Wolf Among Wolves

Pagel scrutinized the ugly little fellow. It might be the truth, but it was much more likely that he was lying. “And what are you doing here today in our wood?”

Meier, however, was cunning. Cursing his drunken revengeful rigmarole about the Lieutenant, he had seen this question coming a long time. But once he had noticed that Pagel did not move a muscle at the words “Black Dale”—once he was sure he knew nothing—he felt certain of victory. “What am I doing here in your wood? Actually you ought not to know, but you’ll keep your mouth shut. I’ve brought back your forester, your Kniebusch. He’s fast asleep in my car, drunk as a fiddler.”

“Wasn’t the forester in Frankfurt for his case?”

“That’s right. You’ve got it.” Meier had quite recovered. “And now let’s get on—the proper way to the Black Dale. The forester was there for his case about Bäumer, and your Rittmeister, who is a great man, was going to back him up, but cleared off, the great man, so as to buy a car.…”

“And the case?”

“Fallen through! In default of interest in it. Because Bäumer ran away this morning. Everyone seems to be running away today. Me, too. At once. Hurrah! Here’s the tracks of the car. Didn’t I say so? It’s hardly a step now; so come along and take a peep at your Kniebusch, so that you’ll know I’m not fooling you.”

“But why did you motor over here into the wood if you wanted to take Kniebusch home? How did your car come to be lost?”

“You’ve got a funny idea of being drunk, man! I suppose you’ve never been boozed? Well, we couldn’t drive into the village soaked—we weren’t quite soaked enough for that. So we drove about a bit. Well, when we got here in the forest I felt a natural urge and had to get out. Kniebusch was fast asleep. I tumbled out of the car, into the ditch, behind a bush—and I must have dozed off. Well, when I woke up, I didn’t at first know what was what.… I just went off looking aimlessly, and then I met you. Hello, here’s my car!”

It was certainly not so magnificent as the Rittmeister’s. It was a genuine baby Opel, a Tin Lizzie.… But that didn’t interest Pagel much at the moment. It was a very small, low car, with not much space between the ground and its floor. All the same, it was a very uncomfortable position in which the forester was asleep, his head in the wood and his feet in the car.

Pagel actually ought to have put a few more suspicious questions to Herr Meier. But Meier would always have an answer to everything, either true or invented. The very man was a tangled web of truth and lies. What he had said would be approximately true, even if not completely, because the secretive lieutenant was totally missing in the story, and Pagel felt he definitely belonged there. To drag the truth out of that fellow would take too long. The first thing to be done now was to take the forester home and put him to bed. The whole situation could not be good for a nearly-seventy-year-old. His face was purple.

“In with him! In!” ordered Pagel, seeing that Meier wanted to drag the old man away from the car.

“What do you mean—in? I’m clearing! I’m in a hurry. Out with him!”

“In, I say! No doubt you made Kniebusch drunk, and you can drive him home as well.”

“Not likely! I’m in a hurry. I don’t want to be seen in Neulohe, either.”

“No need to. You can drive up to the forester’s house through the wood. No one will see you.”

“And supposing I’m grabbed on the way? By the gendarmes or the convicts? Nix, I’m clearing off.”

“Herr Meier!” warned Pagel. “Don’t be silly. Rather than let you go off I’d shoot your tires to pieces.”

Furiously Meier looked at the hand with the pistol.

“Well, get hold of him!” he said sullenly. “But put that thing away. Up with you, into the corner! Oh, it’s all the same how he sits, he’ll fall over again immediately. The main thing is to get the door shut. I don’t know,” he cursed again, “but Neulohe brings me only bad luck. Whatever I start here always turns to dirt. But I’ll get my revenge sometime. I’ll make you people sick about me yet!”

“Are already, Herr Meier! More than enough!” said Pagel, sitting beside him, and pleased at the little man’s rage. “Though if I were you I’d use the horn less; it might in the end occur to our convicts that one can get to Berlin more comfortably in a car. There, keep a little to the left … Donnerwetter! what’s this?”

A large blue and white car hooted itself round the corner just ahead.

“The Rittmeister’s Horch!” whispered Meier and drove his small car close to the trees.

The great car howled once more, rushing past.

“The Rittmeister and our charming Vi,” grinned little Meier. “Well, they didn’t recognize us. I put my hand in front of my face at once. Trying it out, I suppose. Good luck to them! The splendor certainly won’t be lasting much longer.”

“In what way, Herr Meier?” asked Pagel sarcastically. “You believe the Rittmeister will go bankrupt because you’re no longer working for him?”

Meier made no reply. He was not a very experienced driver, and the rough, sandy path through the forest required all his attention.

At last they came to the forester’s house, unloaded him and laid him on a bed. From her armchair his wife reviled them for bringing her husband home drunk, for putting him on the wrong bed, for not undressing him …

“Well, that’s that, Herr Meier!” said Pagel. Little Meier was back in the car. Pagel stretched out his hand. “Well, a good trip!”

Meier looked at Pagel and Pagel’s hand. “You know, man—I can never remember your name—you know, I’ll not shake hands, and it’s better like that. You think I’m a big swine.… But I’m not such a big swine as to shake hands with you now. So there!” And he slammed the door on the astonished Pagel and nodded through the window. It seemed to be quite another face which was nodding: a sad, wretched one. Then the car started. Pagel looked after it a while. Poor devil, he thought. Poor devil. And he meant both the “poor” and the “devil.”

Then he returned to the farm, utterly uncertain whether he should say anything or what he should say or to whom he should say it.

He would think about it—just a little too long.