by Hans Fallada
Kufalt dreaded Kraft’s rasping voice: ‘Two, eh? Only two . . . Two!’ He went into Lindemann’s café and transmuted the widow’s mite into brandy. Then he sent Pachulke the tanner’s subscription the same way.
And so, shortly after five, feeling rather more jovial, he came into the despatch department, where Kraft was waiting for him.
‘Only two, Herr Kraft,’ he said casually, and wondered why the little shorthand typist Utnehmer eyed him with such consternation. ‘It’s getting worse and worse.’
‘Two . . . ’ said Kraft, to Kufalt’s surprise. ‘Two are better than nothing. Go along in to Herr Freese, he wants to speak to you.’
Kufalt looked inquiringly from Kraft to Utnehmer. The girl shook her head as though to answer no.
‘Why do you shake your head?’ asked Kufalt in astonishment.
‘I didn’t shake my head,’ she said untruthfully, and blushed.
‘Hurry up now, Herr Freese is waiting for you,’ snapped Kraft in sudden irritation.
‘All right, all right,’ said Kufalt, and went to the editor’s room. No foreboding of disaster had yet come over him, the brandy had spread warmth and comfort through his veins; but he felt surprised at the demeanour of these two.
‘Why are you so strange today, Herr Kraft?’
‘I’m not strange at all. Hurry up, man.’
Freese was not alone. Near him in the armchair sat a man whom Kufalt disliked at first sight. A lean, lanky man with an absurdly protuberant belly and a dry, bird-like head, yellow all over. Behind a pair of nickel-plated spectacles glittered sharp black eyes.
Both had a glass of brandy in front of them.
‘Herr Kufalt—Herr Brödchen,’ said Freese, introducing them. Kufalt bowed, but Brödchen contented himself with one short, sharp nod. He looked steadily at Kufalt, and Kufalt looked at him.
‘You’ll be more comfortable by the stove,’ said Freese genially. ‘You must be frozen. How many did you beat up today?’
‘Two,’ replied Kufalt.
‘Two,’ sighed Freese. ‘Two and a half marks. Can’t live on that, can you?’
‘Yes I can,’ said Kufalt warily.
The thin man with the belly said nothing; he merely looked at Kufalt.
‘Where did you go today?’ asked Freese with eager interest, but Kufalt was quite aware that this interest was assumed.
‘To the north,’ he said shortly.
‘Ah, the north,’ said Freese. ‘By the tanneries. Fabrikstrasse? Weberstrasse? Linsingenstrasse? Töpferstrasse? Talstrasse?’
The tall man gave a sort of deprecatory jerk, and then sat still again.
‘Yes,’ said Kufalt.
Disaster was in the air, so much was clear. But so much was also clear, that whatever this disaster might be, he must not submit to this strange interrogation without some protest—he must protect himself against any eventuality.
‘Why are you asking all these questions, Herr Freese?’ he inquired, looking at him.
Freese returned the look with reddened, fishy eyes. His tongue darted out of the corner of his mouth and licked his lips—he was certainly thinking of the Trehne—and the tongue vanished.
Freese had not answered; in his stead the thin man’s quick, rasping voice suddenly rapped out: ‘Light mackintosh—correct! Dark horn spectacles—correct! Sallow face—correct! Grey felt hat—that’s not correct, but he’s sure to have a green one at home. We’ll see about that.’
‘That’s a cop! What a fool I was not to see it at once,’ thought Kufalt, shuddering. ‘But I wasn’t wearing the mackintosh at the Lübeck Gate!’
With impotent fury he felt himself blush and then grow pale, his knees sagged and he had to lean heavily against the stove.
The other two stared at him fixedly. He tried to smile—but could not. He wanted to say something—but no words came. His mouth suddenly dried up.
‘I am Detective Inspector Brödchen,’ observed the thin man at last, when the scene had gone on long enough. ‘For the sake of my friend Freese I will manage the affair quietly.’
He looked thoughtfully at his brandy glass.
‘So you were canvassing in the Töpferstrasse?’
Kufalt was about to answer, but Brödchen raised his hand.
‘I should warn you as a matter of form that anything you say may be used in evidence against you. You need say nothing.’ He stopped, and added testily: ‘But you know all about it. You’re an ex-convict?’
‘Yes,’ said Kufalt.
‘What did you get?’
‘Five years’ imprisonment.’
Brödchen nodded, though of course he had known this long ago.
‘What for?’
‘Embezzlement.’
‘Where served?’
‘Here in this town.’
The thin man with the belly nodded again, and said more genially: ‘Well, you know all about it and I don’t suppose you’ll want to give us any trouble. We’ve caught you again, Kufalt . . . ’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kufalt hotly. ‘I don’t understand. I deny everything.’
The detective inspector nodded, and looked meaningfully at Freese, whose eyes were sparkling with excitement and glee: ‘You see, he knows all about it! Denies everything in advance. Well, you were canvassing in the Töpferstrasse? You admitted that, anyway.’
‘I quite admit that,’ said Kufalt, utterly perplexed. (What did he mean by harping on about the stupid Töpferstrasse?)
‘So you admit that. Good. And you visited a certain Frau Zwietusch?’
Kufalt reflected. The others’ eyes were on him. This seemed an important question. There must be something connected with the Töpferstrasse, though what it was he could not for the life of him imagine.
‘I can’t say that for sure,’ he replied cautiously. ‘I visit thirty or forty people every day. I can’t remember all their names.’
‘Then you deny you visited Frau Zwietusch?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know. I would have to see the house first. And the door of the flat. And perhaps the woman too.’
‘No. 97,’ said Brödchen.
‘I’ve no idea, I never look at numbers.’
Silence reigned for a while.
‘What’s the trouble about Frau Zwietusch?’ asked Kufalt. He thought he had got that out very well.
The others did not answer; the thin man asked: ‘Do you possess a green felt hat?’
‘No,’ said Kufalt.
‘What other hats do you possess?’
‘A stiff black hat and a blue felt hat.’
‘Blue and green are easily confused,’ said Brödchen to Freese. ‘In any case I had better go along with Kufalt at once to his room and look over his clothes.’
‘Herr Kufalt, for the present,’ protested Kufalt.
‘Don’t you throw your weight about, my lad,’ said the detective inspector calmly. ‘We’ll go now, Freese. Many thanks.’
‘Finish up your brandy first, Brödchen,’ said Freese. ‘Come along, Kufalt, you have one too. You’ve had a shock.’
They went, Kufalt in front, Brödchen behind. Fräulein Utnehmer assumed a surprised and sympathetic expression, but Kraft had buried himself in his ledger and did not even answer when Kufalt, rather cheerfully, said: ‘Good evening.’
He was indeed feeling rather cheerful: if the officer hadn’t made a bloomer this time, he’d eat his hat!
III
Outside the door of the Messenger office Herr Brödchen stopped and thought.
‘You need not walk beside me, Herr Kufalt,’ he said finally. ‘Freese told me you were engaged to be married. I’ll walk behind you. But if you get up to any games . . . !’
‘The gun will go off!’ agreed Kufalt. ‘I know. I shan’t be up to any games. But I wish you’d tell what’s Frau Zwietusch’s trouble, Herr Inspector.’
‘Now for your room,’ said the detective inspector crisply.
‘Right,’ said Kufalt, and marched off.
‘You live pretty well on two marks fifty a day.’
‘I’ve earned a great deal more than that,’ explained Kufalt. ‘Two hundred and forty marks a week.’
‘Freese never told me anything about that,’ remarked Brödchen peevishly.
‘I can prove it, Herr Inspector. But you must ask Herr Kraft about that part,’ replied Kufalt genially. ‘It’s all down in the ledgers. And the receipts are there too.’
He switched the light on in his room.
‘And now all the money’s gone?’ said the policeman.
‘What?’ asked Kufalt in astonishment. ‘Who on earth told you that nonsense? I’ve got 1,173 marks in the savings bank.’
‘Oh,’ said Brödchen with rising irritation. ‘We’ll talk about that later. Open the wardrobe, please.’
‘It’s open, Herr Inspector,’ said Kufalt politely.
‘You’ve got some nice stuff there,’ observed Brödchen. ‘All paid for out of canvassing commission?’
‘My brother-in-law sent me my own things. I can prove that too.’
‘Ah! Just put that hat on,’ said the officer triumphantly. ‘That looks decidedly green. You must admit that, Herr Kufalt.’
‘Bluish-grey, I think,’ said Kufalt, in front of the mirror.
‘Nonsense, it’s green. What’s the use of denying everything? Show me your savings bank book.’
Kufalt took it out of a locked drawer.
‘You’ve paid in nothing since the second of January? How much cash have you got in the place?’
Kufalt looked, and produced forty-six marks.
‘And where are the three hundred marks?’ asked the officer.
‘What three hundred marks?’
‘That you took out of Zwietusch’s chest of drawers. Now don’t go on like that, Kufalt, it’s no use. I’ll have your place searched this evening, and even if it’s hidden somewhere else I shall find it.’
Kufalt felt very cheerful. His heart positively throbbed with joy and relief.
‘So Frau Zwietusch has lost three hundred marks from her chest of drawers. Well, Inspector, the simplest thing for us to do is to go round and see her at once. And she’ll tell you that it wasn’t me.’
The officer looked at him attentively: ‘Why are you so pleased all of a sudden?’ he asked.
‘Because now I know what it is, I know it’s all a mistake. So let’s get along.’
But Brödchen sat down. ‘And why were you so frightened when you were standing by the stove?’
Kufalt was confused. ‘I wasn’t frightened,’ he objected.
‘Of course he was, terrified,’ said the officer as though to himself. ‘Freese will bear that out. No, Kufalt, there’s something up with you, even if it wasn’t you that robbed Mother Zwietusch . . . which I doubt . . . ’
‘I wasn’t frightened,’ said Kufalt, who had now recovered himself. ‘But when a man’s been in prison like me, he doesn’t much enjoy a talk with a police inspector. You never know whether you can prove your innocence; the likes of us are always under suspicion . . . ’
‘It’s no good, Kufalt,’ said Brödchen. ‘You needn’t take me for a fool. I know you blokes. Somewhere around you it stinks.’ Again he began to ponder. ‘Well, let’s go and see old Zwietusch.’
‘Yes,’ said Kufalt defiantly. ‘It’s easy enough to suspect a bloke . . . Look, Inspector, when I’m earning good money, and it’s in the bank, and I’m to be married at Easter—what sort of fool would I be to mess up everything for three hundred marks?’
‘There’s many a fool that doesn’t know it,’ said the detective inspector gloomily. ‘Stealing is always a fool’s game.’
‘Yes, and that’s why I don’t steal. I embezzled; and embezzling and stealing, as you know, Inspector, are entirely different things.’ And he added confidentially: ‘I would be much too much of a coward to steal, Inspector.’
‘Indeed?’ said Brödchen. ‘Do you drink as much brandy as that every day?’
‘I haven’t drunk much brandy!’
‘More than’s good for you, anyway, and also more than Freese gave you. Did you drink brandy when you were canvassing in the Töpferstrasse?’
‘No; I hardly ever drink brandy.’
‘But you drank some today.’
‘Yes . . . I was feeling depressed, because business was bad.’
‘Where?’
‘At Lindemann’s.’
‘How many?’
‘Four.’
‘And then what Freese stood you. That makes five. After five brandies a man’s hand might well get a bit out of control.’
‘I’d drunk nothing at all when I went canvassing in the Töpferstrasse.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ The officer yawned. ‘And now we’ll go round and see Frau Zwietusch.’
IV
‘I don’t believe I’ve ever been inside this place,’ said Kufalt, as he looked up at the tenement house at No. 97 Töpferstrasse, in the uncertain light of a street lamp.
‘Belief is a religious matter,’ answered Detective Inspector Brödchen. ‘Why shouldn’t you have been to this house when you worked your way down the whole street?’
‘Good God, I don’t go into every house! I can tell at once that some of them are no good, so I don’t go inside.’
‘Ah!’ said Brödchen. ‘Better be safe than sorry, but a man can be too cautious, Kufalt. Do you remember the staircase?’
‘It’s the staircase of any workmen’s tenement,’ said Kufalt surveying it. ‘How could I say I recognized it? They all look exactly alike!’
And he bent down to read the nameplates at the bottom of the stairs.
‘It’s the second floor, ‘said Brödchen impatiently, and Kufalt obediently climbed the first flight, and the second flight, with Brödchen at his heels.
‘Now come along down again,’ said Brödchen irritably. ‘If you’ve been here before, I’ll give you full marks. It’s the ground floor, of course.’
‘Inspector,’ said Kufalt blithely, ‘since I know what it’s about, I’m not in the least afraid.’
But that was a mistake, for the policeman said with meaning: ‘Since you know what it’s not about, you mean! Knock at the door and go in first . . . I want to see . . . ’
So Kufalt knocked, and a thick female voice said, ‘Come in.’ It was a small workman’s flat that gave straight into the kitchen, and the door to the living room behind stood open. Kufalt could see two beds with white embroidered coverlets.
By the stove stood a large, flabby female clad in a shabby, dark dress, with a full white face, pendulous cheeks and dark furtive eyes.
Kufalt looked carefully at the woman; he was quite sure he had never seen her before. Then he took off his (bluish-grey) hat and politely said, ‘Good evening.’
‘Evening,’ said the woman. ‘What is it?’
Kufalt did not answer.
‘Well?’ he cried triumphantly to the detective inspector, who remained in shadow. ‘Did she recognize me or not?’
Brödchen did not reply. He stepped out of the shadow: ‘Evening, Frau Zwietusch. This is the young man . . . ’
‘I protest!’ shouted Kufalt furiously. ‘If you tell the woman I’m the man, she’ll believe you. I’m not the man, Frau Zwietusch, you’ve never seen me before, have you?’
‘Hold your tongue, Kufalt,’ said Brödchen roughly. ‘It’s not your business to ask questions. Frau Zwietusch, this is the young man who came down the street canvassing for the Messenger. Did he call on you?’
‘Look at me!’ pleaded Kufalt. ‘Please look at me carefully.’
‘Hold your tongue, Kufalt!’
The woman looked helplessly from one to the other.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘There’s no call to look at people so close. Was he as tall as that?’ she asked, appealing to the officer.
‘Th
at’s what I’m asking you. Light mackintosh, dark horn-rimmed spectacles, pale face—that all fits, Mother Zwietusch, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes . . . ’ she said doubtfully.
‘Was I wearing a hat like this?’ asked Kufalt eagerly. ‘I mean—was he wearing a hat like this? You said he had on a green hat. But my hat’s not green?’
‘No,’ she said dubiously. ‘It certainly isn’t green . . . ’
‘But was the man wearing that sort of hat, Mother Zwietusch?’ asked the officer in turn.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He took it off at once. Did I say green?’
‘You certainly said green.’
‘Perhaps it looked green.’
‘Yes, but you must know, Frau Zwietusch,’ said the officer sternly. ‘And by the way, you said he kept his hat on in the room, and only put it on the table when he started to write.’
‘Did I? Then that must be right. Then that’s the hat right enough, sir.’
‘Ah!’ said Brödchen. But he was obviously very dissatisfied.
‘And is that the young man?’
‘At first I thought it wasn’t, the other was taller and had a harsher voice. But now I almost think it is.’
‘Hmm!’ said Brödchen, still more dissatisfied.
‘Has he still got the money, sir?’ she asked ingenuously, and pointed with her thumbs at Kufalt.
The detective inspector did not answer.
There Kufalt stood. Cheerful no more, but with fear, sick fear, in his heart. For this had he struggled, for this had he suffered, to be flung back into the abyss by a stupid old woman. Brödchen needed only to take the matter rather lightly. Did she recognize him? All right, then that’s the bloke, and the case is over—and he would promptly find himself in jail. Five minutes more, and she would definitely recognize him. She would believe it absolutely, and swear it in the best of faith before any investigating magistrate in the world! And he was defenceless, he had been in prison, and everyone would think him guilty; it was no use. What would happen? What in the world would happen about Hilde and Harder and Freese and Kraft? And what would happen to him!
‘Frau Zwietusch,’ said Kufalt in an imploring tone, ‘look at me carefully. Had he got light brown hair like mine? Was it parted in the same way? Did he speak High German like me? Or Low German? Do try to think . . . ’
