For a moment Studmann wondered whether he should, as a preliminary, turn out these witnesses to a possible scandal, but a glance at the guest’s face, which was twitching uncontrollably, showed him that speed was called for. So he went up to the bed, introduced himself with a bow, and waited for results.
At once the twitching stopped. “Very unpleasant.” The guest spoke through his nose in that arrogant military manner which von Studmann thought had become extinct long ago. “Extremely unpleasant for—you. Slugs in the champagne—filthy.”
“I see no slugs,” said von Studmann after a glance at the champagne glasses and bottles. What perturbed him was not this silly complaint, but the look of unbridled hatred in the guest’s dark eyes, eyes which were impudent and cowardly at the same time, an expression Studmann had never seen before.
“They are there!” screamed the guest so suddenly that everybody started. He was sitting up in bed, one hand clawing at the quilt, the other still covered.
On your guard, said von Studmann to himself. He’s up to something!
“They’ve all seen the slugs. Take this bottle; no, that one.”
With an appearance of unconcern Studmann held the bottle up to the light. He was convinced that the champagne was quite in order, and that the guest knew it as well as he did. For some reason which Studmann did not know yet, but would probably soon learn, he must have bamboozled the waiter and the butler.
“Look out, Herr Director,” Süskind shouted. Studmann wheeled round. But it was too late. Absorbed in looking at the bottle, Studmann had lost sight of the guest who, with incredible deftness, had slipped out of bed and locked the door. He stood now with the key in one hand, a revolver in the other.
Von Studmann had been some years at the Front—a weapon aimed at him was not unduly disturbing. What did frighten him was the expression of hatred and despair on the mysterious stranger’s face. At the same time this face was without a grimace, but it smiled, and a very sneering smile it was, too.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Studmann asked curtly.
“It means,” said the guest in low but distinct tones, “that the room is now under my control. Who disobeys will be shot.”
“Are you after our money? The result would be hardly worth your while. Are you not the Baron von Bergen?”
“Waiter,” said the stranger. He stood there, magnificent in the pajamas of crimson and yellow. “Waiter, pour cognac into seven champagne glasses. I shall count up to three and anyone who has not emptied his glass by then will stop a bullet. Now, hurry!”
With a look of entreaty toward von Studmann, Süskind obeyed.
“Why this unseemly jest?” von Studmann asked indignantly.
“You’re to drink,” said the hospitable one. “One—two—three—drink, will you. Drink up!”
He was shouting again.
The others looked at Studmann. Studmann hesitated.…
The stranger shouted again. “Empty your glasses!” He shot, and it was not only the women who screamed. Alone, von Studmann would have risked a struggle with the man, but he checked himself in consideration for the distracted people present and the hotel’s reputation.
He turned round and remarked calmly: “Drink, then,” smiling encouragement at the anxious faces; and himself drank.
There were several gulps of cognac in each glass. Studmann got rid of his quickly, but he heard the others behind him choking and panting.
“You must drink it all up,” said the stranger aggressively. “Who doesn’t is to be shot.”
Von Studmann couldn’t turn round, he had to keep an eye on the guest. He was still hoping that the man would look away for a moment and thus make it possible for him to snatch the weapon.
“You sent your bullet into the ceiling,” he said politely. “I must thank you for your consideration. May I ask why we’re to get drunk here?”
“I don’t want to shoot, though I don’t mind either way. What I do want is that you should get drunk. Nobody will leave this room alive until every drop of alcohol has been swallowed. Waiter, pour out the champagne.”
“That’s it,” said von Studmann, who was determined to keep the conversation going. “That’s what I understood. But I am interested to know why you want us to get drunk.”
“Because I like my little joke. Now drink.”
Someone from behind pushed a champagne glass into Studmann’s hand. He drank. “Oh,” he said, “because it amuses you? All right.” And then as nonchalantly as possible: “I presume you know that you’re insane?”
And the other just as imperturbably: “For six years I’ve been declared incapable of managing my own affairs and have been put into a loony house. Waiter, now let’s have say half a glass of cognac. I don’t want to hurry you. I want the pleasure to last longer,” he explained. And again imperturbably: “I couldn’t stand the shooting at the Front. They were shooting only at me. Since then I shoot alone. Drink!”
Von Studmann drank, and felt the alcohol rising like a fine mist into his brain. Without turning his head, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Süskind at the other end of the room stealing toward the bathroom door. But the Baron had also seen him. “Unfortunately locked,” he said, smiling, and Süskind, with a regretful movement of his shoulders, vanished out of the assistant director’s range of vision.
Von Studmann heard a woman behind him gasp and the men whispering. “Look out, look out!” something was saying within him. Then his head was quite clear again.
“I see,” he said. “But how do we come to have the honor of drinking with you in this hotel if you are put away in an institution?”
“Cleared out,” the Baron laughed. “They’re such fools. Won’t the old chap curse when he fetches me back! I made a fine job of it, apart from the attendant whose nut I cracked. It’s going too slowly,” he muttered peevishly. “Much too slowly. Another cognac, waiter. A full glass.”
“I’d prefer champagne,” Studmann hazarded.
It was a mistake.
“Cognac,” the visitor screamed. “Cognac! Who doesn’t drink cognac will be shot. It’s all the same to me!” he shouted significantly to Studmann. “Under paragraph fifty-one I can’t be punished. I’m the Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen. No policeman can touch me. I’m insane. Drink!”
This is going badly, thought von Studmann desperately as the oily stuff trickled down his throat. The women are already laughing and giggling—in five minutes the lunatic will have got me, too, where he wants to have us, the sane groveling like crazy animals before the insane. I must see if …
But there was nothing to see. With undivided attention the fool stood by the door, the pistol in his hand, his finger on the trigger, very much on guard.
“Pour out,” he ordered again. “A full glass of champagne to refresh the palate.”
“Right-o, mister, right-o,” someone called, probably a page, and the others laughed their assent.
“You’re a gentleman.” Studmann made another attempt. “I suggest we let the two ladies go. None of the others will try to get out. I give you my word of honor.”
“Ladies out—nothing doing!” someone bawled from behind. “Isn’t that so, kitten? We don’t get a treat like this every day.”