An Old Heart Goes A-Journeying (14 page)

“Fritz!” cried Rosemarie angrily. “Don’t say such things, you rude boy!”

“I wasn’t referring to you, Rosemarie,” said Fritz hastily, “but you’ve told us ten times how your father scared away the ghost on Kriwitz bridge, and that anyway they won’t stand up to you if you speak to them—
in the name of God! So I walked straight into that dark house, and pretty scary it was, I can tell you, with the wind whistling round it. And if I said, ‘In the name of God’ once, I said it twenty times, but the noise didn’t stop. So I thought if God’s name didn’t stop ’em, they couldn’t be ghosts. Finally, I opened the bedroom door, and I knew what it was right away—we’ve all heard those babies—all of us except Otsche—when the Schliekers were out and we came to keep you company. Well, I lit a candle and there they were, squealing away, all five of ’em.”

“Had any of them fallen off the bed?” interrupted Rosemarie. “I was so nervous about that. . . .”

“No,” said Hütefritz. “Since there weren’t any ghosts around, I got hold of the Tamms, and found out what was up.”

“Well, what happened?” asked Rosemarie eagerly. “Did they go back to Schlieker’s?”

“I should say not! I know Peter Gneis; I beat it down to the inn, and there he sat, down at the mouth because he had wasted his day. But he perked up as soon as he heard what I had to say, and went off to the Tamms; he’d hardly believe me at first!

“Well, and then he sent Maxe on his bicycle after the sisters. They’d started back to Kriwitz, and he told Frau Lowising to keep the children quiet. Then he beat it to Schlieker’s. He didn’t tell what he knew, he just asked Schlieker to come along with him to August Tamm, who had made a confession.”

“August Tamm? What do you?—” asked Ernst Witt in bewilderment.

“It was just a trick, you fool,” snapped Hütefritz.
“Schlieker thought this very odd, of course, and if it were light and I could see your face, I guess you’d look just as silly as he did, Ernst!”

“That will do, Fritz,” said Rosemarie. “You’ve looked pretty silly yourself sometimes and so have all of us. Go on.”

“Well, Schlieker grew curious to know what was up, so off they both went, the constable keeping mum, Schlieker cursing one minute and smiling the next—you know what he’s like, Rosemarie!”

“I do,” sighed Rosemarie, “or rather, I did.”

“Don’t speak too soon, Rosemarie,” said Hütefritz in a warning tone. “Constable Gneis brought Schlieker into the parlor where Tamm was waiting. . . . Tamm pulled a long face, and Peter Gneis asked Schlieker to sit down, saying Tamm had confessed to having stolen the children.

“ ‘Stolen them—?’ Schlieker asked. ‘Tamm? But I sent the children to the Welfare Office.’

“ ‘No,’ replied Tamm, ‘I stole them from you, Paul, just as a joke.’

“And at that moment one of the kids yelled. That settled it. We opened the door, looked in, and Paul Schlieker went absolutely white with rage. Then he said: ‘So that damned little toad put it over on me—if I ever catch her!’ ‘You’re caught yourself, Herr Schlieker,’ says Gneis. ‘And now you’d better come along quietly.’ ”

“And Schlieker?—”

“He went along without a word, and now Sergeant Thode’s got him in the Kriwitz lockup.”

“Then I’ve won,” said Rosemarie jubilantly. “The Guardians
must
fire him now. Hütefritz, Hütefritz!” she
cried and shook him by the shoulder. “Aren’t you glad? Aren’t you as glad as I am?”

“No, Rosemarie, you must wait and see what the magistrate does. As for the old Professor . . .”

Hütefritz looked round him, and the others murmured applause.

“What about the old Professor?” asked Rosemarie angrily. “He was my father’s oldest friend, and he’s the nicest man in the world.”

“That may be, but you’d much better send him back to Berlin. We agree that he’s no use here, and you can’t need him either, Rosemarie. You don’t know, of course, that he let the Tamms persuade him to go back to Berlin today. That half-hour in Schlieker’s coalshed was more than he could stand.”

“Is that true, Hütefritz?” exclaimed Rosemarie. “It can’t be—he would have told me himself. He couldn’t have gone off without a word.”

“It
is
true, Rosemarie. Frau Tamm told me, and I saw him in Tamm’s dogcart on the way to Kriwitz. That’s why we’re telling you to send him back, he would only be in the way. We want to be on our own.”

“But why did he come back?”

“How should I know? He certainly meant to go. Get rid of him, Rosemarie. What can we do with a fellow that doesn’t know his own mind?”

“Very well, Fritz,” said Rosemarie. “If it’s as you say, he shall go. I’ll speak to him—and what had we better do now, do you think?”

Hütefritz pondered. “We must certainly wait and see what happens to Paul Schlieker. If he stays inside, it
will all be quite simple, but if he comes out . . . I told you what he said, Rosemarie, if he catches you.”

“Yes,” said Rosemarie, “you’re right. I shall stay here for the present. Then you must dig up some food for me, there’s almost nothing here. For me and Philip and Bello—and for the Professor, until further notice.”

“Of course we will,” said Hütefritz.

“What on earth is all this?” asked Professor Kittguss, emerging at this point from the doorway of the hut. All the elfin, rustic magic of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
seemed to have descended upon that moonlit sward. “Rosemarie, my child, pray explain.”

“They’re my little friends from the village, Godfather,” said Rosemarie innocently.

“But what are they doing here in the middle of the night? It is nearly eleven o’clock. You should have been in bed long ago, my child.”

“They’re just going, Godfather.”

“Bless my soul!” murmured the Professor helplessly.

“I for you and you for me and Unsadel eternally,” the assembled company intoned.

“Away with you,” cried Rosemarie. “You can talk as long as you’re in the wood, but you must be absolutely quiet in the village. Good night!”

“Good night, Rosemarie,” they cried, oblivious of the Professor.

“That’s our motto, Godfather,” explained Rosemarie. “ ‘I for you and you for me and Unsadel eternally.’ Do you like it?”

“I think, Rosemarie,” said the Professor, “you’re a very big girl already.”

He stood and pondered. “I for you and you for me . . .”

Then he shrugged his shoulders. “But big or small, you must go to bed now. Philip went to sleep a long while ago. Come.”

They went into the hut, and neither of them said another word.

In which the accused becomes the accuser, and Paul Schlieker makes a catch

I
T IS NOT RECORDED
how Paul Schlieker slept in the cell at Kriwitz police station. Sergeant Thode did not inquire, but merely remarked gruffly: “Come along.”

The prisoner stepped obediently into the passage and the warder followed, growling under his breath. They went through a grated door, along a dusty passage lined with cupboards full of papers. Then Thode knocked at a door, opened it, and said in an official voice: “Paul Schlieker from Unsadel, taken into custody yesterday, sir.”

“Excellent!” chirped Schulz the magistrate. “You will remain, sergeant.”

“Very good, sir,” said Thode, more surly than ever at the thought of his neglected garden.

The magistrate surveyed his prisoner, but the prisoner did not return the gaze. He was familiar with Herr Schulz, for that worthy was a very well-known personality in the Kriwitz district. People called him the
Roarer, owing to his capacity for shouting down the most obstinate opponent in any argument. What he lacked in stature (and he lacked a good deal), he more than made up by his voice. No tramp or poacher, no trespasser or sneak thief, who had once heard that voice, ever tried to contend with it a second time. It was worth no one’s while.

Magistrate Schulz was not merely a little man: he was actually so short that he had to have the curule chair in his office, and his chair at Stillfritz’ bar, made a foot higher than any other chair in Kriwitz.

He made no secret of this, and complacently referred to himself as “little but good.” He ruled his little district as a father rules his family, instructing, warning, reprimanding, and punishing, as occasion required.

His beady eyes glanced up from Constable Gneis’ report to Paul Schlieker, who stood demurely before him. The judge stroked his black and silky beard of which he was not a little proud and finally observed in genial tones: “Good morning, Herr Schlieker.”

“Good morning, sir,” said Schlieker quietly, not raising his eyes.

“Sit down, Herr Schlieker,” said the magistrate in a still more genial tone. “Thode, give Herr Schlieker a chair.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Schlieker, and sat down.

“We are already acquainted,” said the magistrate, with unflagging geniality. “We have met here on more than one occasion.”

“We have, sir.”

“And I trust you are not going to give any trouble, Herr Schlieker,” said the magistrate in a rather louder tone.

“Certainly not,” said Schlieker.

“Then you are not going to be obstinate or defiant, eh, Herr Schlieker?” asked the magistrate—there was a ring of menace in his voice.

“No, sir.”

“You are not going to lie, or try to defeat the ends of justice, Schlieker?” he exclaimed, louder still.

“No, sir.”

“Don’t be so sulky,” roared Schulz at the top of his voice. “Get up, sir, and look at me!”

Schlieker obeyed, and looked down quite amiably at the little magistrate.

“Why didn’t you hand over those children, Schlieker? You have been ordered to do so three times by the Welfare Office.”

“My cart was out of commission, sir.”

“Why didn’t you borrow another cart in the village?”

“Because no one would lend me one.”

“Because you are an unfriendly, quarrelsome, and offensive fellow, Schlieker, that’s what you mean.”

“No, because I come from Biestow. Anyone who doesn’t come from Unsadel doesn’t count in Unsadel,” Schlieker replied, quite unruffled.

“Why didn’t you send word to the Office, Schlieker?”

“Because I meant to hand over the children yesterday.”

“So the cart was all right yesterday?”

“It was, sir.”

“What was the matter with the cart?”

“The left front wheel was damaged.”

“Rim or spokes?”

“Both, sir.”

“Then you had to send it to the wheelwright as well as the blacksmith, eh?”

“Yes.”

“To whom did you send it?”

“Gleiss the blacksmith, and Stark the wheelwright, at Biestow.”

“We’ll verify that,” said the magistrate, briskly. “We’ll verify it point by point. And why didn’t you open the door, Schlieker, when the sisters knocked?”

“Because I was in the cellar, stopping rat holes. You can’t hear anything there.”

“And where was your wife all this time?”

“In the cellar, too.”

“Also stopping rat holes?”

“No, sorting apples.”

“Have you many rats in the house, Schlieker?”