"Go back to your pump, Jupp, you damned son of the twentieth century."
Grumbling, Lenz vanished into the office again—to give to his advertisement just so much technical detail as was compatible with the preservation of its poetic swing.
A few minutes later Inspector Barsig appeared in the door of the courtyard.
We received him with great deference.
He was engineer and surveyor for the Phoenix Motor Insurance Company—an important man for getting a line on repair jobs.
We stood well with him.
As engineer he was keen as the devil and let nothing pass, but as collector of butterflies he was as soft as butter.
He had a large collection and we had once given him a big moth that flew into our workshop one night.
When we presented him with the thing he turned quite pale with excitement.
It was a death's-head, of extreme rarity apparently, that was still wanting from his collection.
He had never forgotten that, and ever since had seen to it that we got our fair share of any jobs that were going.
In exchange we caught for him every moth we could lay hands on.
"A vermouth, Herr Barsig?" asked Lenz politely, who had come to the surface once more. "No alcohol before sundown," replied Barsig. "A fixed rule with me."
"Rules have to be broken, or the observance gives no pleasure," explained Lenz, filling a glass. "To the future of the privet hawk moth, the peacock butterfly, and the fritillaries!"
Barsig wavered a moment.
"Put it that way and I can't say no," said he, taking the glass. "But in that case we must drink also to the small ox-eye." He smiled in an embarrassed way.
"You'll be pleased to hear I've discovered a new variety. With pectinate antennae."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Lenz. "Hats off!
So now you are a pioneer and will be in all the histories!"
We drank another to the pectinate antennae.
Barsig wiped his moustache.
"I have good news for you, too.
Come round and fetch the Ford.
The management has agreed you can have the repairs."
"Fine," said Koster. "We can do with it.
And what about the estimate?"
"Approved too."
"No cuts?"
Barsig closed one eye.
"They were inclined to be difficult at first. But in the end . . ."
"A glass to the Phoenix Insurance," said Lenz and poured out another round.
Barsig rose to go.
"It's a queer business," said he as he was leaving. "You remember the woman who was in the Ford? She died a couple of days ago.
Very slight injuries, only cuts.
Loss of blood apparently."
"How old was she?" asked Koster.
"Thirty-four," replied Barsig; "four months gone.
Insured for twenty thousand marks!"
We set off at once to fetch the car, which belonged to a master baker.
The chap had been half drunk and had run into a wall in the dark.
Only his wife was injured; he didn't get so much as a scratch.
He looked in at the garage while we were making the car ready to take it away.
Fat shoulders and bull neck, head bent forward slightly, sagging, he stood watching us for some time without saying a word.
What with the unhealthy, pallid grey face that bakers have, in the gloom he looked like a great melancholy weevil.
He came forward slowly.
"When will it be done?" he asked.
"In about three weeks," replied Koster.
The fellow pointed to the hood.
"That's thrown in, of course?"
"I don't follow you," said Otto. "It's not damaged that I can see."