The two women, exhausted at last, looked like tattered shrews, their clothing torn. The policemen led them away, the husband trotted behind them, docile to the end.
"Perhaps," said Hem, "perhaps schizophrenics have brains like that. Your FrSulein Louise may be one of them. What do we know about schizophrenia? Nothing much. Only that the notions of a schizoid person often include religious ideas, as in the case of Fraulein Louise."
"You're trying to tell me that what she experiences is the truth, and what I experience, what all of us are experiencing, is not?"
"It's possible, Walter. It's possible. And I want you to keep this in mind constantly while you're on this job." The crowd was dispersing. One of the policemen came running back, picked up Lilo's black wig, and ran off again. "Many mentally ill persons produce so-called philosophemes—detached philosophical propositions. This feeling of dejd-vu, of hindsight and foresight and clairvoyance, which evidences itself so frequently in schizophrenics, in their predictions—all this may be evidence that their brains are infinitely finer and capable of thinking on a grandiose scale, compared with the brains of us so-called normal people."
"Donnerwetter!" I cried. "And this from you?"
"Yes," he said, "and this from you. I think it's a case of maturing. Twenty years ago I wouldn't have thought like this either. The power of the church is over, after all the things they've done. Next year the Americans are going to try to put a man on the moon, and the Pope will see the moon on television and pray for the astronauts up there, so they say. Isn't that the bloody end?"
I threw in another coin. It was quiet now in the station. "If the Amis really manage to get on the moon and all goes well—in the face of infinity, or as observed by the brain of a creature on such a Milky Way star, a brain that may register things a billion times more accurately than ours, this American outing to the moon will mean nothing more than—than, for instance, Muller's goal against the Albanians in the soccer match this afternoon. That's all. What we do—what happens on this earth—is vanity, trivial and stupid in the eyes of the brain I can imagine and, quite possibly, in the brain of a schizophrenic person. Who can tell if her brain isn't experiencing life as it really is. One thing's for sure— we don'tl"
"You're trying to tell me that since there actually is a Pole
living in that house on Eppendorfer Baum, and a Frenchman with asthma, and taking into consideration that Fraulein Louise counts an asthmatic Frenchman and a Pole among her dead friends—you don't consider this pure coincidence?"
"That's exactly what I'm driving at, Walter," said Hem. The light went on. I threw in another coin. "And that's what I want you to keep in mind constantly! Don't depend too entirely on your brain alone. Deal with the possibility that everything I've just said to you may be valid. You know I'm not a churchgoer, but you also know that in my opinion the only thing mankind down here has created, the only positive and truly great thing, is our religions. No matter which one. I grow more sure of that all the time. And the religions are so great because they divert us from the materialism and rationalism that control our world today and leave us able to grasp only the most primitive truths. They lead us away from all this, Walter, away and up —who knows, someday perhaps to those creatures with the truly remarkable brains."
"Like the one in Fraulein Louise's head."
"Yes," Hem said slowly. "Like the one in Fraulein Louise's head. Perhaps. I know these are positively criminal speculations to be coming from a newspaper man who's encouraging you to go after a great story, but I simply had to tell you all this. You understand me, don't you?"
"Yes, Hem," I said. "I'll keep it in mind constantly."
"But without going overboard!" he added quickly. "Don't get me wrong. Of course Fraulein Louise is a mental case, according to our standards. And you're writing with your brain, for brains like yours and mine. So it would be disaster for your story if you were to portray Fraulein Louise as anything but schizophrenic, or describe her experiences as anything but those of a schizophrenic person. As visionary aberrations. What I would like is for you to manage somehow to undermine, just a little, our smug certainty that we always know how to differentiate between madness and sanity, just enough to make people give it a little thought. You understand?"
"Yes. I understand, Hem. 'Bye now. See you soon."
"Yes, see you soon, my boy," said Hem.
Walking through the waiting room, I took a liberal swallow out of my flask. I went over to my car in the big lot, which by now was completely deserted, and told Bertie to get out, with all his films. He stuck them into one of the padded envelopes we always used, and got out of the car. Irina looked at me anxiously. "I'll be 150
right back," I told her. "Ill just see Bertie to a taxi." I didn't want to make her more nervous with what I had to tell Bertie. After all, I didn't have a release from her yet.
Bertie and I struggled against the wind to the single taxi that was parked at the entrance to the lot. As we walked along, I yelled Bertie's instructions to him. "And when you've done that, come straight to Eppendorfer Baum 187. We'll wait for you," I shouted.
"A-OK, my friend," Bertie shouted back. He was smiling as he got into the taxi. I heard him tell the driver, "To the airport," and the taxi drove off. Before I even had time to turn around I could hear Irina's scream, carried by the wind. "Herr Roland!"
I turned around and froze.
There was a man at the wheel of the Lamborghini. The headlights went on, the car backed to make the necessary turn, and I ran—no, I flew—because now I had the wind behind me. The Lamborghini made a U-turn, the driver shifted gears, and the car began to move in my direction. "Herr Roland! Hen-Roland! Help!" screamed Irina.
I reached the car. The window on the driver's side was down. The man behind the wheel was blond and had on a blue sailor's cap. He tried desperately to push me away, in the course of which he briefly looked at me. He was quite evidently a sailor and he stank to high heaven of schnapps. How had this drunk got into my car? He must have done so in the few seconds it had taken to get Bertie to the taxi.
I took the Colt .45 out of my pocket and pushed the barrel against the sailor's temple and yelled, "Stop or I'll shoot." This worked: He took his foot off the gas—I had been running alongside the car, which by now was moving fairly fast. "Turn off the motor!" He did, and Irina was thrown forward against the padded dashboard. She didn't move. She must have hither head hard and fainted.
The car stood still. Not a soul in sight. I had the Colt aimed at the man's head. "Get out!"
He didn't move.
I grabbed his sleeve in an effort to yank him out of the car, and the sleeve tore at the shoulder. I pointed the gun at his temple again and said, "Out, or I shoot!"
The door opened suddenly, knocking me back, and the man jumped out of the car. He was a giant! A monster! And he was anything but drunk. He took advantage of my surprise and struck
my hand from below. I had to drop the Colt. Then he flew at me and his huge hands were around my throat. He didn't utter a word as his hands tightened. I realized it was his intention to kill me. Everything around me began to spin. I couldn't breathe. I raised my left knee and kicked the sailor as hard as I could in the genitals. He screamed and sank to his knees.
I could breathe again, saw the Colt, ran over and picked it up and tore back to the sailor. He was lying on the ground, his face distorted with pain, clutching his crotch. He tried to grab my right leg. I stepped as hard as I could on his hand, then I kicked him in the stomach. He rolled over and vomited.
At last I saw people. They had jumped out of a car that had stopped and were fighting their way to me against the wind. Three men. All I could think was: Get out of here, fasti
I ran to the Lamborghini, jumped behind the wheel, started the car, stepped on the gas pedal, and the car shot forward. Then I noticed that Irina was sitting up, holding her head.
I made the turn out of the lot on two wheels. Irina screamed. I paid no attention to her. My tires
screeching, I turned into Glockengiesserwall, crossed the Lombardsbriicke to the Esplanade, and drove from there to the Stephansplatz subway station, keeping my eye on the rearview mirror. I wasn't being followed, but I couldn't shake my fear. At the subway station I turned right and drove like a madman to the Dammtor Station, up and across Theodor-Heuss Platz, a short distance on the Rothenbaumchaussee, and at last stopped the car.
"What—what happened?" Irina stammered.
"That's what I'd like to know. How did the guy get into the car?"
"Suddenly he was sitting there. Didn't say a word. I wanted to jump out, but he'd already started the car. You left the key in it. He was a drunken sailor—"
"He was no drunken sailor, not that guy!"
"So what did he want?"
"To drive away with you."
"With me? You mean kidnap me? Herr Roland... what's going on here?"
"I wish I knew. How's your head?"
"It hurts, but it's getting better. I passed out, didn't I?"
"Looks like it. Let's see." I switched on the light inside the car and took a look at Irina's forehead.
"Is there a bump?" 152
"I don't see anything." But then I did see something. A piece of material was lying on the floor between the pedals. I must have torn it out of the sailor's sleeve, I thought, as I bent down to pick it up. A rectangle, red embroidery with a blue cross appliqued across it lengthwise. The cross was outlined in white. "That— that's a flag," said Irina. "A little flag."
"Yes," I said. It looked like a sleeve emblem.
The wind was still raging outside, making a dreadful noise.
"What country do you suppose it represents?"
"Norway," I said. Suddenly I had to think of what Hem had said over the phone, and I felt cold.
"Norway?" Irina whispered, her eyes wide.
"Yes," I said. "Norway," and noticed that my hands were shaking. Quick...my flask. I took a big swallow. "Me, too, please," Irina said.softly. I give her the flask. She drank and looked out the window. "Norway," she whispered.
11
At last the light was turned on behind the front door. A shadow on the opaque glass, huge at first, then growing smaller as the figure neared the door. One of the glass panels opened. An old man, wearing glasses, with a fringe of thin gray hair growing around his bald head, stood framed in it.
"'Evening," he said, sounding gruff, yet at the same time afraid. This-afternoon's scare was still with him, I thought.
"Good evening, Herr Kubitzky," I said. "I'm sorry that we had to awaken you. We want to see Herr Michelsen."
He was obviously startled at the name. His glasses slipped down his nose; he shoved them up again. He was wearing a thick coat over his pajamas.
"Michelsen?" he said.
"Michelsen. He lives here, doesn't he?"
"I—he—yes. He lives here."
Stanislav Kubitzky spoke with a Polish accent. His face seemed to have shrunk with fear. He was clinging to the metal
window frame. "But right now—in the middle of the night—who are you, anyway?"
I handed him my press card. He looked at it. "Herr Walter Roland. Journalist. Oh, dear Jesus!"
Td had it. I snatched the card out of his hand and shouted, "That's enough! Are you going to open up or not? If not, I'll call the police. They've been here once already today."
That did it. He opened up and let us in. It was very quiet in the hallway. After the noise of the storm outside I felt deaf. "You practically forced me to open up," Kubitzky said miserably.
"Yes."
"If you make trouble for me, I'll report it," he said.
"Sure," I said, and noticed that I was speaking much too loudly.
It was an elegant hall, with marble plaques on the walls, marble stairs, a red carpet, and an old-fashioned wooden elevator in a black iron cage, on cables.
"Where does Herr Michelsen live?"
"Third floor," said Kubitzky, and pocketed the twenty-mark note. "Thank you, sir. You can't miss it. There's only one tenant on each floor. Do you want to take the elevator?"
"Yes."
He walked over to it, opened the mesh metal door, then the sliding door, in the course of which he seemed overcome by fear again. This was one scared old man.
"But you'll tell them upstairs that I didn't want to let you in because it's so late," he begged. "Please."
"I will."
He closed the door, I pressed the button, and the elevator rattled up slowly. Kubitzky was still standing there, watching us ascend. His lips were moving as if in prayer, and I would have liked to know if he was really praying, and what for.
"What is the man afraid of?" asked Irina, who by now was pretty afraid herself.
"Afraid? That man? He isn't afraid of anything," I said. "We just woke him up. He's confused, that's all."
"He's afraid," said Irina.
"No, he's not," I said.
The elevator stopped. I got out first, Irina followed me. The elevator remained where it was. Directly opposite the elevator there was a high, wide double door, and on a brass plate the name: Michelsen. There was a peephole over the plate and 154
beside it, a bell. I rang. The light in the stairwell here didn't go out automatically after a few minutes. It burned on. I found this out when we waited a full ten minutes in front of the high door. During this time I rang again and again.
"Oh, God," said Irina, clutching my hand. "What's going on in here?"
"Nothing," I said grimly.
She hadn't noticed that the metal cover of the peephole had been pushed aside and a human eye was staring at us, a preposterously arrogant eye.
"Come on!" I shouted at the eye. "Get going and open the door, damn it!"
"Would you please express yourself in a more civilized fashion," said the man who went with the eye. His voice was preposterously arrogant, too. "How dare you come ringing at my door at this hour of the night?"
"My name is Roland," I said, forcing myself to calm down and be patient. I took out my press card again and held it up to his eye.
"Journalist?"
"Yes."
"Then please leave. I don't receive journalists at this hour."
"Are you Herr Michelsen?"
"No. So get going."
"Ill do nothing of the sort."
"Then 111 call the police."
"A good idea," I said. "I'd like to have them present anyway when I go in. Especially since you're not Herr Michelsen." He couldn't be Irina's fianc6 either, or she would have reacted differently. She was standing there quietly.
"So go on," I said. "Call the police. If you don't Til go downstairs and call them."
I turned to leave and at the same moment heard the door being unlocked and opened. A tall, slim man of about fifty, well-groomed, with black hair and sideburns, a long face, narrow lips and raised eyebrows, stood in the doorway;. "Come in, please," he said.
A crystal chandelier was glittering behind him in the hall. The walls were covered with silk, a big Chinese vase was standing on an antique chest. "Who are you?" I asked.
"My name is Notung. Olaf Notung. I am Herr Michelsen's servant."
"Herr Michelsen's what?"
"Herr Michelsen's servant," he said. "Don't I speak clearly enough?"
I was astonished. So there were still people who had servants. In an apartment this was unusual. I would have liked to know what sort of a servant Olaf Notung was, what his duties were. "Are those the clothes you wear in service?" I asked.
"No, Herr Roland."
"How come you're still up? Does Herr Michelsen have guests?"
"No, Herr Roland. This is my free afternoon. I was in the city. I met friends and we went to the theater. After that we had drinks in a bar. I just came home half an hour ago." He made a polite gesture with* his hand. "Please come in. You must want something. We don't have to talk in the doorway."
I let Irina go first. Notung closed the door behind us. "Shall we go into the salon?" he said, walking on
ahead. Even the way he walked was arrogant.
Many doors led from the hall to other rooms. The door Notung opened led into the salon, a room the size of half a tennis court.
"Won't you sit down?" he said. "What can I give you? A drink? Coffee? Tea? Cigarettes? Let me have your coat. I'll—"
"Let's stop all this nonsense," I said.
"I beg your pardon!"
"Where are the others?"
"What others?"
"Herr Michelsen and Herr Bilka."
"I don't understand." His face was expressionless. "Don't you want to sit down?"
"Nol You understand very well. I asked you something. So?" I was furious. The fellow exasperated me beyond measure.
"I'm afraid I don't understand you," said Notung. "At least not entirely. Herr Michelsen is away."
"What do you mean?" Irina sounded shocked.
"Away, gnddiges Friiulein"
"Where has he gone? How long is he going to be gone? When did he leave?"
"I don't know. I mean, I don't know where he's gone or how long he is going to be away. He must have left sometime this afternoon, because when I came home, I found this note." He took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. In pencil, all in 156
caps, I read, "Dear Olaf. Have to leave at once on business. Shall call tomorrow morning and let you know how long I'll be away. Best. Michelsen." The name was handwritten.
"Does he do this sort of thing often?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I'm asking—does Herr Michelsen often take off suddenly like this?"
"Yes, he does, sir," Notung replied softly. "Herr Michelsen has a big export-import business. His office is in the Jungfernstieg. He travels a lot."
The Traitor Blitz Page 17
