“Possibly your mother doesn’t want you to live with her?”
“I live with my friend.”
“And your mother doesn’t want that?”
“She is my friend.”
“And so not your mother’s? Your mother disapproves of the intended marriage?”
The secretary looked at the superintendent, the superintendent looked at the secretary.
How clever they must feel to have found this out, Pagel was thinking. But they’re not stupid. No, not at all. I’d like to know how they do it. They find out all there is to know. I must be more careful.
“Your mother has private means?” the secretary began again.
“Who has private means in the inflation?” countered Pagel.
“Then you support your mother?”
“No,” said Pagel angrily.
“So she has enough to live on?”
“Certainly.”
“And possibly supports you?”
“No.”
“You earn your own living?”
“Yes.”
“And that of your friend?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Stop, stop! Pagel thought. They want to catch me. They’ve heard something. But nothing can happen to me; gambling’s not punishable. It’s better not to mention it at all, though. Peter, I’m sure, has given nothing away.
“I sell things.”
“What do you sell?”
“For instance, my friend’s possessions.”
“Whom do you sell them to?”
“For instance, the pawnbroker Feld in Gollnowstrasse.”
“And if there’s nothing left to be sold?”
“There’s always something to be sold.”
The official pondered a moment, looking up at his superior, who nodded slightly.
The secretary took a pencil, stood it on its point, eyed it reflectively and let it fall. “Your friend doesn’t sell anything?” he asked casually.
“Nothing!”
“She sells absolutely nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You know that one can sell things which are not necessarily goods?”
What on earth, thought Pagel, dumbfounded, could Peter have sold for them to ask such foolish questions?
“I, too, didn’t mean only such things as clothes,” he said.
“What, for instance?”
“Pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“Yes, pictures.”
“What do you mean by pictures?”
“Oil paintings.”
“Oil paintings.… Are you an artist, by any chance?”
“No—but I’m the son of an artist.”
“Oh,” said the secretary dissatisfied. “You sell your father’s paintings. Well, we’ll talk about that later. I only want you now to confirm that Fräulein Ledig sells nothing.”
“Nothing. What there is to sell, I sell.”
“It’s possible,” said the secretary, and his bilious pains tormented him acutely—this young fool put on too many airs for his liking—“it’s possible that Fräulein Ledig sells something behind your back—without your knowledge?”
Pagel repressed the inquietude and misgivings which arose in him. “Theoretically it would be possible,” he admitted.
“But in practice?”
“In practice impossible.” He smiled. “For we don’t possess very much and I should at once notice if the smallest trifle were missing.”
“Oh?” said the secretary. He looked round at the superintendent, who returned the glance—it seemed to Pagel as if the shadow of a smile showed in their eyes. His uneasiness, his apprehensions increased. “We agreed, did we not”—the secretary half closed his eyes—“that one can sell not only tangible things, such as goods and paintings but—other things?”
Again this menace, now hardly veiled. What could Petra have sold?
“For example?” said Wolfgang crossly. “I can’t conceive of any intangible things which my friend could have sold.”
“For example …” the secretary began and looked up again at the superintendent.
The superintendent shut his eyes, at the same time moving his melancholy face from right to left, as if to say “No.” Pagel saw it clearly. The secretary smiled—the moment had not yet come to tell the young man, but it was close at hand. “For example—we’ll come to that presently,” he said. “First let’s get back to our questions. So you admit you get your livelihood by the sale of paintings?”
“Gentlemen!”—and Pagel got up and stood behind his chair, gripping it with both hands. Looking down at them he saw the knuckles show white against the reddened skin. “Gentlemen!” he said resolutely. “For some reason unknown you’re playing cat-and-mouse with me. I won’t stand it any longer. If Fräulein Ledig has done anything foolish I alone am responsible. I haven’t looked after her sufficiently, I’ve never given her any money, probably not even enough to eat; I’m responsible for everything. And if any damage has been done I can make that good. Here is money.” He tore at his pockets, he threw wads of notes on the table. “I’ll pay for whatever damage has been done, but tell me at least what has happened.”
“Money, a lot of money,” said the secretary, and looked with anger at the preposterously mounting pile of notes. The superintendent had shut his eyes, as if he wanted to avoid seeing the money, as if he could not bear the sight.
“And here are two hundred and fifty dollars,” Pagel cried, himself overwhelmed by the heap of money. It was the last wad to be thrown on the table. “I can’t think of any damage which nowadays couldn’t be repaired with that. I’ll give you the lot,” he said obstinately, “if you’ll let Fräulein Ledig go this evening.” He, too, was staring at the money, the monotonous white or brown of the German notes, the bright colors of the American.
The man in uniform let in Frau Thumann, Madam Po, her slatternly fat quivering in her loose garments. At a time when women’s skirts barely reached the knee, a draggle-tail skirt reached to her heels. Her flabby gray face trembled, her underlip hung down, revealing the inner side.
“Thank heavens I’m still in time, Herr Pagel. How I did run. I was in such a to-do lest you should set my place on fire again as you threatened you would. I’d have been in good time but just as I was in Gollnowstrasse and thinking of nothing else but you and getting here in time, a car ran into a horse. Then I ‘ad to stop, of course. All its guts outside and I says to myself—Auguste, take a look at that. They always say not to compare man and beast, but they must be pretty like inside, and then I thought to myself, you’ve always something wrong with your bladder and that oats-engine’s got a bladder too.…”
“So Herr Pagel threatened to set your flat on fire if you didn’t come here at once and withdraw your charge?”
But Frau Thumann wasn’t born yesterday; she talked a lot but she couldn’t be pinned down to anything. She had seen the money on the table, had acquainted herself with the situation, and was already gabbling on. “Who said that? He threatened me? I never said so, I demand that be showed on record, Herr Lieutenant. You put that in your own pipe and smoke it. Threaten me! And Herr Pagel such a pleasant, kind gentleman! I wouldn’t have signed that statement against ’im and ’is girl if that man of yours hadn’t talked me out of my senses. It’s the law, he says. ‘Ow can it be the law when I get my money? There can’t be any talk of fraud then. No, I want my statement back, I make you responsible for that.…”
“Silence!” thundered the superintendent, for the secretary’s halfhearted attempts at interruption were of no avail against this flood of talk. “Please go out of the room, Herr Pagel. We’ll talk this matter over with your landlady herself.”
Pagel looked at them for a moment, then at the money and papers on the table. He bowed and stepped out into the corridor. Opposite him was the door of the registration office; toward the street, just inside the exit, was the charge-room. He could see people in the street, where it seemed to have stopped raining. A cool breeze entered and strove with the stale air in the corridor.