The Schirmer Inheritance

“Good. He’s been worrying in case you’d forget. Can’t wait to know about his namesake.”

“I brought along a copy of an old photograph of him as well.”

“You’ll get a medal.”

“What’s been decided?”

“I don’t know. We had a chat last night after you’d gone but-anyway, you talk to him about it. There we are! All tucked up now. I’ll take it quiet.”

They set off up the twisting, rock-strewn road to the ruined house and went through the same routine as before when they reached it. This time, however, as they stood waiting among the pine trees while Arthur warned the sentry of their approach, George and Miss Kolin had nothing to say to one another. Arthur returned and led them to the house.

The Sergeant greeted them in the hall, shaking hands with George and clicking heels to Miss Kolin. He smiled, but seemed secretly ill at ease as though doubtful of their goodwill. Miss Kolin, George was relieved to note, was her usual impassive self.

The Sergeant led them into the dining-room, poured out drinks, and eyed George’s briefcase.

“You have brought the papers?”

“Sure.” George opened the case.

“Ah!”

“And a photo of the Dragoon,” George added.

“This is true?”

“It’s all here.” George took out a folder which he had brought from Philadelphia. Inside it there was a photostat or photograph of every important document in the case. “The Corporal didn’t have time to read the interesting part when he searched my room,” he added with a grin.

“Touche,” said Arthur, unmoved.

The Sergeant sat down at the table, glass in hand, his eyes gleaming as if he were about to be served with some ambrosial meal. George began to lay the documents one by one in front of him, explaining as he did so the origin and importance of each. The Sergeant nodded understandingly at each explanation or turned to Miss Kolin for guidance; but George soon saw that there were only certain documents in which he was genuinely interested-those which directly concerned the first Franz Schirmer. Even a photograph of Martin Schneider, the soft-drinks potentate who had amassed the fortune which the Sergeant might inherit, produced no more than a polite exclamation. The photostats of Hans Schneider’s Account, on the other hand, the church-register entries relating to the marriage of Franz, and the record of the baptism of Karl, he studied minutely, reading the German aloud to himself. The copy photograph of old Franz he handled as if it were a holy relic. For a long time he stared at it without speaking; then he turned to Arthur.

“You see, Corporal?” he said quietly. “Am I not like him?”

“Take away the beard and he’s your spitting image,” Arthur agreed.

And, indeed, for one who knew of the relationship, there was a strong resemblance between the two Schirmers. There was the same heavy strength in the two faces, the same determination in the two mouths, the same erectness; while the big hands grasping the arms of the chair in the daguerreotype and those grasping the photographic copy of it might, George thought, have belonged to the selfsame man.

There was a rap on the door and the sentry put his head in. He beckoned to Arthur.

Arthur sighed impatiently. “I’d better see what he wants,” he said, and went out, shutting the door behind him.

The Sergeant took no notice. He was smiling now over Hans Schneider’s account of Eylau and the photostat of a page of the Dragoon’s war diary, the one recording Franz Schirmer’s desertion, which George had placed beside it. That old act of desertion seemed to give him special pleasure. From time to time he would glance at the old man’s photograph again. George supposed that the Sergeant’s own failure to return to Germany when an opportunity presented itself (he could have taken advantage of one of the amnesties) had been a kind of desertion. Perhaps, what the Sergeant was enjoying now was the reassuring intimation from the past that, contrary to the beliefs of his childhood, sinners were not obliged to dwell with devils always, and that outlaws and deserters, no less than fairy princes, might live happily ever after.

“Have you decided yet what you’re going to do?” George asked.

The Sergeant looked up and nodded. “Yes. I think so, Mr. Carey. But first I would like to ask you some questions.”

“I’ll do my best to…” he began.

But he never learned what the Sergeant’s questions were. At that moment the door was flung open and Arthur came back into the room.

He slammed the door behind him, walked over to the table, and looked grimly at George and Miss Kolin. His face was pinched and grey with anger. Suddenly he threw two small, bright yellow tubes down on the table in front of them.

“All right,” he said. “Which of you is it? Or is it both of you?”

The tubes were about an inch and a half long and half an inch thick. They looked as if they had been cut from bamboo and then coloured. The three round the table stared at them, then up at Arthur again.

“What is this?” snapped the Sergeant.