He required no children’s nurse, he had said. Yet he did and at once. When Studmann recalled young Pagel’s absurd bundles of money, and the vulture-like nose and rapacious glance of the croupier, then he knew that—children’s nurse or no children’s nurse—he ought to go back at once and put an end to this suicidal gambling. But this unfortunate girl on his arm! She didn’t seem quite herself—and no wonder, after that heavy blow. She was trembling, her teeth chattered, she kept whispering something about snow. About snow—in a foul, damp heat that was enough to kill you! It was clear that Studmann ought to go upstairs at once and get his friend away, but it was just as necessary first to take this girl safely somewhere—to relatives. He wanted to learn her address, but she wouldn’t listen. Her sole response was brusque. Let him leave her in peace! Where she lived was no business of his!
A taxi stopped outside. Studmann was not certain whether it was the one meant for him—the spotter was nowhere to be seen, the girl whispered something about snow, von Studmann stood, hesitating. Finally, however, he slouched out of the doorway into the taxi. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. I felt as if there was a nasty niff in the air. You know—the cops’ gambling squad! Those chaps can’t sleep quiet for one night; on their rotten wage, hunger keeps them awake.” He whistled the tune of—“And I sleep so bad and I dream so much.” “Well, hurry up, Count, into the bone-shaker with you. Don’t forget me! There, that’s nice. Some more cash the old woman doesn’t know about. Well, where to, Fräulein?”
He waited in vain. Von Studmann looked doubtfully at the girl reclining next to him in the taxi.
“Going home, Walli?” the spotter bellowed. “Where do you sleep now?”
She murmured something about being left in peace.
“All right, hop it, mate,” said the spotter to the driver. “Down Kurfürstendamm. She’ll soon wake up there.”
The taxi started, and Studmann was annoyed with himself for not getting out.
Later, when he looked back on it, it seemed as if they must have driven for hours and hours. Up streets, down streets—dark streets, brightly lit streets, empty streets, streets full of people. From time to time the girl tapped on the window, got out, went into a café or spoke to a man on the pavement …
She returned slowly, said to the chauffeur: “Drive on!” And the taxi set off again. She sobbed, her teeth chattered more and more, she muttered incoherently to herself.
“I beg your pardon?” said von Studmann.
She did not reply. As far as she was concerned he wasn’t there. He could have got out long ago and driven back to his friends. If he remained it was not because of her; he was not such an uncritical admirer of the feminine as Rittmeister von Prackwitz. And he knew now what he was sitting next to. He had guessed what the girl was hunting for. “Snow,” he remembered, had also been a subject of discussion in his hotel. A lavatory attendant in the café there had been trafficking in it recently. Of course, he had been dismissed—even the most modern hotel didn’t go quite so far toward meeting the wishes of its guests in crazy times.
No, if he still drove on with the girl, if he waited with increasing tension to see whether her inquiries met with success, it was because he was struggling with a decision. As soon as she was successful he would decide one way or the other.
The spotter’s remark about the cops’ gambling squad had given von Studmann the idea that the best thing would be for him to telephone the squad and have the club raided. What he had previously heard about these things, and the taxi driver confirmed it, was that the players had hardly anything to fear. Their names were taken, at the worst they were punished with a small fine, and that was all. The ones severely dealt with were the exploiters, the club organizers—which was only just.
Again and again Studmann said to himself that this was the best solution. What sense is there in my going up again? he kept thinking. I shall merely quarrel with Prackwitz, and he’ll just go on playing. No, I’ll ring up the police at the next café. I know that would be the most effective lesson for him; there’s nothing he hates more than being conspicuous, and if his identity were established by the police, that would rid him of any further desire to gamble. He still thinks he’s sitting in the casino—surrounded by beggars and swindlers.… It will do him good!
Yes, the organizers would be punished, but both the indiscreet Prackwitz and young Pagel, who seemed to have lost all his bearings, would be warned. Nevertheless, Studmann continued to fight for the strength to carry out his decision. Yet he felt reluctant to do the right thing, because one didn’t bring a friend into contact with the police—not even if one’s intention was for the best. First let him settle with the girl, then decide.
He waited for her expectantly, but again she said nothing, and whispered for a long time with the chauffeur.
“That’s too far, Fräulein,” he heard the driver say. “I’m going off duty soon.”
At last he gave way. “But, Fräulein, if that’s also no good …”
They drove on, endlessly. Deserted, almost black streets. Broken street lamps. For economy’s sake only every sixth or eighth one was burning.
The girl was muttering automatically “Oh, God—Oh, God,” and after each “Oh, God” she knocked her head against the back of the cab.
Von Studmann could see himself in the telephone booth of a café: “Please give me the police station, gambling squad …” But perhaps there wouldn’t be a telephone booth, and he’d have to phone at the counter; then the people would think he was a fleeced gambler wanting to revenge himself … It looked very indecent, but it was decent. “It—is—decent!” Studmann said it to himself again and again. Formerly people had been luckier; then decent things had also looked decent. He was decent as well this afternoon. He could have knocked this wretched Baron down dead. And he paid for his decency by rolling drunk down the steps—what a life!
If only he’d been in the country with the rescued Prackwitz—in the peace and quiet, with long-lasting patience.
At last the taxi stopped. The girl got out and stumbled toward a house, cursing. In the uncertain light von Studmann saw only dark house-fronts. Not one café. Not a soul. Something like a shop, a chemist’s apparently. The girl knocked at a ground-floor window next to the shop door, waited, knocked again.
“Where are we?” von Studmann asked the driver.
“Near Warschauer Brücke,” said the man sullenly. “Are you paying for the taxi? It’ll cost you a mint of money.”
“Yes,” said Studmann.
The window on the ground floor had opened; a large pale head above a white nightshirt appeared and seemed to be whispering maledictions. The girl pleaded and begged in a mournful whine.
“He’s not dishing any up,” said the driver. “What do you expect, being dragged out of his bed in the middle of the night like that? And he can go to jail for it. A skirt like that won’t keep her mouth shut. Well, what did I tell you!”
The nightshirt had angrily shouted, “No! No!” and slammed the window. The girl could be heard weeping, inconsolable and at the same time angry. Von Studmann could already see her collapsing. He got out of the taxi to help her.
But she was on him with several very quick, short steps.
“What’s the idea?” he cried.
She had wrenched the walking stick from his hand and ran, before he could get it away from her, back to the window—all without a word, sobbing. This sobbing was particularly horrible. And now she had shattered the windowpane with one blow. Loudly the glass rattled on to the pavement …