The Berlin Stories Read Online Free PDF

to turn. His grip on my arm tightened, either for support or merely to implore me to keep quiet.
    “Mr. Norris will not be back until late this evening.” The young man’s voice was no longer apologetic, but firm. “It’s no good your waiting.”
    He seemed to have shifted his position and to be just outside, perhaps barring the way into the sitting-room. And, the next moment, the sitting-room door was quietly shut, with a click of a key being turned. We were locked in.
    “He’s in there!” shouted the strange voice, loud and mena’cing. There was a scuffling, followed by a heavy thud, as if the young man had been flung violently against the door. The thud roused Mr. Norris to action. With a single, surprisingly agile movement, he dragged me after him into the adjoining room. We stood there together in the doorway, ready, at any moment, for a further retreat. I could hear him panting heavily at my side.
    Meanwhile, the stranger was rattling the sitting-room door as if he meant to burst it open: “You damned swindler!” he shouted, in a terrible voice. “You wait till I get my hands on you!”
    It was all so very extraordinary that I quite forgot to feel frightened, although it might well be supposed that the person on the other side of the door was either raving drunk or insane. I cast a questioning glance at Mr. Norris, who whispered reassuringly: “He’ll go away in a minute, I think.” The curious thing was that, although scared, he didn’t seem at all surprised by what was taking place. It might have been imagined, from his tone, that he was referring to an unpleasant but frequently recurring natural phenomenon; a violent thunder-storm, for instance. His blue eyes were warily, uneasily alert. His hand rested on the door handle, prepared to slam it shut at an instant’s notice.
    But Mr. Norris had been right. The stranger soon got tired of rattling the sitting-room door. With an explosion of Berlin curses, his voice retreated. A moment later, we heard the outside door of the flat close with a tremendous bang.
    Mr. Norris drew a long breath of relief. “I knew it couldn’t last long,” he remarked with satisfaction. Abstractedly pulling an envelope out of his pocket, he began fanning himself with it. “So upsetting,” he murmured. “Some people seem to be utterly lacking in consideration… My dear boy, I really must apologise for this disturbance. Quite unforeseen, I assure you.”
    I laughed. “That’s all right. It was rather exciting.”
    Mr. Norris seemed pleased. “I’m very glad you take it so lightly. It’s so rare to find anyone of your age who’s free from these ridiculous bourgeois prejudices. I feel that we have a great deal in common.”
    “Yes, I think we have,” I said, without, however, being quite clear as to which particular prejudices he found ridiculous or how they applied to the angry visitor.
    “In the course of my long and not uneventful life, I can truthfully say that for sheer stupidity and obstructiveness, I have never met anyone to equal the small Berlin tradesman. I’m not speaking, now, mind you, of the larger firms. They’re always reasonable: more or less…”
    He was evidently in a confidential mood and might have imparted a good deal of interesting information, had not the sitting-room door now been unlocked and the young man with the large head reappeared on the threshold. The sight of him seemed to disconnect instantly the thread of Mr. Norris’ ideas. His manner became at once apologetic, apprehensive and vague, as though he and I had been caught doing something socially ridiculous which could only be passed off by an elaborate display of etiquette.
    “Allow me to introduce: Herr Schmidt—Mr. Bradshaw. Herr Schmidt is my secretary and my right hand. Only, in this case,” Mr. Norris tittered nervously, “I can assure you that the right hand knows perfectly well what the left hand doeth.”
    With several small nervous coughs he attempted to translate