Up and down he went—white doors, white corridors. His sense of direction led him to believe that he was farther and farther from his goal, but in the end even the number of cellars in a grand hotel must be finite. But there were the stairs. Had he passed them before? Should he go up or down? He went up, sure that it was wrong, and met an elderly female, with a rather severe look behind a pince-nez, who was putting clothes in a cupboard in total solitude.
The woman turned round at the sound of his footsteps and inspected the stranger.
Counscious that he was there quite illegitimately, von Prackwitz addressed her very politely. The laundry woman nodded her head gravely without saying a word. Von Prackwitz was decisive: “If you please, how do I get to the ironing room from here?”
His polite smile didn’t in the least soften the woman’s severe look. She seemed to reflect, then made a large gesture with her hands: “There are many ironing rooms here.…”
Von Prackwitz tried to describe this one to her, without having to mention Studmann. “There are wash baskets in the corner,” he said. “Oh, yes, and a chaise-lounge with blue flowers on the covering.” And he added, not without a little bitterness, “It was pretty threadbare.”
She reflected again. Eventually she said coldly, “I don’t think we have a chaise-lounge in disrepair. Everything is immediately repaired here.”
This was not exactly the information von Prackwitz wished to hear upon his inquiry. However, in his present and in his former jobs he’d always had to do with people, and the type who is never able to answer a question precisely was well known to him.
Despite this, he tried again. “So where is the hotel lobby?” he asked.
The answer was prompt: “Hotel guests are completely forbidden to enter the service rooms.”
“Totally,” said the Rittmeister seriously.
“What—?” she almost shouted, and quite lost her control and bearing, becoming a bit flustered, like a chicken.
“Totally or, better still, strictly forbidden,” corrected the Rittmeister. “Not completely. So, good evening and many thanks!”
He addressed her with dignity, as if she was the commander of a regiment and he a young lieutenant. He left. Completely or totally confused, she stayed.
The Rittmeister was now more comfortable being lost. He’d been enlivened by the little incident. It was true that he’d once again not been able to do anything for his friend. This he regretfully admitted. Nevertheless things like that do one good. Besides, he was now walking on carpets, and if he was perhaps farther and farther from Studmann, he seemed to be approaching inhabited regions of the hotel.
The Rittmeister stood before a row of doors in dull polished oak: massive doors, doors inspiring confidence.
“Cashier I,” he read. “Cashier II.” And went on. There came the Service Cashier, Buying Departments A and B, Staff Inquiries, Registrar, Physician. He looked disapprovingly at the physician’s plate, shrugged his shoulders and went on.
“Secretariat.” Still farther, he decided.
“Director Haase.”
The Rittmeister hesitated. No, not there. Farther along.
“Director Kainz.”
“Director Lange.”
“Managing Director Vogel.”
The Rittmeister knocked perfunctorily and entered.
Behind the desk sat a large man dictating to a very good-looking young secretary at the typewriter. He hardly looked up when the Rittmeister introduced himself.
“Pleased-to-meet-you-please-take-a-seat,” he said with the absent-minded unreal politeness of a man whose profession it is to make the acquaintance of a stream of new people. “One moment, please. Where did we get to, Fräulein? Do you smoke? Then please help yourself.”
The telephone rang.
“Vogel speaking—Yes, his doctor? What’s his name? What? Please spell it. What’s his name? Schröck? Medical Superintendent Schröck? When will he be coming? In five minutes? All right, bring him to me at once. Yes, that will be all right, I’ll have time. I’ve only to dictate something and a short interview.” He looked vaguely at the Rittmeister across the telephone. “Say in three minutes. All right. Under no circumstances is he to be taken to No. 37, but brought straight to me. Thanks.” The receiver was replaced. “Where did we get to, Fräulein?”
The young secretary muttered something and the managing director went on with his dictating.
You can only spare me three minutes, thought the Rittmeister angrily. You wait, you’ll be mistaken. I’ll show you.… But he heard a name, started and listened intently.
The director was dictating quickly and mechanically. “We very much regret that Herr von Studmann, whose personal and professional qualities we have learned to appreciate during his eighteen months’ service in our Berlin organization …”
He paused for breath.
“One moment,” cried the Rittmeister and rose.
“One moment,” murmured the director. “I’ll be finished immediately. Where did we get to, Fräulein?”
“No, Fräulein,” protested the Rittmeister. “Excuse me. If I understand you rightly you are dictating a testimonial for Herr von Studmann. Herr von Studmann is a friend of mine.”
“Splendid,” said the director calmly. “Then you’ll take care of him. We were in a fix.”
“Herr von Studmann is lying on a worn-out sofa in an ironing room,” complained the Rittmeister. “There’s not a soul to look after him.”
“Very regrettable,” admitted the director. “A mistake which I must ask you to excuse owing to the momentary confusion created by the occurrence. Fräulein, telephone that Herr von Studmann is to be taken to his room without attracting any attention. Without attracting any attention, Fräulein, please. Without attracting any attention!”
“You want to sack Herr von Studmann,” cried the Rittmeister indignantly, pointing to the notebook. “You can’t condemn a man without hearing his defense.”
The managing director spoke without any show of feeling. “Herr von Studmann will be taken at once to his room.”
“You can’t dismiss him straight away,” cried von Prackwitz.
“We’re not dismissing him,” contradicted the other. Von Prackwitz had the impression that this gray giant could not be touched by any emotion, any entreaty, any human feeling. “We’re granting Herr von Studmann an extended holiday.”
“Herr von Studmann doesn’t need a holiday,” the Rittmeister assured him, intimidated by this unassailable man.
“Herr von Studmann does need a holiday. His nervous system has gone to pieces.”
“You judge without hearing him,” the Rittmeister declared with less conviction.
“In the room occupied by Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen,” said the managing director as monotonously as if he were reading from a statement, “we found nineteen champagne bottles, of which fifteen were empty. Four cognac bottles—empty. Two hotel pages—completely intoxicated. Two adult male employees—also completely intoxicated. An insufficiently clad chambermaid—dead drunk. A charwoman in our temporary employ—dead drunk. The guest, Herr Baron von Bergen, quite sober but with a black eye and almost unconscious as the result of several brutal blows on the head. Doubtless you know how we discovered your friend Herr von Studmann.”
Abashed, Rittmeister von Prackwitz bowed his head.
“On the one hand,” said the managing director a little more cordially, “your loyalty to your friend does you honor. On the other hand, I would ask—does a cultured man with a sound nervous system share in such a bacchanalia?”