Pagel stood there, uncertain. “But it does happen sometimes that someone confesses to a thing he hasn’t done. I’ve often read it.”
“So you’ve read that, have you?” asked the old man almost venomously. “Then let me tell you, young fellow, anyone who makes a false confession has always been up to something worse. Yes, a man confesses to housebreaking because at the same hour he committed a murder. That’s how it is. And if your girl-friend’s confessed, then she’ll very well know why. I wouldn’t do any persuading if I was you. Otherwise she’ll find herself in a worse mess.” The old man squinted angrily at Pagel through his pince-nez.
Pagel, however, stood as if thunder-struck. New light had been thrown on Petra’s confession. Yes, she had confessed to street-walking in order to escape something worse; she had confessed to street-walking in order to escape him. Prison was better than living with Wolfgang Pagel. Faith lost, confidence lost—gone from him, gone from the world, away from the intolerable to that which could be tolerated! A big win lost again—gone, vanished.…
“Thank you very much,” he said very politely. “You have given me good advice.” And he went slowly down the passage, followed by the old man’s suspicious glance.
It was the right hour to fetch his things from Tannenstrasse. At this hour his mother would certainly not be expecting him; she would be sound asleep. In Alexanderplatz he would certainly find a taxi. Thank God that Studmann had lent him some money. Studmann, the non-gambler, the only capitalist; Studmann the helpful. He could almost think of Studmann and Neulohe with pleasure.
Chapter Nine
A New Start to a New Day
I
A girl and a man are lying on a bed in a hotel room. The man is against the wall in the narrow bed. A light whistling accompanies his breathing through his nose. The girl has just awoken, her chin resting on her folded arms, lying on her stomach, blinking at the night table which is already bright.
Sophie Kowalewski had been on a jaunt in the old city and had then landed up in an hotel on Weidendamm Bridge. Hence the hooting of the steamer. Steamers sail on the Spree—or wasn’t this the Spree?
Quietly, so as not to wake the man, Sophie Kowalewski slipped out of bed, ran to the window, and raised a corner of the curtain. The sky stood a bright blue above the iron curves of the bridge.
I shall have wonderful weather in Neulohe, she thought. Marvelous thing, to lie under a tree at the edge of the wood and let yourself roast. No mistress. No bathing suit, thank you. And when there’s the moon, to bathe quite naked in the cold grayish pond in the middle of the forest.…
She let the curtain fall and quickly began to dress. She gave herself a slight rinse and gargled hastily—she could do all that thoroughly in the hostel; she would still have time before the train went. A joyful excitement, something like the anticipation of approaching happiness, filled her. Neulohe … the lilac bush behind the fire station, where she had experienced her first kiss—Oh, God! In the hostel she would put on fresh underwear. The things she had on filled her with disgust.
She was ready. Bag in hand, she peered hesitantly toward the bed. She made two steps in its direction and murmured very cautiously: “Dearie.”
No answer.
“I’m going now, darling.…”
No answer, only a light whistling through his nose.
It was not a sudden inspiration which made Sophie look at the sleeper’s clothes, untidily thrown over a chair. Ever since she woke she had been thinking that this stupid night might at least produce the fare to Neulohe. She had to be a little careful with her money now there were no fresh supplies to be got at home. In a flash she was by the chair. She found the wallet at once (she had watched last night where he put it).
There was not much money in it—very little for a man who had spent several millions on champagne last night. For a moment she hesitated. With a woman’s eye she saw that his clothes were carefully kept, but were not new; perhaps he had scraped all his money together for this one big bust. There were such men, she knew. They saved and saved and promised themselves the world from such an evening, a happiness such as they had never yet experienced. Then they awoke next morning, sober, desperate, penniless.…
Sophie stood there undecided. Her glance wandered from the few bank notes to the clothes, to the sleeper.… This little bit of money wouldn’t be any use to her. And she was on the point of putting the notes back into the wallet.
But Hans would laugh at me, she thought suddenly. Hans isn’t so silly. “You must take everything,” he always says. “It’s the honest people who are soft.” No, it serves him right, he’ll take more care next time.… But I ought to leave him at least his fare. It’s certain he’s got to go to his office. At least I ought to let him get to his office in time. Oh, what do I care whether he gets there in time? Who ever bothered to see how I got home? The toffs left me standing in the street, too lazy to open the door for me; shoved me out of the taxi when they’d had what they wanted. What’s the idea, fare money?
She was proud of her decision as she stuffed the miserable money into her bag. “You’re right!” Hans would say. And she was right too. Whoever didn’t steal got robbed. Whoever didn’t bite got bitten. Good morning!
And nimbly she ran down the stairs.
II
It was already light even in the forest. Ex-bailiff Meier plodded along angrily: the suitcases were too heavy, his shoes pinched, he hadn’t enough money, the road was much too far to Grünow, he hadn’t slept enough, his head ached like seven monkeys.
In his path, as if sprung from the earth, suddenly stood the Lieutenant.
He was friendly, however. “Morning, Meier,” he said. “I just wanted to say good-by to you.”
Meier stared at him suspiciously. “Well, good-by, Lieutenant!”
“You can walk on. Take your bags and go on; we’ve got to go the same way for a bit.”
Meier remained where he was. “I like walking alone,” he said.
“Now, now!” said the Lieutenant laughing. His laugh sounded false, thought Meier, and his voice uneasy. “Surely you’re not afraid of me now, when you’ve got a pistol in your pocket.”
“It’s none of your bloody business what I’m carrying in my pocket!” cried Meier angrily. But his voice trembled.
“As a matter of fact that’s true,” admitted the Lieutenant. “But it’s important for me because now I won’t fall under suspicion.”
“What do you mean, fall under suspicion?” stammered Meier.
“If you are lying dead somewhere here in the forest, Herr Meier,” said the Lieutenant very politely, but bitterly in earnest.
“Me—dead—ridiculous,” stammered little Meier, deathly white, peering at the other’s face. “I haven’t done anything to you, Herr Lieutenant!”
Begging, anxious, Meier stared into the Lieutenant’s eyes, but there was nothing in them, only an ice-cold look.
“Your pistol and mine, you see, are the same caliber,” explained the Lieutenant pitilessly. “You’re a big fool, Meier, to have taken the pistol.… And then you’ve also recently fired it.… But I aim better than you, Herr Meier. And I am standing so nicely to the right of you. A close shot at six inches in the right temple—every gun expert would say suicide, my dear Herr Meier. And at home the plundered safe … the shot at the girl. No, no, Herr Meier, don’t you worry, there’s no doubt about it: everything points to suicide.”