“If you mean the charge of fraud, I’ve just paid the bill. In ten minutes the landlady will be here to withdraw her statement.”
“So this evening you have money,” was the secretary’s astonishing reply.
Pagel felt like asking the sallow man what business that was of his, but he refrained. “If the statement is withdrawn,” he said, “there will be nothing to prevent Fräulein Ledig from being discharged, then.”
“I believe there is something,” said the secretary. He was tired out, sick of all these things, and terribly afraid of a quarrel. He would have preferred to be in bed, a hot-water bottle on his belly, and his wife reading him the serial in today’s newspaper. Indeed, there would inevitably be a scene with this agitated young man whose voice was becoming more and more strained. Stronger, however, than his need for rest was the irritability which was oozing out of his gall-bladder and poisoning his blood. But he held himself in. Of all his points he chose the weakest, so as not to enrage this Herr Pagel any further. “When she was arrested she had no home and was dressed only in a man’s overcoat.” He watched Pagel’s face to see the effect of his words. “It was causing a public nuisance,” he explained.
The young man had become very red. “The room has been re-engaged and paid for,” he said hurriedly. “So she will have a roof. And with regard to her clothes, I can buy the necessary dresses and underclothes in a few minutes.”
“So you have enough money for that? Quite a lot of money?” The secretary was sufficiently a detective to pin a man down to anything he casually admitted under examination.
“Enough for that, anyhow,” said Wolfgang vehemently. “So she will be discharged?”
“The shops are now closed,” replied the secretary.
“Never mind. I’ll get her some clothes somehow.” And almost beseechingly: “You’ll discharge Fräulein Ledig?”
“As I said, Herr Pagel, we should like to have to talk with you, quite apart from this matter. That’s why we sent an officer along.”
The secretary whispered for a moment with a man in uniform, who nodded and vanished.
“But you’re still standing. Please take a chair.”
“I don’t want a chair. I want my friend to be discharged at once,” Pagel screamed. But he pulled himself together immediately. “Forgive me,” he said in lower tones. “This won’t happen again. But I’m very worried. Fräulein Ledig is a good girl. Anything you may have against her is my fault. I didn’t pay the rent, I sold her dresses. Do please set her free.”
“Sit down,” said the secretary.
Pagel wanted to flare up, but thought better of it. He sat down.
There is a method of examination by which criminologists can crush most men and certainly the inexperienced. This method is far removed from gentleness or humanity. It cannot be otherwise. The examiner has in most cases to discover a fact which the examined person does not want to admit, has to browbeat the questioned man till he admits the fact against his will.
The secretary had before him a man who was the subject of a vague accusation that he lived by card-sharping. This man would never confess to the truth of this accusation if he were in a calm and collected frame of mind; in order to make him lose his head he had to be provoked. Often it is difficult to find something which enrages the accused to the extent of making him lose his powers of reasoning. In this case the secretary had found the something which he needed: the man seemed to be genuinely concerned about his girl. That must be the lever to open the door to a confession. But such a lever could not be used gently; kindly consideration would not liberate the farmers of East Prussia from a three-card trickster. One had to attack him vigorously: the young man had self-control, he hadn’t flown into a rage, he had sat down. “I have a few matters to inquire about,” said the secretary.
“Certainly,” replied Pagel. “Ask what you like, as long as you promise me that Fräulein Ledig will be discharged this evening.”
“We can talk about that later.”
“Please promise me right away,” begged Pagel. “I’m worried. Don’t be cruel. Don’t torture me. Say yes.”
“I’m not cruel,” replied the secretary. “I’m an official.”
Pagel leaned back, discouraged and irritated.
Through the door came a tall, sad-looking man in uniform. He had heavy pouches under his eyes and an iron-gray sergeant major’s mustache. This man stepped behind the secretary’s chair, took a cigar out of his mouth and asked: “Is that the man?”
The secretary leaned back, looked up at his superior and said in an audible whisper: “That’s the man.”
The superintendent nodded slowly, subjected Pagel to a detailed scrutiny and said: “Carry on.” He continued to smoke.
“Now to our questions,” the secretary began.
But Pagel interrupted him. “May I smoke?” He was holding the packet of cigarettes in his hand.
The secretary rapped on the table. “The public are forbidden to smoke in this office.”
The superintendent puffed vigorously at his cigar. Angrily, but without losing his temper, Pagel put away his cigarettes.
“Now to our questions,” said the secretary again.
“One moment,” interrupted the superintendent, putting his big hand on the other’s shoulder. “Are you examining the man about his own case or the girl’s?”
“So I also am concerned?” Pagel asked with surprise.
“We shall see later,” said the secretary. And to his superior, again in that ridiculously audible whisper: “About his own case.”
They treat you like dirt, do what they like with you, thought Pagel bitterly. But I won’t be upset. The main thing is to get Petra out this evening. Perhaps Mamma was right, after all. I ought to have employed a lawyer. Then these fellows would be more careful.
He sat there outwardly calm, but inwardly uneasy. The feeling of despair, as if everything was in vain, had not left him since he had been in the schnapps bar.
“Now to our questions,” he heard the persevering secretary repeat. It had really begun.
“Your name?”
Pagel gave it.
“Born when?”
Pagel told them.
“Where?”
Pagel said where.
“Occupation?”
He was without an occupation.
“Address?”
Pagel gave them the address.
“Have you your identity papers?”
Pagel had.
“Show them.”
Pagel showed them.
The secretary looked at them, the superintendent looked at them. He indicated something to the secretary and the secretary nodded. He did not hand the papers back, but put them down in front of him. “So,” he said, leaning back and looking at Pagel.
“Now for the questions,” said Pagel.
“What?” demanded the secretary.
“I said ‘Now for the questions,’ ” Pagel replied politely.
“Right,” the secretary said, “Now for the questions.…”
It was not clear whether his irony had made any impression on the two officials.
“Your mother lives in Berlin?”
“As can be seen from the papers.” They want to confuse me, he thought, or they’re stupid. Yes, they’re definitely stupid.
“You don’t live with your mother?”
“No, in Georgenkirchstrasse.”
“Wouldn’t it be pleasanter to live in Tannenstrasse?”
“That’s a matter of taste.”
“Have you perhaps fallen out with your mother?”
“Not quite.” A complete lie was difficult for Pagel, and this case was not sufficiently important for one, anyhow. But to tell the truth was impossible; it would have resulted in an unending chain of questions.