“But there must have been some reason for it,” von Prackwitz cried despairingly. “Otherwise Herr von Studmann would never …”
“Can you think of any reason which would have made you take part in such an orgy, Herr von …?”
“Prackwitz,” prompted the Rittmeister.
“Herr von Prackwitz. You will understand that we cannot any longer employ in our organization a man so compromised, if for no other reason than the bad example to our staff.”
There was a curt, important knock. The door flew open and in stormed a little bowlegged old man with a tall forehead, shining blue eyes and a faded beard, which no doubt had once been fiery. He was followed slowly by a thickset man whose jacket fitted so tightly across his shoulders that he looked like a prize-fighter.
“Have you still got him?” croaked the fiery old man. “Where is he? For God’s sake don’t let him get away. Türke, see about it! Make haste! Don’t let him escape. Run! I’ve been chasing this boy all over Berlin for the last twenty-four hours. I don’t believe there’s a haunt in this wretched town into which I haven’t stuck my nose, damn it!”
He took hold of the above-mentioned nose and looked breathlessly at the dumbfounded people round him. The thick-set man in the tight jacket, presumably Herr Türke, stood behind.
Probably because his profession had accustomed him to the most extraordinary examples of the human species, the managing director was the first to emerge from stupefaction.
“Vogel,” he introduced himself. “I presume I’m speaking with Dr. Schröck?”
“No, I’m speaking with you,” shouted the old man, letting go his nose. The transition from calmness to rage was so sudden that all—except the imperturbable Herr Türke—were startled. In that bowlegged body a fiery temperament must be concealed. “I’ve been asking you for the last three minutes whether that fellow’s still here.”
“If you mean Reichsfreiherr Baron von Bergen,” began the managing director, “I know he’s in Room 37.”
“Türke,” screamed Dr. Schröck, “did you hear that? Room 37! Go and fetch the young rotter, alive or dead! Look out—you know how tricky he is. Don’t forget he locked your colleague in his room!”
The thick-set one nodded. “He won’t get away with it this time. He couldn’t have done such a thing to me, sir.” Leisurely he departed.
“An excellent male nurse,” muttered Dr. Schröck. “A man without a trace of sentimentality.” Suddenly his anxiety returned. “He can’t have got away by any chance?”
“No, no,” the managing director reassured him. “He can’t get away. Things have happened, unfortunately.” He gave a glance at the Rittmeister. “I’ll report to you as soon as I’ve dealt with this gentleman.”
With a sigh of relief Dr. Schröck sank into a chair, and mopped his forehead. “He can’t get away then, thank God. Something’s happened. Wherever that fellow goes something happens.” He gave a sigh of resignation. “Police? Public prosecutor?”
“No, no,” the managing director assured him. “The gentleman is sure to apologize.” He glanced with annoyance at the Rittmeister. “We’ll make good any damage. One of our employees unfortunately so far forgot himself as to strike the Baron.”
The old man leaped out of his chair. “Where is he? Who is it?” He pointed to the Rittmeister. “Did you?”
“He apparently threw a champagne bottle at his head,” wailed the managing director.
“Splendid,” cried the old man. “A champagne bottle! Magnificent! Not you? Your friend? Let me meet him. I must thank him. It isn’t possible? Why isn’t it possible?”
“Your charge seems to have made my friend—and half a dozen other people—mysteriously drunk.”
“There you are,” said Dr. Schröck. “The usual dirty business.” He sat down resigned. “I’ll arrange everything, nobody shall suffer. You, my dear managing director, seem to have been dazzled by the title of Reichsfreiherr and so on. Let me tell you this Reichsfreiherr is the most irresponsible, pampered, vulgar, sadistic little beast in the world. And a coward at that.”
“Dr. Schröck!” implored the managing director.
“That’s the truth! He imagines that because he’s been put under restraint as a result of his extravagance, and was acquitted in some scandal because of paragraph fifty-one, he can do what he likes. He’s lazy and without respect, without a trace of human feeling.” Dr. Schröck flared up. “The fellow ought to be whipped morning and evening; he ought to be put in prison or at least in a State asylum. There they’d cure him of his nasty tricks!”
“But he’s in your sanatorium—this poor fellow.”
“Unfortunately,” grumbled Dr. Schröck. “Unfortunately. I offer him to my colleagues as if he were sour beer, but they won’t take him, although he pays more than any other patient. Patient! My goodness, he’s just a vicious monkey. When I take him back to my institution, behind bars and locked doors in the ward for troublesome cases, of course, he’ll be tolerable for a month or two—especially if your friend has given him a good hiding.”
“A quarter of an hour ago he was nearly unconscious,” interposed the managing director.
“Excellent! But he’ll soon be overbearing again. He teases harmless patients into a frenzy, annoys the attendants, steals cigarettes, drives me and my assistants mad.… And he’s by no means stupid, he’s devilishly cunning. He’s always escaping. Watch him as much as we like, he always finds some fool. Borrows money or steals it.… And I can do nothing,” said the old man gnashing his teeth. “I can’t get rid of him. As he’s not in full possession of his mental faculties, the law’s on his side.” He sat there, grown suddenly older and exhausted. “For twenty-four hours I’ve been chasing him in my car.” He looked round. “If only I could get rid of him,” he groaned despairingly. “But then, as likely as not, he’d regain his freedom—no, I couldn’t take the responsibility. However, let’s at least try the ultimate remedy—expense. Perhaps his mother—he has only one mother, unfortunately—will get tired of paying for him. Herr Director, may I ask you for a bill, a detailed account?”
“Yes,” said the managing director, hesitating. “There’s been a lot of alcohol consumed, champagne, cognac …”
“Nonsense.” Dr. Schröck grew angry. “Those are trifles. Champagne, cognac! No, every person the fellow’s harmed is entitled to damages. I hear of half a dozen persons whom he’s made drunk.… Your friend, for instance, I think?”
“I don’t know whether my friend …” began von Prackwitz awkwardly.
“For Heaven’s sake,” cried the incensed Schröck, “don’t be a fool! Excuse me, I shouldn’t say that, of course, but really don’t be a fool! The greater the expense the sooner there’s a chance of his mother locking him up one of these fine days in a well-guarded lunatic asylum. You’re doing a service to mankind.”
The Rittmeister looked at the managing director, then at the typewriter in which the testimonial was still inserted. “My friend, who is assistant director and chief receptionist here, is to be discharged by the hotel management because he was intoxicated while on duty,” he said.
“Excellent,” cried Dr. Schröck, but this time the managing director interrupted him.
“I must contradict Herr von Prackwitz,” he said hastily. “We’re granting Herr von Studmann a long holiday, say three months, even six months. During that time Herr von Studmann, in view of his efficiency, will easily find another position. We do not dismiss him for drunkenness on duty,” he explained firmly, but without emotion. “We simply ask him to look round for another field of activity because in no circumstances must a hotel employee make himself conspicuous. Unfortunately, Herr von Studmann, when he fell down the hall stairs insufficiently clad and completely intoxicated, made himself very conspicuous in front of many employees and still more guests.”