Laughter in the Dark (13 page)

The whistle beneath the window was repeated. Irma thought: “Who knows? Perhaps it is father after all? And no one will let him in; perhaps they told me on purpose that it was a strange man?”

She threw off the bedclothes and went on tiptoe to the window. As she did so, she knocked against a chair and something soft (her elephant) fell with a thud and a squeak; but Fräulein snored on unconcernedly. She opened the window and a delicious ice-cold gust of air entered the room. In the street, in darkness, somebody was standing, gazing up at the house. She looked down at him for quite a long time, but to her great disappointment it was not her father. The man stood
and stood. Then he turned round and walked away slowly. Irma felt sorry for him. She was so numb with cold that she could scarcely shut the window, and could not get warm again when she went back to her bed. At length she fell asleep and dreamed that she was playing hockey with her father. He laughed, slipped and fell on his bottom, losing his top hat, and she bumped down too. The ice was awful, but she could not get up and her hockey stick walked away like a looping caterpillar.

The next morning her temperature was up to a hundred and four, her face livid, and she complained of a pain in her side. The doctor was summoned immediately.

The patient’s pulse was a hundred and twenty, the chest over the seat of the pain was dull on percussion and the stethoscope revealed fine crepitation. He ordered blistering, phenacetin and a soothing medicine. Elisabeth felt suddenly that she would go out of her mind, that, after all that had happened, fate simply had not the right to torture her like this. With a great effort she pulled herself together as she said good-by to the doctor. Before leaving he had a look at the nurse, who was in a high fever, but in the case of this vigorous woman there was no cause for alarm.

Paul accompanied him to the hall and asked in a hoarse voice—he was trying to whisper through his cold—whether there was any danger.

“I’ll look in again today,” answered the doctor slowly.

“Always the same,” thought old Lampert, as he went downstairs. “Always the same questions, the same imploring glances.” He consulted his notebook and slipped behind the steering wheel of his car, slamming the door as he did so. Five minutes later he was entering another house.

Albinus received him in the silk-braided warm jacket which he put on when at work in his study.

“She hasn’t been feeling very well since yesterday,” he said worriedly. “She complains that she aches all over.”

“Temperature?” asked Lampert, wondering whether he should tell this anxious lover that his daughter had pneumonia.

“No, that’s just it: she doesn’t seem to have a temperature,” said Albinus in a tone of alarm. “And I was told that influenza
without
feverish symptoms is particularly dangerous.”

(“Why should I tell him?” thought Lampert. “He deserted his family without a qualm. They’ll tell him themselves if they want to. Why should I interfere?”)

“Well,” said Lampert with a sigh, “let’s have a look at our charming invalid.”

Margot was lying on the sofa, cross and flushed, enveloped in a silk wrapper with a great deal of lace. Beside her sat Rex with his legs crossed, sketching her lovely head on the bottom of a cigarette box.

(“A lovely creature, unquestionably,” thought Lampert, “but there is something snakelike about her.”)

Rex retired into the next room, whistling. Albinus hovered close at hand. Lampert proceeded to examine the patient. A slight chill, that was all.

“You’d better stay indoors for two or three days,” said Lampert. “How’s the film going, by the way? Finished?”

“Yes, thank God,” answered Margot, drawing her wrap round her languidly. “And next month there’s to be a private view of it. I must be well by that time, whatever happens.”

(“And moreover,” reflected Lampert irrelevantly, “this little slut is going to be the ruin of him.”)

When the doctor had gone, Rex returned to Margot’s side and went on sketching idly, whistling through his teeth all the time. For some moments Albinus stood near him, his head cocked, following the rhythmic movements of
that bony white hand. Then he went off to his study to finish an article about a much-discussed exhibition.

“Rather nice, being the friend of the house,” said Rex with a snort of laughter.

Margot looked at him and said angrily:

“Yes, I do love you, ugly—but there’s nothing doing, you know that yourself.”

He twisted the cigarette box round and then sent it spinning onto the table.

“Listen, my dear, you’ve got to come to me some day, that’s plain. My visits here are very exhilarating, of course, and all that, but I’m getting sick of this kind of fun.”

“In the first place—please don’t shout. You won’t be satisfied until we’ve done something idiotically rash. At the least provocation, at the least suspicion, he’ll kill me or turn me out of the house, and we shall neither of us have a penny.”

“Kill you,” chuckled Rex, “that’s rich.”

“Do, please, wait a little. Don’t you understand? Once he has married me, I shall be less nervous and freer to act as I choose. A wife can’t be got rid of so easily. Besides, there’s the film. I’ve all sorts of plans.”

“The film,” laughed Rex again.

“Yes, you’ll see. I’m certain it’s going to be a
great hit. We must wait. I’m just as impatient as you are, my love.”

He seated himself on the edge of her sofa and laid his arm round her shoulder.

“No, no,” she said, shivering and half-closing her eyes already.

“Just one tiny little kiss.”

“Very tiny,” she said in a smothered voice.

He bent over her, but suddenly a door clicked in the distance and they heard Albinus approaching: carpet, floor, carpet, floor again.

Rex was about to raise himself, but at the same moment he noticed that a button of his coat was caught in the lace on Margot’s shoulder. Margot tried to disentangle it swiftly. Rex tugged, but the lace refused to give way. Margot grunted in dismay, as she pulled at the knot with her sharp shiny nails. At that moment Albinus swept into the room.

“No, I’m not embracing Fräulein Peters,” said Rex coolly. “I was only making her comfortable and got entangled, you see.”

Margot was still worrying the lace without raising her lashes. The situation was farcical in the extreme and Rex was enjoying it hugely.

Albinus silently drew out a fat penknife with a dozen blades and opened what turned out to be
a small file. He tried again and broke his nail. The burlesque was developing nicely.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t stab her,” said Rex ecstatically.

“Hands off,” said Albinus—but Margot screamed:

“Don’t you dare cut the lace; cut off the button!”

“Stop—it’s
my
button!” yelled Rex.

For a moment it looked as if both men were falling on top of her. Rex gave a final tug, something snapped, and he was free.

“Come to my study,” said Albinus to him darkly.

“Now let’s be smart,” thought Rex; and he recalled a dodge which had helped him once before to fool a rival.

“Please, sit down,” said Albinus with a heavy frown. “What I want to tell you is rather important. It’s about this White Raven exhibition. I was wondering whether you’d care to help me. You see, I’m just finishing a rather involved and—well—subtle article, and several exhibitors are receiving rather rough treatment at my hands.”

(“Oho!” thought Rex. “So that’s why you looked so lugubrious. Gloom of the learned mind? Throes of inspiration? Gorgeous.”)

“Now, what I’d like you to do,” Albinus went on, “is to illustrate my article by throwing in little caricatures—stressing the things I criticize, lampooning both color and line—as you once did with Barcelo.”

“I’m your man,” said Rex. “But I, too, have a little request. You know what I mean—expecting various fees and being rather short of ready money. Could you make me an advance? Just a trifle—five hundred marks, shall we say.”

“Why, of course. More, if you like. Anyway, you must fix the fee for the drawings.”

“Is this a catalogue?” asked Rex. “May I have a look at it? Girls, girls, girls,” he continued with marked disgust, as he considered the reproductions. “Square girls, slanting girls, girls with elephantiasis …”

“And why, pray,” asked Albinus slyly, “do girls bore you so?”

Rex explained quite frankly.

“Well, that’s only a matter of taste, I suppose,” said Albinus, who prided himself on his broad-mindedness. “Of course, I don’t condemn you. It’s a thing widely spread, I believe, among men of artistic temperament. In a shopkeeper, it would repel me, but in a painter, it’s quite different—quite likeable, in fact, and romantic—romance coming from Rome. Nevertheless,” he
added, “I can assure you that you lose a great deal.”

“No, thank you. A woman for me is only a harmless mammal, or a jolly companion—sometimes.”

Albinus laughed. “Well, as you are so outspoken about it, let me, in my turn, confess something to you. That actress woman, Karenina, said as soon as she saw you that she was sure you were indifferent to the gentler sex.”

(“Oh, did she?” thought Rex.)

A
FEW
days passed. Margot still had a cough and, as she was apt to get very nervous about herself, she stayed at home, and for lack of something to do—reading not being her forte—she amused herself in the way Rex had recommended: lying comfortably in a bright chaos of cushions, she consulted the telephone book and rang up unknown individuals, shops and business firms. She ordered prams, and lilies, and radio sets to be sent to addresses selected at random; she made fools of worthy citizens and advised their wives to be less credulous; she rang up the same number ten times in succession, thereby reducing Messrs. Traum, Baum & Käsebier to desperation. She received wonderful declarations of love and still more wonderful curses. Albinus came in and stood watching her with a fond smile while she ordered a coffin for a certain Frau Kirchhof. Her kimono was undone, the little feet
were kicking in malicious delight, the long eyes moved to and fro, as she listened. Albinus was filled with a passionate tenderness, and he quietly stood a little way off, afraid to approach, afraid of spoiling her pleasure.

Now she was telling Professor Grimm the story of her life, and imploring him to meet her at midnight, while, at the other end of the wire, the Professor was painfully and ponderously debating with himself whether this invitation was a hoax or the result of his fame as an ichthyologist.

In view of Margot’s telephonic frolics it was not surprising that Paul had been vainly trying to get through to Albinus for the last half hour. He kept ringing up and every time was met by the same remorseless buzz.

At last he rose, felt a rush of giddiness and heavily sat down again. He had not slept for two nights; he was sick and in a storm of grief; but all the same he had to do it, and it was going to be done. The persistent buzz seemed to mean that fate was determined to thwart his intention, but Paul was stubborn: if he could not do it this way he would try another.

He tiptoed into the nursery which was dark and—despite the presence of several persons—very quiet. He saw the back of his sister’s head, the
comb behind and the woolen shawl round her shoulders; and suddenly he turned round resolutely, stepped out into the hall, dragged on his overcoat (groaning and choking down his sobs) and set off to fetch Albinus.

“Wait,” he said to the taxi driver as he alighted on the pavement before the familiar house.

He was already pushing the entrance door when Rex hurried up from behind. Both men entered at the same moment. They looked at one another and—there was a great outburst of cheering as the puck was shot into the Swedish goal.

“Are you on your way to see Herr Albinus?” asked Paul grimly.

Rex smiled and nodded his head.

“Then let me tell you that he won’t be receiving any visitors just now. I’m his wife’s brother and have some very bad news for him.”

“Would you like to entrust me with your message?” inquired Rex blandly.

Paul suffered from shortness of breath. He halted on the first landing. With lowered head, like a bull, he gazed at Rex, who looked back curiously and expectantly at his puffed-up, tear-stained face.

“I advise you to postpone your visit,” said Paul, breathing heavily. “My brother-in-law’s little girl
is dying.” He continued his way up the stairs and Rex followed him quietly.

Hearing the impertinent steps behind him, Paul felt the blood rush to his head, but was afraid of being delayed by his asthma, and so controlled himself. When they reached the door of the flat he again turned to Rex and said:

“I don’t know who and what you are, but I’m at a loss to understand your persistence.”

“Oh, my name is Axel Rex and I’m quite at home here,” replied Rex affably, as he stretched out a long, white finger and pressed the electric bell.

“Shall I hit him?” thought Paul, and then: “What does it matter now? … The main thing is to get it over quickly.”

A short, gray-haired footman (the English lord had been sacked) let them in.

“Tell your master,” said Rex with a sigh, “that this gentleman here would like—”

“Shut up, you!” said Paul, and, standing in the middle of the hall, he shouted as loudly as he could: “Albert!” and again: “Albert!”

When Albinus saw the distorted face of his brother-in-law, he made an awkward little rush toward him, skidded and then came to a dead stop.

“Irma is dangerously ill,” said Paul, thumping
with his stick on the floor. “You’d better come at once.”

A brief silence ensued. Rex surveyed them both greedily. Suddenly Margot’s shrill voice rang out from the drawing room: “Albert, I’ve got to speak to you.”

“Just coming,” stammered Albinus, and he hurried into the drawing room. Margot was standing with her arms crossed on her breast.

“My little girl is dangerously ill,” said Albinus. “I’m going to see her at once.”

“They are lying to you,” Margot cried angrily. “It’s a trap to entice you back.”

“Margot … for God’s sake!”

She seized his hand: “And what if I come with you?”