Dr. Mabuse, master of mystery a novel

DR. MABUSE DR. MABUSE MASTER OF MYSTERY _A NOVEL_ BY NORBERT JACQUES AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY LILIAN A. CLARE

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LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD. RUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1. _First published in 1923_ (_All rights reserved_) _Printed in Great Britain by_ UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, LONDON AND WOKING TRANSLATOR’S NOTE Since there is no actual equivalent of the position of “Staatsanwalt” it is almost impossible to find an English rendering that conveys its full meaning. In part the duties assimilate those of the Public Prosecutor, but in England we can hardly conceive of an official of high judicial status personally identifying himself with his cases to the extent of disguising himself and playing the part of a detective. Wenk’s position appears to combine some of the offices which would here be delegated to various individuals acting more or less independently as subordinates to a higher and single authority. He was a barrister and an LL.D., and a person of some influence, however, as his threat to the governor of the women’s prison, and his treatment of the night editor prove. In accordance with modern German usage I have adhered to the original in dropping the “von,” when intimates of the same social class are speaking to or of each other, maintaining it in the more formal intercourse and the reports tendered by social inferiors. Readers should note that in the currency now prevailing, the amounts staked by Hull and his friends would be tens of thousands, and his total losses would run into many millions. DR. MABUSE I The distinguished-looking elderly gentleman introduced himself and, as usual, nobody caught the name. He wore a suit of fashionable and well-cut clothes, however, and his scarf-pin was a single white pearl in a somewhat quaint setting, its dazzling purity recalling the whiteness of a lovely blonde’s shoulders, as Karstens remarked. Moreover, he at once placed a sum of twenty thousand marks upon the table in front of him. He had been brought to the club by young Hull, the heir to an industrial concern worth millions, into which his father allowed him to dip freely. Play was started immediately, and the stranger courteously agreed to the game proposed, which was vingt-et-un. The stakes were unlimited, and the first one to hold the bank was Ritter. At first there was nothing unusual about the game. Gains and losses alternated, but soon it was noticed that Hull was losing, and this began just at the time when it was the elderly gentleman’s turn to play banker. At the start it was hundred-mark notes that Hull lost, but he played on calmly, resigned to his ill-luck. Notes of smaller value were now mingled with the piles of thousands the visitor had put in front of him. It was only outwardly, however, that Hull appeared undisturbed. He felt a good deal of excitement within, and a veil seemed to be obscuring his mental vision. His bank-notes fluttered across to the stranger without his appearing aware of the fact. His senses seemed to be imprisoned in a delicate, invisible web, pressing ever more and more closely upon him. He drank a brandy and soda, and then ordered a bottle of champagne. The only effect of that was to make him open another compartment of his pocket-book and bring out the thousand-mark notes which he had procured from the bank that morning. His bad luck became really fantastic. Even when he held good cards it seemed as if in some obscure region of his mind a mysterious warning sealed his lips, and instead of staking a substantial sum, he wagered a trifling amount merely. It was now the visitor’s turn to pass on the office of banker, but he volunteered to continue to hold it on account of Hull. He said: “If you gentlemen do not object, I will remain banker for a few more rounds. You see how the money seems to cling to me. I am the guest of your hospitable club, so please consider how difficult my position is with regard to Herr von Hull, and grant my request.” His speech was polite, and carefully enunciated, yet there was a masterful ring about the words, as if the speaker would brook no refusal. The club attendant eyed the guest suspiciously, but he was using the cards provided by the club and fresh packs were opened every time. The play grew more animated. A good deal had been drunk, and several round the table were slightly intoxicated. The guest did not refrain from drinking, and his behaviour was in no way peculiar. He had a steady and lingering glance for everyone who looked at him, and his large grey eyes seemed to have something dominating about them, hardly in accordance with a mere game. His hands were large and fleshy, and as steady as if carved out of wood, while the fingers of the other men, far younger than he, were already quivering with excitement. Hull continued playing, though his pocket-book grew lighter and lighter. “What is the matter with me?” he continually asked himself. He wanted to rise from the table and miss a round, so that he could get a mouthful of fresh air at the window and gain a little calm from looking into the silent night. But he sat as if glued to his chair, pressing his elbows down on the crimson cloth, and his thoughts escaped his control, falling into a void like that of deep slumber. And yet he was not really a reckless player. He was accustomed to reflect and to follow the run of luck, making use of chances that were favourable to him, and reducing his stakes when he saw that the odds were against him. This evening, however, he seemed to know no bounds. No amount seemed of any value in his eyes, and it appeared as if he were almost glad to lose, and saw his notes change hands with a kind of satisfaction. Something would be sure to happen ere long. The players seemed far too slow in dealing, he thought; they took an endless time in declaring their stakes, and the notes crawled round the table at a snail’s pace. He drank freely, moreover, and the fancies which he could no longer control were like fiery steeds escaping the driver’s restraining hand and running away into a trackless wilderness. The very air seemed to have been exhausted, and nothing existed for him but the game. Folks began to discuss his bad luck. He certainly drew unlucky cards, but he was playing his hand badly, and taking unreasonable risks. His friends wanted to restrict the stakes and talk of the final round. At first Hull did not take in what they were saying, and they had to explain their words; then he drew himself up and became furiously angry, shouting in his wrath and beating his fist on the table. Then the stranger’s big eyes seemed to withdraw a little from him and the rest; their glance appeared to be directed inward and some of their lustre vanished. He laid down his cards and put his money into his pocket, doing it carelessly, however, as if it were merely a handkerchief. There was one more round to finish. Hull called out, “I’ll play the bank,” and the stranger dealt him the cards. He glanced at them quickly. His total was twenty-one.... Then something happened, something strange and inexplicable. He threw his cards face downwards upon the heap, saying, “I have lost again.” The guest immediately showed _his_ cards. His eyes regained their glitter, he counted his points, named the total, and threw his cards down on the table. It seemed to Hull as if he were falling from an unsteady foothold down into an abyss below. “What have I been doing?” he asked himself in stupefaction and despair. Now at last he began to see everything as clearly as if he had just come into the room: the three glowing electric globes under their protecting dome, the red-covered, lighted table, his friends, the elderly stranger, the scattered cards and the piles of notes. “Where have I been? What have I been doing?” he stammered. His brain grew alert again, and the thoughts that had been so confused and obscure now became suddenly clear: it was as if he had drawn aside the curtains and let in the light of day. Then he felt a sudden distrust of himself, which made him uneasy. He held his head in his hands awhile, striving to free it from the weight that seemed to encircle it, and then raising himself erect, he said, “What have I been doing? I held twenty-one in my hand, and then someone called out, in my voice, ‘I have lost again.’ Look there!” He snatched the cards he had thrown away from the heap where they lay, and turned them over. They were an ace, a ten, and a knave--twenty-one! The elderly stranger’s large grey eyes contracted until the pupils were quite small and seemed to be gazing at a far-distant spot. A shudder went through his body; it was perceptible, though hastily subdued. Then his breast expanded and his breath came slowly and with difficulty, as if he were having to pump the air direct into himself. “Too late!” said he, briefly and decisively. Hull made a slight gesture. “My remark had nothing to do with you,” he said quietly; “it concerned myself only. How much do I owe you?” he asked in a friendly tone. “Thirty thousand marks!” Hull emptied his pocket-book. “You must content yourself till to-morrow afternoon with ten thousand and, of course, an I O U for the rest. Will you be so good as to write the amount and your address in this notebook?” When Hull got his little notebook back, he read in it: BALLING, ROOM 15, EXCELSIOR HOTEL. He passed over his I O U, smiling pleasantly as he did so. “I am ready to give you your revenge, Herr von Hull,” said Balling, as he rose. “Gentlemen, may I offer you my thanks for the evening’s hospitality? Good-night!” He said this almost abruptly, but in so decisive a tone that it brought the others to their feet. Karstens offered him his car. “No, thank you; my own is waiting for me.” He walked away somewhat stiffly, as though tired out, and vouchsafed no further farewell of any sort. The club attendant conducted him to the outer door. “Hull, you are off your head,” said Karstens, when the stranger had left the room. “What did really happen?” asked Hull quietly. “Ask your purse!” “My pocket-book is empty. Who won all my money?” “Your friend there,” said Karstens, pointing to the door. “My friend! I never set eyes on him before! How did he get here?” “Hull, you certainly are needing the services of a good physician. Emil, bring the telephone directory.” Karstens turned over the leaves. “Here we are: Dr. Schramm, Psychopathological treatment, 35, Ludwigstrasse....” “I don’t understand your joke, my dear Karstens.” “Well, who brought this fine vingt-et-un player here but you?” “That is not true, Karstens.” “Go to No. 35, Ludwigstrasse, my dear fellow, and quickly too.” “Of course it was you who brought him, Hull,” said another. “_I?_ _I_ brought him? At any rate, I don’t remember a thing about it, but it may be so.” Hull then withdrew, exhausted and stupefied, brooding over the problem which had so strangely and suddenly opened up before him that evening. When he awoke, towards morning, he had a dim and fleeting remembrance, and he seemed to recall the stranger sitting at the same table with him in the Café Bastin. He had an idea that they had been talking together, and that it was about the theatre, but what they had said, and which theatre it was about, he had not the slightest idea. In the dim recesses of his mind he recalled merely the sensation of a dazzling reflector that seemed to throw its beams upon him during the conversation. Sleep was no longer possible, but, try as he would to pierce these elusive fragments of memory and penetrate to the reality