The master baker made a gesture of impatience.
"I didn't say it was.
What I mean is, I want a new hood.
I take it this is a good cop for you?
We understand one another, I suppose?"
"Not in the least," replied Koster.
He understood only too well.
The chap wanted to get a new hood, for which the insurance company was not liable, out of us.
We argued the toss for some time, but the fellow threatened to cancel the job and get an estimate from some more obliging firm.
Finally Koster gave in.
He would not have, had we not been in sore need of the job.
"You see, so why not at the beginning?" said the baker with a cunning smile. "I'll look round in a few days' time to choose the material.
Beige, I think. Soft colour."
We drove off.
When we were outside, Lenz pointed to the seat of the Ford.
There were large black stains on it.
"The blood of his wife.
And he swindles a new hood out of it!
'Beige,' by God! 'Soft colour!' Hats off!
I wouldn't put it past him to have claimed insurance for two.
Didn't Barsig say the woman was pregnant?"
Koster shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose he would say business is business, and the one thing has nothing to do with the other."
"Maybe," said Lenz, "but, you know, there are people who can draw real comfort out of misfortune.
Anyway, it's going to cost us fifty marks off our takings."
In the afternoon I made a pretext to go home.
I had an appointment around five o'clock with Patricia Hollmann, but I said nothing about that at the workshop.
Not that I wanted to conceal it; but it struck me all at once as rather unlikely.
She had given me as the meeting place a certain cafe.
I did not know it; I only knew it was a small, elegant affair.
Unsuspecting I went in. But I started back in horror as I entered.
The room was full to overflowing with jabbering women.
I had landed into a typical dames' teashop.
With some difficulty I succeeded in snaffling a table which had just been vacated.
Uncomfortably I glanced around.
Besides myself there were only two other men there, and I did not like the look of them.
"Coffee, tea or chocolate?" asked the waiter, whisking several cake crumbs off the table onto my suit with his serviette.
"A large cognac," I replied.
He brought it.
But he brought with him at the same time a bevy of coffee drinkers in search of a place, headed by a female athlete of uncertain age wearing a woeful-looking hat.
"Four? This way, please," said he, and indicated my table.
"One moment—" I answered. "This table is taken.
I'm waiting for someone."
"Not allowed, sir," said the waiter. "No seats can be reserved at this hour."
I looked at him.
Then I looked at the athlete, now standing close by the table and clutching the arm of a chair.
I saw her face and gave up at once all thought of further resistance.
Not with a set of howitzers would one have deterred this person in her determination to take possession of the table.
"Anyway you can bring me another cognac, eh?" I growled at the waiter.
"Very well, sir.