The Lieutenant talked and talked. But he was not so calm as he pretended. It is one thing to shoot someone in battle or in passion; it’s quite another thing to slaughter in cold blood as a result of rational considerations. Once more he reminded himself that he was risking nothing, that he was not endangering the Cause, but saving it from a traitor. And yet all the time he was wishing—gun experts and risk notwithstanding—that Meier would reach for his pistol. The bullet with which the Lieutenant would anticipate him would be so much easier than the cold-blooded bullet into that gray face.
But Meier was not thinking of the pistol in his hip pocket. “Herr Lieutenant,” he stammered, “I swear to you I’ll never say a word about you and Fräulein Vi.… Nor about the Putsch.… I’ll keep to it, Herr Lieutenant. I would always be afraid you’d get me, you or one of your men. I’m a coward. Please don’t shoot! I swear to you by everything that’s holy to me …” His voice failed him, he gulped and stared fearfully at the other.
“But there’s nothing that’s holy to you, Meier,” said the Lieutenant. He still couldn’t make up his mind. “You’re a thorough swine, Meier.”
Black Meier stared breathlessly at the lieutenant’s lips and whispered quickly, “But I can still turn over a new leaf. Believe me, Herr Lieutenant, I can still become different, I’m still young. Please, please say yes! I’ll turn back, I’ll confess to the Rittmeister that I stole the money. If he sends me to prison I’ll go willingly. I want to reform. Please, please, Herr Lieutenant.”
The Lieutenant morosely shook his head. Why had he started talking to this fellow in the first place? He should have fired at once, without a word. But now it was getting more and more repellent. The Lieutenant was not completely depraved, nor did he deceive himself; he knew that he alone had got the fellow into this mess. Meier had to die because he, the Lieutenant, couldn’t restrain himself from an affair with the little Prackwitz girl. But it couldn’t be helped. Meier knew too much now, he was too dangerous, even more dangerous since he had seen the pistol aimed at him.
“Pick up your bags, Meier, we’re going along for a bit!”
Without a trace of resistance Meier obediently picked up his bags and looked at the Lieutenant questioningly.
“Up there along the glade!” came the order.
Meier went in front, his shoulders hunched up, as if that could stop the dreaded shot from behind. The bags were no longer heavy, his shoes no longer pinched; he walked quickly as though he could run away from the death that followed him.
If only it were over, thought the Lieutenant, his eyes never leaving the man in front. But this glade is really much too frequented. Better if they don’t find him for three or four days, when there’s no trace of me left.
These thoughts disgusted him. They seemed so unreal, like something from a wild dream. But here was the man before him, a real, living man. So it isn’t a dream. At any minute it can come true.
“Now to the left, up the footpath, Meier!”
Obedient as a lamb! Sickening! Yes, there at the top he would do it, he must do it.… A traitor is always a traitor; they never change, they don’t reform.… What’s the matter with Meier? What’s he shouting? Has he gone mad? Now he was running, shouting louder and louder. He had thrown down the bags at the Lieutenant’s feet.
The Lieutenant jerked his pistol up—too late; he must shoot at close quarters to make it seem like suicide.
“We’re coming, Herr Kniebusch!” shouted Meier, running.
There stood the forester. Beside him lay a man in the bilberries and moss, bound hand and foot.
“Thank God you’ve come. I couldn’t drag him any further, gentlemen. I’ve been dragging the fellow for hours.”
Freed at last from being alone with the dangerous fellow, the forester was quite talkative.
“It’s Bäumer of Altlohe—you know, Meier, the worst of the whole gang! I’ve made a very good catch, Herr Lieutenant. This man’s a criminal.”
The Lieutenant stood leaning against a tree, his face rather white. But he said calmly: “Yes, you’ve made a good catch, forester. But I?” Full of hatred, he stared at little Meier, who returned his glance defiantly, triumphantly.…
“Well, good morning and good luck to you,” said the Lieutenant suddenly, turning round and marching down to the glade again. Coming to the two cases, he could not restrain himself longer: he trod heavily first on one, then on the other.
“I say!” said the forester in amazement. “What’s wrong with him? Why’s he so queer? Did he have any trouble with his meeting? I ordered everybody to come, as he told me. Do you understand it, Meier?”
“Oh, yes,” said little Meier, “I understand it. He’s in a fearful temper with you.”
“With me? Whatever for?”
“Because you haven’t shot the stag, you know; for the young Fräulein, you know. Well, come along, Kniebusch, now we’ll go together to the farm; I’ll harness the hunting cart, and we’ll fetch this fellow and my bags.”
“Your bags? Are they yours? Are you going away, then?”
“Lord, no.… They’re the Lieutenant’s bags. I’ll tell you all about it. Come along now, it’s better if we walk side by side; I can’t tell it so well walking behind each other like this.”
III
The taxi stopped in Tannenstrasse. Only with difficulty could the driver be persuaded to come up and help carry the things.
“Yes, you say there’s no one about now, but the thieves here in Berlin are always about. Especially now. And who’s going to buy me a new tire, which you can’t even get now? You won’t, for certain.”
“Well, all right, seeing as you’re going on to the station, for a mug of beer and a schnapps, as they say, although I’d much rather have a coffee. I’m to be quiet? I’m as quiet as a Government when it’s going to pinch money! You don’t hear them, but you lose your money all right, take it from me.”
“Nice house—bit gloomy, though … I suppose there’s no central heating? But gas, you’ve got gas, ain’t you? ’Cause gas in the house saves briquettes, and saves you buying a rope to hang yourself with.… Yes, I’m being quiet; you ain’t half as quiet as I am. Take that lock, for instance; I’d have handled it more gently.… Doing a bunk, I suppose—bit behind with the rent, eh?
“Now, don’t be stuck up, I was in the war, too; if you bark at me, I’ll scream so loud that the pictures’ll slide off the wall. I say—so this is what you call your den, eh? Marvelous, with knobs on. I didn’t have this at my mother’s. And a wardrobe trunk as well—that’ll mean two journeys.
“I say! Who’s that lying on the sofa? Gave me a start! An old woman—and she’s sleeping quite peaceful. Well, I won’t make another sound now; we’ll let her sleep. She’s earned her sleep—she’s been packing the whole night, the old woman! She’s your mother, ain’t she? Well, I guessed it straight off. But here, I’d say good-by and bon voyage to her, seeing she’s been waiting the whole night for you.… Been kicking over the traces, eh? Well, youngsters ain’t got no feelings, I was no different when I was your age.… Now I’m sorry for it sometimes, now she’s dead and buried in St. Matthew’s churchyard.… Well, everybody keeps doing the same silly things; there’s always mugs about.
“Well, hurry up, mate, get this traveling wardrobe on me back. I’ll manage it by meself; I’ll be back in a jiffy.… No? You want to help me down with it? Well, all right; let everyone do what he likes—let everyone be as silly as he likes, say I.”
“Well, at least that’s something. Write the old woman a few lines; something nice, understand! Even if it’s a fib. Mothers are always pleased, they know the kids are fibbing, but still they’re pleased. ‘He doesn’t want to hurt me,’ they think.