Thoughtfully he came to a stop in front of the pinewood bookshelf, where the black annual volumes of laws and decrees stood in long rows. Row upon row, volume upon volume, year upon year they decreed, proclaimed, threatened, regulated and punished from the beginning of time to the end of the world, and yet every individual continually battered his skull against this world of law and order.
Pagel lifted down one of the oldest volumes. From the spotty brown paper a decree spoke to him, forbidding that a servant or inmate be given more than six score crayfish a week to eat. He laughed. Today bathers were chased from the ponds, thus protecting the crayfish from the people; in those days people were protected from the crayfish!
He put the volume back in its place, and just below his eye-level was the top edge of another row of volumes of the official District Gazette. Out of one of them peeped the corner of a sheet of paper. He seized it with two fingers and found he held a piece of typewriting paper only a quarter covered with typing. “Dearest! My dearest darling! My only one!”
He glanced at the volume from which he had taken it. It was the Gazette for the year 1900. Pagel felt reassured and read on with a smile, tasting something of the charm which clings to love letters of a century ago, the letters of lovers whose voices have died away, whose love is extinguished, who lie cold in their graves. He read down to the name “Violet.”
That was no common name in Germany; until recently he had come across it only in books. But he had heard it frequently in the last few days, usually in the form “Vi.” In some families, however, names are handed down.… He rubbed his finger cautiously over the typescript. It was fresh! The fingertip showed a faint smear.
Tearing the cover from the typewriter, he typed the words “Dearest! My dearest darling! My only one!”—with repugnance. He, too, had once heard those similar words and did not like being reminded of them. There was no doubt about it. The letter had been typed on this machine, and very recently: the capital E was defective.…
His first impulse was to destroy the letter; his next, to put it back in the Gazette. He didn’t want to know anything of this affair.
But steady, old chap, steady! he thought. This Vi is very young—sixteen, perhaps only fifteen. She won’t like her letters lying about in an office. I ought … Pagel put the letter in his inside pocket. That was no mistrust of Studmann, but Pagel was determined to read this letter only after he had considered everything in detail. Perhaps he wouldn’t even mention it to him. In any case he must be clear about everything first. It was not pleasant; he would have liked to have continued walking up and down in his office without a thought in the world. But that’s life. It doesn’t ask if it suits us. We’re already engaged in it.
So Pagel went thoughtfully up and down his office, smoking. (If only Studmann doesn’t suddenly turn up!)
First question: Was the letter really a letter? No, it was the carbon copy of a letter. Second question: Would the sender have made a copy? Very improbable. Firstly, it wasn’t the sort of letter which is easily written on a typewriter—a thing like that had to be written by hand if it wasn’t to look utterly idiotic. Secondly, it was very improbable that Fräulein Violet would have chosen the office to write her love letters in. Thirdly, she would never keep the carbon copy there. And why make a copy at all? Conclusion: It was therefore, in all probability, the carbon copy of a copy of a letter of Fräulein Vi’s. (One could leave till later the consideration: Where was the copy itself?)
Third question: Could the recipient have made a copy and carbon for himself? There seemed to be no point in his making a copy, though. Because the recipient would have the original! No, it was quite clear—an unauthorized person was responsible. And it ought not to be difficult to find out who. This third party must have had regular access to the office, otherwise he would not have been able to type or keep anything there. No, there could be no doubt about it. It could only have been that ugly little fellow called Black Meier.
And Wolfgang now recalled Meier’s nocturnal departure, his waking up in a fright, his “He wants to shoot me.” They had thought it was a question of jealousy involving that chubby-cheeked poultry maid, and the Rittmeister had accepted this explanation. So he, too, had no inkling of the real truth. Yes, there was something mysterious and dangerous about the whole affair—although Meier, of course, was a coward who had only imagined he was going to be shot. One didn’t murder people so lightly because of an intercepted love letter.
And there still remained the question whether he ought to say nothing and replace this carbon copy—better still, destroy it; or whether he ought to speak about it—with Studmann, perhaps. Or with the passionate little Fräulein Vi. One must not forget, either, that the absconding Herr Meier was carrying another copy around with him. But what, after all, could such a copy prove? Anyone might make up a thing like that on the typewriter. It mentions no name that refers to anybody.
All the same, this business could upset an inexperienced young girl. But perhaps she already knew that this letter had been intercepted and copied. Its intended recipient must have known about it—how else would Meier have been so frightened that night by a rustling at the window? Yes, thought Pagel, if I only knew exactly what Meier cried out then. Was it “He wants to shoot me” or “He wants to shoot me again?” Shooting again would mean that Herr Meier had already attempted something like blackmail—one doesn’t copy a letter of this sort for purely literary reasons—and that he had received a rather violent answer, perhaps with gun in hand.…
Pagel racked his brains, but he could not remember what Meier had actually called out.
Herr von Studmann entered, returning from his meeting with Frau von Prackwitz. Pagel glanced at Studmann’s face. Even Herr von Studmann looked rather lost in thought. Now he could ask him what Meier had shouted back then, but he thought better of it. Such an inquiry would provoke counter-questions. Perhaps he would have to reveal the copy of this letter—and he didn’t want to do that. Its recipient, whoever that might be, had been warned, and Fräulein Vi presumably too. So Pagel decided for the moment to say nothing at all. He had no wish to get into trouble by letting himself be sucked into love intrigues. Nothing would be missed if this letter stayed hidden for the moment, namely, in his pocket.
IX
Studmann was so lost in thought that he did not notice Pagel had not yet eaten, and when the young man poured himself out a cup of tea and took some bread, he looked up. “Eating a second supper, Pagel?”
“I’ve not eaten yet, old man.”
“Oh, so I see. I’m sorry! I was just thinking about something.” Studmann relapsed into thoughtfulness.
After a while Pagel asked cautiously: “What’s on your mind?”
Studmann answered with surprising violence. “The peace of the fields is a bigger fraud than we supposed, Pagel. These people have their troubles. But I expect you’d rather I didn’t bother you with them—” He broke off.
Herr von Studmann also had a letter in his pocket, a letter which Frau von Prackwitz regarded as a rather harmless business communication. To Herr von Studmann, however, it seemed crafty and underhanded—he would rather have been carrying a hand grenade in his pocket. But he was much more preoccupied with something else. Frau von Prackwitz was still a good-looking woman; she had very beautiful eyes, and there had been tears in those eyes, tears which had not made them any the less beautiful. A woman who must always control herself in the presence of a hot-headed husband and a wayward daughter, who must never let her household notice anything, must be able to let herself go before a chosen confidant. This absence of restraint had only made Frau Eva the more charming. A warm sweetness, a helplessness which was all the more seductive in so mature a woman, had captivated von Studmann.