Wolf Among Wolves (115 page)

“Certainly, Herr Lieutenant; should I see him I shall recognize him. May I go now?”

“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant, brooding. Then he spoke briskly, yet with embarrassment: “Listen, Räder, there is something else for you …”

“Yes, sir?”

“I require”—he hesitated—“I require a weapon. I have lost mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you manage that?”

“Certainly, Herr Lieutenant.”

“But it won’t be so easy to get hold of a pistol here today. And some ammunition, of course, Räder!”

“Of course, sir.”

“You are sure?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“About the money …”

“I shall be glad to assist the Lieutenant.”

“I have a little. But whether it will be enough for the taxi and the pistol …”

“I will settle that, sir—I’ll be back in an hour’s time then, sir.” Hubert Räder had gone without a sound.

The Lieutenant was alone. On the wall a little Black Forest clock was ticking. In the kitchen the landlady from time to time clattered about. He lay on the sofa in his underwear; his clothes were still drying in front of the stove.

He looked at the table where the empty cup stood next to the cognac bottle, three-quarters full yet. Slowly his hand groped over the table, and was withdrawn. “Herr Lieutenant requires a clear head.” He could hear Räder’s insufferable voice, always somewhat didactic.

Why should I want a clear head for that? he thought. Tell me why, you fool!

All the same, he didn’t pour himself out any more. Drunkenness was rising like a wave in him, to fall again and rise once more, higher. He looked at the clock. Twenty-five past five. He still had a good three-quarters of an hour alone to himself, continuing to live to some extent—then he would be hastening faster and faster to his end. He fixed his eyes on the minute hand. It moved infinitely slowly; no, it was not moving at all. The decrease in the little space between the minute and the hour hands was not perceptible. Yet all too suddenly it would be a quarter past six, and the last independent moments of his life would have expired. To rekindle his wrath he tried to think about Violet von Prackwitz, but Räder’s fishlike leathery face and dead gray eyes swung upwards on a new wave of drunkenness. The fellow never opened his mouth in talking, he thought in sudden disgust; I have never even seen his teeth. It’s certain he has nothing but rotten black stumps in his jaws. That’s why he doesn’t open his mouth to talk. It’s all moldy and putrid.

The Lieutenant wanted to look at the time again but couldn’t lift his head from the sofa.

He was asleep. He was sleeping away his last independent moments, sleeping, sleeping.…

The car drove through the night. In its white headlights the sodden trunks gleamed and were dark at once, vanished before the weary tormented eyes
had really perceived them. In the corner sat the Lieutenant, half recumbent, almost asleep still. A piercing headache hindered him from thinking clearly. He could not make out if it was true that in front, next to the chauffeur, the servant Räder was sitting. It seemed to him that he had not wanted this disgusting fellow to come. Then, however, it occurred to him that the servant was paying for the car, though. Let him, therefore, drive his car as much as he wished; the chief thing was that he should go back immediately.

The lieutenant was almost happy that he’d found this solution, despite his headache. All was in order and good; the fat man, too, had not caught him. From now on everything would go of itself; he would be driven right up to the place—and then it was nothing but a little click. Only a click, that was all. The simplest thing in the world, about which there was no need to trouble oneself. He had seen it many a time.…

Anxiously he felt in his pockets and on the seat. Had the servant given him the pistol or not? He had been so drowsy on coming away, he could not remember; and he felt angry at finding nothing but the bottle of cognac beside him. Look at that! Sleepy as he was, he had not forgotten that. Wet my whistle with cognac, he thought, taking a good gulp from the bottle.

The alcohol washed away his drowsiness. Like a flame the thought rose in him: I am nothing but a coward.

The flame died down. “But you will do it,” whispered intoxication. “The chief thing is that you should do it. No one will ever know that you were cowardly about it.”

“Yes, the fat detective knows it!” said his understanding.

“Fat lot I care about him!” whispered intoxication.

“Both of you leave me in peace!” grumbled the Lieutenant.

It was now light in the car, a sort of twilight rapidly becoming brighter.

What’s that now, he thought wearily. Am I not going to be left in peace at all?

But the brightness became stronger; the servant was turning round, half standing up. Was the car on fire? Räder said something to the chauffeur, a horn sounded, a horn replied. And a large car passed swiftly by. Gone! The Lieutenant was in darkness again.

Räder opened the panel in front. “That was the Rittmeister’s car,” he shouted, and there seemed to be triumph in his words.

“Good,” answered the Lieutenant indistinctly. “Good. I always told you so, Räder. The wishes of the dying are fulfilled.”

On the unrepaired country road the car was bumping terribly. “The young lady must have recovered, then,” shouted the servant.

“Hold your jaw!” he yelled, and Räder closed the panel.

He must have fallen asleep again, waking up because the car had come to a stop. Laboriously he heaved himself up; he was half off the seat. Managing to get hold of the door handle he stumbled out.

They were right in the forest, in an inconceivable stillness. No breath of wind, no drop of rain. In front, ten or twelve paces from the car, stood two men, who seemed to be examining the ground.

“Hi! You! What are you doing there?” shouted the Lieutenant, lowering his voice even as he shouted.

The servant turned, walked slowly up to him and stood a couple of paces in front. “Yes, we’re there,” he said softly. “You only need to follow the car tracks, Herr Lieutenant.”

“What car tracks?”

“Of the car, Herr Lieutenant! Of the Entente Commission’s car.”

“How can I do that in the dark?” asked the Lieutenant impatiently.

“Oh, I have a flashlight,” replied the servant patiently. He waited a moment, but the Lieutenant said nothing. “Are you going now, sir?” he asked at last.

“Yes, now,” said the Lieutenant mechanically. “Give me the thing.”

“Here is the torch, Herr Lieutenant, and here—you must excuse me, sir, I could only get a revolver. But it’s quite new.”

“Hand it over. I shall manage with it.” Without examination he pushed the revolver into a pocket. “Well, I’ll go now.”

“Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”

But he did not go.

“Listen,” he ordered, suddenly vehement. “You’re to drive back on the spot. I don’t want you here, you understand? You’re a swine. What you’ve told me is nothing but lies. But—it’s all the same to me. You think you’re very clever, don’t you? But that’s all the same, too. Clever or stupid, swine or decent—we’ve all got to die.”

“If I might make an observation, Herr Lieutenant …”

“What else? You go away.”

“It is always possible that there’s somebody there. It’s not nine yet. And people are inquisitive. I should go as quietly as possibly, Herr Lieutenant.”

“Yes, yes.” The Lieutenant suddenly laughed. “I’ll be delighted to go as quietly as you wish, my clever Herr Räder. But you will allow me a little noise, surely, just once, just for once, eh?” He stared at the other with hatred. “Clear off, you. I can’t bear the sight of your mug any longer. If you don’t, I swear to God I’ll fire on you first.”

But when the pair were in the car, he made a sign to wait. He had forgotten something, something enormously important, something without which a
man could on no account die; and he looked for it in the car, on the back seat, under the rug that had slipped down. Then he slammed the door. “Off with you! To hell, for all I care.”

The car moved away, the noise of its engine loud among the trees. In his damp and imperfectly cleaned trench jacket the Lieutenant stood at the roadside, the bottle of cognac in his hand. The last two people he would see in this life had gone. Very well, what of that? The cognac had remained with him—faithful unto death!

He listened intently. He was trying to persuade himself that the sounds he heard came from a motor car, and that he was not altogether alone. But it was so still, so still! And what he heard, that was his own heart beating in his breast—in fear! In cowardice!

He shrugged his shoulders; he was not responsible for his heartbeats. He pushed out his lips as if he were going to whistle, but there was no sound. They trembled.… My lips are trembling, my mouth is parched.

He looked up but could not see the sky. Dark, an uncomforting starless dark. There was indeed nothing more for him but to go down into the Black Dale. There was no discoverable pretext why he should postpone this any longer.…

In the beam of his torch the Lieutenant made out the car tracks. He followed them stealthily and slowly. They were not the tracks of one car only. No, two had been there. And after a little consideration he nodded his head, satisfied. It was all in order, exactly as it ought to be—the car of the Control Commission, and the lorry which had taken away the weapons. That is, it had not been a proper lorry, as one could see by the tire tracks. It was more a large delivery van. Again he nodded his head with satisfaction. Yes, his brain was working magnificently. He was not going into the grave as a withered gaffer, in the full vigor of his years—or whatever it said in the death notices. There would be no death notice for him, however.

Ah-ha! This was where the car had stopped, not being able to go any lower into the Dale. A pedestrian, though, didn’t need to hesitate over that; the path for pedestrians was trodden out clearly enough. The Lieutenant went to and fro, examining everything with his torch. Yes, all in the best of order once more. The visitors, after they had stopped here, had driven on in the direction of Neulohe. All had been carried out according to orders, “comprehensibly,” as that swine Räder would have said. Oh, that swine, that dog!—thank Heaven he had cleared off. In the woods there was not the slightest smell of women, and thus a man could settle his affairs with himself at last, alone. No need to pull a handsome mug, strike a fine pose. If you itched, you scratched yourself. If you wanted a nip from the bottle you took it, and afterwards belched.
Quite free and easy. Oh, yes. A baby, hardly entering on life, behaved itself somewhat shamefully; and it was the same before death. Coming out of nothingness, going into nothingness, one conducted oneself pretty coarsely. It was all comprehensible. Said the scoundrelly Räder.

A ghostly pleasure penetrated the Lieutenant. His last draught of cognac had been a powerful one, and he fell rather than walked down the little footpath. But at the bottom his cheerfulness vanished, and his spinning inebriation turned into a viscous mush.…

His face became grave. What a havoc the fellows had made here! They had certainly not put themselves out, those people. Great holes in the ground, mounds of earth, the lids of cases—why, here in the light of the torch lay a spade. I hid everything so neatly, he thought. And these swine have turned it all upside down. You couldn’t notice a thing when I’d finished, and look at it now!

Very depressed he sat down on a mound of earth, dangling his legs in a pit. One about to die could not really sit in a more suitable fashion—but he was not thinking about that now. He put the bottle beside him in the soft earth, dived into his trouser pocket and brought out the revolver. With one hand he shone the torch on it, with the other held it in the light and fingered it. Yes, he had thought as much—a bit of rubbish, factory trash, mass production—a popgun, good to scare away dogs or for youngsters who had stolen the petty cash to commit suicide with—but not for him, a man who understood weapons. Oh, his fine accurately finished pistol, a thing as precise as an airplane engine! The detective had hit him in the belly and stolen the magnificent thing.

Wretchedly the Lieutenant stared in front—and then discovered that there were only the six cartridges in the drum—that villain Räder hadn’t given him any ammunition, although he had specially requested some.

“But I have to try the revolver, it’s quite new, it’s never been shot yet,” he whispered. “I wanted to try it out first; otherwise I won’t know whether it shoots too high or too low.”

A voice sought to persuade him that it was quite indifferent, with a revolver placed against the temple, whether it shot too high or no, but he would not give way. “I was looking forward to trying it. A man ought to be allowed a little pleasure.”

Grief overwhelmed him; he could have wept. It is possible to miss six times, he thought; it has happened before now. And what would I do then?

He sat there pale, with hanging underlip, his eyes wandering all round him. His face was distorted, not so much from the blows as from an expression of desperate fear; he knew that he was acting, that he was only seeking to postpone the end. But he would not acknowledge it. He was not thinking any
longer about this end: oh, no, there was still so much to prepare, to consider. He remembered that he had not thought about Violet for a long time. Hate and loathing for the girl had possessed him. He would like to experience those emotions once more.

But there seemed to be room in his breast only for this wretched uneasiness, this damnable flabby feeling, this weakness! I’m no abomination of a Black Meier. No, I swear it, I do not want to be better, I do not want to change myself. I was all right as I was, with teeth to bite, a wolf among wolves.

He took a long pull at his bottle. It gurgled as he drank, it gurgled as he put it down—but, curse it, that wasn’t the only noise he had heard! Up he jumped, revolver in one hand, torch in the other. “Who is there?” he screamed wildly into the wood. “Stand, or I’ll shoot.”

He listened. Nothing! But someone was prowling about. Where? Over there? In the bushes? “Stand or I’ll shoot.” Oh, I heard it all right, the noise of the engine suddenly ceasing in the forest; that swine, that Räder, must have stopped. He’s dodged after me, he wants to see if I shoot myself, get his money’s worth. There! There! I heard something then. “Stand.” Bang!