CHAPTER VIII
THE THIEF
The caretaker recognized what used to be his Professor at the first glance. His new post as adviser to Thérèse suited him better; first and foremost it brougnt him in more than his old gratuity. It was not in his interest to avenge himself. That's why he wasn't resentful and carefully looked in the other direction. The Professor stood on his right. The parcel had meanwhile been flicked on to his left arm. He tested its weight for a moment and became conveniently absorbed in this examination. Thérèse had by now acquired the habit of doing everything he did. With a vehement motion she gave the thief a cold shoulder and clutched with passion at her beautiful, large parcel. The caretaker had already passed by. But that man suddenly barred her path. She pushed him dumbly to one side. Dumbly he laid his hand on the parcel. She pulled at it, he held it fast. The caretaker heard a rusding. Without looking round, he went up the stairs. He wanted this meeting to pass off quietly and told himself she had only brushed her parcel against the banisters. Now Kien too tugged at the parcel. Her resistance grew. She turned her face to him, he closed his eyes. This bewildered her. The man higher up the stairs did not come to her help. Then she remembered the police and the crime she was committing. If she got herself put away the thief would get hold of the flat again, that's what he was like, he wouldn't think twice about it. Hardly had she lost her flat, than her strength deserted her. Kien got hold of the major weight of the parcel on his side. The books gave him strength and he said: 'Whither are you taking them?' He must have seen the books. The paper was not torn anywhere. She saw him as the master of the house. The eight long years of her service flashed through her mind in the fraction of a second. It was all over with her self-possession. But she had one comfort. She called the police to her help. She screamed: 'He's insulted me!'
Ten steps higher up the stairs a disappointed man came to a halt. If the sh— house had stopped them on their way out, well and good; but now, before they had cashed their goods! He managed to choke back the bellow rising in his throat and beckoned Thérèse with his hand. She was too busy and took no notice. While she screamed twice more 'He's insulting me!' she sized up the thief curiously. According to her ideas, he should have been in rags, shameless, holding out a hollowed hand to everyone, the way beggars do, and, when he saw something easy, just stealing it. In fact, he looked much better than he did at home. She couldn't explain it. Suddenly she noticed that his coat, to the right of his chest, had swollen. In the old days he never carried money about. His wallet was almost empty. Now it looked fat. She knew all. He had the bankbook. He had cashed his money. Instead of hiding it at home he carried it round with him. The caretaker knew of every detail, even of her post-office book. Whatever there was, he found it, or he pinched it out of her. But her dream of the bankbook in a secret crevice, that she had kept to herself. Without this to fall back on life would have held no more pleasures for her. In a flood of clumsy satisfaction at the secret which she had kept from him for so many weeks, she called out now — a moment after her plaintive 'He's insulting me' — 'I ask you, he's a thief!' Her voice rang out, indignant and delighted at once, as is usual when people are handing over a thief to the police. Only that melancholy undertone which some women's voices assume on such occasions when the culprit happens to be a man, was absent from hers, for was she not handing over her first man to her second? And this one was a policeman.
He came down and repeated dully: 'You're a thief!' He saw no other egress from this disastrous situation. The theft was obviously a lie in self-defence on Therese's part. He laid a heavy hand on Kien's shoulder and declared, as though once again he were on active service: 'In the name of the law, you are under arrest! You come along with me, and come quiet!' The parcel dangled from the litde finger of his left hand. He stared commandingly in Kien's face and shrugged his shoulders. His duty allowed him to make no exceptions. The past was the past. Then they'd got on well enough. Now he had to arrest him. How gladly he would have said 'Do you remember ... ?' Kien crumpled up, not alone under the pressure of the hand, and muttered: 'I knew it.' The caretaker distrusted this answer. Peaceable criminals are artful. They make themselves out to be like that and then try for a getaway. That's why the come-along was invented. Kien submitted to it. He tried to stand upright, his height forced him to stoop. The caretaker grew affectionate. He hadn't arrested a soul for years. He had anticipated difficulties. Delinquents offer resistance. If they don't they'll make a getaway. If you're in uniform they want to know your number. If you're not, they want a warrant. But here was one who made no trouble. He allowed himself to be questioned, he came quiet, he didn't protest his innocence, he made no disturbance, he was a criminal anybody could be proud of. Immediately in front of the glass door he turned to Thérèse and said: ' That's how it's done !' He was well aware a woman was watching him. But he was uncertain whether she fully appreciated the details of his work. 'Anyone else would have knocked him out straight away. With me, taking a man up's a simple matter. Come quiet, that's the rule. An amateur couldn't make 'em come quiet. If you're an expert a criminal will come quiet of his own free will. Domestic animals have to be tamed. Cats have a wild nature. At the circus you see performing lions. You can make tigers jump through a burning hoop. But a man's got a soul. The organ of the law grabs his soul, and he'll come quiet as a lamb.' He spoke these words only in thought, although he was burning to bellow them out loud.
Anywhere else and at any other time this arrest, which at long last had come his way, would have turned his head. When he was still on the active list he arrested specially to create a disturbance and was in the worst odour with authority on account of his methods. Then he used to proclaim his action so long and loud that a crowd of gaping people gathered round him. Born to be an athlete, he daily created a circus tor himself. Finding people chary of applause, he clapped himself. To show his strength he made use of the arrestee instead of his other hand. If the arrestee were strong he dropped hitting him and stung him to a boxing match. Out of contempt for the creature's defeat he used to say in evidence that he had been attacked. Weaklings he thus favoured with an increased sentence. If he came up against some one stronger than himself—with real criminals this was the case sometimes—his conscience bade him accuse them falsely, because undesirable elements must be put away. Only since he had had to confine his activities to a single house, he who had once had charge of a whole beat, did he become more discreet. He selected his partners among wretched hawkers and beggars, and even for these he had to he in wait for days. They feared him and warned each other; only greenhorns came his way; and yet he prayed for them to come. He knew that they grudged themselves to him. His circus was limited to the tenants of the block. And he lived in hopes of a real, noisy arrest in circumstances of the utmost difficulty.
Then recent events had interrupted him in his pursuits. Kien's books brought him in money. He did most of the work and safeguarded himself on every side. All the same, he had an uncomfortable feeling he was getting money for nothing. When he was in the force he had always felt that his muscular exertions were being paid for. True he took good care to make his book list a heavy one, and selected the books by weight. The fattest and oldest tomes bound in pigskin were the first to go. All the way to theTheresianum he would balance his parcel heading it every now and again, taking Therese's away from her, ordering her to fall back and then tossing it into her arms. She suffered from such treatment and once she complained. But he persuaded her he had to do it on account of the passers-by. The more insolently they handled the books, the less likely was it to occur to anyone that they were not their own. She had to agree, but she didn't like it. All the same he was discontented, felt himself a mere weakling and often said he'd be a Jew next. This tiny twinge, which he took for his conscience, made him forgo the fulfilment of his ancient dream and arrest Kien quietly.
But Thérèse was not to be robbed of her pleasure. She had noticed the fat wallet. Swiftly she glided round the two men and placed herself between the panels of the glass door which her skirt had pushed open. With her right hand she seized Kien's head as if to embrace him and dragged it down, to her level. With her left hand she pulled out the wallet. Kien wore her arm like a crown of thorns. For the rest he did not stir. His own arms were pinioned by the come-along. Thérèse held up the roll of notes on high and cried: 'Excuse me, here it is!' Her new man admired all that money, but shook his head. Thérèse wanted an answer, she said: 'Haven't I a right? Haven't I a right?' 'Do you take me for a doormat!' replied the caretaker. His remark referred to his conscience and to the door, which Thérèse was barring. She wanted recognition, a word of praise, for her beautiful money, before she pocketed it. When she thought of pocketing it, she was sorry for herself. Now her new man knew everything, she had no more secrets. Such a moment, and he said not a word. He ought to tell her what a fine woman she was ! She had found the thief. He had tried to slip past him. Now he was trying to slip past her. She wouldn't have it. She had a heart. He only knew how to pinch. He couldn't say a word. Shurrup, that's all he could say. He wasn't superior. He wasn't clever. A man, that's all. She'd be ashamed to face Mr. Brute. I ask you, what was he before? A common caretaker! She'd have nothing to do with such people. And she, taking that creature into her fiat. Now he didn't even say thank you. If Mr. Brute found out he'd never kiss her hand again. What a voice he had ! She had found all the money. He would take it all away again. Must she give it all to him? If you please, she was fed up with him! It must be gratis. She wouldn't have his wanting money. She needed it for her old age. She wanted a decent old age. Where was she to get skirts from if he tore them all? He tore her skirts and took her money. All the same, he might say something! He was a man!
Furious and hurt she waved the money tins way and that. She held it right under his nose. He was considering. All joy in the arrest had left him. As soon as she had manipulated the wallet, he foresaw the consequences. He wouldn't see the inside of a gaol for her. She was clever, but he knew the law. He had been in the force. What did she know about it? He wished himself back at his post; she was repulsive to him. She had upset him. For her sake he had lost his gratuity. He had long since learnt the true story. Only for the sake of their partnership did he officially continue his hatred for Kien. She was old. She was demanding. She wanted him to come every night. He wanted to knock her about, she wanted something else. She only let him pinch her first. He hit her once or twice and she screamed the place down. The devil she did! He'dsh—on a woman like that. It would all come out now. He'd lose his pension. He'd sue her. She'd have to pay him the equivalent. He'd keep his share. The best thing now would be to inform against her. The old cow! As if the books were hers! Not on your life. God help the Professor. He was too good for her. You wouldn't find another like him. To think he'd married the filthy bitch. Housekeeper indeed ! Her mother died in the gutter. She'd told him so herself. If she were forty years younger .. . His daughter, God rest her, she had a heart of gold. She had to lie down beside him while he watched out for beggars. He used to look and pinch. Pinch and look. Those were the days! If a beggar came, he had something to knock about. If none came, there was always the girl. Cry, she used to. Didn't do her no good. You can't do anything against a father. Ah, she was a love. All of a sudden she died. Her chest, that little room. But he couldn't spare her. If he'd known, he'd have sent her away. The Professor remembered her. Never did her no harm. The other tenants bullied the poor kid. Just because she was his daughter. And this filthy bitch here never even said 'Good morning' to her! He could murder her!
Filled with hate, they faced each other. One word from Kien, even a friendly one, would have brought them together again. His silence kindled their hate; it flamed to heaven. One of them had hold of Kien's body, the other of his money. He himself was lost to them. Ah, if they only had him! His body swayed like a blade of grass. A violent storm bowed him down. The banknotes crackled like lightning in the air. Suddenly the caretaker bellowed at Thérèse: 'Give back that money!' She couldn't. She released Kien's head from her embrace, it didn't shoot up, it remained in the same position. She had expected a movement. As none occurred she flung the notes in her new man's face and shrieked piercingly: 'You knock a man down, you! You're afraid. A doormat, you are! It isn't fair! A coward like you! Scum, you are! Soft, you are! I ask you!' Her hatred supplied her with the precise words to rouse him. With one hand he began to shake Kien out. A coward he wouldn't be called. With his other he laid about Thérèse. Get out of his way, there. She'd know him better soon. That's not what he was like! This was what he was like. The banknotes fluttered to the ground. Thérèse sobbed: 'All the beautiful money!' Her man seized her. The blows weren't hard enough. Better shake her. Her back pushed open the glass door. She clutched tight at the round door-knob. He dragged her back, grabbing her by the collar of her blouse, dragged her close up to him and beat her hard against the door — close up to him — hard against the door. With his other hand he dealt with Kien. Kien was a wrung-out rag in his hand; the less he felt there, the more vigorously he went to work on Thérèse.
At this moment Fischerle came running up. The sewerman had reported Kien's refusal. He was fuming. What was the meaning of this? A fuss about 2000 schillings ! That was the last straw! Yesterday he paid up 4500 at a time, and now he stops payment. His employees can wait. He won't be a minute. From the entrance hall he nears a voice shrieking! 'The beautiful money! The beautiful money!' That's his business. Someone must have forestalled him. He could have cried. All that trouble, and someone else is getting the advantage. A woman too. You can't put up with that. He'll catch her. He'll make her give it all back. Then he saw the glass door banging to and fro. Horrified he stood still. There was a man there too. He hesitated. The man was beating the door with the woman. A heavy woman too. The man must be strong. The flagpole wouldn't have been strong enough. Maybe it was nothing to do with the flagpole. Why shouldn t a man beat up a woman, if she didn't hand over the money? Fischerle had his firm to sec to. He would sooner have waited until the two had finished, but it would take too long. Cautiously he edged his way through the door. 'Permit me,' he said and grinned. It would be impossible not to tread on somebody's corns. So he grinned in advance. The couple were to notice that he meant no harm. People sometimes overlooked his laughter, so he preferred to grin. His hump intervened between Thérèse and the caretaker and prevented him from dragging the woman as close to him as was essential for a real blow. He kicked the hump. Fischerle toppled over Kien and clutched tight hold of him. So thin was Kien and so slender the bodily part he played in all this that the dwarf only noticed him when he collided with him. He recognized him. Thérèse was screaming again: 'The beautiful money!' He sniffed out the old relation between them, pricked up his ears six times as much as before, and at a glance took in Kien's pockets, those of the stranger, the woman's garters — unhappily her skirt impeded the view — the stairs, at the foot of which were two gigantic parcels, and the floor at his feet. There he saw the money. Quick as ightning he stooped to gather it. His long arms twisted in and out jetween six legs. Now he shoved a foot vigorously to one side, now le twitched delicately at a banknote. He made no sound when they stamped on his fingers, he was used to such inconveniences. Nor did he treat all feet alike. Kien's he hurled out of his way, the woman's he gripped firmly, like a cobbler, as for the man, he avoided all contact; it would have been as useless as it was dangerous. He rescued fifteen banknotes; as he worked he counted, and knew precisely which figure he had arrived at. Even his hump he manoeuvred skilfully. Above his head the fight went on. He knew from his experience in Heaven that a fighting couple must not be interrupted. If you manage to avoid this, you can meanwhile get anything you like out of them. Fighting couples are mad dogs. Of the five missing banknotes, four were further off, and one was under the man's foot. While he crept after the others, Fischerle never took an eye off this foot. It might be lifted, and the split second must not be missed.
Only at this point did Thérèse notice him, as — at a little distance from her — he licked up something off the floor. He kept his hands locked behind his back; the money was hidden between his legs and he worked away with his tongue, so that if the others should see him they wouldn't understand what he was collecting. Thérèse had felt herself grow weak; this sight gave her fresh strength. The dwarf's intention was as familiar to her as if she had known him from birth. She saw herself in quest of the bankbook; then she had been mistress in her own house. Suddenly she wrenched herself free of the caretaker and yelled: 'Burglars! Burglars! Burglars!' She meant the hump under her feet, the caretaker, the thief; she meant all the world and yelled without drawing breath, louder and louder, as if she would never stop; she had breath for ten.
Above, doors slammed open, heavy steps were heard, many steps, echoing on the stairs. The man, who looked after the lift over there, approached slowly. If they were murdering a child now, he wouldn't demean himself to hurry. Twenty-six years he'd been looking after that lift, that is to say his wife and family had; he did the organizing.
The caretaker stood stock still. He saw it: on every first of the month someone would come to take away his pension instead of paying it out to him. Maybe lock him up as well. The canaries would die, because there'd be no one left to sing for. The peep-hole would be sealed up. Everything would come out and the tenants would ferret out his daughter even in her grave. He wasn't afraid. Couldn't sleep sometimes for thinking of the kid. Looked after her, he did. He was that fond of her. Plenty to eat she got, plenty to drink, a whole pint of milk every day. He was retired on a pension. He wasn't afraid. The doctor said himself, it's her lungs. Send her away! How would I do that, mister? He needed all his pension for food. He was like that. Couldn't live without food. You get like that in the police. Without him the whole block would fall down. Health insurance — the idea! Back she'd come with a baby. In that tiny room. He wasn't afraid.
Fischerle, on the other hand, said aloud: 'Now I'm afraid!' and stuck the money hastily into one of Kien's side pockets. Then he made himself even smaller. Escape was impossible. People were already stumbling over the parcels. He squeezed both arms close against his sides. The other money, the passage-money, was stowed away in tight bundles in his armpits. A bit of luck his being the shape he was! When he was dressed not a soul would suspect anything. He wouldn't be locked up. The police took all your clothes off and took everything away. He was always a thief to them. What did they know about his new firm? Ought to have registered it, ought he? What, and have to pay taxes! He was head of a firm, just the same. The flagpole was an idiot. What had he got to go round recognizing the sewerman for? Now he'd got his money back though. Poor fellow, it wasn't fair to leave him in the lurch. People might take all his money away. He gave it with both hands. He'd too much heart. Fischerle was loyal. Loyal to a business partner. Once he got to America the flagpole would have to look after himself. Not a soul left to help him. Fischerle crept gradually in between Kiens knees; nothing was left of him but hump. Sometimes his hump became a shield behind which he vanishes, a snail-shell into which he withdrew, a mussel shell which closed right round him.
The caretaker stands with legs set wide, a monolith, his staring eyes fixed on his murdered daughter. Out of habit his muscles still hold the limp rag Kien. Thérèse shrieks all the inhabitants of the Theresianum to her help. She thinks of nothing. She has enough to do to husband her breath-supply. She shrieks mechanically. She feels well, shrieking. She feels as diough she had won the fight. The blows on her have ceased.
A variety of hands drag the motionless four apart. They grip them tight, as though they were still fighting. Each seeks to look into the other's eyes. People jostle about them. Passers-by pour into the Theresianum. Officials and clients claim their prior right. They are at home here. The man, who had looked after the lift for twenty-six years, ought to restore order, to expel the intruders and close the doors of the Theresianum. He has no time. At last he has reached the woman who is shrieking for help and regards his presence on the scene as indispensible. Another woman catches sight of Fischerle's hump on the ground and runs screaming into the street: 'Murder! Murder!' She takes the hump for a corpse. Further details—she knows none. The murderer is very thin, a poor sap, how he came to do it, you wouldn't have thought it of him. Shot, may be, someone suggests. Of course, everyone heard the shot. Three streets off, the shot had been heard. Not a bit of it, that was a motor tyre. No, it was a shot! The crowd won't be done out of its shot. A threatening attitude is assumed towards the doubters. Don't let him go. An accessory. Trying to confuse the trail! Out of the building comes more news. The woman's statements are revised. The thin man has been murdered. And the corpse on the floor? It's alive. It's the murderer, he had hidden himself. He was trying to creep away between the corpse's legs when he was caught. The more recent information is more detailed. The little man is a dwarf. What do you expect, a cripple! The blow was actually struck by another. A redheaded man. Ah, those redheads. The dwarf put him up to it. Lynch him! The woman gave the alarm. Cheers for the woman! She screamed and screamed. A woman! Doesn't know' what fear is. The murderer threatened her. The redhead. It's always the Reds. He tore her collar off. No shooting. Of course not. Nobody heard a shot. What did he say? Someone must have invented the shot. The dwarf. Where is he? Inside. Rush the doors! No one else can get in. It's full up. What a murder! The woman had a plateful. Thrashed her every day. Half dead, she was. What did she marry a dwarf for? I wouldn't marry a dwarf. And you with a big man to yourself. All she could find. Too few men, that's what it is. The war! Young people to-day ... Quite young he was too. Not eighteen. And a dwarf already. Clever! He was born that way. I know that. I've seen him. Went in there. Couldn't stand it. Too much blood. That's why he's so thin. An hour ago he was a great, fat man. Loss of blood, horrible! I tell you corpses swell. That's drowned ones. What do you know about corpses? Took all the jewellery off the corpse he did. Did it for the jewellery. Just outside the jewellery department it was. A pearl necklace. A baroness. He was her footman. No, the baron. Ten thousand pounds. Twenty thousand! A peer of the realm ! Handsome too. Why did she send him? Should he have let his wife? It's for her to let him. Ah, men. She's alive though. He's the corpse. Fancy dying like that! A peer of the realm too. Serve him right. The unemployed are starving. What's he want with a pearl necklace. String 'em up I say! Mean it too. The whole lot of them. And the Theresianum too. Burn it! Make a nice blaze.
Inside the scene was as bloodless as it was bloody outside. As soon as the people started crowding in, the glass panel of the door splintered into a thousand fragments. No one was hurt. Therese's skirt protected the only person who was in real danger, Fischerle. Scarcely had he been seized by the collar than he croaked out: 'Leave me go! I'm his keeper!' He pointed to Kien and said over and over again: 'I tell you, he's mad. I'm his keeper. Take care, he's dangerous. I tell you he's mad. I'm his keeper.' No one took any notice of him. He was too small; they expected great things. The only person on whom he made an impression took him for the corpse and told the people outside. Thérèse went on screaming. She was doing well. If she stopped people might go away and leave her. While one half of her savoured her happiness the other sweated with fear at what might come next. Everyone pitied her. They comforted her; she was frightened. The lift-attendant even laid his hand on her shoulder. He emphasized the fact that this was the first time he had done such a thing in twenty-six years. She must calm herself. He asked it as a personal favour. He could sympathize. He was the father of three himself. She could come back to his own home if she liked. She would be able to recuperate there. For twenty-six years he had never asked anyone else. Thérèse took good care not to stop screaming. He was hurt. He even took his hand away. Without demeaning himself, he declared, she must have gone out of her mind with terror. Fischerle pounced on his assertion and whimpered: 'But I tell you, this one's mad; she's quite O.K. You can take it from me, I know about madmen! I'm the Keeper!'
Although a couple of officials with nothing better to do had taken him in charge, not a soul paid the slightest attention to him. All eyes were fixed on the redhead. He had let himself be seized and held quite quietly, without knocking out half a dozen; not once, even, had he let out a bellow. But this unearthly stillness was followed by a gigantic thunderclap when they tried to disentangle him from Kien. He wouldn't give up the Professor, he clutched him tight and with his right hand hurled back his attackers. His thoughts straying to his darling daughter, he bathed Kien in a flood of loving words: 'Professor — you're my only friend! Don't forsake me! I'll hang myself! It wasn't my fault. My only friend! I'm a retired policeman! Don't be angry! I'm goodness itself!'
So stunningly vociferous was his affection that everyone at once recognized Kien as the burglar. Everyone quickly saw through the mockery and was delighted with his own penetration. Everyone was penetrating; everyone felt how just was the vengeance which the redhead was about to take, with his own hands, on the criminal. He had seized him by the arm. He pressed him to his heart and told him what he thought of him. A big fellow like that wanted to take his own revenge, but even those who held him back could not but admire him, this hero, who would do it all himself; they would do just the same in his place, they were doing it, they were in his place. They even accepted the hard kicks they were now inflicting on themselves.
The lift-attendant thought his dignity here better safeguarded. He gave up the woman, out of her mind with fear, and now laid on the shoulders of the raging man a fleshy but considerable hand. Neither too loud nor too low, he informed him that for twenty-six years no lift had gone up or down without him, for twenty-six years he had kept order in this place, and never before had such a thing happened, he gave his personal guarantee. His words were lost in the din. As the redhead didn't even notice, he leaned confidentially over his ear and explained-that he sympathized perfectly. For twenty-six years he had been the father of three himself. A fearful punch sent him reeling back to Thérèse. His cap rolled on the floor. He recognized that something must be done and went for the police. No one had had this idea yet. Those closest to the scene of action regarded themselves as the police, those further off hoped to advance to that stage. Two of them now took it on themselves to carry both the parcels of books to a place of safety. They used the trail blazed by die lift-attendant, and shouted out: 'Mind your backs !' on all sides. Those parcels ought to be handed in at the cloakroom before anyone stole them. On the way they decided to investigate the contents first. They vanished undisturbed. No other parcels were stolen, because there were no others.
Thanks to the lift-attendant, even the police — who had a sub-station in the Theresianum itself—smelt a riot. Since four principals were named by their informant, they set off for the scene of action, six strong. The lift-attendant had clearly described the place. But he lent them his help just the same, and led the way. The crowd jostled admiringly about the police. Their uniforms cover a multitude of actions, permitted to others only when the police are not there. People readily made room for them. Men who had fought hard for good places, gave way at once to uniforms. Less determined natures gave way too late, brushed against the sacred material and trembled with awe. Everybody pointed at Kien. He had tried to steal. He had stolen. Everyone had always known he was a thief. Thérèse was respectfully treated by the police. She was the victim. She had discovered the crime. She was evidendy married to the redhead as she hurled glances of loathing in his direction. Two policemen took up their stand on her right and on her left. As soon as they saw her blue skirt, their respect changed to smiling familiarity. The four others dragged Kien from the clutches of his red victim; without force they could hardly do it. The redhead clung with determination to the thief. For one reason or another this must be the thief's fault, for he was, after all, the criminal. The caretaker imagined he was being arrested. His terror grew. He bellowed to Kien for help. He was a retired policeman! Dear Professor! Don't let them arrest me! Let me go! My daughter! He lashed wildly about him. His strength exasperated the police. Still more, his assertion that he was one ofthem. A engthy struggle developed between them. All four policemen were careful to spare their own skins. If they didn't, where would they be in their profession? They hit out at the redhead from all directions and in every possible manner.
The onlookers divide into two parties. The hearts of one beat for the heroic redhead, of the others for the law. But not only their hearts. The men's fists itch, a shrill sound comes from the throats of the women; so as not to involve themselves with the police, all fall on Kien. He is beaten, battered, trampled on. His restricted surface area affords only restricted satisfaction. They unite therefore to wring him out like a wet rag. He knows he's in the wrong; that's clear from his saying nothing. Not a sound does he utter, his eyes are closed, nothing can open them.
Fischerle couldn't bear the sight any longer. Ever since the police appeared on the scene, he had been thinking incessantly of his employees, waiting for him outside. For a moment the money in Kien's pocket held him back. The idea of regaining it in the presence of six policemen intoxicated him. But he took care not to put it into action. He watched out for a favourable moment for escape. None came. All on edge, he watched Kien's tormentors. Whenever they touched the pocket into which he had stuffed the money, a sword went through his heart. This torture smote him to the ground. Blind with pain he saved himself by crawling between the nearest legs. The physical excitement of the inmost circle of spectators was to his advantage. Further afield, where no one knew of his existence, they began to notice him. As plaintively as possible, he screeched: 'Ow, I can't breathe, lemme out!' Everyone laughed and hastened to help him. Instead of the thrills of the lucky ones in the front rank, they were getting at least a bit of fun. Not one of the six policemen had spotted him; he was too low on the ground, his hump for once didn't register. Even in the street he was often held up without the slightest criminal pretext. To-day he was lucky. He slipped away unnoticed in the vast crowd round the Theresianum. For a whole quarter of an hour his employees would have been waiting for him. His armpits were intact.
The police remained calm in the face of Kien's executioners. They were fully occupied. Four of them struggled with the redhead; two flanked Thérèse. She must not be left alone. She had long since stopped screaming. But now she began again: 'Harder! Harder! Harder!' She beats time for the wringing out of that wet rag, Kien. Her guards try to quieten her. As long as her excitement continues in this abandoned way, they feel any interference on their part would be useless. Therese's encouragements are intended equally for the four bold spirits who are beating the rage out of the caretaker. She's had enough of it, letting him pinch her. She's had enough of it, letting him rob her. Her fear of the police gives way to feelings of pride. People in her position can do as they please. She gives orders here. That's right. She is a respectable woman. 'Harder! Harder! Harder!' Thérèse dances up and down, her skirt sways. A powerful rhythm seizes on the crowd. Some sway this way, some that, the zest of the movement increases. The noise swells to a unison, even non-participants are panting. Little by little laughter dies away. Business comes to a standstill. At the remotest counters in the building they pause, listening. Hands are cupped to ears, fingers lifted to lips, talking is prohibited. Anyone daring to offer an object for pawning would have been met with mute indignation. The Theresianum, always alive with action, is filled with a gigantic calm. One panting breath alone reveals that it still lives. Allliving creatures in its huge population draw in one single deep breath together, and together, ecstatic, breathe it out again.
Thanks to this general mood the police at length managed to restrain the caretaker. Two of them applied the come-along, a third watched his feet, which alternately struck out, or sought to manœuvre the Professor closer to him. The fourth restored order. The mob were still belabouring Kien, but there wasn't much pleasure in it now. He behaved neither like a human being nor like a corpse. The wringing process provoked not a sound from him. He might defend himself, cover his face, twist about or at least jerk; all sorts of things were expected of him but he was just disappointing. A type like this must have had a lot to answer for, but when you didn't know what it was, you couldn't take it out of him proper. Disgusted and glad to be rid of a wearisome task, they yielded him to the police. With great self-control they restrained themselves from turning their free fists on each other. Each looked at the others, and at the sight of his neighbour's suit, became clothed once more, and recognized in his fellow-combatants, colleagues and friends. Thérèse cried: 'There now!' What else could she order them to do. She would have liked to go, and squared head and elbows for the task. The policeman who had taken Kien in charge, was astonished at the placidity of this creature, with a row like this on his conscience. He had suffered most at the hands of the redhead, and consequently loathed his wife. She must come along too. Her two bodyguards joyfully took her in charge. They were shamed at their idleness, since the other four had risked their lives against the redhead. Thérèse came quiet, for they could do nothing to her. She would have come, anyway. She fully intended to do both men down at the police station.
Another policeman, noted for his excellent memory, counted the prisoners on his fingers, one, two, three. Where is the fourth? he asked the lift-attendant. The latter had watched the whole fight with an injured expression, and had just finished brushing his cap when all his enemies had been arrested. Now he thawed; he knew nothing about a fourth. The policeman with the memory asserted he had himself reported four combatants. The lift-attendant protested vehemently. He had kept order here for twenty-six years. He was the father of three. He supposed he could count as well as anyone. Other voices supported him. No one knew anything about a fourth. The fourth was an invention; the fourth was an invention of the thief's to mix the clues. That cunning dog knew why he was keeping his trap shut. Even the policeman with a memory was satisfied with this explanation. All six policemen had their hands full. The three prisoners were cautiously manoeuvred through what remained of the glass door and the crowd. Kien brushed against the only fragment of glass still remaining and cut his sleeve open. When they reached the police station, blood was trickling from it. The few remaining curious who had followed as far as this, contemplated it in amazement. This blood they found incredible. It was the first sign of life Kien had given.
Almost all the crowd had dispersed. Some of them had gone back behind their counters, others were offering goods with imploring or defiant countenances. But the officials unbent so far as to exchange, even with these poor devils, a word or two on the event. They accepted the opinions of people towards whom it was their highest duty to turn a deaf ear. As to the object of the crime, no united opinion was reached. Some said it was jewellery, or else what was all the fuss about? Books, said others, for it happened in the book section. More respectable gentlemen referred to the evening papers. Of the conflicting views, the majority leant towards money. The officials pointed out, more gently than usual, that people with so much money rarely came to the public pawnbroking establishment. But perhaps they were coming away after completing a transaction. This too had to be ruled out, for every official was sure he would have recognized them if he had dealt with them. Some still regretted the redheaded hero, most of them had forgotten him already. To prove their finer feelings, they were sorrier for his wife, even though she was no chicken. Not one of them would have married her. It had all been a waste of time, but pleasant while it lasted.