“No, no, Frau Rosenthal is not at home. But maybe one of the junior Persickes would take the trouble to look in the bathroom. Your father appears to have been taken ill. At any rate, he seems to be trying to hang himself with a towel there. I was unable to persuade him to desist…”

The judge smiles, but the two elder Persicke boys storm out of the room so fast that the effect is rather comical. Young Persicke has turned pale and quite sober. The old gentleman who has just set foot in the room and is speaking with such irony is a man whose superiority Baldur effortlessly senses. It’s not a seeming, jumped-up superiority, it’s the real thing. Baldur Persicke says almost beseechingly, “Please understand, your honor, father is, to put it bluntly, very drunk. The capitulation of France…”

“I understand, I quite understand,” says the old judge, and makes a little deprecating gesture. “We are all human, only we don’t all try to hang ourselves when we’re in our cups.” He stops for a moment and smiles. He says, “Of course he said all sorts of things, too, but who pays any attention to the babble of a drunkard!” Again he smiles.

“Your honor!” Baldur Persicke says imploringly. “I beg you, take this matter in hand! You’ve been a judge, you know what steps to take…”

“No. No,” says the judge firmly. “I am old and infirm.” He doesn’t look it. Quite the opposite, he looks in flourishing health. “And then I live a very quiet, retired life, I have very little contact with the world outside. But you, Herr Persicke, you and your family, it’s you who took the two burglars by surprise. You must hand them over to the police and secure the property in the apartment. I have taken a cursory look. There are seventeen suitcases and twenty-one boxes here. And more. And more…”

He speaks more and more slowly. Then he says casually, “I imagine that the apprehension of the two burglars will bring substantial fame and honor to you and your family.”

The judge stops. Baldur stands there, looking very thoughtful. That’s another way of doing it—what a wily old fox that Fromm is! He must see through everything; certainly his father will have blabbed, but this man’s retired, he wants his peace and quiet, he doesn’t want to get involved in a business like this. There’s no danger from him. What about Quangel, the old foreman? He’s never bothered himself about anyone in the house, never greeted anyone, never chatted to anyone. Quangel is a real old workingman, scrawny, wizened, not a single independent thought in his head. He won’t make any needless trouble.