“I told you that I’d hit you one on the jaw,” shouted Pagel and hit out. She screamed.
The tone of their dialogue, the way they abused each other, had long convinced the croupier’s assistant that a hook to the jaw would be just as much in place here as in his home district in Wedding. He too hit out—and unfortunately struck Walli as she was staggering backwards. The woman collapsed without another sound.
Both the croupier and von Studmann, who had been leaning against the wall, came too late. The Valuta Vamp lay on the floor unconscious. The assistant was trying to explain how it had all happened. Von Prackwitz stood there darkly, biting his lip with anger.
Rather dictatorially Studmann asked: “Well, are we going at last, now?”
Pagel, breathing quickly, was very white, and was obviously not listening to the Rittmeister, now making sharp comments on his ungentlemanly behavior.
The croupier saw the evening threatened. Many guests were preparing to go, and precisely the more distinguished ones, the guests of substance, those who held the opinion that one may overstep the bounds of the law, but only if all outward forms are preserved. In a few curt words he issued orders to his men: the unconscious girl was taken away into a dark adjoining room, the wheel again buzzed round, the ball rattled and jumped. In the lamplight the green cloth shone magical, soft, tempting. “There are still two stakes lying here on the table,” the croupier called out. “Make your game. Two gentlemen have forgotten their stakes.”
Many turned back.
“Well, let’s go then,” Studmann cried impatiently. “I really don’t understand you …” The Rittmeister looked at him sharply and angrily, but he followed when Pagel went out of the door without a word.
In the passage sat the sorrowful sergeant major at his little table. Fumbling in his pocket the Rittmeister fished out the two or three counters he had left, threw them on to the table and called in a tone that was meant to sound carefree: “There! For you, comrade. It’s all I possess.”
The sorrowful sergeant major slowly raised his round eyes toward the Rittmeister, shook his head and laid down three notes for the three counters.
Herr von Studmann had opened the door leading to the dark staircase and was peering down. “You must wait a moment,” said the sergeant major. “He’ll make a light for you at once. He’s just gone down with a couple of gentlemen.”
Pagel stood pale and worn-out in front of the greenish wardrobe mirror. He could distinctly hear the croupier calling: “Seventeen—red—odd.”
Of course. Red. His color! Soon he would be going down the stairs and into the country with the Rittmeister, while inside they were playing his color. And for him there would be no more playing.
The Rittmeister, in a tone intended to indicate that the past was forgiven and forgotten, but which still sounded very angry, said: “Pagel, you’ve also got some counters to change. It’s a pity to throw them away.”
Pagel dived into his pocket. Why doesn’t the fellow come to let us out? he thought. Naturally they want us to go on playing. He was trying to count the chips in his pocket. If there were seven or thirteen he would play one last time. He hadn’t played properly at all yet, today.
There must be more than thirteen, he couldn’t make out the number. Taking them out of his pocket he encountered the Rittmeister’s glance, which seemed to motion him toward the door.
There were neither seven nor thirteen. I must go home after all, he thought sadly. But he no longer had a home! The unsuspecting Studmann now stepped into the staircase to call the man with the light. Pagel looked at the counters in his hand. There were seventeen. Seventeen! His number! At that moment an indescribable feeling of happiness was his. The great chance had come!
He walked up to the Rittmeister and said in an undertone, with a glance through the open door at the stairs: “I’m not leaving yet. I’m going on playing.”
The Rittmeister said nothing, but his eye flickered once—as if something had flown into it.
Wolfgang stepped up to the change-table, drew out a packet of bank notes, the second. “Chips for the lot!” While the man counted and recounted, he turned to the Rittmeister and cried, almost exultingly: “Tonight I shall win a fortune. I know it.”
The Rittmeister moved his head slightly, as if he too knew it, as if it was indeed a natural thing.
“And you?” asked Pagel.
“I’ve no more money with me.” It sounded strangely guilty, and while saying it the Rittmeister glanced almost with fear at the open door.
“I can lend you some. Play on your own account.” Pagel held out a packet of money.
“No, no,” said the Rittmeister. “It’s too much. I don’t want so much.”
(Neither remembered at that moment the scene in Lutter and Wegner’s, when young Pagel had first offered him money and had been rebuked with the most scornful indignation.)
“If you really want to win,” explained Pagel, “you must have sufficient capital. I know!”
Again the Rittmeister nodded. Slowly he reached for the packet.
When von Studmann returned, the anteroom was empty. “Where are the gentlemen?”
The sergeant major made a movement with his head in the direction of the roulette room.
Von Studmann stamped his foot and went toward it. Then he turned back. I wouldn’t dream of it, he thought angrily; I’m not his governess, however much he needs one.
A door opened. The girl with whom Pagel had had the quarrel stepped out.
“Can you take me downstairs?” she asked tonelessly, speaking as if she were not quite conscious. “I feel bad, I would like some fresh air.”
Von Studmann, the eternal nursery governess, offered her his arm. “Certainly. I wanted to go anyway.” The sergeant major took a silver-gray wrap from the wardrobe and draped it over the woman’s naked shoulders.
The two descended the stairs without saying a word, the girl leaning heavily on Studmann’s arm.
VIII
The spotter, the same one who had shown them up, had been standing downstairs, taking good care not to hear the calls for him. Every player who wanted to go had to be given the opportunity of changing his mind. But when von Studmann appeared in the passage with the girl on his arm, he was fully capable of dealing with the situation. The Valuta Vamp, or Walli, he knew, and also that gold and love often play ring-around-the-rosy with each other.
“Taxi?” he asked. And before Studmann could reply, said: “Just wait here. I’ll get one from Wittenbergplatz.” With that he vanished. In the dark open passage of an unknown house, an unknown girl on his arm, von Studmann had time to reflect on his ambiguous situation. And upstairs was a gambling club. Now only the cops were missing.
It was all very awkward, and today had already fully covered von Studmann’s requirements so far as awkward situations were concerned. In these times a man never knew what was going to happen in the next quarter of an hour, whether things were what they seemed. He had honestly been pleased to meet his old regimental comrade that morning. Prackwitz had behaved with extraordinary decency; without his intervention nothing would have reached Studmann’s ear of a Dr. Schröck; he would have been kicked out more or less with ignominy. The prospect, too, of going with him out of this bottomless pit into the peaceful country had been very agreeable—and now the selfsame Prackwitz was sitting upstairs, throwing away his money in the silliest manner, and had already called him a “children’s nurse.”