Part 11

“There are no such men outside, but within us there are!” answered the Countess, carried away by the vehemence of that passionate storm of feeling which had so lately broken over her. How contemptible it was of her, she thought, to have desired to outwit a human being. She felt mean in her own estimation, and casting all projects and promises to the winds, she began to glow in the presence of this strange personality like the spark of an electric current. “Yes, they are to be found in us!” she repeated.

“He! he! the conqueror!” sang Cara, with a sound of passion in her tone, and in the Countess’s heart, too, there sprang up, like a marble image, the form of the man she had met a few evenings before. On her heart this image was sculptured, and she allowed its impress to recur again and again and remain there.

“Do you love him?” she asked the dancer.

But the other answered, as if brushing away an unconsidered trifle, “I ... love? I _adore_ him!”

“I do not love him!” hastily asseverated the Countess, pursuing the mental image she had conjured up. “But yet he is great, superhuman. He is a world in himself. In the midst of this tame and quiet existence he is as a jungle and primeval forest. It seems to me as if he must have both the tiger and the serpent within him, as well as all that is boldest in Nature, its gigantic trees, its wild and impenetrable forests. Do you know, one can creep within them, never coming to an end, and yet be in him!”

She broke off suddenly. She dared not put into words the fancies evoked within her. For the husband whose eccentricities she tolerated was no more to her than a brother--nay, a father. They were bound together by one voluptuous hour of which no human being knew or even suspected. It was such an hour as that in which two human personalities melted into one to create a new being that later on might emerge and begin a life bound by invisible ties to that mysterious hour. The threads might be torn from their place, snapped, distorted, yet they remained entwined. No other desire now possessed her than to yield her senses once more unrestrainedly to that consciousness of the depths of her being which enfolded her as in a dream, and which she nevertheless continually thrust aside.

The two women sat close together, the Countess on the ground. Both seemed alike to be struck down by an invisible and imperious fist, striking at these centres of abandonment and yearning and self-betrayal. After the hasty and intimate avowals forced from them, the shadow of silence fell upon them.

“Say something!” pleaded the Countess timidly.

“Be silent, or I shall strangle you ... with my own hands!” cried the dancer.

The Countess shrank back, feeling herself, beside the other, to resemble a hare in the claws of a mighty and powerful bird of prey.

Food was pushed into the cell, but neither of the women perceived it. It grew dark, and the dancer lay down, fully dressed, upon one of the plank beds. The Countess imitated her and stretched herself on the other straw pallet. The night passed by, and in the long sleepless hours their fancies flowed into a dark and turgid stream.

Suddenly in the gloom Cara’s voice was heard: “Are you asleep?”

“No.”

“Why are you here?”

The Countess had not the courage to repeat her tissue of lies, and she remained silent. Cara, too, kept silent for a while, then she said suddenly:

“You were sent here to pump me! Have I told you anything?”

“Yes.”

“About _him_?”

“Yes.”

“Did I tell you his name?”

“No.”

“That’s all right then, otherwise you would never leave this place alive. But if you are lying, and I had told it you, I tell you now, he _has_ no name. He is a thousand men, a whole nation, a part of the universe!”

“Just like the man I have been thinking of,” reflected the Countess, but an instant later she did not know whether she had not spoken her thought aloud.

“When are you going away again?”

“When you want me to.”

“Then go at once, and tell everything I have told you!”

“No,” answered the Countess resolutely.

“Why don’t you, when that is what you came here for?”

“Things are different now.”

“Nothing is different,” asserted the dancer vehemently. “Everything is as it was and will ever be. He is out there, free as the air; I am here like a carcass rotting on the ground. Tell everything you know.”

“I shall say nothing!”

“Why not, you--you cursed hussy!” she shrieked.

“Because you love him so!”

Then the dancer grew calm again, but a few moments later she burst into tears and sobbed wildly and unrestrainedly.

The Countess lay still on her pallet. She felt as if a naked soul with claws, whence the skin and tissues had been withdrawn, were clutching at her heart and holding it within its grasp. She felt her own blood shudder and leap up beneath the claws and mingle with that of the other. This naked soul that clutched at her was her sister. She was akin in blood to the criminal yonder, but neither of the women knew that he who had thus caused their hearts to beat in unison during this night in prison was one and the same mysterious being.

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?”