An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (36 page)

He was well aware that there were persons called locksmiths, whose profession it was to open locks, but how was such a person to be found without Frau Müller’s help? The Professor decided to have a serious talk with Frau Müller in the morning—the keys must be somewhere.

While the Professor was meditating in his study, Frau Müller was meditating in her kitchen. She did not, in fact, know where the keys were. But she did not need to know, for the object that the keys were to produce for Professor Kittguss—the bankbook—was in her possession! She had not had it long, only three hours, for she had taken it from the Professor’s clothes in the bathroom.

The little magistrate had been very indignant with the Professor for his carelessness in leaving the book in his Berlin flat, whereas all the time it had been quietly reposing in his breast pocket.

It could hardly have been anywhere else. Four days before, the Professor had taken it out of his writing table and with the book in one hand and his black bag in the other, he had made his way to the savings bank. There he had drawn out two hundred and fifty marks, the money had found its way into his pocketbook, the pocketbook into his right breast pocket, and the bankbook into the left one. Then the Professor went off to the railway station to encounter all those adventures we have narrated here.

The bankbook was forgotten, and Frau Müller was sitting up over it in bed, with the light still on, fascinated by the sum total recorded there. It was really a fantastic figure for a savings bankbook that was so cavalierly treated. And all this was to be handed over to those robbers, and to that abominable boy. Never—the Professor deserved better than that. The Widow Müller switched off the light and went to sleep, with the book clutched in her hand, firmly resolved that such a thing should never happen.

The Professor awoke early, soon after seven, but Frau
Müller must have awakened earlier still, for the breakfast was already laid. The coffee stood under a glass ball, two eggs lay in a basket under a warm woolly cover, and there were real Berlin rolls, fresh butter, marmalade—all just as the Professor liked it.

Notwithstanding the wind and rain outside, the Professor breakfasted with satisfaction and an excellent appetite. Then he got up and called for Frau Müller, but she did not come. Perhaps she had gone out for a moment on some household affairs; the Professor decided to wait, though it was already half-past eight.

He paced impatiently up and down. He ought to have started long ago, for his train would not wait and he must catch it, but she did not come. It was strange how quickly the time passed, and stranger still how angry the Professor became with his faithful old housekeeper. It almost seemed as though the woman had purposely kept out of the way in order to avoid an explanation about the keys.

About twenty minutes past nine the Professor decided to wait no longer. He had not a minute to spare. Indeed, he would very likely miss the train.

The Professor closed the door of his flat. The simplest way is always the best way. He would go to the savings bank, the clerk would recognize him, the money after all was his and he could get it. It was the fate of savings bankbooks to get mislaid; his case would not be unique.

It was in a mood of rather angry resolve, for he had been a good deal ruffled by his housekeeper’s tiresome behavior, that he marched up to the counter and said curtly: “I am Professor Kittguss of 19 Akazienstrasse. I have mislaid my bankbook. Would you please give me two thousand marks? I will give you a receipt for it.”

The clerk behind the counter peered at him through shining spectacles, and pursed his lips, as though about to whistle.

“Quick, please,” said the Professor gravely, “I have to catch a train in half an hour.”

“Certainly! Certainly!” said the clerk hastily, assuming an obvious mask of affability that struck even the Professor. “This gentleman deals with lost bankbooks—would you be so kind as to follow him?”

He looked at the Professor with rather a nervous smile.

“Pardon me, Herr Professor,” said an older and imposing personage in a morning coat, who had suddenly appeared, “may I lead the way?”

“But you must be quick,” said the Professor abruptly.

“We shall not keep you two minutes, Herr Professor,” said the other gravely, and piloted the Professor out of the front office into a passage. Two other gentlemen followed the Professor. The leader knocked at a door. “Herr Director Kunze,” he said in a low tone as he entered, “here is the customer in question.”

The Professor stepped into the room. Behind a writing table sat a fat red-faced man with a bald head, who looked up at him expectantly. And beside this complete stranger, in a chair, sat—the Professor could not believe his eyes—the Widow Müller! Müller, for whom he had been waiting all this time, her face wet with tears!

“Herr Professor,” she sobbed, and started from her chair, “do forgive me, I had to do it. I’ve been with you twenty years, and we’ve saved such a nice lot of money, and now you’re going to give it away to these ruffians! Herr Professor, you must please not mind, but I’ve told these gentlemen all about it, and they agree.”

“Stop!” said the director, raising his hand. “We have, of course, formed no opinion. What this woman, your housekeeper, has told us, is a little confused. However! Pray, Professor, take a seat, and explain how your savings bankbook got into your housekeeper’s hands.”

“Woman,” said the Professor reproachfully, “you are going to make me lose my train. And Herr Schulz, the magistrate, will be expecting me with the money.”

“Magistrate,” whispered the two men, as though he had spoken a magic word, and Frau Müller dried her tears.

Then followed a long debate, a telephone call to Kriwitz,
which was transferred to Kriiselin, while Frau Müller wept intermittently.

The Professor got his money and an apology as well—but he did not catch his train. There was nothing to do but wait for the next one.

At the station under the solitary gas lamp, two gentlemen, Herr Schulz and Dr. Kimmknirsch awaited him. “The Professor at last! What have you been up to all this time?”

The three men walked side by side in the darkness down the main street in Kriwitz to the Archduke. It was twenty minutes past seven, just the right time for supper. The Professor was telling his story, and as he talked Dr. George Kimmknirsch caught sight of someone. The Professor saw nothing, the magistrate did not know who it could be—but there, at the corner of the station, was the lad with the tousled hair with whom he had most reluctantly played a game of tag that morning.

Hütefritz made up his mind to follow the three men. He wanted to get hold of the magistrate, since Rosemarie’s message concerned him alone. The boy detested the sight of the young doctor who had driven Rosemarie in the car—and now here was this old scarecrow again who always turned up when he wasn’t wanted. Would the three of them never separate?

He followed them as far as the Archduke, into which they disappeared. He did not feel like going into a crowded dining room to deliver his message—he would wait by the outside door.

The two younger men were delighted with the Professor’s story.

“I thought something was up, my dear Herr Professor,
when I got that telephone call from Berlin, but I hadn’t imagined all this. Well, here’s to the Widow Müller! Just think, Herr Professor, if she had been thievishly inclined—”

“But why should she be?” asked the Professor in a puzzled tone. “She has been with me for more than twenty years.”

“That’s just why,” said the magistrate, as he looked almost gloomily at the total in the bankbook. “This is a sum of money that might put a strain on the most tender conscience. Stillfritz, ink and pen and paper. My dear Herr Professor, I never did believe in overtaxing one’s guardian angel. Allow me to unburden him a little. Now give me your bankbook. There—I see you have drawn out two thousand, two hundred and fifty marks today—here are fifty marks; no, twenty marks are quite enough for you, aren’t they, Doctor?”

“Quite,” said Dr. Kimmknirsch.

“Very well then, I will give you a receipt on the spot, Herr Professor.”

“That is not at all necessary, I am so grateful to you.”

“It is most necessary. Well, Stillfritz?”

“There’s a boy outside, sir—that wants to speak to you urgently.”

“Confound it,” said the magistrate resignedly, “another murder, I suppose.” He got up and left.

The doctor and the Professor eyed each other and smiled a little awkwardly.

“Have you known my godchild for long?”

“No, I only met her a few days ago.”

“So did I,” said the Professor. “Are you a doctor?”

“Yes,” said the young doctor, “a doctor without a practice.”

“That will come. It will all come,” said the Professor encouragingly. “You did not make my godchild’s acquaintance in your capacity as doctor?”

“Partly,” said Dr. Kimmknirsch.

“Oh—” said the Professor in alarm.

But before he could say any more the magistrate hurried back.

“Doctor, there’s nothing else to do, you must get Tangelmann’s car at once. We must go out to Unsadel immediately.”

“Indeed?” asked the doctor and jumped up.

“Is it?—” began the Professor.

“Yes, a message from Rosemarie Thürke. Schlieker was lying; she hadn’t run away. It’s a nasty story if it’s true. He’s keeping her shut up, and he’s stolen your money, Herr Professor. Come along, I will fetch Constable Gneis and put this money under lock and key. We’ll meet here. Stillfritz, let the boy sit by the stove and give him something to eat. Now, Doctor, be as quick as you can. I feel very uneasy.”

It was almost an hour before they started. Gneis was not to be found at once, and it proved difficult to extract the garage key from Tangelmann, who was asleep. The car sped into the darkness, with doctor and professor, magistrate and constable, and Hütefritz.

The roadside hedges stood up like ghosts in the glare of the headlights. The west wind roared in their faces, and the little magistrate shouted, “It all looks quite peaceful. But I’ve got a damned unpleasant feeling in my insides. We shouldn’t have sent her back.”

No one replied, the car sped on.

“Hi!” cried the constable. “Stop!”

The doctor jammed on his brakes. “What’s the matter?” he asked angrily.

The constable raised a finger. “Listen. . . .”

“What is it?”

A faint booming sound. . . .

“The bell, the Unsadel bell. . . . Look, sir. . . . Over there. . . .”

“What in God’s name is the matter, Gneis?”

But they all saw it. . . .

It was as though a blood-red moon had risen. Then the moon dissolved, and tall, bright red tongues of flame shot up into the darkness and a dusky glare stained the horizon.

It was a fire—a fire in Unsadel!

“And Rosemarie is shut up there!” cried Hütefritz.

“Hurry, Doctor, hurry!” shouted the magistrate, and clapped him on the shoulder.

The car leapt forward like a live thing toward the deepening glare.

In which Rosemarie Thürke fights her battle alone

S
TORM AND RAIN
, lowering clouds, a gray interminable day. Rosemarie paced up and down her little room. Yes, if the doctor did come now, she would call out to him and implore him to take her away. Never mind if he was angry with her. She did not care. Her fear was all that mattered now. As the hours passed and the rain pelted down and the wind roared, fear laid hold upon her; it whistled through the keyhole, it rattled against the windows. Fear stalked about the house. Her fear was not of Paul Schlieker. He fetched her silently from her room and set her to some task, stood darkly at her side, coughing, and then shut her up again. It was fear of the woman, Mali, who strayed about the house, silent, pale, and vacant, crossed the yard and fumbled for three minutes on a blank wall for a door handle that was not there. Her face was so utterly without expression that it seemed as though an inner and consuming flame had dried it up.