by Hans Fallada
‘Bruhn,’ said Kufalt. ‘Emil Bruhn.’
‘And what were you in for?’
‘Robbery and murder,’ said Kufalt in a low voice.
‘You?’ said the officer. ‘You!’
‘It was only manslaughter, really,’ said Kufalt, hesitatingly.
‘Oh! Doesn’t sound very likely either from the look of you. If you’ve told another lie—! Are you a fetishist, by the way?’
‘What?’ asked Kufalt.
‘I asked you whether you were a fetishist! Why are you sleeping with a lady’s handbag?’ He pointed to the black bag on the pillow.
‘No, no,’ said Kufalt in confusion. ‘That belongs to my fiancée. She left it behind her yesterday evening.’
‘A girl in bed in the Frau Pastorin’s flat?’ said the officer. ‘I think, Bruhn, or whatever you call yourself, you’d better get pretty busy in the next few hours, if you don’t want us prying into your affairs. And now get along. Ring me up every hour at least. Where are you going now?’
‘The Alley Quarter.’
‘And whereabouts?’
‘Lütt’s, on Kugelsplatz.’
‘Right,’ said the officer, rather more mildly, ‘that sounds probable. Get along then. And don’t you think you can give us the slip. I can pull you in any time.’
Kufalt went. And he knew that the officer, who remained behind, would not hesitate to open his trunk.
He went, so to speak, for good.
VII
Kufalt really did go straight to the Alley Quarter.
There was no sense in trying to get away at the moment for he would certainly be shadowed. There was also no sense in turning round to see who was shadowing him. That would only make them suspicious, and they would nab him all the surer.
He must lull them into confidence. He must do them a real service, and then he would get his chance. But he knew quite well that when he had got them Batzke or the swag, or both, they would pull him in over the handbags. No more question of thanks. In small things they could be generous; but as soon as it came to a matter of real importance . . .
In any case he was wearing his best suit and his new coat and hat, and had nearly seven hundred marks in his pocket. With that he could manage, provided he could get away.
Strange: while he went on his way, all the emotions that had taken hold of him during the last weeks vanished. Gone was his sense of dejection, his longing for revenge and his greed for money. Only one feeling possessed him—the desire to break away again, to shake off his pursuers and spend a few more weeks in freedom.
Even if nothing happened in those weeks, if he could only go for a walk, eat in a restaurant, drink a glass of beer, lie in a clean white bed—but, oh, please God, not prison—for a while yet!
He reached the Alley Quarter and immediately hurried to Lütt’s on Kugelsplatz. It was still empty that morning. The time was not yet ten o’clock; and Lütt too was still asleep. Kufalt mobilized the landlord’s wife and finally got himself taken up to the bedroom where Lütt was snoring under a checked quilt.
But Lütt was in a bad mood that morning. Of course he had no idea where Batzke might be; and he did not intend to have any idea.
‘Don’t pester me with all this blather. I’ll have nothing to do with you. Get out. Nothing doing. Have you got a job with the cops these days?’
Kufalt climbed down the stairs in a bad mood. He went to the bar and drank two or three schnapps with the landlady, who eyed him with suspicion. She had listened through the door to his conversation with Lütt.
He was really at a loss what to do. Where in the world should he look for Batzke? The ship-owner’s widow on the Harvestehude flashed into his mind. But he no longer believed in her existence.
He left the tavern, made his way to the Grosse Neumarkt, drank another schnapps and telephoned extension 274. No, nothing definite as yet. But he was following up a clue. He must get hold of a girl called Emma.
But while telephoning, he racked his brains to think how he could find out the address of this girl, with whom Batzke had hung out of late. He must ask the other tarts in the neighbourhood. But he did not know where they lived, and at that hour in the morning they would not be on the streets.
Again he dived into the Alley Quarter and wandered aimlessly up and down. Then he chatted to a young Englishman, who only seemed irritated. He was already thinking of abandoning the quest and trying to give his enemies the slip when Ilse came to mind. He ought to have thought of her first. She was in touch with Batzke. He would quite likely get something out of her.
He took a taxi, drove out to the Steindamm and rang the bell. But the landlady was sorry, Fräulein Ilse was out.
(She had a man with her, of course.)
‘But you know me, Frau Maschioll. I’m Ilse’s fiancé. Just call to her through the door, will you? It will mean ten marks to you.’
That ought to fetch her. But there was nothing doing, there was nothing to be done. ‘You can gladly see for yourself, sir. Go along to Fräulein Ilse’s room. She’s really out. Look.’
And she opened the door.
Yes, she was out. Kufalt said in a despairing voice: ‘But she never goes out so early in the morning. I had a date with her.’
‘Oh, it was you, then, that rang her up so early.’
‘Of course I did,’ he said. ‘She was to wait for me here.’
‘No,’ said Frau Maschioll. ‘She told me she had to go to the town park. She had some important business there. And she was going to give me a hundred marks if it came off.’
‘Ah yes, the park,’ said Kufalt thoughtfully. ‘Funny how things can slip out of your head.’
And he was gone.
He put off the payment of the ten marks until next time, though the landlady gave him grief all the way downstairs.
He really ought to make another telephone call and get the police to the park. But in the first place he had no time to lose, and secondly a faint new hope glimmered in his mind of scooping the spoils single-handed. He would reap all the fame himself and get free. Or, at any rate, a substantial sum of money. ‘Halves, or I’ll split’ always goes in such cases.
He lavishly took another taxi, all the way to the park. He kept on looking out of the back window to see if he was being followed, but could see no one. Perhaps they had underestimated the amount of money he had on him and had sent a man to trail him who could not afford a taxi. Or they might have lost track of him in the Alley Quarter. Or perhaps they trusted him.
He racked his brain to think where they might be likely to meet. The park is a large place, and though Batzke was a bold man, he was not reckless. Herr Wossidlo might pledge his word of honour as a Hamburg merchant ten times over in the local newspaper: that was not going to be enough for Batzke by a long way. He would take very good care to choose a place where he could not be surprised by the police.
No; it was certainly on purpose that Batzke had acted so promptly. Even if the police had been informed, there was no longer time for them to guard the whole park. He would choose an open space where he could always get away, even if there were two or three of them watching out for him.
Kufalt got out by the casino and paid the taxi. Then he started. First through the café, which was almost deserted, then round the lake and on to the broad expanse of the festival ground. This was deserted. He kept behind the bushes at the edge of the path and peered across the broad expanse of grass, now covered with a light powdering of new snow.
Suddenly he stopped and his heart leapt. No, he was not too late. Over on the grass stood a tall man in a light overcoat, and a grin spread over Kufalt’s face—Batzke had always been a tricky character!
He had brought a large camera with a stand. He was busy adjusting it while his girl (wasn’t that Ilse? Of course it was Ilse!) stood by a snow-laden tree in a pretty photographic pose.
‘First rate,’ thought Kufalt; ‘about as innocent as a bloke could look.’
And he thrilled with a sort of pride
at his colleague’s astuteness. ‘The cops haven’t got him yet by a long way, even if there’s one behind every bush.’
From the opposite direction a tall man was walking across the grass towards the pair, carrying a briefcase. He had horn-rimmed spectacles and a grizzled pointed beard. He strolled innocently through the soft, fresh snow towards them, stopped a few paces away, so as not to invade the picture, and seemed to be asking a question.
What it was, Kufalt could not hear, he was too far away. He kept behind his bush. But the little group appeared to be quite unconcerned. They did not once look round.
Ilse stayed quietly beside her tree. Batzke had taken every precaution. Kufalt noticed her slip one hand into her pocket, and there hold it rather tense, with elbow crooked. He knew that movement. Batzke had armed his girl with a gun for this encounter.
Meanwhile the two men had fallen into conversation. They still stood a polite three paces apart. Each seemed to regard the other with a certain respect. Batzke had ceased to attend to his apparatus. He had bent down over the snow and was engaged in unpacking a round parcel. Not a very distinguished receptacle for rings worth a hundred and fifty thousand marks, Kufalt thought. It appeared to be an old preserved-food tin wrapped in newspaper, as far as he could see.
Batzke seemed extremely indifferent. Kufalt would have thought that the exchange of rings and money might have presented certain difficulties. But Batzke calmly handed his tin to the man with the pointed beard. Then he too slipped a hand into his coat pocket.
The man said something with a smile, and Batzke took his hand out of his pocket again and looked on pleasantly while the other picked ring after ring out of the tin, examined it and dropped it into his briefcase.
Indeed, a minute later the two businessmen had got to the stage where burglar Batzke was holding merchant Wossidlo’s briefcase. It was more convenient, and quick.
Then Wossidlo threw the tin into the snow, felt in his coat pocket, produced a bundle of paper and gave it to Batzke. Batzke gripped the briefcase under his arm and began to count. Wossidlo, the great merchant, seemed to be a considerate person. He had actually remembered not to bring thousand-mark notes, which crooks always find so difficult to change, but smaller ones, which Batzke took some while to count.
Then the briefcase finally changed hands. Ilse left her tree and went up to the pair. Herr Wossidlo gravely lifted his hat, and the parties took their leave. Herr Wossidlo turned back towards the opposite side of the public ground; but Batzke, arm in arm with the girl, made his way towards Kufalt’s border of bushes.
Lonely and abandoned, a black speck on the expanse of snow, the photographic apparatus remained standing on the grass, a sole indication that Herr Batzke was perhaps in rather a hurry.
The scheme of waylaying Herr Wossidlo, and by a bold stroke relieving him of the diamond rings and the briefcase, Kufalt rejected at once. The disposal of such things seemed more difficult than he had believed. And cash is always king. Especially when a man cannot go back home.
Batzke, then. Batzke was certainly not an easy customer, but Kufalt had tried something of the kind on him before and was convinced that he would bring it off again. He was not going to make any excessive claims. He would only ask for three or four thousand out of the fifteen—a sum to which Batzke would certainly agree.
The pair approached, walking in the direction of the casino, along Kufalt’s path. Kufalt had to move quickly to catch up. They were both quite at ease, feeling perfectly secure; they did not even glance round the bend in the path that hid Kufalt from their view. So he was able to appear quite suddenly at their side and say:
‘Morning, Batzke. Morning, Ilse. Fine morning.’
Batzke was not in the least taken aback, but Ilse gave a faint shriek.
‘Hello,’ said Batzke, in the best of humour, ‘is that you, Willi? How much? I’m in a hurry.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ agreed Kufalt; ‘ditto.’ And as he saw Batzke in such a sunny mood, he said casually: ‘Five thousand.’
‘Eight hundred as agreed,’ said Batzke.
‘Eight hundred were agreed on five thousand,’ said Kufalt; ‘it’s rather a different situation now.’
‘Then two,’ said Batzke, ‘to leave me in peace.’
‘Four,’ said Kufalt obstinately.
‘Three,’ said Kufalt finally.
‘You aren’t going to be so stupid,’ protested Ilse angrily.
‘Shut your trap,’ said Batzke; he took the thick packet of money out of his pocket, looked round, said quickly, ‘The coast’s clear,’ and as he uttered the words crashed his fist onto Kufalt’s chin, who flung up his hands and staggered backwards . . .
Then his head was pummelled with blows as if from a hammer, everything before his eyes went red, then black, and he collapsed.
VIII
It was an effort for Kufalt to wake, remember what had happened and where he lay.
Even before he opened his eyes, while consciousness gradually returned, he had a feeling of chill and dampness around him. He drew up his knees, his hands groped about, as though in search of a blanket. Then everything again vanished for a while, but the cold returned, and the hands clutched for a blanket in vain.
This time he opened his eyes a little and shut them at once. The air about him was dim and grey, and full of falling flakes of snow. He could not understand.
But the cold grew more intense; he sat up slowly, his head felt strangely heavy and confused. He looked about him in bewilderment. In the thick, clammy greyness of the late twilight he could make out bushes, the stump of a tree, half enveloped in snow. He closed his eyes again. He must be dreaming.
The cold grew more menacing and insistent and as he opened his eyes for the second time, and again saw the same bleak bushes and the same snow-covered tree stump, he tried to remember how he had got there.
His head was agonizing, and seemed as though it must burst. He put his hands to it, felt several bumps and bruises—and slowly his memory returned to Batzke . . . and the blows . . .
He staggered to his feet and looked around him. He was not lying on the path, where he had had his argument with Batzke, but in some bushes where he must have been dragged.
He noticed something black in the snow and picked it up. It was his hat. He held it in his hand and walked slowly away. He had not far to go. Only six or eight paces. There he stood on the path where he had been attacked by Batzke. Batzke had not taken much trouble over him; nonetheless he had lain undiscovered, not merely for minutes but for hours. It was already nearly dark.
Just to have him out of sight for the first couple of minutes.
He found it very difficult to walk; every few steps he was suddenly overcome by dizziness and had to fling himself against a tree so as not to fall down. That he must not do. He felt as if he would never get up again.
As he tottered painfully over the short distance he could have walked so easily a few hours before, he thought all the time of his pleasant room in the widow’s flat, of his bed, of the open bottle of brandy that still stood in his cupboard—how he longed for it now. Of Batzke, of the rings, of the money, he no longer thought at all. He was no more than a wounded beast whose sole impulse was to creep back into its lair.
But by degrees, as he made his way along, the attacks of dizziness diminished, his step became firmer and his memory stronger. At first he was like a man who wanted to say something and then, the moment he opened his mouth, forgot what it was. There was something he had to bear in mind, something that was not as it should be. Surely it was something connected with his room?
Then it came: he was sitting on the edge of the bed and someone was talking to him. He got up and began to dress: ‘Are you a fetishist?’ asked the other.
Kufalt saw him, oh he saw him as though he were then standing at his side in that wintry and deserted park—the policeman who made it impossible for him to go back home.
His head began to swim once more. He steadied himself against a tree. S
uddenly the cold got to him and he shivered violently; his teeth chattered and he had to vomit.
‘I’m shit scared,’ he thought.
Then the attack passed, but he stood for a long time motionless, against his tree. The evening drew on. It seemed to him that the driving snow grew colder and more cruel and the wind howled more wildly.
There were noises all around him, the rustling of the pines, the creaking branches—a dim memory came over him of another night like this. A girl had then been with him, what was her name? And that night too had come to a bad end.
Past, and gone.
At last he went on. He only went on because he could not go on standing where he was. But he walked slowly on. The lights of the park café came into view. Good. He could no longer turn to men for help. But he could drink a schnapps or two. That would cheer him up.
For a moment he thought of what he must look like. Whether he could go into the café without attracting attention. He knocked the snow off his coat as well as he could, set his hat straight and waited until he reached a lamp to look at himself in a pocket mirror.
It was a pallid, spectral face that looked at him out of the fragment. But that might be the effect of the light. Still, it was not too bad. On his chin was a large red bruise. Batzke had struck as hard as he knew how. In the centre of the bruise the skin was split and blood had trickled out. He felt in his breast pocket for his handkerchief and wiped the blood away. Now he could go into the café.
No, he could not. As he took the pocket mirror out of his waistcoat pocket, and then as he took his handkerchief out of his breast pocket, he had a definite sense that there was something wrong. He felt in his breast pocket, on the opposite side, and it was so; sure enough, his wallet with his papers and his seven hundred marks had gone.
For a moment he thought of going back to the place where he had been lying, in case it might have slipped out. But that would be no use. The wallet was too large and had always been inclined to stick in his pocket—it could not have slipped out of its own accord. His friend Batzke had done this. He had cheated him of his share, knocked him senseless and then relieved him of his last money. All was as it should be. It was all of a piece with his life of the last few weeks, in which he had gone more and more steeply downhill towards an end, which—close your eyes as you will—was nonetheless coming inexorably closer.
