by Franz Nabl
told me?" I stammered. "Do youthink that was wise?"
"I couldn't help it," he said with a catch in his throat. "I thought Iloved her, and I had to talk to somebody. I was miserable, and I had afeeling that she might understand and be brought closer to me bysympathy. Now that I think of it, I can see that I was an egregiousidiot, but I discovered long ago that we aren't rational beings afterall. We are driven or drawn by mysterious forces, and we go to ourdestination because we can't help it.
"My wife had always seemed a little timid with me. I never seemed tohave the gift of attracting people. And I don't know whether she wouldever have been interested in me at all if I hadn't used a little--alittle charm the Hindoo taught me. Perhaps that didn't have much to dowith it--but I had never been happy with her. However that may be, oneevening when she seemed unusually approachable, I had just the sameimpulse that I had when I met you here tonight, and I told her aboutWolansky and Father. She pooh-poohed it all just as you did. But she wasafraid. I could see that. She was more and more afraid of me as the dayswent by. For a long time she tried to be cordial and natural in mypresence, but it was a sham and the poor thing couldn't keep it up. Eachof us knew as well what was in the mind of the other as if we had talkedthe situation over frankly for hours. We reached the point where wecouldn't look each other in the face. No solitude could have been asghastly as that solitude of two people who shared a revolting secret.For I had convinced her that I was guilty. I had succeeded in doing whatI had set out to do, and I had ruined two lives in doing it. I have thefaculty, it seems, of poisoning whatever I touch. Only today, my wifesaid to me----"
I started to my feet with a great rush of relief and thankfulness. "Ah,your wife is alive, then?" I cried.
"My wife is alive. That is--my _second_ wife is alive," he said, with ahorrible forced smile.
I sank back gasping. "What did you do with your first wife, you dirtyhound?" I moaned in helpless indignation.
* * * * *
He closed his eyes, and a wave of bitter triumph played about themuscles of his mouth. "Have I convinced _you_ too, at last?" he said.
Then I realized that I had been an insulting idiot. At worst, the manbefore me was a pathological case, and he certainly belonged in anasylum rather than in a prison.
"Forgive me, Banaotovich," I panted. "I don't know what made me----"
He looked at me sadly, almost compassionately. "There is nothing toforgive," he said, very quietly. "I am all you called me and a thousandtimes worse. Now let me finish my story."
"You don't need to," I said hastily. "I know all the rest of it."
All interest, I am afraid nearly all sympathy, had gone out of me. WhatI wanted most of all was to get away from this melancholy citizen withpower and madness in his gray eyes.
"No, you don't know quite all of it yet," he insisted. "Perhaps if Itell you the whole story, even if you can't excuse me--and I don'tdeserve your excusing, I don't _want_ your excusing--you can understandme a little better, and think of me a little more kindly.
"There was another woman. I couldn't help it, any more than any of uscan help anything. A fine, sympathetic young woman, who loved me becauseshe knew I was unhappy. I had been married to the other woman for fouryears. We were completely estranged. We could scarcely bear to speak toeach other. I couldn't be easy one moment in the same house with her. Ihad a cot in my office out in town because I couldn't even sleep soundlyat home. It was hell. The terror in her eyes made me physically sick. Mywife learned about the other woman. My wife was a devout Catholic, andthere was no possibility of a divorce. I could read in my wife's facejust what went on in her mind. She knew the other woman had become myonly reason for living. And one day I read in her eyes, along with theterror, a glint of desperate determination. She knew she was in danger,she knew I had a power that I could exercise when I chose in spite ofall the courts and police and jails in the country. She knew her lifewas in danger, and her eyes told me that mine was in danger for thatvery reason. I didn't blame her. Half my grief through all the years hadbeen grief for _her_. But the instinct of self-defense in me wasstrong--and--she went--too--like----"
"And she went, too, like the other."]
He never finished his sentence. He dropped his head on the table andbegan to sob hysterically. I laid a gingerly hand on his shoulder.
"Banaotovich," I said unsteadily, "I'm sorry for you----"
He sat up and supported his chin in both hands. "I haven't been as--asbad as all this sounds like," he said after a while. "Before I wasmarried a second time, I went to the chief of police and gave myself up.The chief listened to my story--I didn't try to explain it all, as I'vedone with you, but just blurted out the main facts; but the longer helistened the uneasier he became, and when I got through he asked menervously if I didn't think I ought to go into a sanitarium for a while.Then he bowed me out in a big hurry. Perhaps if I had told him all theins and outs of it, it might have been different----"
"But don't you think he's right about the sanitarium?"
"Right? I'm as sane as you are. I've killed three people, a crazyscoundrel, a hard man, and a pure, innocent woman. But I did it allbecause I had to. A sanitarium wouldn't do me or anyone else any good,and it would be a heavy expense. I have taken the responsibility foranother pure, innocent woman, and I must support her. The war and thedepression swept away my father's fortune, and my present business hasdwindled away till I am making only the barest living. I have appliedfor the agency for a big Berlin insurance company, and if I can get it,along with my other business, I shall be fairly comfortable. But Iunderstand there is some talk of their sending in a representative fromoutside. If they do that, if they take the bread out of my mouth likethat, it won't be good for the outsider!"
He was drunk, and his drunkenness was working him into an ugly mood. Hewas dangerous, and physical courage was never my strong point.
"What is the name of the Berlin company?" I asked timidly.
He named the firm I myself worked for. Then he fumbled for his bottle,and with stern and painful attention set about the difficult anddelicate task of filling his glass again. I muttered something aboutbeing back in a moment, and made for the door. He was too busy to payany attention to me.
When I had the door safely shut behind me, I sprinted through the rainto my hotel as if the devil himself were after me....
* * * * *
It was a long time before I got over waking up in the middle of thenight with the feeling that an icy, iron-muscled hand was clutching atmy throat. I don't have the experience often any more, but I have neverseen the city of my birth since that awful night. I got out on themidnight train, and my company obligingly gave me territory on the otherside of Germany.
Some time ago I happened to see a notice in the paper to the effect thata certain patient named G. Banaotovich had died suddenly in theStaatliche Nervenheilanstalt in Nuremberg. But I have met the namerather frequently of late, and I think it is a fairly common one. Ididn't investigate.
* * * * *
[Footnote 1: Adapted by Roy Temple House from the German.]
