leapt up from behind a hedge fifty yards away and gesticulated a scornful farewell. And as the doctor approached, he vanished like the little coward that he was!

There was no sense in trying again. The doctor rattled off in a fury, scattering mud and water as he went. He
reflected whether he should first change his clothes and then go to see the magistrate, or vice versa. He decided to change his clothes first.

But on that day Dr. George Kimmknirsch was completely out of luck. When he got to the magistrate’s house, he was told that Herr Schulz had gone off to hold a session at Kriiselm. It was not known when he would return, probably not before evening. And when he reached home, completely disgusted, and resolved to wash his hands of the whole affair, he found that no patient had appeared, but that the little magistrate had called and left a letter for him.

“Dear Doctor: Will you kindly meet Professor Kittguss at the two o’clock train? He will be carrying a large sum of money. Look after the old chap, and expect me about seven at the Archduke. You take an interest in the R. T. case; otherwise I would not bother you. Yours, etc.”

And so, at five minutes to two, Dr. George Kimmknirsch stood on the platform and awaited Herr Professor Kittguss whom he did not know.

The train ran into the station, twenty minutes late as usual, and from it emerged four women and Lau, the old peddler of skins, but no one else.

Everything seemed to go wrong in this Thürke affair. Until the next train at seven o’clock, Dr. Kimmknirsch had nothing to do but wonder what had happened to the old gentleman and curse the magistrate who had subjected him to this further annoyance.

He was not much soothed by a professional visit to his patient, Philip Münzer, who was now really getting on quite well. The boy had turned his bed and sickroom into
a carpenter’s shop and was busily carving wooden spoons for Stillfritz and for Kimmknirsch. The lad was happy—indeed, he was radiant; and the sight of him did in fact cheer the doctor up a little; all he wanted was to see his little friend and mistress again—just for a minute, couldn’t he, Herr Doctor?

“Tomorrow, Philip, tomorrow for certain,” lied the doctor against all his principles, and fled before the lad’s anguished questions as to Rosemarie’s welfare—questions to which he did not himself know any very satisfactory reply.

The rain came down in torrents, the wind whistled in the eaves and howled in the dining-room stove at the Archduke. The doctor had no other means of passing the time until the arrival of the seven o’clock train and the magistrate’s return than by chatting to the toping old landlord, Stillfritz.

“Oh, stop it, Stillfritz,” said the doctor at last, “I feel bad enough already. Get me a grog.”

“There you are,” said the astute landlord triumphantly, “I told you so. Everybody takes to drink—you will too.”

In which Professor Kittguss makes Frau Müller anxious and the horizon reddens

I
T SEEMED QUITE UNREAL
to Professor Kittguss to be standing in his quiet study at No. 19 Akazienstrasse, as though he had returned to some far-distant epoch. And Frau Müller’s greeting sounded equally unreal: “Thank God you are back again, Herr Professor! I began to think you were never coming back. But look at your collar—and your necktie! Your clothes are filthy and you’ve got thinner. Where is your bag? Yesterday morning someone came from the police to make inquiries about you. I was so frightened. Shall I get your dinner now or turn on your bath first? I suppose you will be settling down to work again now?”

An unfamiliar flow of words in that familiar room. But was it really so familiar? The Professor looked at the books, the papers on the writing table and the shelves, he smelt the air he knew so well, and drew a deep breath: “Could we have the window open, Frau Müller?”

“The window?” she said, and eyed him as though he
were some strange impersonation of Professor Kittguss. “But, Herr Professor, we only used to open the window in the bedroom. It is very stormy outside, and the papers might get blown about.”

“We will have a window open all the same,” said the Professor gently but firmly. “We must pack up the papers anyhow.”

“Pack up the papers?” Full of evil forebodings, Frau Müller opened the window. A gust of wind blew in, the curtains bulged, the papers stirred and rustled as though they had come to life. “There you are,” she said peevishly.

“We are probably going to move from here,” said the Professor. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to make the necessary preparations during my absence, Frau Müller? I have to go away again tomorrow morning.”

“Go away?—” asked Frau Müller with a bewildered air. “You are going to move?” she muttered. “Herr Professor,” she went on with an effort, “is it something to do with that dreadful boy?”

“Yes,” nodded the Professor, “the boy will be there. But he is a very good boy, Frau Müller.”

“But your clothes are so dirty, Herr Professor,” she wailed. “And what about your work?”

“Well,” said the Professor genially, “I dare say I shall be able to get to work again there. But—I don’t know yet; I have come to think rather differently about my work. We are going to live on a nice little farm. Frau Müller,” he said, trying to console the disconsolate creature, “with horses and cows and pigs.”

“Pigs!” she cried. “That horrible boy—I knew it, the
moment I saw him standing in the doorway. And the police have been making inquiries about you.”

“My dear Frau Müller,” said the Professor, “you are upset. I quite understand—so sudden a change in our way of life. It seemed strange to me at first. But when I was climbing over the fence in the forest—”

She stared at him and backed to the door. “Climbing over the fence,” she repeated tonelessly.

“Well, well,” said the Professor kindly, “I see we must have a good talk about all this later on. I shall be going off early tomorrow morning. And now I should like something to eat. And by the way, Frau Müller, I have been trying to remember all the way home where I left my keys.”

“Your keys?—”

“Yes, I see the drawer where I keep my savings bankbook is locked, so my keys must be somewhere.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, and looked at him.

“Don’t you know either? We must have a look for them. I want to draw out some money. I made a note of the amount. Here it is—yes, two thousand marks. I must get it the first thing tomorrow morning.”

“For that boy?—”

“But, Frau Müller, it isn’t just the boy—though he will of course be there. I have to think of my goddaughter, and some arrangement will have to be made with the Schliekers. And then I must pay back the money the magistrate lent me for my fare.”

“I don’t know anything about your keys,” said the Widow Müller with sudden brusqueness. “I’ll get your supper now, Herr Professor. And then you had better have a bath and a good sleep.”

She eyed him doubtfully and departed. The Professor watched her go, pulled the handle of the drawer, which remained shut, and looked vaguely round the room. His gaze fell on what he had written last. He read: “In the year 110, the thirteenth year of Trajan’s reign, the Nile rose only seven feet, as Harduinus proves from a contemporary coin. . . .”

It was four days since he had written those words, but it seemed more like four years. He shook his head and looked round him once again. How in the world would he spend his time in that dreary, lifeless room until the next morning? He gave another tug at the drawer. Locked. Still locked.

Neither the Professor nor his housekeeper slept well that night. Away in the country, at Unsadel, in the old cowshed, and on the top of the forest fence, the Professor’s decision had seemed quite natural to him. But the expression on the Widow Müller’s face made plain that it was nothing of the kind. There would be fresh conflicts and fresh difficulties.

But above all, where were the keys—that was the first and most important matter, where were they? The Professor would have to be at the bank by nine sharp, if he were to catch his train—and where were the keys? Did Frau Müller really know nothing about them? Her demeanor had been strange—very strange, she had been quite unlike her normal self.