However, the reports which von Studmann received a little later were satisfactory. The page had been given in tip an entire American dollar; the visitor’s pocketbook had been extremely well lined. The bedroom waiter brought the registration form. The gentleman had inscribed himself as “Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen.” Süskind, the waiter, had also taken the precaution of asking to see the stranger’s passport, which he was entitled to do in accordance with a regulation issued by the police. The passport—an internal one, issued by the district authority at Wurzen—seemed to be in order. The Gotha Almanac, which was then consulted, confirmed at once that there were really Reichsfreiherren von Bergen; they were domiciled in Saxony.
“So everything is all right, Süskind,” said von Studmann and shut the Gotha.
Süskind shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not sure,” he hazarded. “The gentleman is queer.”
“What do you mean by queer? An impostor? If he pays it doesn’t matter to us, Süskind.”
“An impostor? Certainly not. But I think he’s cracked.”
“Cracked?” repeated von Studmann. Süskind had had the same impression as he himself. “Nonsense, Süskind. Perhaps a bit nervous. Or drunk?”
“Nervous? Drunk? Certainly not. He’s cracked.”
“But why? Has he behaved in an extraordinary way?”
“Not at all,” admitted Süskind readily. “That grimacing and tomfoolery mean nothing. Some people think they can impress us that way.”
“Well, then?”
“One has a hunch, Herr Director. When the woven-fabric merchant hanged himself in Room 43 I had a feeling …”
“For God’s sake, Süskind, don’t talk of the devil or you’ll see his imps. Well, I must get on. Keep me informed, and be sure to keep an eye on the gentleman.”
Von Studmann had a very strenuous afternoon. The new dollar rate had not only necessitated refixing all the prices, but the entire budget had to be calculated anew. Studmann sat on pins in the directors’ boardroom. Vogel, the managing director, debated laboriously and at length, whether they should not, as a precaution against further dollar increases, add a certain amount to the present charges so as not to become “impoverished.”
“We must maintain our stores and establishment, gentlemen. Maintain them.” And he set forth that the stock of alabaster soft soap, for instance, had fallen in the past year from seventeen hundredweights to half a hundredweight.
In spite of his superior’s disapproving glances, Studmann kept on dashing out into the hall. From four o’clock onwards the whole staff had to deal with the reception of a rush of incoming guests, and this stream met and blocked another stream of people who had suddenly made up their minds to depart.
Studmann gave only a brief nod when Süskind whispered that the gentleman in No. 37 had taken a bath, gone to bed, and had then ordered a bottle of cognac and one of champagne to be taken to his room.
So he’s a drinker, he thought. If he starts a row I’ll send the hotel doctor up to give him a sleeping draught.
And he hurried away.
When he next left the boardroom again, the managing director was holding forth on the ruinous effect preserved eggs were having on the hotel trade. Nevertheless, under present conditions, it should be considered whether or not a certain stock … since the supply of new-laid eggs … and unfortunately also of chilled eggs …
Idiot, thought von Studmann, rushing away, and was surprised to find himself so irritable. He ought to be used to all this dawdling by now. It must be the storm.
Süskind stopped him. “It’s starting, Herr Director,” he said, his face lugubrious above his black tie.
“What’s starting? Be quick about it, Süskind. I’ve no time to waste.”
“The gentleman in No. 37, Herr Director,” said Süskind reproachfully. “He says there’s a slug in the champagne.”
“A slug?” Von Studmann could not help laughing. “Nonsense, Süskind, he’s pulling your leg. How could there be a slug in the champagne? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“But there is a slug in it,” Süskind continued, worried. “I saw it with my own eyes. A great big black slug.”
“You saw it?” Studmann suddenly became serious. He began to think. That there should be slugs in the champagne in this establishment was quite impossible. “We don’t sell adulterated champagne here. He must have put it in himself by a trick. Take him another bottle and don’t charge him. Here—for the butler.” And he scribbled a wine slip.
“Watch him, Süskind, see that he doesn’t play us a trick again.”
Süskind bowed his utterly perplexed head. “Wouldn’t you like to go yourself? I’m afraid.…”
“Nonsense, Süskind. I’ve no time for such rubbish. If you can’t settle it yourself, take the butler with you as a witness, or anyone else you like.”
Studmann was already gone. In the hall the famous iron magnate, Brachwede, was shouting that he had rented an apartment for ten millions daily, and on the bill he had been charged fifteen. The magnate had to be informed of what he already knew, that is, the rise in the dollar. Here Studmann had to persuade, there to smile, elsewhere to give a stern hint to a page to be more careful; he had to superintend the transportation of a crippled lady in the lift; to refuse three telephone calls.…
The mournful Süskind stood behind him again.
“Herr Director. Please, Herr Director,” he begged in a truly old-fashioned nerve-racking stage whisper.
“What’s the matter now, Süskind?”
“The gentleman in 37, Herr Director.…”
“What is it this time? What is it? Another slug in the champagne?”
“Herr Tuchmann (this was the butler) is just opening the eleventh bottle—there were slugs in all of them.”
“In all of them?” von Studmann almost shouted. Feeling that the hotel guests had their eyes on him he lowered his voice. “Have you gone mad too, Süskind?”
Süskind nodded gloomily. “The gentleman is screaming that he won’t stand black slugs, he’s screaming.…”
“Come along,” Studmann cried and rushed up to the first floor, heedless of the dignified demeanor which the assistant director of so distinguished an establishment ought to maintain in every situation. Süskind, the woe-begone, followed him. Together they sprinted through the puzzled guests—and at once the rumor circulated, whence nobody knew, that the coloratura soprano, Contessa Vagenza, who was to have appeared that evening in the big concert hall, had just given birth to a child.
They arrived simultaneously at No. 37. In view of the information he had received, Studmann was of the opinion that he need not concern himself with time-wasting formalities—he knocked and entered without waiting for an invitation, closely followed by Süskind, who was careful to shut the baize inner door so as to deaden the noise of a possible dispute.
The room was a large one, the electric light full on. The curtains of the two windows were closely drawn. The door leading to the bathroom was shut—also locked, as was to be discovered later. The key had been removed.
The guest was lying in the wide modern bed of chromium steel. The sickly yellow of his skin, which had so struck Studmann in the hall, looked more ghastly still against the white of the pillows. He wore crimson pajamas made of what looked like a costly brocade, its thick yellow embroidery seeming pale against the bilious face. One powerful hand, displaying a strikingly handsome signet ring, lay on the blue silk counterpane. The other was hidden beneath the cover. Von Studmann saw, too, on the table which had been pushed up to the bed, a display of cognac and champagne bottles which astounded him. A much larger number must have been brought up than the eleven mentioned by Süskind. At the same time he realized that the overanxious waiter had not been content with the butler as a witness; near the table stood a small but embarrassed group of people consisting of a page, the chambermaid, an elevator boy and a gray female who was probably in temporary employment as a charwoman.