“I explained to you this morning all my ideas about it,” said Marofke, sighing. “I didn’t believe you could help me much, but I did think, The young man’ll keep his eyes open. But that’s not exactly what you’ve done, Lieutenant; you wouldn’t have got the Iron Cross for that in wartime. But there, it’s all right, I know what a young man’s like. But please do this for me now—do keep your eyes open a little the next few days. I don’t think all the gendarmes together, whatever they say, will catch my five chaps. You’re here, though, and it would be very nice if you could write to the administration in a few days’ time: We’ve got the five and Marofke told us how to catch them.… What do you think?”
“Gladly, officer,” said Pagel obligingly. “And what is it you think I ought to do?”
“Man, have you got cotton wool in your ears?” Marofke jumped up. “Haven’t you any brains? I can’t tell you anything more. Keep your eyes open, that’s all. I don’t ask anything else. No need to play the detective or skulk in corners, nor even try to be cunning—only keep your eyes open!”
“All right, then,” said Pagel, rising. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You know what to do,” replied Marofke hurriedly. “I’m convinced that they have accomplices in the village, one or more, probably girls, but not necessarily. And while the police are all over the place here, they’ll keep under cover in the woods, in the village, who knows! It’s you who must use your eyes. In three or four days’ time, when it’s a bit quieter, our old pals will set forth, properly, by train, and well dressed.…”
“I’ll look out,” promised Pagel.
“Do it, too,” Marofke begged. “Looking out is harder than you think. And there’s another thing you ought to know. What they have on their backs.…”
“Yes?”
“That’s State property. And every prisoner knows that if he makes away with one piece of it he’ll be wanted for larceny. A missing scarf may mean six months’ penal servitude. So when really experienced lads bolt they take care that their things get sent as soon as possible to the prison. Usually by post—in which case I’ll let you know. If so much as a single piece turns up here, then you must keep watch like a pointer. Don’t think that it’s something I’ve left behind, because I never forget a thing. If it’s only a gray prison sock with a red rim, there’s something wrong. Do you even know what our shirts look like? Or the mufflers? Come along—I’ll show you.”
The principal warder did not, however, get as far as initiating Pagel into these secrets. Down the village street came ten bicycles, bringing nine warders from the prison, all belted, with rubber truncheons swinging and their faces dripping with sweat. In front rode a fat flabby man in a thick crumpled black suit. His belly almost rested on the handle bars. When the principal warder saw this threatening colossus he stared, forgetting everything else, including young Pagel, and murmured in dismay: “The labor inspector himself!”
Pagel saw the fat man, breathing heavily, descend from his bicycle, which a zealous warder held while he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He did not look at Marofke.
“Inspector,” said Marofke imploringly with his hand still at his cap badge. “Report Harvest Detachment Five Neulohe, a senior warder, four warders … forty-five men …”
“Where is the Manor office, young fellow?” demanded the colossus distantly. “Please show me the way. As for you, Marofke”—the inspector seemed to be interested in the gabled wall of the barracks, on which the stone cross stood out with its somewhat lighter red—“as for you, Marofke, you will soon find out that you’re finished.” He went on looking at the wall, considering. Then, in an indifferent tone: “You will immediately, Marofke, see if the footwear of the prisoners has been greased according to regulations and if laced up in conformity with orders. That is, bow knots and no others!”
One of the warders sniggered. Marofke, the little vain potbellied principal warder, replied, pale: “Yes, inspector,” and disappeared round the corner of the barracks.
Pagel, leading the way to the office, thought bitterly about the little man who, although he had taken the greatest trouble and borne the heaviest anxieties, was snubbed by everybody. No one, however, had cast any reproach at himself … despite all the mistakes he had made. He resolved, if an opportunity offered, to rehabilitate Herr Marofke. He could understand how difficult it was for anyone who looked so absurd to obtain respect—however efficient he might be. Efficiency was not at all the chief thing; it was more important to look like it.
“So this is the office,” said the inspector. “Thank you, young man. Who are you?”
“A friend of Herr Marofke’s,” answered Pagel rudely.
The fat man was not to be put out. “I was thinking of your occupation,” he said, still friendly.
“Pupil,” replied Pagel with fury.
“There you are!” beamed the fat man. “Then you are certainly suited to Marofke. Pupil! He, too, has a lot to learn.” And, nodding, he opened the door.
Wolfgang Pagel had had another lesson, which was that one should not vent ill-humor on those whom it delights.
VII
Half an hour later Harvest Detachment Five moved off from Neulohe, and a quarter of an hour afterwards the gendarmes set out on their battue through the woods. From the office windows all four—the Geheimrat, the gendarme officer, young Pagel and Frau von Prackwitz—watched the convicts’ departure. It was very different from their arrival. There was no singing, no one smiled; they went away with lowered heads, sullen faces, and their feet dragging in the dust. This dull shuffling along had in it something despairing, an evil rhythm, a “We are the enemies of this world”—that was what it sounded like to Wolfgang.
No doubt the prisoners had been thinking about their escaped fellow sufferers; burning envy had filled them when they considered the freedom of those five who now haunted the woods, while they were to return, under an escort of loaded carbines, to their solitary stone cells—punished because the others had escaped. From them had been taken the sight of distant fields, a laughing girlish face, a hare jumping along the potato furrows—all exchanged for the faded yellow dreariness of cell walls, because five others were scampering about in freedom.
In front of the column went the principal warder, Marofke. On the right he had to push a bicycle, on the left another; he wasn’t even allowed to watch over his men now. And behind the column trod the inspector, with spiky eyebrows and elephant feet, alone. His fat, white face raised, expressionless. Strong white teeth flashed in his mouth. At the side of the road Vi had stood to take stock. Seeing her there, Pagel had been angry.
The Geheimrat spoke to his daughter. “I should advise you, incidentally, not to sleep in the Villa alone with your stupid Räder the next few nights. All respect to our clever gendarme officer—but safe is safe.”
“Perhaps one of the gentlemen would …?” began Frau von Prackwitz, looking from Pagel, who was staring out of the window, to Studmann.
Although Marofke had specifically warned against any playing at being detective, Pagel preferred being free in the nights that followed, to do a bit of looking and hearing around—to keep his eyes open, as he’d been told. So he looked at no one but out of the window—but the convicts had left at last, and the barracks looked like an empty red box.
“I shall be very pleased to sleep with you,” said von Studmann—and flushed terribly.
The old Geheimrat bleated, and looked out of the window, too. Pagel shrugged his shoulders. The awkwardnesses of the adroit are always the worst. When a completely conventional man like Studmann makes a slip, everyone turns red.