XI

The news Wenk received of Karstens’ state was very unsatisfactory.

Since he had, apparently, offered strong resistance to his attackers,

a second man seemed to have struck him violently on the head with a

crowbar, and the blow had resulted in concussion of the brain. At

intervals he became conscious, but for short periods only, and at

present it was impossible to say what the outcome would be. His state

was so critical, the doctor declared, that any sustained conversation

with him could not be thought of for at least two or three weeks.

As for the dancer, about whose participation in the affair he would

have something to say, as his shout to the constables to take her into

custody proved, Wenk had for the present to content himself with any

evidence the Countess might obtain. To-day was Monday, and at four

o’clock in any case he would hear whether any explanation might be

looked for from Cara Carozza.

He did not leave the house that day. The two main centres of his

activity could not be reached by him in person; one was the women’s

prison, the other, and far more important, was the town of Constance.

He was frequently called up by telephone from the latter place, for

this Poldringer had to be kept constantly under surveillance.

While spending the waiting hours at home impatiently, he frequently

walked backwards and forwards to the window. On one of these occasions

he noticed a man whom he had first seen as early as eight o’clock, and

again half an hour later, and then not again for some time. The man

always happened to be passing the house rapidly, or else standing at a

turning some distance off. Could it be that he was there to spy upon

his movements? Wenk resolved to put the matter to the test.

He ordered one of the members of the Secret Police to disguise himself

so that anyone at a hasty glance might mistake him for the State

Attorney. Then Wenk’s chauffeur brought round the car to the door where

the masquerader was waiting, and at a moment when the stranger was

again visible at a corner this man got in quickly, settled himself down

inside, and was rapidly driven away. “I shall be able to see how this

simple trick succeeds,” said Wenk to himself.

At this moment there was an urgent call from Constance. “The man under

observation brought the young fellows in his company to the station

at 3.16 p.m. The Offenburg express is due to leave at 3.36. It is

uncertain which of the party will travel by it; some have hand luggage,

and the others none, and it is not yet ascertainable whether the

suspected man will accompany them. One of them bought seven tickets for

Offenburg, but the party consists of eight, and one among them looks

different and has never been seen here before. It is possible that he

may be the leader of the expedition, and in the service of the French.

How are we to proceed?”

“Have three plain-clothes police ready. If the eight go by train, let

these three go too. If one or more stay behind, let one of the men be

left too, so that those remaining are not allowed out of sight. They

may be travelling by separate routes.”

The telephone official repeated the order given. “Good. Arrange to

speak to me immediately after the departure of the express. Ring off.”

Wenk asked to be connected with Offenburg, and in five minutes he was

able to get on to the police there.

“Seven, or possibly eight, men are arriving by the express from

Constance. Plain-clothes men are in the same train. See that sixteen

armed police are in readiness at the station. It is probable that

the travellers will have passes to Alsace. They are forged.... When

you arrest the men, be careful to avoid observation, and the only

information to be given to the Press is that it was a case of Germans

having been enticed into the Foreign Legion; and mind you state

expressly that they will be at once set free and returned to their

homes. You will know nothing about the forged passports. In case there

is a man of the name of Poldringer or Hinrichsen among them, let him be

separated from the rest and kept in close custody.”

Shortly after Constance telephoned again: “Seven men have left. It is

Poldringer who stayed behind; he went to the ‘Black Bull,’ and is under

observation there.”

“Good. Thank you. Please ring up here again at seven o’clock, and

should anything important occur in the meantime, notify the Criminal

Investigation Department.”

Then Wenk had to hurry, so that he might call for the Countess at the

prison at four o’clock. It was then half-past three, and he was alone

in the house. He telephoned for his car, and just as he was going

downstairs he heard a knock at the front door. He opened it.

An elderly man was standing there. His figure was bent, and he had a

bushy snow-white beard, red cheeks and blue eyes.

“Herr von Wenk?” he inquired courteously.

“Please come in,” answered the lawyer, “but I am sorry to say that I am

just going out on urgent official business.”

“I will not detain you a moment,” said the other. “My name is Hull, and

I am the father of the murdered man!”

Wenk bowed, and led the way to his office.

“Herr von Wenk, I have been told that you are conducting this inquiry.

Edgar was my only son, and I brought him up badly, for my whole time

was given to my business, and I had vast interests. My wife died when

he was but a child. I think many sons in our days have had a similar

experience.” He spoke evenly, almost harshly. “But that does not free

me from blame. Our sons were our pleasure, our business our duty. It

would have been better had it been the other way about. I cannot desire

such a life as his to be restored, for what I have heard from various

sides about the circumstances of the case is sufficient, and I do not

wish to know more, but I have allowed myself the liberty of calling

upon you for other reasons. My son used to receive an income of ten

thousand marks from me each month, and the only wish left me in this

unhappy affair is to be able to spend these ten thousand marks as if

he were still living, and add another ten thousand to them. I want the

money to be used to help men to make good, and how am I to set about

this? Can you advise me, sir?”

Wenk answered in a hesitating tone, “I must first of all confess, Herr

von Hull, that your words have taken me aback!”

This man’s bearing moved him deeply. Restrained force of character,

suppressed paternal grief, unutterable sympathy ... everything that

had thus unexpectedly been laid bare to him, threw him for the moment

somewhat off his balance. “Yes. I don’t know ... Herr von Hull, why did

you come to _me_ above all men?”

“I can tell you that at once, sir. It is your task to bring the

murderers to justice, and I should like to replace with something that

is beneficial the harm that has been done by one of my house. I should

like the recollection of my son to bear good fruit. I have had nothing

of his life, but perchance his death may yield something that may

plead for me in eternity.” His voice remained firm until the last word

had been uttered. “But I must not forget that you are in a hurry,” he

continued. “Perhaps it is this same unhappy affair which prevents your

giving me any more time now?”

“You are right,” said the lawyer.

“Can I see you to-morrow or some other day, when we can talk quietly,

when you are free?”

“I shall be free to-morrow, my dear sir. Come when most convenient to

you, preferably in the morning. You are not obliged to fix an exact

time, for I shall be at home all day. I thank you for your suggestion;

we shall be enabled to do a splendid piece of work together, I believe.”

“Nay, it is I who must thank you for being willing to help me raise

a memorial to my unhappy boy that shall redeem his name among his

fellow-men.”

They left the house together, and Wenk drove rapidly to the prison.

“The lady left here long before four o’clock,” said the Governor.

“Indeed!” said Wenk, disappointed. “What did she leave for me?”

“Nothing!”

“And you yourself know nothing either? About the matter she had in

hand, did she get any results?”

“I did not inquire.”

“Why not?” said Wenk, annoyed by his manner.

“I was not instructed to do so,” answered the Governor morosely.

“It is not a question of your exact instructions, but of attempting to

track to earth one of the most dangerous bands of criminals Germany

has ever known. You don’t seem to realize that. What you and your

instructions may be counts for nothing.”

“So much the better. Perhaps another time I may be spared such

innovations....”

“You do not seem to feel yourself thoroughly comfortable in your

post, Governor. I will say a word for you to the Home Secretary! Good

morning.”

“What has happened?” said Wenk to himself. “What is up?” He felt

disappointed and angry as he took his seat in the car again.

* * * * *

At seven o’clock that evening the Countess drove to the Privy

Councillor’s mansion. She found the same company assembled there as

on the last occasion, and this time, too, she saw as little of them.

Around her and Dr. Mabuse, her partner at the supper-table, the

conversation rose and fell, isolating them from the rest. Her neighbour

was more silent than on the previous occasion, but everything he said

was spoken with an impressive intent, directed towards a goal which was

unrecognizable.

The Countess was divided in her own mind as to whether she should

relate her experience in the prison to him, should tell him that she

had come in contact with the soul of a woman, strong and fearless as

the figures in his own recitals; yea, even stronger, since it was a

woman, experienced in renunciation, and carrying on her conflict in

resistance and defence.

In imagination she had entered so thoroughly into the struggle, and

her encounter with this criminal seemed to open up such unusual

circumstances, that the power of the man at her side insensibly seemed

to lessen, and this second meeting with him appeared to yield nothing

that her passionate anticipation had longed for. The man seemed to

decline before her.

She noticed that while he uttered his imperious sentences, both at

their first meeting and on this occasion, he kept his eyes fixed on

her with a compelling look. They were grey eyes, and their glance was

a steely one. She grew somewhat frightened, and in her anxiety yearned

for some human being who could warm her breast with his sympathy and

afford her troubled spirit peace.

She looked across at her husband. He was sitting near the medium,

engaging her in talk, and it seemed as if his words were the mere play

of his graceful fingers, on one of which the ring was flashing, as

if dominating the whole. Then the woman’s heart was overcome with a

strange sad feeling, stilling the fever in her breast--a feeling of

lofty womanly sympathy. He seemed such a child, she said to herself.

“Without me he would be defenceless. He is like a hoop rolling down the

street, its course determined by the obstacles and unevennesses in its

path.”

With this feeling upon her, she experienced a renewed glow as she

thought of her encounter with the dancer; she was lifted out of her

everyday existence, borne onward as in a mighty rush of passion, then

again becoming cool and collected as at the contact with something

cold and forbidding. It seemed to her then that she was struggling to

reach her husband and ever as she approached him she was driven back,

encountering the inflexible and steely glance of the man beside her.

Mabuse grew more and more silent. He ate nothing, and he took no pains

to conceal his taciturnity. On the contrary, he seemed, as it were, to

strive to impress it upon the whole company, just as a mighty African

potentate might exercise his tyranny on his patient and long-suffering

followers, and the very actions of the others served to accentuate this

attitude of adoration of a superior force.

Count Told alone seemed to trifle with graceful gestures about the

medium, who, black-haired and deadly pale, kept her unwieldy form

pressed close to his side, seeming to have eyes for no other. Then the

Countess felt that she hated the man who sat beside her in his sullen

mood while her husband’s attitude was thus bordering on the ridiculous.

And yet it was not hate she felt, but the inward conflict between the

desire to yield herself to the domination of a self-sufficing and

stronger heart and brain and resistance to the impulse of subjugation.

The supper-table was cleared and the company stood around talking for

a while. Mabuse had left his table-companion and sought the society of

Count Told. He engaged him in a discourse on the psychological aspect

of gambling.

“I am a born gambler,” said the Count. “When I am losing, I remain as

cold as ice, but when I am winning my brain lights up and my phantasies

are redoubled.”

Then Mabuse said: “Games of chance are the oldest form, the strongest

and most widespread form, in which a man who is not gifted with

artistic expression may yet feel himself an artist.”

“That is an interesting idea,” said the Count; “pray follow it up a

little further.”

“It is because in a game of chance every man feels that he can

force himself to a creative act. Creation, through the principle

which underlies all life, draws its force from the parallel powers

of volition and accident. By accident we must understand all that

is untried, immeasurable, strange, and impossible of expression in

itself. This is, too, the mental process of creative work, to which

nature has lent a portion of primal force, the work of the artist!

Between the poles of volition and accident this power is wielded as in

a state of trance. Goethe confessed that to be the case with himself

when he was composing his poems. In games of chance there is a like

synthesis. Accident gives the player his material--it may be trifling

and insignificant, or it may be of dominating power. The player sets

his will to work to accomplish a creation of his own from his material.”

“You are a poet yourself, Doctor?”

“Oh, no, I am a physician practising psychotherapy.”

“Such people are our most modern poets. For they give our knowledge of

the unconscious, or rather the subconscious, its perceptible form, and

the subconscious world, which is now firmly established, produces our

psychic existence. We will have a game of baccarat afterwards, shall we

not?”

“Agreed!”

The hypnotic subject was about to begin her test. A doctor led her

forward and threw her into a hypnosis in which she would recall her

wonderful recollections. On the first evening, as Count Told informed

Mabuse in an awestruck whisper, she had related her mental experiences

during her first attempts to walk.

While the Count was speaking he felt an unnatural warmth stealing over

the back of his head. He turned round, but there was nothing behind him

save the tapestried wall, upon which pictures of the old school, to

which he was quite indifferent, were hanging.

The patient did not respond to the hypnotist’s suggestions. She did

indeed fall into a state of trance, but all the spectators could see

that gradually the expression of her eyes indicated that she was

returning from a far-off view, until suddenly they looked straight

ahead and were wide awake again, awake and indignant.

“Someone is tormenting me,” she said.

“No one is tormenting you,” said the hypnotist in a monotonous

and measured tone. “We are guiding you to the early home of your

youth--one, two, three ... you are sleeping--one, two ... you are

sleeping!”

He passed his hand slowly and lightly over her forehead, continuing to

count, “Three ... one ... two ... where are you now?--how old are you?”

“I am ten months and three days old.”

“What did your mother do this morning when she took you out of the

cradle?”

“She unwrapped me and hurt me and ... and ...” She breathed a deep

sigh, then awoke suddenly and said, “There is someone here who ought to

go away. Who is tormenting me?”

“We can obtain no results to-day. There are some disturbing influences

which I do not recognize and therefore cannot remove,” said the

hypnotist.

The Privy Councillor approached Mabuse. “How would it be, Doctor, if

_you_ were to make an attempt? After the tests of your power which

I have already seen, I think we can promise to get rid of these

disturbing influences,” he said.

Mabuse declared himself willing to try, at any rate, though he could

not vouch for the result, as he was suffering from a slight chill which

affected his head. He at once took a short step towards the medium,

however, and they saw that she moved slightly in his direction as if

attracted by a magnet. Mabuse did not utter a word, but he let his

glance wander over part of her body. The girl became even paler than

before, if possible, and although she made no movement, it was easy to

see that she struggled against something invisible, that her resistance

grew quickly weaker and that her eyes fell before him.

Then Mabuse said in a rapid and violent tone: “You are lying in

swaddling clothes. Your arms are bound fast to your side. You are six

months’ old. It is evening, and you are crying. Why are you crying?”

And from the heavy body of this girl, sleeping with wide-open eyes,

there came a piping, fretful voice: “I have a pain in my stomach.”

“That is only wind. You’ve had too much to drink. Who gave it you?”

“I got it from the breast of a woman,” answered the baby voice.

“Do you love that breast?”

Then the girl grew deathly white, and into the childish voice there

crept a piercing and angry note, “No.”

“What did you want to do?”

“I wanted to bite it with my gums!”

“Why?”

Then the girl was seized with trembling, which passed over her whole

body, and Mabuse said, “Every minute that prolongs this endangers her

life. I must bring the experiment to an end!”

He laid the girl down on a sofa, and with reassuring movements he

released her from sleep and bathed her face, and when she came to

herself again recommended her being put to bed.

The conversation now turned upon Mabuse’s experiment, and everyone was

asking questions, speculating on what she would have said.

“That was a fairy-tale,” said Told; “a fable of the preconscious

existence! Doctor, you are a genius. But what did she want to say that

made her tremble so?”

A lady came forward with the same question on her lips, but Mabuse’s

eyes sought the Countess, and she, too, came forward to ask. Then

Mabuse answered, “She wanted to say, ‘Because I hated her so!’”

The Countess shrank back and the others were silent, painfully

affected. Then the Countess leaned forward, saying coldly, “A baby

cannot hate!”

“How do you know that?” asked Mabuse roughly.

“I know it ... of myself,” she replied.

“Then you can rejoice over yourself, for you are not only a genius

at recollection, but also an angel in disposition!” retorted Mabuse

sarcastically.

Conversation broke the company up into little groups. Count Told alone

remained silent. There was still that unnatural warmth at the back of

his head. He looked behind him, and he felt his head; there was nothing

there. He went to a mirror, but nothing was to be seen. He sat down

again and it seemed as if he were falling asleep, yet he saw them all

and heard everything. He wanted to say something, but it seemed as if

the words were plucked from his mouth like ripened fruit ready to fall.

After a short time had passed thus, he rose and went to the group

wherein Dr. Mabuse was standing, saying, “We were going to play

baccarat!”

“So we were!” answered Mabuse. “Shall we be likely to find enough

players?”

Then Told grew wide awake and eager. “It will be fine, playing baccarat

with you. Herr Wendel, will you join us, eh?”

“I must attend to my social duties among the ladies,” answered the

Privy Councillor, “but you will soon be able to find partners!”

Six gentlemen quickly gathered round the card-table which stood in

a part of the room leading to the conservatory. The lamp with its

enormous shade hung low over the table, leaving the rest of the room

in the half-light. In the conservatory, to which a glass door led, the

ghostly branches of foreign palms could be seen outlined against the

glass, and in the moonlight they looked like stiff forms stretching

their dark limbs heavenwards.

They cut the cards to see who should be the first to hold the stakes.

The visitors crowded round the card-table and Countess Told stood in

the dim light, looking down upon it. Mabuse saw her smooth white skin

gleaming from the rich dark red dress she wore. His bearing was cold

and gloomy, and scarcely a word escaped his lips. The feelings that

arose within him were sternly suppressed, and his thoughts were busy

with Count Told alone. When anyone addressed him, he answered abruptly.

He seemed to pay great attention to the game, but he played by leaps

and bounds.

Soon the gentlemen who had begun their game with modest stakes began

to imitate his example, and there was no unanimity in the value of the

stakes. Beside a stake of a mark or two there stood a fifty-mark note,

and then one for two hundred. The small stake seemed to feel ashamed;

it rapidly became twenty, and still faster it grew to a hundred, to

two hundred.... Very soon there was no player who ventured less than a

hundred marks. When they began they found time for conversation between

the end of the hand and the fresh deal, but after a time the talk grew

less, and then ceased. The onlookers, too, became silent. The contest

between the players grew more pronounced, the game feverish, and this

excitement spread to the spectators.

The Countess noted the high stakes her husband wagered. “He has never

played before,” she thought. “What is the matter with him?”

The Count was winning. He let his winnings accumulate. It seemed as if

he were a horse, urged and threatened onward by an eager rider. He

threw his money down. It was now his turn to hold the stakes. It seemed

to him as if the moment in which he should deal the cards and undertake

the manifold risks of gain or loss would be a supreme experience for

him, yielding rich secrets of wonderful joy. He grew excited, and his

phantasies played about the room.

The Countess turned aside in the half-light, constrained at her

husband’s incomprehensible actions. Suddenly the full light of the

lamp fell upon her, revealing where her slender breast rose white and

stately from the enclosing circle of her gown.

“North and south!” said Mabuse, as he contemplated her lovely figure,

“north and south, your turn is coming,” and his tone was sinister and

threatening. Then he turned his glance away, and it fell upon Count

Told’s hands as he took over the bank at this moment. He dealt the

cards out, and hesitated a moment as if perplexed at some strange

occurrence. He was relieved when he had distributed the pack. He

won considerable sums, and it was singular that the same feeling of

perplexity recurred. He won a second time, and now this seemed to

happen continually. Players and spectators alike were astonished at the

run of luck the Count’s game exhibited.

“Look at your husband,” said someone, turning to the Countess; “he is

winning every hand.”

They all cast a glance at the Countess and then quickly returned to

their cards. The Count dealt the cards once more. He disclosed his

cards; he had two picture cards and was about to buy another.

“Halt!” cried a voice suddenly, like the voice of a drill sergeant,

and a hand was laid roughly on the table, reaching the white and

delicate hand of the Count, on which the jewelled ring was sparkling,

and turning it over. Then all the company saw that the Count had been

about to take a card from underneath the pack instead of the one that

lay on the top. The card was a nine.

“Aha, a nine! _Now_ I understand your luck, you gudgeon! You are a

common cheat!”

They all sprang up in confusion. Count Told sat still in his chair, in

a state of utter collapse. He seemed absolutely crushed, finding no

word to say.

“Give the money here!” cried the harsh voice again. “All of it!” The

tone was threatening.

The spectators and the players were crowding together, and a cry rang

through the obscurity. Through the hasty movements of the powerful man

who had seized the Count, one man had fallen to the ground, dragging

another down with him. The latter clutched at the tablecloth, and it

was pulled off, money and cards being strewn over the floor, people

flinging themselves upon it. Suddenly the electric lights went out, but

Dr. Mabuse, who had waited for the cry from the dark corner, rushed

to the fainting Countess, lifted her in his arms and with one spring

bore her under the palms and out into the garden under the moonlight,

through the shrubbery and to the wall leading to the street. He lifted

her over, and from the other side someone helped him with his burden.

An instant later a car was stealing swiftly down the street.

“The northern and southern hemispheres,” he shouted aloud furiously

during the drive. “Now I hold you both!”

The Xenienstrasse was empty. The car came to a sudden standstill. He

carried the Countess, still unconscious, into his house.