Dr. Mabuse, master of mystery a novel
Wenk took up the speaking-tube: “Chauffeur, you know where it is?
Nicholas Lake, the Komorek Villa.”
At this moment the car swung round, and lights appeared at the end of a
long avenue.
“Here we are!” said the superintendent of police.
The motor soon drew up among other cars, all close together in front of
the outside staircase leading to the house. It was not lighted, but the
three French windows in the hall on to which it opened gave sufficient
light. Wenk advanced rapidly to the light. Vörös conducted him to the
cloakroom, which was filled with overcoats. A clock in the hall struck
ten; its strokes were harsh and hasty, as if it would flog the hours
away. Wenk, trying to count them, could not keep up with it.
“Ten o’clock,” he said to himself. “We’ve been an hour coming, and
yet the car seemed to be doing about forty-five kilometres an hour.
Nicholas Lake is not so far away as all that!” and again a faint
misgiving stole over him.
He looked towards the Hungarian, who was smiling pleasantly at him.
Then they went towards the large folding doors.
“Allow me to precede you, so that I may introduce you to the Princess
at once.”
A man-servant threw open the door and Wenk followed the police
superintendent into a fairly large hall. The first thing he noticed
was that the light was very subdued; then he saw that in one corner
there was a semicircular raised platform, draped with Persian hangings.
Some chairs and a table, covered with a dark cloth, stood upon it. In
the rows of chairs which filled the room, folks in evening dress were
sitting. There were many fewer ladies than gentlemen, and those there
were, were dressed in very fashionable and striking attire.
Then Vörös murmured, “The Princess!” and presented Wenk.
“Is this the friend you spoke of?” said the lady, with a winning smile.
“You are very welcome, Herr von Wenk. We are pleased that you are able
to give us your company this evening. May I pass you gentlemen on to my
husband? A hostess’s duties, you know, my dear sir!...”
The lady stepped a little nearer to one of the electric lights, which
were all covered with silk shades of a strong deep colour. Then Wenk
saw that his hostess, whom he had taken for quite young, was very much
made up and thickly powdered. Her dress was extremely glaring, and Wenk
was startled by her general appearance as, with an extremely friendly
smile, she inclined her head towards the man advancing, saying, “My
husband,” and left them.
“Good evening, Prince,” said the police superintendent to a man who
bowed to Wenk in what the latter considered a slightly affected way;
and as his host raised his head again, Wenk looked into a swarthy face
with a black moustache, strongly resembling one of those seen in the
collection of criminals’ likenesses he had been studying earlier in the
day. The lady of the house was not in sight.
The Prince, who in appearance was somewhat common, possessed the most
finished manners. He had, moreover, the very rare gift of conversing
without saying anything, for all the subjects of conversation seemed,
as it were, extraneous to him. He accepted any subject offered him,
apparently only to give form to the matter in hand, but made no
contribution of his own.
“That manner of his shows breeding,” thought Wenk. “He is only
moderately gifted, but he has such a desire for form that even the
most trivial matter must be expressed ‘just so’! But what a curious
appearance he has!”
The Prince led him to the first row of chairs, and the company were
begged to take their seats. Wenk did not see Weltmann among them, for
he would, of course, have been noticeable at once, through having lost
his hand.
Wenk sat on his hostess’s left, with the Hungarian police
superintendent close at hand. The rich hangings on the little stage
swayed lightly, and a tall, broad-shouldered man, with rather bowed
shoulders, came forward. He was well and fashionably dressed, but in
contrast to the other guests, who were all in evening clothes, he
wore a dark grey woollen street-suit. It was at once evident that the
hand covered with a dark grey glove was an artificial one. “He is a
Hungarian, that’s quite certain,” thought Wenk, “in spite of his German
name.”
Weltmann had a thick black moustache with drooping ends. His eyebrows
rose suddenly, making a high arch over his eyes. His black hair was
combed right back and plastered smooth. The few words he spoke were
simple and somewhat rough.
He said that the gifts he was about to display before the Prince and
Princess and their guests were matters of fact, and he thought that the
guests would prefer facts rather than an attempt to explain in words
what would probably never be explainable. He would first offer himself
as subject, and ask someone to name a lady and a gentleman in the
company. Perhaps the Princess would name one.
Then the Princess said, “As the gentleman you want, I should like to
name my neighbour, Herr von Wenk!”
“And the lady? Perhaps the Prince would name the lady?”
The Prince answered at once, “Then I shall name my wife.”
Weltmann seated himself, laying his artificial hand upon his knee in a
way which everyone noticed. The other hand he kept in his coat-pocket.
After a pause, in which he had collected his thoughts, he said,
“Princess, have I ever had your watch in my hand--the little watch you
carry in your hand-bag?”
“I don’t believe you ever have!” answered the Princess.
“The number of that watch is 56403. It is an oval-shaped _dernier-cri_
design!”
The Princess drew out her watch, opened it, read the number, and
nodded. She showed it to both her neighbours, and said eagerly, “That’s
quite right!”
“Please to think of a colour and write it down upon a piece of paper,
and show it to your neighbours.”
The Princess considered a while. Then she wrote down, “The amethyst
colour of Herr von Wenk’s ring,” and handed the piece of paper to Wenk.
Weltmann thought for some time, then he said hesitatingly: “It is a
colour in your immediate neighbourhood, but it is rather indefinite. It
is transparent, so it is probably that of a jewel. I cannot say exactly
what two colours it is made up of, but there is violet in it.”
“Lift your ring up to the light, Herr von Wenk,” said the Princess,
and all could see that a deep violet was mingled with a transparent
bluish-white.
“Which gentleman did the Princess name?” asked Weltmann.
“My neighbour, Herr von Wenk,” she replied.
“You, sir,” went on Weltmann rapidly, as Wenk nodded slightly, “have
your pocket-book in your right-hand breast-pocket. In it there are two
notes for one thousand marks each; one is dated 1918, Series D, No.
65045, and the other Series E, No. 5567. Shall I go on, or will you see
first whether this is correct?”
Wenk felt his pocket laughingly.
“No,” said Weltmann, “I meant the right-hand pocket, not the left.
In the left you have your Browning pistol, stamped with the Serraing
trade-mark, No. 201564.”
Wenk looked in amazement at Weltmann, for it was quite true. His
Browning _was_ in his left-hand pocket, and it was one of the Serraing
make. From all sides folks gazed at him, and the Princess leant towards
him, so that he could distinguish the scent of the powder she used.
“Well, what do you think of that, Herr von Wenk?”
The entertainer smiled down at him, saying, “You need not mind showing
the revolver, for in another compartment of your pocket-book you have
the permit which allows you to carry firearms. It was renewed in Munich
on January 1, 1921, and its number is 5. You must have been in a hurry
to get your weapon authorized.”
“Was he dreaming, and was this singular man sneering at him?” thought
Wenk. He brought it out, and everything was just as stated.
“Enough of that sort of thing,” said Weltmann. “Now, if you will allow
me, we will have some examples of transference of will. I should like
one of the gentlemen to come up here.”
Someone stepped on to the stage.
“Do you know this gentleman, Princess?”
“Yes, it is Baron Prewitz!”
“Is the Baron’s being known to the Princess sufficient for the company
to rule out the idea of any private understanding between him and
myself?”
There were cries of “Certainly!”
Meanwhile Weltmann was writing on a table something which it was
impossible for the Baron to read. Then he threw the small writing-block
down to the company below. He looked at Prewitz, quite quietly, for a
short time. Then Prewitz, with stealthy movements, left the platform
and went slowly and cautiously from chair to chair, looking everyone in
the face. Weltmann called out, “I should like four ladies or gentlemen
to come up here quickly. Be quick, please!”
Several started up. Three gentlemen and one lady remained on the
platform, the others returning to their seats. Weltmann placed them
round the table, pointing at a pack of cards lying there.
“Are this lady and these gentlemen known to the company?”
The Princess nodded, and there was a chorus of “Yes!” Meanwhile Prewitz
was advancing towards Wenk. Again Weltmann wrote for some time upon a
memorandum, casting from time to time his glance upon the four sitting
at the table. Suddenly one of them said, “Shall it be vingt-et-un or
poker?” Weltmann went on writing.
They decided upon vingt-et-un, and at once began to play.
“We want one more,” said the lady.
“I am just coming, dear lady,” said Weltmann. “You take the bank!”
By this time Prewitz had come to Wenk. He looked at him steadfastly for
a while, then suddenly seized his left breast-pocket and drew out the
revolver, placing himself at Wenk’s side, the weapon in his hand.
Weltmann said from the stage, “That is because you are so incautious as
to carry a loaded revolver in your pocket! Please”--he turned to the
audience--“be so good as to read what I have written there!”
Someone read out: “The Baron is to go along the first row, chair by
chair, and where he finds someone with a loaded revolver in his pocket,
he is to take it out and sit beside him with it.”
They all clapped their hands, a proceeding which Weltmann, by a brief
gesture, stopped. He left off writing, handed the block down to the
Princess, and sat down with the card-players.
“Page one!” he said to his hostess. She read it to herself, then handed
it to her right-hand neighbour and looked anxiously towards the stage,
where the following incidents were taking place. Weltmann won game
after game. Sometimes he looked away from the table, and then it seemed
to Wenk as if he were beckoning him to come up. Wenk knew it must be a
delusion, due to some effect of the light striking Weltmann’s eye, but
none the less he felt uneasy. The idea occurred to him to yield, and go
up so that he might face this man at close quarters and make sure that
those lightning glances had no reference to him. “Yet that would be
very foolish!” he said to himself, striving to get rid of the impulse.
Suddenly, without a single word having been spoken, one of the players
leaned back, saying in a clear ringing voice, as if speaking aloud in a
dream, “What have I just done? I had twenty-one, and then someone spoke
with my voice, and said, ‘I have lost again.’”
He seized the cards he had thrown aside, and showed an ace, a knave and
a ten.
“Too late!” said Weltmann, who was holding the bank. Wenk put his hands
to his head. He had already lived through such a scene once before.
When was it, where, and to whom did it occur? He cudgelled his brains
to remember. The image of it stood out distinctly, but it stood apart
from any suggestion of the time and place and person.
From the recesses of his mind a form seemed to emerge simultaneously
with his groping efforts to recover the recollections he sought. A