Yes, there had been something rotten, in the Manor as in the Villa. There had been a lot of prayer there, but that alone was of little avail. How would the old lady take the bad news? Her home must appear to her as desecrated.
It had been easy work for the gendarmes; in fact no work at all, as with shouts of “Hands up!” they rushed with Herr von Studmann into the large dining room. The convicts, thinking it a very good joke, had laughed. They had had a delightful time; they had luscious things to relate; they would be the heroes of the prison. And what could actually happen to them? Upstairs in the maids’ rooms their prison dress was neatly put away, not a piece missing; there could be no question of theft or housebreaking. Six months—three months—would square the matter for them. It had been worth that!
The girls, to be sure, sobbed. Oh, how the fat cook howled when the handcuffs were put on her lover, the convict Matzke! She pulled her apron over her head, howling beneath it like a puppy—she was so ashamed.
Pagel, looking in to hurry up the gendarmes, for Fräulein Violet seemed more important now than these convicts, saw Amanda Backs, that strapping buxom wench, standing at a window, her face curiously tense. She was watching with furious eyes the drunken, sobbing, cursing, hilarious uproar in the room—since there were not enough gendarmes to shut off the place, far too many of the merely curious had entered.
Pagel had a feeling of disappointment. Only yesterday he had thought her splendid when, in front of the Entente Commission, she boxed the ears of the traitorous Meier. “You too?” he said in a troubled voice.
Amanda Backs looked him full in the face. “Your brain soft?” she said contemptuously. “I’ve had enough of rotters. No, thanks, I’m cured of that. If there isn’t a decent one, then I’d rather not.” Pagel nodded. “I sleep downstairs because of the hens,” she explained. “I’ve got to get up early and mustn’t disturb madam. But they all sleep upstairs. I knew about it, of course—they’re nothing but a lot of geese, and there’s no geese without cackling.” She looked at the turmoil. “I wonder if they’ve noticed yet?” she said thoughtfully. “I can’t understand it. There should be five of them, and they’ve only got four. I don’t know whether the fifth has escaped or was never here at all.”
Pagel’s eyes shone. “Liebschner, Kosegarten, Matzke, Wendt and Holdrian,” he said immediately. “Who’s missing, Amanda?”
“Liebschner. The one with the uneasy black eyes, a skulking fellow, you know, Herr Pagel!”
He nodded and went up to the gendarmes, to make inquiries. But they had already noticed that a man was missing. Even if they hadn’t, Studmann’s excellent memory spoke as correctly as Pagel’s—Holdrian, Wendt, Matzke, Kosegarten, Liebschner.
Yes, for a time it looked as if the search for Fräulein Violet, in spite of all Pagel’s entreaties, would be forgotten because of this missing fifth man. But toward three o’clock more gendarmes hurriedly arrived, and the curious were ejected. Interrogations began, greatly facilitated by the sudden appearance of a detective or former detective, whom the gendarmes seemed to know; a fat man, exceedingly dirty and wet through, with a strangely frozen look.
Two minutes, and it was clear that Liebschner had not been present at the orgy. Three more minutes, and it was shown that he had never been in the Manor. Ah, the fat sobbing cook, that weeping mountain of flesh! Now she indeed started out from under her apron. “Only four of us sleep upstairs,” she shouted. “What should we do with five chaps? For shame! What do these men think we are!” And she disappeared blubbering under her apron again.
Another two minutes and they knew that Liebschner had been lost by the other four immediately after the escape, in the woods.…
“What is he? Swindler? Let’s not delay here any longer,” said the fat detective. “The lad’s a long time ago in Berlin. Neulohe’s no place for a gentleman like that. He knew what he wanted. Our colleagues at headquarters will be hearing about him. Pretty soon, I hope. Away with those chaps! You, Herr von Studmann, please go over to the Villa and tell the doctor to come as well. It would be better—the girl’s in her nightdress or pajamas, same thing this weather.”
“Frau von Prackwitz …” objected Studmann.
“The lady is asleep, had a small injection. The gentleman’s asleep, had enough, too. The doctor’s got time, I tell you. Wait! Bring some piece of the girl’s clothing so that the hound won’t lose the scent; anything which the girl had next to her skin. And another thing. There’s said to be a forester here, an old ass, Kniebusch or something like that. Get him out of bed—the man will know his own wood.”
“I will fetch the forester,” said Pagel.
“Wait, young man. Herr Pagel, isn’t it? I was wanting to speak to you.”
The big hall had emptied itself. Only two or three of the bulbs set up for the orgy were still alight; the air was icy and seemed dirty. A half torn-down curtain hung from a window revealing a night blind.
The fat man took Pagel gently by the arm, obliging him to walk up and down. “It’s damned cold. My very marrow’s ice. How that young girl must be freezing! She’s been practically two hours outside now. Well, tell me all you know about the young lady. You’re in employment on the estate, and young men are interested in young women. So out with it.” His icy gaze penetrated the young man.
But Pagel had seen and observed a good deal; he was no longer the unsuspecting young man who submitted to every pretension made with authority. He had heard a gendarme exclaim peevishly: “What’s that lump of fat want with us again?” and had noticed how the fat man gave instructions to civilians but never to a gendarme, and how the gendarmes acted as though he were not there, never speaking to him.
“First I should like to know in the name of what authority you are here,” he replied slowly.
“You want to see a badge?” cried the other. “I could show you one, only it’s not valid now. I’ve been kicked out. In the newspapers they call it disciplinary punishment on account of nationalist convictions.”
“You are the only man here,” said Wolfgang more rapidly, “who kept urging the search for Fräulein von Prackwitz. What is your interest in her?”
“None,” said the man icily. He bent closer to Pagel, seized his jacket and said: “You are lucky, young man. You have a pleasant face, not a bulldog’s mug like mine. People will always have confidence in you—don’t misuse it. Well, I trust you, too, and I’ll disclose something. I have a great interest in whatever is connected with arms dumps that have been carted away.”
Wolfgang stared in front of him. Then he looked up. “Violet von Prackwitz is fifteen years old. I don’t think that she …”
“Herr Pagel,” said the detective with a cold look, “in every case of treachery there is a woman behind it, either as instigator or tool. Often an unconscious tool. Always! Tell me what you know.”
So Pagel told what he knew.
The fat man walked beside him, snorting, clearing his throat, looking contemptuously at the walls, tugging furiously at the cord of a curtain, spitting. “Idiocy. Miserable idiocy!” he cried. Then, somewhat calmer: “Thank you, Herr Pagel, things are a little clearer now.”
“Shall we find the girl? The Lieutenant …”
“Blind!” said the fat man. “Born blind in a world of the blind! You’re thinking of the Lieutenant—well, Herr Pagel,” he whispered, “you will be able to say good morning to this Lieutenant in an hour’s time, but I’m afraid you won’t like it.”