XX
Police Superintendent Vörös was punctual.
“Now I must tell you something about our host and my fellow-countrymen out there by the Lake,” he said directly the car started. “He was formerly Prince of Komor and Komorek, and he married a Viennese dancer. Of course, his people were furious! They made things so disagreeable for him that one day he said, ‘All right: you’ve gone too far. You’ve done with your Prince. From today I am plain Komorek,’ and then he wandered off. He was very rich, anyhow, and not in any way dependent on his people. The only thing that is still ‘princely’ about him is his mansion out yonder. You will see it for yourself. He’s been living there for ten years now. His wife is very smart and exclusive—more exclusive than a princess. Of course, she is no longer young. Have you had your evening meal?”
“No, I had no time.”
“Well, that does not matter. At Komorek’s house they are always ready for guests. You’ll get something good to eat there.”
Wenk asked himself, “Why is the man so talkative?” and once more his feeling of repulsion for the Hungarian regained its sway. He was inwardly both excited and uneasy, and in spite of the darkness in the car his eyes smarted. There seemed to be a constant stabbing sensation in them, and the thousands of likenesses he had seen that day seemed to be chasing each other round and round in a never-ending stream. “How much I should like to be at home and in bed!” he thought to himself. The car drove through districts which were unknown to him, and this was peculiar, for he had made the trip to the Nicholas Lake several times already and thought he knew the district beyond Friedenau. Today, however, everything seemed unfamiliar. Was it the thick darkness of the night and the very sparse illuminations allowed since the war, or was it his own mood, which was responsible?
“Surely we ought to be at Nicholas Lake by now!” said he.
“I am not familiar with this neighbourhood,” said Vörös.
“I used to have friends out there, and I often drove there by motorcar, but of course that was before the war.”
“Ah, yes, before the war. Everything was different then,” and they both became silent.
Wenk looked at his watch, but it was too dark to read the dial, and for a long time now there had been scarcely any lights.
After a prolonged pause, Wenk said, “Surely the driver has not lost his way?”
“He is a Berlin taxi-driver. He told me he knew the way quite well.”
Wenk took up the speaking-tube: “Chauffeur, you know where it is? Nicholas Lake, the Komorek Villa.”
At this moment the car swung round, and lights appeared at the end of a long avenue.
“Here we are!” said the superintendent of police.
The motor soon drew up among other cars, all close together in front of the outside staircase leading to the house. It was not lighted, but the three French windows in the hall on to which it opened gave sufficient light. Wenk advanced rapidly to the light. Vörös conducted him to the cloakroom, which was filled with overcoats. A clock in the hall struck ten; its strokes were harsh and hasty, as if it would flog the hours away. Wenk, trying to count them, could not keep up with it.
“Ten o’clock,” he said to himself. “We’ve been an hour coming, and yet the car seemed to be doing about forty-five kilometres an hour. Nicholas Lake is not so far away as all that!” and again a faint misgiving stole over him.
He looked towards the Hungarian, who was smiling pleasantly at him. Then they went towards the large folding doors.
“Allow me to precede you, so that I may introduce you to the Princess at once.”
A manservant threw open the door and Wenk followed the police superintendent into a fairly large hall. The first thing he noticed was that the light was very subdued; then he saw that in one corner there was a semicircular raised platform, draped with Persian hangings. Some chairs and a table, covered with a dark cloth, stood upon it. In the rows of chairs which filled the room, folks in evening dress were sitting. There were many fewer ladies than gentlemen, and those there were, were dressed in very fashionable and striking attire.
Then Vörös murmured, “The Princess!” and presented Wenk.
“Is this the friend you spoke of?” said the lady, with a winning smile. “You are very welcome, Herr von Wenk. We are pleased that you are able to give us your company this evening. May I pass you gentlemen on to my husband? A hostess’s duties, you know, my dear sir! …”
The lady stepped a little nearer to one of the electric lights, which were all covered with silk shades of a strong deep colour. Then Wenk saw that his hostess, whom he had taken for quite young, was very much made up and thickly powdered. Her dress was extremely glaring, and Wenk was startled by her general appearance as, with an extremely friendly smile, she inclined her head towards the man advancing, saying, “My husband,” and left them.
“Good evening, Prince,” said the police superintendent to a man who bowed to Wenk in what the latter considered a slightly affected way; and as his host raised his head again, Wenk looked into a swarthy face with a black moustache, strongly resembling one of those seen in the collection of criminals’ likenesses he had been studying earlier in the day. The lady of the house was not in sight.
The Prince, who in appearance was somewhat common, possessed the most finished manners. He had, moreover, the very rare gift of conversing without saying anything, for all the subjects of conversation seemed, as it were, extraneous to him. He accepted any subject offered him, apparently only to give form to the matter in hand, but made no contribution of his own.
“That manner of his shows breeding,” thought Wenk. “He is only moderately gifted, but he has such a desire for form that even the most trivial matter must be expressed ‘just so’! But what a curious appearance he has!”
The Prince led him to the first row of chairs, and the company were begged to take their seats. Wenk did not see Weltmann among them, for he would, of course, have been noticeable at once, through having lost his hand.
Wenk sat on his hostess’s left, with the Hungarian police superintendent close at hand. The rich hangings on the little stage swayed lightly, and a tall, broad-shouldered man, with rather bowed shoulders, came forward. He was well and fashionably dressed, but in contrast to the other guests, who were all in evening clothes, he wore a dark grey woollen street-suit. It was at once evident that the hand covered with a dark grey glove was an artificial one. “He is a Hungarian, that’s quite certain,” thought Wenk, “in spite of his German name.”
Weltmann had a thick black moustache with drooping ends. His eyebrows rose suddenly, making a high arch over his eyes. His black hair was combed right back and plastered smooth. The few words he spoke were simple and somewhat rough.
He said that the gifts he was about to display before the Prince and Princess and their guests were matters of fact, and he thought that the guests would prefer facts rather than an attempt to explain in words what would probably never be explainable. He would first offer himself as subject, and ask someone to name a lady and a gentleman in the company. Perhaps the Princess would name one.
Then the Princess said, “As the gentleman you want, I should like to name my neighbour, Herr von Wenk!”
“And the lady? Perhaps the Prince would name the lady?”
The Prince answered at once, “Then I shall name my wife.”
Weltmann seated himself, laying his artificial hand upon his knee in a way which everyone noticed. The other hand he kept in his coat-pocket. After a pause, in which he had collected his thoughts, he said, “Princess, have I ever had your watch in my hand—the little watch you carry in your handbag?”
“I don’t believe you ever have!” answered the Princess.
“The number of that watch is 56403. It is an oval-shaped dernier-cri design!”
The Princess drew out her watch, opened it, read the number, and nodded. She showed it to both her neighbours, and said eagerly, “That’s quite right!”
“Please to think of a colour and write it down upon a piece of paper, and show it to your neighbours.”
The Princess considered a while. Then she wrote down, “The amethyst colour of Herr von Wenk’s ring,” and handed the piece of paper to Wenk.
Weltmann thought for some time, then he said hesitatingly: “It is a colour in your immediate neighbourhood, but it is rather indefinite. It is transparent, so it is probably that of a jewel. I cannot say exactly what two colours it is made up of, but there is violet in it.”
“Lift your ring up to the light, Herr von Wenk,” said the Princess, and all could see that a deep violet was mingled with a transparent bluish-white.
“Which gentleman did the Princess name?” asked Weltmann.
“My neighbour, Herr von Wenk,” she replied.
“You, sir,” went on Weltmann rapidly, as Wenk nodded slightly, “have your pocketbook in your right-hand breast-pocket. In it there are two notes for one thousand marks each; one is dated 1918, Series D, No. 65045, and the other Series E, No. 5567. Shall I go on, or will you see first whether this is correct?”
Wenk felt his pocket laughingly.
“No,” said Weltmann, “I meant the right-hand pocket, not the left. In the left you have your Browning pistol, stamped with the Serraing trademark, No. 201564.”
Wenk looked in amazement at Weltmann, for it was quite true. His Browning was in his left-hand pocket, and it was one of the Serraing make. From all sides folks gazed at him, and the Princess leant towards him, so that he could distinguish the scent of the powder she used.
“Well, what do you think of that, Herr von Wenk?”
The entertainer smiled down at him, saying, “You need not mind showing the revolver, for in another compartment of your pocketbook you have the permit which allows you to carry firearms. It was renewed in Munich on January 1, 1921, and its number is 5. You must have been in a hurry to get your weapon authorized.”
“Was he dreaming, and was this singular man sneering at him?” thought Wenk. He brought it out, and everything was just as stated.
“Enough of that sort of thing,” said Weltmann. “Now, if you will allow me, we will have some examples of transference of will. I should like one of the gentlemen to come up here.”
Someone stepped on to the stage.
“Do you know this gentleman, Princess?”
“Yes, it is Baron Prewitz!”
“Is the Baron’s being known to the Princess sufficient for the company to rule out the idea of any private understanding between him and myself?”
There were cries of “Certainly!”
Meanwhile Weltmann was writing on a table something which it was impossible for the Baron to read. Then he threw the small writing-block down to the company below. He looked at Prewitz, quite quietly, for a short time. Then Prewitz, with stealthy movements, left the platform and went slowly and cautiously from chair to chair, looking everyone in the face. Weltmann called out, “I should like four ladies or gentlemen to come up here quickly. Be quick, please!”
Several started up. Three gentlemen and one lady remained on the platform, the others returning to their seats. Weltmann placed them round the table, pointing at a pack of cards lying there.
“Are this lady and these gentlemen known to the company?”
The Princess nodded, and there was a chorus of “Yes!” Meanwhile Prewitz was advancing towards Wenk. Again Weltmann wrote for some time upon a memorandum, casting from time to time his glance upon the four sitting at the table. Suddenly one of them said, “Shall it be vingt-et-un or poker?” Weltmann went on writing.
They decided upon vingt-et-un, and at once began to play.
“We want one more,” said the lady.
“I am just coming, dear lady,” said Weltmann. “You take the bank!”
By this time Prewitz had come to Wenk. He looked at him steadfastly for a while, then suddenly seized his left breast-pocket and drew out the revolver, placing himself at Wenk’s side, the weapon in his hand.
Weltmann said from the stage, “That is because you are so incautious as to carry a loaded revolver in your pocket! Please”—he turned to the audience—“be so good as to read what I have written there!”
Someone read out: “The Baron is to go along the first row, chair by chair, and where he finds someone with a loaded revolver in his pocket, he is to take it out and sit beside him with it.”
They all clapped their hands, a proceeding which Weltmann, by a brief gesture, stopped. He left off writing, handed the block down to the Princess, and sat down with the cardplayers.
“Page one!” he said to his hostess. She read it to herself, then handed it to her right-hand neighbour and looked anxiously towards the stage, where the following incidents were taking place. Weltmann won game after game. Sometimes he looked away from the table, and then it seemed to Wenk as if he were beckoning him to come up. Wenk knew it must be a delusion, due to some effect of the light striking Weltmann’s eye, but none the less he felt uneasy. The idea occurred to him to yield, and go up so that he might face this man at close quarters and make sure that those lightning glances had no reference to him. “Yet that would be very foolish!” he said to himself, striving to get rid of the impulse.
Suddenly, without a single word having been spoken, one of the players leaned back, saying in a clear ringing voice, as if speaking aloud in a dream, “What have I just done? I had twenty-one, and then someone spoke with my voice, and said, ‘I have lost again.’ ”
He seized the cards he had thrown aside, and showed an ace, a knave and a ten.
“Too late!” said Weltmann, who was holding the bank. Wenk put his hands to his head. He had already lived through such a scene once before. When was it, where, and to whom did it occur? He cudgelled his brains to remember. The image of it stood out distinctly, but it stood apart from any suggestion of the time and place and person.
From the recesses of his mind a form seemed to emerge simultaneously with his groping efforts to recover the recollections he sought. A form—was it a human being, a lifeless column, a monster? He could not say which … but then the form was bleeding somewhere, and now Wenk saw, through the misty fantasies of these recent occurrences, that it had a mouth, and that this mouth suddenly uttered, in clear staccato tones, the name “Tsi—nan—fu!”
Wenk now distinctly recollected having heard this name from the lips of the old Professor who was none other than the Dr. Mabuse on whose account he had come to Berlin. “Dr. Mab … , Dr. Mab … ,” whispered the secret voices. Wenk tried to call to mind the features of the old Professor, but he could not recollect them clearly. Only the mouth which had uttered the name of the Chinese town with such strange impressiveness was distinct to his vision.
“Now why,” said Wenk to himself in the midst of the images raised in him by these recollections, “why should I think at this moment of the pseudo-Professor? Why do I think of the Professor, and not of Mabuse under another form, his real form, such as I saw him that evening in reality in the Four Seasons Hall? Mabuse as a hypnotist? What audacity! As a hypnotist appearing in public? Had Mabuse the same disconcerting capability as Weltmann, and had Weltmann the same dark background of crime as Mabuse?” he asked himself. His thoughts grew ever more remote, more indistinct and unreal. They were no longer thoughts—they were misty images which had arisen in his fantasy under the compelling power of those eyes yonder. He sought to fix his eyes on Weltmann, striving to picture him with a reddish beard, such as Mabuse had appeared possessed of when he first encountered him.
And then suddenly Wenk realized how it was he felt some unmistakable connection with the player there who threw away his cards although he held twenty-one and must undoubtedly have won the game. These words were familiar to him from the story told by the murdered Hull. They were written upon the first page of the notebook stolen from him by Mabuse’s chauffeur when he left him that night in the Schleissheim Park, and he had copied them down word for word after his first talk with Hull. Yes, the bleeding form was that of Hull, and it drooped like a weeping-willow over Wenk’s spirit. The blood-besprinkled leaves whispered ever “It is I, Hull! It is I, Hull!”
Then it seemed as if in the mists which continued to gather in ever-varying shapes in Wenk’s brain there grew and stood out, as the bone stands out from its tissues in the Röntgen-ray photographs, a dark nucleus, a central, death-endowed essence, something stony … something black … a man.
The Princess handed him Weltmann’s block, and he thrust these ideas away somewhat, though he had to struggle to see the words. Then he read: “The banker wins every game. If one of the players has a better card than he who holds the bank, he is incapable of holding them against him.”
He had hardly read this when Weltmann, speaking from the midst of his game in a voice which seemed to strike Wenk to earth, said, “Read the second page!” Wenk turned the page in affright. He read, “Under the hypnotist’s influence one of the players tries to cheat, by dealing himself an ace. He is caught in the act!”
Then the blood rushed to Wenk’s heart, and like molten lava it coursed along his veins. His eyes were fixed and glassy, and his trembling fingers let fall the block. A horrible certainty burst upon him. That was the secret of Count Told’s fall! Mabuse had subconsciously forced him to cheat, to ruin him in the eyes of the wife whom Mabuse desired to possess! That was why he had seen the Countess leaving Mabuse’s house that night. Mabuse it was who had killed her husband.
What Mabuse had written down occurred on the stage. The lady, who had in the meantime taken over the bank, dealt the cards so as to cheat and was caught in the act. Thereupon Weltmann brought the experiment to an end. He released the four subjects from their hypnotic state, and, disturbed and still dreamy-eyed, they sought their seats once more.
Weltmann looked down at Wenk, and the latter knew without a doubt that he was Mabuse. The suddenness of the discovery paralysed him for the moment, and he struggled to regain calm and self-control. Had he been enticed into a snare? Was the Hungarian police superintendent appointed as a decoy? Was this whole place, so far removed from other dwellings, and this assembly merely an ambush arranged on his account?
Slowly he fought the matter out. He stood between two poles. Either all around were in league with Mabuse, and in that case there was no hope of escape, and what he was now going through was merely the preparation of a revenge which could only end with his death, or else it was merely by chance that he found himself in a company in which Mabuse also appeared accidentally. It might well be that Mabuse was a Hungarian. He might also have been a barrister in Budapest formerly, for his relations with the Privy Councillor Wendel proved that he had had a twofold career. It was not, therefore, to be assumed straight away that he and this criminal could not have met by accident. The next question Wenk asked himself was whether Mabuse recognized him, and he told himself that it must be so, for Mabuse had seen him both at Schramm’s and at the Four Seasons Hall; that was certain. But could this man be so foolhardy and so certain of himself that in spite of that he could represent before Wenk’s eyes, with a devilish mockery, what he had just seen occurring on the tiny stage? If so, it provided the solution to all the enigmatic acts with which he had concealed his crimes.
The help of the police was quite out of the question, for Wenk did not even know where he was. But how would it be to let the Prince into the secret, and get help in the company itself to secure the murderer? He could only do it if he were quite sure of the company, otherwise it was doomed to failure from the start. He knew from experience that this master criminal was always surrounded by a bodyguard of accomplices, and that they were people who shrank from no devilish deed. Around him there must be many of Mabuse’s confederates. Should Wenk, as if accidentally, make his way to some door and escape under cover of the darkness, leaving Mabuse to be dealt with at a later time, when he was better prepared to accomplish his overthrow … or should he try unobserved to find a telephone in the house and summon the police? But then again, where were they to come to?
“Isn’t it remarkable, Herr von Wenk? Have you ever seen anything like it before?” said Vörös.
Wenk had heard the question, but he was so preoccupied with his own train of thought as to forget to answer it enthusiastically, as he had intended to do. In the torrent of ideas and possibilities which rushed through his mind he forgot his resolution. Vörös gave him a hasty glance, and just at that moment Weltmann asked for fresh assistants.
Wenk, coming to a sudden resolve, pulled himself together and calmly and boldly ascended the stage, the very first to respond. Far better to look the wild beast in the face than be behind him! Then he noticed that Baron Prewitz, whom everybody had forgotten, followed him up. Stepping forward as before, automatically, he came after him, still holding the revolver.
“You don’t venture into my domain without protection, I see, Herr von Wenk,” smiled the hypnotist.
“That is just sarcasm,” said Wenk to himself; “he knows who I am!”
Wenk merely bowed, as much as to say that in Rome he did as Rome does. He was now standing next the hypnotist, and each took the other’s measure. Wenk had pursued this werwolf with vindictive fury because in him he saw the enemy of all that could heal and restore the nation. When he stood there on the platform with him, isolated for a moment from all the rest, he felt as if they were two great powers going in opposite directions. To his mind it was no longer the conflict of good and evil; it was the struggle of man to man; and, oppressed as he felt, he still had something almost like confidence in the chivalry of his opponent … a confidence that rested upon an impelling yet hardly perceptible instinct: both were staking their lives on the result of the struggle. Each was directing a fierce attack upon the other, yet both must make allowances in this last supreme moment.
“If only I could sleep!” thought Wenk with an inward yearning.
He looked closely into Weltmann’s eyes, taking in all his features. His was a powerful, muscular figure, and in imagination Wenk divested the face of its false moustache, eyebrows and wig, seeing beneath it the smooth-shaven, well-formed cranium of Dr. Mabuse. Wenk would have recognized him now beneath all his disguises. He gazed at him calmly, and the other’s glance flickered. The large grey eyes seemed to withdraw into their own fiery depths.
For a time the performer paid no attention to Wenk. He concentrated on those who were advancing. No sooner had one of them set foot upon the stage than he unexpectedly turned right round again and hurried back into the hall. One after another did this; a dozen, and even more. Those below were laughing heartily, and the little hall reechoed with their merriment. More and more pressed forward, but the effect was the same on all. With one hand Wenk grasped the wrist of the other, anxious to see whether he retained consciousness of nerves and muscles. He meant to resist. The welling-up of generous and magnanimous feelings had rapidly cooled. He hated, menaced and execrated his enemy now, and prepared himself for the final conflict. His eager blood was inflamed against his foe, and he watched him warily, while still upon his defence. Somewhere in his being a stringed instrument like a guitar seemed to be playing a melody, and he began to listen to this mysterious music. It was so tender and yet so distant, but then he fell back again upon his position of guard and defence. Suddenly a strange idea occurred to him. How would it be if he too did like the rest, and ran as if impelled down there along the gangway past the chairs—that gangway of safety and escape—to where the big door stood encouragingly open … to escape and at the same time to do his duty … to go to the nearest telephone and summon the police … to carry out a daring trick … and then do like the others, return, still in the same dreamlike state … return to the hall and wait—wait for the police, the rescuers? … It would be a daring trick!
Already some of the muscles in his legs were twitching. … Then Weltmann called out harshly to Prewitz, “Why don’t you pay attention? Cock your revolver! Don’t you see that this criminal is trying to escape?” He pointed at Wenk, and Prewitz cocked the revolver with a dreamy nonchalance, an indifference that excited horror and dread. He raised the revolver to Wenk’s face, and Wenk saw in its little orifice the dark hell of danger before him, for he knew that the weapon was loaded. “The first step that he takes, without my orders, you will shoot,” said Weltmann with an ambiguous smile.
In this dread moment Wenk heard once again the clear sweet musical tones, now in another direction. They sounded soft, sad, and familiar, as if it might have been his father whistling a lullaby beside his cradle. He listened, and in the few heartbeats in which he was lapped in the sound of those wonderful tones, he lost the sense of reality he had had when he felt with one hand for the pulse of the other. The flute became the magic flute, and round this fantasy there rose up an enchanted garden. A high, thick hedge circumscribed the area of his uneasy wanderings, but there was a gap in the hedge, a wide, unguarded gap, and in it he perceived the free light of heaven beckoning and enticing him to tear away and escape.
And then he ran, defying the Baron’s revolver. He sprang with leaps and bounds across the stage … the weapon dropping from the Baron’s hands. … He sprang down its steps at one bound, rushed along the gangway, leaping like a young colt that feels the approach of summer. The entire hall was animated over this crowning stroke of the hypnotist, but Mabuse sent after him a ferocious laugh that resounded from the walls which had witnessed it.