At tea, Arthur was nervous and depressed. We sat together in the disordered bedroom, with the doors of the
173
empty cupboards standing open and the mattress rolled up at the foot of the bed. I felt apprehensive, for no reason. Arthur rubbed his chin wearily, and sighed:
“I feel like the Old Year, William. I shall soon be gone.”
I smiled. “A week from now, you’ll be sitting on the deck in the sun, while we’re still freezing or soaking in this wretched town. I envy you, I can tell you.”
“Do you, dear boy? I sometimes wish I didn’t have to do so much travelling. Mine is essentially a domestic nature. I ask nothing better than to settle down.”
“Well, why don’t you, then?”
“That’s what I so often ask myself … Something always seems to prevent it.”
At last it was time to go.
With infinite fuss, Arthur put on his coat, lost and found his gloves, gave a last touch to his wig. I picked up his suitcase and we went out into the hall. Nothing was left but the worst, the ordeal of saying goodbye to Frl. Schroeder. She emerged from the living-room, moist-eyed.
“Well, Herr Norris …”
The doorbell rang loudly, and there was a double knock on the door. The interruption made Arthur jump.
“Good gracious! Whoever can that be?”
“It’s the postman, I expect,” said Frl. Schroeder. “Excuse me, Herr Bradshaw… .”
Barely had she opened the door when the man outside it pushed past her into the hall. It was Schmidt.
That he was drunk was obvious, even before he opened his mouth. He stood swaying uncertainly, hatless, his tie over one shoulder, his collar awry. His huge face was inflamed and swollen so that his eyes were mere slits. The hall was a small place for four people. We were standing so close together that I could smell his breath. It stank vilely.
Arthur, at my side, uttered an incoherent sound of dismay, and I myself could only gape. Strange as it may seem, I was entirely unprepared for this apparition. During the last
174
twenty-four hours, I had forgotten Schmidt’s existence altogether.
He was the master of the situation, and he knew it. His face fairly beamed with malice. Kicking the front door shut behind him with his foot, he surveyed the two of us; Arthur’s coat, the suitcase in my hand.
“Doing a bunk, eh?” He spoke loudly, as if addressing a large audience in the middle distance. “I see … thought you’d give me the slip, did you?” He advanced a pace; he confronted the trembling and dismayed Arthur. “Lucky I came, wasn’t it? Unlucky for you …”
Arthur emitted another sound, this time a kind of squeak of terror. It seemed to excite Schmidt to a positive frenzy of rage. He clenched his fists, he shouted with astonishing violence:
“You dirty tyke!”
He raised his arm. He may actually have been going to strike Arthur; if so, I shouldn’t have had time to prevent it. All I could do, within the instant, was to drop the suitcase to the ground. But Frl. Schroeder’s reactions were quicker and more effective. She hadn’t the ghost of an idea what the fuss was all about. That didn’t worry her. Enough that Herr Norris was being insulted by an unknown, drunken man. With a shrill battle-cry of indignation, she charged. Her outstretched palms caught Schmidt in the small of the back, propelled him forwards, like an engine shunting trucks. Unsteady on his feet and taken completely by surprise, he blundered headlong through the open doorway into the living-room and fell sprawling, face downwards, on the carpet. Frl. Schroeder promptly turned the key in the lock. The whole manuvre was the work of about five seconds.
“Such cheek!” exclaimed Frl. Schroeder. Her cheeks were bright red with the exertion. “He comes barging in here as if the place belonged to him. And intoxicated … pfui! … the disgusting pig!”
She seemed to find nothing particularly mysterious in the
175
incident. Perhaps she connected Schmidt somehow with Margot and the ill-fated baby. If so she was too tactful to say so. A tremendous rattle of knocks on the living-room door excused me from any attempt at inventing explanations.
“Won’t he be able to get out at the back?” Arthur inquired nervously.
“You can set your mind at rest, Herr Norris. The kitchen door’s locked.” Frl. Schroeder turned menacingly upon the invisible Schmidt. “Be quiet, you scoundrel! I’ll attend to you in a minute!”
“All the same …” Arthur was on pins and needles, “I think we ought to be going …”
“How are you going to get rid of him?” I asked Frl. Schroeder.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Herr Bradshaw. As soon as you’re gone, I’ll get the porter’s son up. Hell go quietly enough, I promise you. If he doesn’t, he’ll be sorry… .”
We said goodbye hurriedly. Frl. Schroeder was too excited and triumphant to be emotional. Arthur kissed her on both cheeks. She stood waving to us from the top of the stairs. A fresh outburst of muffled knocking was audible behind her.
We were in the taxi, and half-way to the station before Arthur recovered his composure sufficiently to be able to talk.
“Dear me … I’ve seldom made such an exceedingly unpleasant exit from any town, I think …”
“What you might call a rousing send-off ” I glanced behind me to make sure that the other taxi, with the tall detective, was still following us.
“What do you think he’ll do, William? Perhaps he’ll go straight to the police?”
“I’m pretty sure he won’t. As long as he’s drunk, they won’t listen to him, and by the time he’s sober, he’il see himself that it’s no good. He hasn’t the least idea where you’re going, either. For all he knows, you’ll be out of the country tonight.”
“You may be right, dear boy. I hope so, I’m sure. I must
176
say I hate to leave you exposed to his malice. You will be most careful, won’t you?”
“Oh, Schmidt won’t bother me. I’m not worth it, from his point of view. He’ll probably find another victim easily enough. I dare say he’s got plenty on his books.”
“While he was in my employ he certainly had opportunities,” Arthur agreed thoughtfully. “And I’ve no doubt he made full use of them. The creature had talentsof a perverted kind … Oh, unquestionably … Yes… .”
At length it was all over. The misunderstanding with the cloakroom official, the fuss about the luggage, the finding of a corner seat, the giving of the tip. Arthur leant out of the carriage window; I stood on the platform. We had five minutes to spare.
“You’ll remember me to Otto, won’t you?”
“I will.”
“And give my love to Anni?”
“Of course.”
“I wish they could have been here.”
“It’s a pity, isn’t it?”
“But it would have been unwise, under the circumstances. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.”
I longed for the train to start. There was nothing more to say, it seemed, except the things which must never be said now, because it was too late. Arthur seemed aware of the vacuum. He groped about uneasily in his stock of phrases.
“I wish you were coming with me, William … I shall miss you terribly, you know.”
“Shall you?” I smiled awkwardly, feeling exquisitely uncomfortable.
“I shall, indeed… . You’ve always been such a support to me. From the first moment we met… .”
I blushed. It was astonishing what a cad he could make me feel. Hadn’t I, after all, misunderstood him? Hadn’t I misjudged him? Hadn’t I, in some obscure way, behaved very badly? To change the subject, I asked:
177
“You remember that journey? I simply couldn’t understand why they made such a fuss at the frontier. I suppose they’d got their eye on you already?”