by Hans Fallada
VII
Wolfgang Pagel looked up and down the dark street near Wittenbergplatz, deserted except for a few hurrying pedestrians. It was shortly after midnight. There, where the square broadened out, a man was leaning against the wall of a house; he wore a cap, smoked a cigarette and, despite the summer heat, had his hands in his pockets—everything as it should be.
“That’s him,” said Wolfgang nodding. He felt suddenly cold—he was so near to his goal. Excitement and expectation gripped him.
“Who’s that?” asked von Studmann without much interest. It was a boring business to be dragged through half Berlin at night, dog-tired, just to be able to look at a fellow in a cap.
“The spotter!” said Wolfgang, ignoring the weariness of his two companions.
“I admire your knowledge of Berlin,” grumbled Rittmeister von Prackwitz. “It’s undoubtedly most interesting that that fellow is called a spotter. Do you mind at last telling us what you really have on?”
“Soon,” said Wolfgang, continuing to peer ahead.
The spotter whistled and disappeared into the brightness of Wittenbergplatz. A key rattled in a street door very close to the three men, but no one appeared.
“They have locked the street door; it’s still the old house, No. 17,” explained Pagel. “Now the police are coming. Let’s take a stroll round the square in the meantime.”
But the Rittmeister turned rebellious. Stamping his foot he exclaimed heatedly: “I refuse to be a party to this nonsense any longer, Pagel, if you don’t explain to us at once what you are planning to do. If it’s anything shady, then no thanks! I openly confess that I’m longing for my bed, and Studmann probably feels the same.”
“What’s a spotter, Pagel?” Studmann asked quietly.
“A spotter is someone who keeps a look-out to see whether the police are coming and whether the air is clear in general. And the man who locked the door quickly just now was the tout, who persuades people to come up.”
“So it’s something illegal!” cried the Rittmeister still more heatedly. “Thanks very much, my dear Herr Pagel. Count me out! I don’t like having anything to do with the police, another point in which I’m old-fashioned.”
He broke off, for the two policemen had come up. They were strolling along side by side, one sturdy and big, one little and fat, the storm straps of their shakos under their chins. The chains on which their rubber truncheons hung clinked softly. The noise of their hobnailed boots was re-echoed by the walls of the houses.
“Good evening,” murmured Pagel politely.
Only the tall one who passed nearest to the three turned his head a little, but he did not answer. Slowly the two pillars of order passed down the street. Only the sound of their hobnail boots disturbed the silence of the three. Then they turned into Augsburgerstrasse, and Pagel made a gesture of relief.
“Yes,” he said and felt his heart beat more calmly again, since he had feared that there might be some hindrance at the last moment. “Now they are gone we can soon go up.”
“Let’s go home, Studmann!” said the Rittmeister irritably.
“What’s up there?” asked Studmann, nodding his head in the direction of the dark house.
“Night club,” said Pagel. He looked toward Wittenbergplatz. From its brightness reappeared the spotter, coming slowly down the street, hands in pockets, cigarette in mouth.
“Disgusting!” exclaimed the Rittmeister. “Undressed women, watery champagne, nude dancers! I said it the moment I saw you! Come along, Studmann!”
“Well, Pagel?” asked Studmann, paying no attention to the Rittmeister. “Is that so?”
“Not at all! Roulette. Just a little roulette.”
The spotter had stopped some five paces away from them under a lamppost. He was looking thoughtfully at the light, whistling “Mucki, call me Schnucki!” Pagel knew that the fellow was listening, knew that he, the worst patron of all gambling clubs, had been recognized, and trembled lest he should be refused admittance. Annoyed at the others’ hesitation he shook the packet of money in his hand.
“Roulette!” cried the Rittmeister in astonishment. He came a step closer. “But is that allowed?”
“Roulette!” Von Studmann, too, was surprised. “And with that sort of swindle you put questions to Fate, Pagel?”
“The game’s played fair,” murmured Pagel in protest, his eye on the spotter.
“There has never yet been anyone who admitted that he lets himself be cheated,” Studmann objected.
“I once used to play roulette, as a very young lieutenant,” the Rittmeister said dreamily. “Perhaps we can just have a look at it, Studmann. Of course, I won’t risk a penny.”
“I don’t know,” said Studmann hesitantly. “It must be crooked. The whole sinister atmosphere. You see, Prackwitz,” he explained with some embarrassment, “I’ve naturally also gambled from time to time. And I don’t like … Hang it, once you’ve tasted blood and are in the mood I’m in today …”
“Yes, of course,” said the Rittmeister, making no move to go, however.
“Well, are we going up?” Pagel asked the two undecided men, who both looked at each other inquiringly, eager and yet not eager, afraid of the swindle, but more afraid of themselves.
“You can take a look at it, gentlemen,” said the spotter, pushing his cap carelessly higher and strolling nearer. “Excuse me for butting in.” He stood there, his pale face lifted to them, his little dark mousy eyes darting critically from one to another. “Won’t cost you anything to look. No charge for playing, gentlemen, no cloak-room fee, no alcohol, no women.… Just pure gambling.”
“Well, I’m going up now,” said Pagel firmly. “I’ve got to play today.”
Unable to wait any longer, he went hastily to the street door, knocked, was let in.
“Wait a minute, Pagel!” the Rittmeister called after him. “We’re also coming.”
“You ought to go with your friend, really,” the spotter said persuasively. “He’s got his head screwed on all right; he knows how to play. Hardly an evening goes by without him clearing off with his winnings. We all know him.”
“Who? Pagel?” cried the Rittmeister, astonished.
“We don’t know what his real name is, of course. With us the gentlemen don’t introduce themselves. We just call him the Pari Panther, because he always gambles only on pari.… And you should see how! He’s a real gambler, he is! All of us knows him. Let him go on ahead; he won’t lose himself in the dark. I’ll show you the way up.”
“So he plays a lot, does he?” von Studmann cautiously inquired, for Pagel’s case was beginning to interest him more and more.
“A lot?” said the spotter with unmistakable respect. “The bloke never misses an evening. And he always skims off the cream! We get infuriated with him sometimes. But he’s cool, I tell you; I could never be as cool as that bloke. It’s a miracle the way he can stop when he’s got enough in his pocket. I really oughtn’t to let him go up at all, they dislike him so much. Still, it doesn’t matter today, since you gents are with him.”
Von Studmann began to laugh heartily. “What are you laughing like that for?” the Rittmeister asked, at a loss.
“Oh, sorry, Prackwitz,” Studmann said, still laughing. “I always like hearing pretty compliments of that sort. Don’t you understand? They let the cool cunning Pagel go up because he is bringing us two idiots with him. Come along. I feel like having a fling now. Let’s see whether we two can’t also be cool and cunning.” And still laughing, he took the Rittmeister by the arm.
The spotter also laughed. “I seem to have put my foot into it proper. Still, you gents ain’t offended. And seeing as you’re not, you might perhaps give us a tip now. I don’t know, but from the looks of both of you, you won’t be coming down them stairs again with a fortune in your pockets.” On the landing he adroitly shone a light on the wallet which Prackwitz was searching for a tip.
“He really believes we won’t have a penny when we come out, Studmann,�
� the Rittmeister said irritably. “What a bird of ill-omen!”
“Wishing people a bit of bad luck has always helped in gambling,” said the spotter. And in a soft, persuasive tone: “I say, Baron, just another little note. I see you don’t know our rates yet, and me always standing with one leg, so to speak, in Alexanderplatz police station.”
“And me?” The Rittmeister, very angry at being reminded once more of the unlawfulness of this enterprise, was on the verge of exploding.
“You?” said the spotter sympathetically. “Nothing will happen to you. The most that happens to players is to lose their cash. Those who entice them into gambling have to go to jail. You see, I’m enticing you, Baron.”
A dark figure came down the stairs.
“Psst, Emil! These are the two gents with the Pari Panther. Take them upstairs; I’m going to keep a look-out. I’ve got a queer feeling in my stomach as if something might happen!”
The three men ascended. In a hollow whisper the spotter called after them: “Hi, Emil! Listen!”
“What do you want? You know you’re not to make a row!”
“I’ve already touched ’em for a tip! Don’t milk ’em a second time!”
“Oh, get off with you—better keep your eyes skinned!”
“Trust me, Emil. I’ll keep a good look-out, even if the ship sinks!”
He disappeared into the dark regions.
VIII
Wolfgang Pagel was already sitting in the gaming room. In some mysterious way the news of the large sum of money which the Pari Panther had exchanged for counters had made its way from the vestibule to the vulture-like croupier and his two assistants, and had obtained for him a place near the head of the table. Yet Pagel had changed only a quarter of his money with the gloomy sergeant major. Carelessly and hastily he had stuffed away the rest of the notes and had entered with his hand burrowing about in the cool bone counters in his tunic pocket. They rattled softly, with a pleasant dry sound. And this sound at once called up the image of the gaming table: the somewhat indifferently spread green cloth with the embroidered yellow numbers, under electric light that always seemed very peaceful despite all the noise going on around; and the spinning and rattling of the ball, the soft hum of the wheel. Wolfgang sucked in the air with a deep, almost relieved, breath.
The gaming room was already full. Behind those sitting on chairs there stood two crowded rows of players, although it was still early. Wolfgang had only a vague impression of all those tense white faces as he was conducted by one of the croupier’s assistants—a favor never before enjoyed—to the chair which had been vacated for him. Passing a woman, he suddenly became aware of the almost overpowering strength of her perfume, which seemed to him strangely familiar, and to his irritation discovered that, although he would now have liked to concentrate on the game, he was completely distracted, his brain entirely bent on finding out the name of the perfume. Through his head darted a host of words like Houbigant, Mille Fleurs, Patchouli, Ambra, Mysticum. Not till he sat down did it occur to him that he probably didn’t know the name of the perfume at all; that it only seemed familiar to him because it was the perfume of his enemy, the Valuta Vamp. He thought he now remembered this woman smiling at him.
Although he had a seat, Pagel refused to let himself glance at his surroundings or the gaming board. Slowly and deliberately he laid down a packet of Lucky Strikes bought at Lutter and Wegner’s, a box of matches, and a silver cigarette holder—a kind of miniature fork on a ring which slipped over the little finger and was supposed to prevent the fingers from getting yellow. Then he counted out thirty chips and placed them in front of him in piles of five—he still had a whole heap more of them in his pocket. Not looking up yet, he played with them, enjoying their dry rattle as if it were a beautiful music. Then—the resolve had arisen in him just as abruptly as the first flash of lightning darts out of a stormy sky—he suddenly placed a whole handful of counters, as many as he could grasp, on number twenty-two.
The croupier gave him a quick, dark glance, the ball rattled, rattled endlessly—and the sharp voice rang out: “Twenty-one—odd—red.”
Perhaps I’m making a mistake, he thought, strangely relieved. Perhaps Petra is only twenty-one. Suddenly he was in a good mood and no longer distracted. Without regret he saw the croupier drag away his stake. Vaguely he felt as if he had, with these counters, sacrificed in accordance with Petra’s age, bought himself free from her and could now, without taking her into account, play as he liked. He gave a faint smile at the croupier, who was attentively regarding him. The man returned his smile almost imperceptibly, his lips hardly moving beneath his bristly beard.
Pagel looked around him. Directly opposite, on the other side of the table, sat an old gentleman with a face so sharply featured that, in profile, his nose looked like the blade of a knife, its end a threatening point. This stagnant face was terrifyingly pale; in one eye perched a monocle, over the other the paralyzed lid drooped. The man had whole heaps of counters lying in front of him, and little packets of bank notes as well. When the croupier called, his slender well-kept hands hastily seized counters and money and with bent fingertips distributed the stakes over a large variety of numbers. Pagel’s glance followed. Then he looked away quickly and contemptuously; the pallid gentleman with the restrained face had completely lost his head. He was playing against himself, staking on zero and on numbers, on odd and even, simultaneously.
“Eleven—odd—red. First dozen,” called the croupier.
Red again! Pagel was convinced that black would now turn up. With rapid decision he placed all his thirty counters on black and waited.
It seemed an eternity. Someone withdrew his stake at the last moment and then put it back again. A profound, deathly aversion seized Wolf. Everything was going so slowly; this game which had filled his life for the past year suddenly seemed idiotic. There they sat around like children and waited breathlessly for a ball to fall into a hole. Of course it fell into a hole! Into one or into another, it made no difference. There it ran and clattered—oh, if only it would stop rolling, if only it would fall in! The monocle opposite glittered maliciously, the green cloth had something magnetic about it. If only he were rid of his money! What stupidity to have hungered for this game!
Pagel was rid of his money. The thirty counters disappeared under the croupier’s rake. “Seventeen” had been called out. Seventeen—also a very nice number. “Seventeen and Four” was far better than this silly game. For “Seventeen and Four” one needed a little common sense. Here one only had to sit and await sentence. The silliest thing in the world—something for slaves.
With a jerk Pagel stood up, pushed his way out through those standing behind him and lit a cigarette. First Lieutenant von Studmann, who was leaning against a wall, asked with a glance at his face: “Well? Finished?”
“Yes,” said Pagel sullenly.
“How did it go?”
“Moderately.” He puffed his cigarette greedily, then asked: “Shall we go?”
“Certainly! I don’t want to see or hear anything of this business. I’ll go and get von Prackwitz away at once. He wanted to watch for a little, just for amusement.”
“Just for amusement! All right, I’ll wait here.”
Studmann pushed through the players while Pagel took his place against the wall. He felt limp and tired. So this was what the evening, long hoped for, was really like; the evening when, with a great gambling capital, he would be able to stake as he liked! Things never came together. Today, when he could have played as long as he liked, he had no desire to. First there’s no beaker, and then there’s no wine, he thought. He was finished at last with gambling; he felt he would never again have any desire for it. Now he could peaceably travel into the country early tomorrow morning with the Rittmeister, presumably as a kind of slave driver. He would miss nothing here in Berlin. No risk of that! One did this, one could do that: everything was equally meaningless. Interesting to observe how one’s life melted away, rendering itse
lf meaningless, just as the money that was always pouring forth from the presses also became meaningless. In one short day both mother and Petra were lost, and now even gambling, too. It had become completely meaningless.… Really, one might just as well jump from a bridge under the next train—it was just as sensible or senseless as anything else.
Yawning, he lit himself another cigarette. The Valuta Vamp stepped up to him. She seemed to have been waiting for that. “Will you give me one?”
Without a word Pagel offered her the packet.
“English? No, I can’t smoke those; they’re too strong for me. Haven’t you any others?”
Pagel shook his head with a faint smile.
“I can’t understand how you like smoking those! They’ve got opium in them!”
“Opium is no worse than cocaine,” said Pagel provokingly, looking at her nose. She couldn’t have sniffed much today, her nose wasn’t white. Of course, he had to remember the powder; naturally she had powdered herself.… With calm, objective curiosity he looked at her.
“Cocaine! You don’t think I take that, do you?”
Something of the old hostility made her voice shrill, although she was now doing her utmost to please him. And she really looked pleasant. She was tall and slim; her breasts in the low-cut dress seemed small and firm. Only, the woman was wicked; one shouldn’t forget that. Wicked. Greedy, avaricious, quarrelsome, rotten with cocaine, cold. Wicked beyond measure. Peter hadn’t been wicked, or perhaps she had been—yes, Petra had been wicked. But one hadn’t noticed it much; she had been able to hide it for a long time, until he had found her out. No, she too was finished.
“So you don’t take snow? I thought you did!” he said off-handedly to the Valuta Vamp and looked around for Studmann. He would have been glad to get away. This well-built cow of a woman bored him to death.
“Only now and again,” she admitted, “when I’m tired out. And that’s no different from taking pyramidon, is it? You can ruin yourself with pyramidon, too. I once had a girl-friend who took twenty a day. And she—”
