Wolf Among Wolves (119 page)

The girls, to be sure, sobbed. Oh, how the fat cook howled when the handcuffs were put on her lover, the convict Matzke! She pulled her apron over her head, howling beneath it like a puppy—she was so ashamed.

Pagel, looking in to hurry up the gendarmes, for Fräulein Violet seemed more important now than these convicts, saw Amanda Backs, that strapping buxom wench, standing at a window, her face curiously tense. She was watching with furious eyes the drunken, sobbing, cursing, hilarious uproar in the room—since there were not enough gendarmes to shut off the place, far too many of the merely curious had entered.

Pagel had a feeling of disappointment. Only yesterday he had thought her splendid when, in front of the Entente Commission, she boxed the ears of the traitorous Meier. “You too?” he said in a troubled voice.

Amanda Backs looked him full in the face. “Your brain soft?” she said contemptuously. “I’ve had enough of rotters. No, thanks, I’m cured of that. If there isn’t a decent one, then I’d rather not.” Pagel nodded. “I sleep downstairs because of the hens,” she explained. “I’ve got to get up early and mustn’t disturb madam. But
they
all sleep upstairs. I knew about it, of course—they’re nothing but a lot of geese, and there’s no geese without cackling.” She looked at the turmoil. “I wonder if they’ve noticed yet?” she said thoughtfully. “I can’t understand it. There should be five of them, and they’ve only got four. I don’t know whether the fifth has escaped or was never here at all.”

Pagel’s eyes shone. “Liebschner, Kosegarten, Matzke, Wendt and Holdrian,” he said immediately. “Who’s missing, Amanda?”

“Liebschner. The one with the uneasy black eyes, a skulking fellow, you know, Herr Pagel!”

He nodded and went up to the gendarmes, to make inquiries. But they had already noticed that a man was missing. Even if they hadn’t, Studmann’s excellent memory spoke as correctly as Pagel’s—Holdrian, Wendt, Matzke, Kosegarten, Liebschner.

Yes, for a time it looked as if the search for Fräulein Violet, in spite of all Pagel’s entreaties, would be forgotten because of this missing fifth man. But toward three o’clock more gendarmes hurriedly arrived, and the curious were
ejected. Interrogations began, greatly facilitated by the sudden appearance of a detective or former detective, whom the gendarmes seemed to know; a fat man, exceedingly dirty and wet through, with a strangely frozen look.

Two minutes, and it was clear that Liebschner had not been present at the orgy. Three more minutes, and it was shown that he had never been in the Manor. Ah, the fat sobbing cook, that weeping mountain of flesh! Now she indeed started out from under her apron. “Only four of us sleep upstairs,” she shouted. “What should we do with five chaps? For shame! What do these men think we are!” And she disappeared blubbering under her apron again.

Another two minutes and they knew that Liebschner had been lost by the other four immediately after the escape, in the woods.…

“What is he? Swindler? Let’s not delay here any longer,” said the fat detective. “The lad’s a long time ago in Berlin. Neulohe’s no place for a gentleman like that. He knew what he wanted. Our colleagues at headquarters will be hearing about him. Pretty soon, I hope. Away with those chaps! You, Herr von Studmann, please go over to the Villa and tell the doctor to come as well. It would be better—the girl’s in her nightdress or pajamas, same thing this weather.”

“Frau von Prackwitz …” objected Studmann.

“The lady is asleep, had a small injection. The gentleman’s asleep, had enough, too. The doctor’s got time, I tell you. Wait! Bring some piece of the girl’s clothing so that the hound won’t lose the scent; anything which the girl had next to her skin. And another thing. There’s said to be a forester here, an old ass, Kniebusch or something like that. Get him out of bed—the man will know his own wood.”

“I will fetch the forester,” said Pagel.

“Wait, young man. Herr Pagel, isn’t it? I was wanting to speak to you.”

The big hall had emptied itself. Only two or three of the bulbs set up for the orgy were still alight; the air was icy and seemed dirty. A half torn-down curtain hung from a window revealing a night blind.

The fat man took Pagel gently by the arm, obliging him to walk up and down. “It’s damned cold. My very marrow’s ice. How that young girl must be freezing! She’s been practically two hours outside now. Well, tell me all you know about the young lady. You’re in employment on the estate, and young men are interested in young women. So out with it.” His icy gaze penetrated the young man.

But Pagel had seen and observed a good deal; he was no longer the unsuspecting young man who submitted to every pretension made with authority. He had heard a gendarme exclaim peevishly: “What’s that lump of fat want with us again?” and had noticed how the fat man gave instructions to civilians
but never to a gendarme, and how the gendarmes acted as though he were not there, never speaking to him.

“First I should like to know in the name of what authority you are here,” he replied slowly.

“You want to see a badge?” cried the other. “I could show you one, only it’s not valid now. I’ve been kicked out. In the newspapers they call it disciplinary punishment on account of nationalist convictions.”

“You are the only man here,” said Wolfgang more rapidly, “who kept urging the search for Fräulein von Prackwitz. What is your interest in her?”

“None,” said the man icily. He bent closer to Pagel, seized his jacket and said: “You are lucky, young man. You have a pleasant face, not a bulldog’s mug like mine. People will always have confidence in you—don’t misuse it. Well, I trust you, too, and I’ll disclose something. I have a great interest in whatever is connected with arms dumps that have been carted away.”

Wolfgang stared in front of him. Then he looked up. “Violet von Prackwitz is fifteen years old. I don’t think that she …”

“Herr Pagel,” said the detective with a cold look, “in every case of treachery there is a woman behind it, either as instigator or tool. Often an unconscious tool. Always! Tell me what you know.”

So Pagel told what he knew.

The fat man walked beside him, snorting, clearing his throat, looking contemptuously at the walls, tugging furiously at the cord of a curtain, spitting. “Idiocy. Miserable idiocy!” he cried. Then, somewhat calmer: “Thank you, Herr Pagel, things are a little clearer now.”

“Shall we find the girl? The Lieutenant …”

“Blind!” said the fat man. “Born blind in a world of the blind! You’re thinking of the Lieutenant—well, Herr Pagel,” he whispered, “you will be able to say good morning to this Lieutenant in an hour’s time, but I’m afraid you won’t like it.”

It was completely quiet in the hall. Only the lamps still glimmered. Pagel stared at the fat pallid face. As if through a veil it seemed to nod to him, that face acquainted with all the baseness, all the naked brutality, all the sins of the human heart, and which lived on, acquiescent. He looked into that face, and did so again. I was on
that
road, he said. Did he say it out loud? He heard the wind outside; a dog howled; another answered. The fat man took him by the shoulder. “Let’s go, young man. We’ve no more time.”

They went into the forest.…

The wind blew. It whistled in the invisible treetops, it screamed; branches fell with a crash, showers of rain became spray. Without a word the men advanced.
The hound was straining at his leash, followed by his master whispering encouragement and praise. Then came Pagel and the detective, then the doctor with Studmann, and the two gendarmes.… The forester was not there. He could not be found; he was said to be out somewhere. “But I’ll get him!” the detective said in a tone Pagel did not like; and after that he walked silently beside the young man. Once he switched on his flashlight, stood still and said calmly: “Please don’t tread here,” and let the others go on. “Look.” He pointed to something on the ground which Pagel could not distinguish. “He’s thought of everything. She’s wearing shoes now, and he’ll also have brought a coat or something for her.”

“Who’s thought of everything?” asked Pagel, wearied. He was terribly tired and his head more painful than ever. He’d afterwards ask the doctor about it.

“Don’t you know even yet? You told me yourself.”

“If it’s not the Lieutenant,” said Pagel annoyed, “I really don’t know who it is. And I shan’t be able to find out tonight, either, unless you tell me.”

“When the blood becomes too thin,” exclaimed the fat man enigmatically, “then it loses its strength. The blood wants to go back to where it comes from. But we must hurry. My colleagues are far enough ahead to enjoy the honor of the discovery.”

“Do you know, then, what we’re going to find?” asked Pagel, with the same weary annoyance.

“Yes, I know what we shall find
now
. But what we shall find afterwards, no, I don’t know that. I can’t even guess.”

They quickened their steps, but those in front seemed also to have gone faster, and they were a minute too late; the others were all round him.

There was a murmur, the wind passed overhead. But it was quiet in the Black Dale as the circle of men swayed here and there—the white beam of the doctor’s torch lay intolerably brilliant on that which had once been a face.

“Dug his own grave, too! Quite off his head.”

“But where’s the girl?”

Murmuring. Silence.

Yes, there was no doubt about it, this was the Lieutenant of whom Pagel had so often heard and had once so wished to meet. There he lay, a very quiet, a very dubious figure—to be frank, a pretty bemired heap of rags. It was incomprehensible that this should ever have been the object of hate and love. With an inexplicable feeling of indifference, almost of repulsion, Pagel looked down at the thing. “Were you worth such great things?” he might have asked.

The doctor stood up. “Undoubtedly suicide,” he declared.

“Does any one of the gentlemen from Neulohe know the man?” asked a gendarme.

Pagel and von Studmann looked at one another across the circle.

“Never seen him,” replied Studmann.

“No,” said Pagel, and looked round for the fat detective. But, as he had expected, he was nowhere to be seen.

“This is the place, isn’t it, where …?”

“Yes,” said Pagel. “Yesterday afternoon I had to come here to make a statement. This is the place where the Entente Commission confiscated an arms dump.”

“The dead man unknown, then,” said a voice in the background, decisively.

“But unmistakably suicide,” burst forth the doctor, as if putting something right.

There was a long silence. In the feeble torch light the faces were almost surly.

“Where’s the weapon?” finally asked the man with the bloodhound.

There was a stir.

“No, it’s not here. We scoured the place. It couldn’t fall far away.”

Again that long reluctant silence. It’s like an assembly of ghosts, thought Pagel, extremely unhappy. And he tried to get nearer the dog, so that he could stroke its beautiful head. Had they all forgotten the girl?

But one of them now spoke. “And where is the girl?”

Silence again, but tenser.

“Perhaps—it’s quite simple,” said a gendarme. “He shot himself first, and she picked up the weapon to do the same. But she wasn’t able to, and has taken it with her.”

A thoughtful silence.

“Yes, that would be it. You are right,” said another.

“So we had better quickly carry on the search at once.”

“That can take all night! We’re never lucky at Neulohe.”

“Off! No dawdling now.”

A hand from behind gripped Pagel’s shoulder, a voice whispered in his ear. “Don’t turn your head. I’m not here! Ask the doctor how long the man’s been dead.”

“A moment, please,” called out Pagel. “Can you tell us, doctor, how long the man here has been dead?”

The country doctor, a thick-set man with a peculiarly sparse black beard, looked hesitatingly at the body, then at Wolfgang. His face cleared a little. “I have not the experience of my colleagues attached to the police. May I inquire why you ask?”

“Because I saw Fräulein von Prackwitz asleep in her bed at half-past twelve.”

The doctor looked at his watch. “It’s half-past three now,” he said quickly. “At half-past twelve this man had been dead for hours.”

“Then someone else must have brought Fräulein von Prackwitz here,” concluded Pagel.

The hand, the heavy hand which all this time had rested like a load on his shoulder, was removed and a slight noise in the rear betrayed the fat man’s departure.

“That knocks out your explanation, Albert!” said an irritated gendarme.

“How?” retorted the other. “She could have come here alone and found the dead man. She takes the revolver, goes on …”

“Rubbish!” said the man with the bloodhound. “Are you blind? There were two trails, a man’s and a woman’s, all the way. This is a bad business and it goes far beyond our ability.… We shall have to report a murder.”

“This is suicide,” contradicted the doctor.

“We have to look for the girl,” Pagel reminded them. “Quickly.”

“Young gentleman,” said he with the bloodhound, “you know something or you have a suspicion; otherwise you wouldn’t have asked that question of the doctor. Tell us what you have in mind. Don’t leave us in darkness!”

Everyone looked at Pagel, who was thinking of that time when Violet had kissed him. He would gladly have felt now the firm hand on his shoulder, the voice in his ear. But when we have to make a decision, we’re on our own, and we have to be. The words “I just don’t know” rang desperately in his head. He listened to the words. Then he heard the rough voice again, that evil yet sad sound with which she had spoken: Blood will flow.… Blood will flow. Then he looked from the dead into the faces of the men. “The blood wants to go back to where it comes from.”

“I know nothing,” he said. “But perhaps I have guessed something.… This morning Rittmeister von Prackwitz dismissed his servant after a serious quarrel. The maid there told me this evening that it was about a letter which the Fräulein had written.… The Fräulein was very young and this servant was, according to what I know of him, a very evil person. I could imagine …” He looked questioningly at the men.