‘Bring me the cellar key, Otto.’

Otto ran off.

‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed Erich.

‘Come,’ said his father.

They had reached the house. Not to go upstairs, however, but down into the cellar.

‘And here you stay till you come to your senses,’ said the father, opening the cellar door. ‘I give you my word I won’t let you out till you knuckle under.’

‘Here?’ demanded Erich incredulously, looking into the dark cellar. ‘You’re going to lock me up in here?’

‘You’ll stay here till you’ve come to your senses.’

‘You can’t, you mustn’t!’

‘Oh yes, I can. Give me the key, Otto. Go in, Erich! Or will you obey me and work in the stables?’

‘Father!’ The son held onto the door jamb. ‘Listen, for God’s sake! You give way for once. Perhaps I’ve been a bit silly. I promise I’ll change …’

‘Good! Change by going into the stables, then.’

‘Never!’

‘Then in you go!’ Abruptly the father pushed his son into the cellar. Erich flung himself against the door. ‘Father!’

Hackendahl turned the key. Fists were heard drumming from inside, and an almost unrecognizable voice shouted, ‘Tyrant, slave-driver, hangman!’

‘Let’s feed the horses, Otto,’ he said and went.

‘You’re too hard, Father,’ whispered Otto.

‘What?’ shouted his father, and remained standing (the prisoner continuing to shout). ‘What?! As if he wasn’t hard on me!’ He looked at his son reproachfully. ‘Don’t you think it doesn’t hurt me? Let’s feed the animals, Otto.’

§ X

He had walked up the cellar steps like a very old man, but he stepped into the yard with a firm tread. ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered, ‘and may God help us all!’ In what was almost his old domineering voice he called to the women at the window: ‘Haven’t you anything to do? Get on with your work.’

The faces vanished at once, and Hackendahl entered the stables. ‘Everything in order, Rabause?’

‘Everything in order here.’ The word ‘here’ was the sole allusion Rabause dared to make to recent events.

There was much to do in the hour that followed – hasty, silent work. By half past six the horses had to be ready for the day trips.

But still, Otto repeatedly found a moment to go through the stable door and listen for the cellar. He heard nothing, but that didn’t mean that his brother had been brought to heel. That possibility seemed unlikely – almost as unlikely as that of his father giving way. Sighing heavily, Otto went back to work again. He noticed that the stableman, Rabause, looked out of the stable door more often than usual – only his father behaved as if nothing had happened.

Only when the night cabs started coming in did old Hackendahl leave the stables. As usual he spoke to every driver, examined the taxi-meters, reckoned up the moneys and entered them in his book. Business had been unusually good that night; the cabs had hardly waited on their stands at all. With a good deal of money in his possession Hackendahl revived. Not everything was hopeless. Business was good!

Shouting to Rabause that the night horses were to get an extra ration of oats, he turned to one of the drivers. ‘And how did you get on, Willem?’

‘There was a lot happening. Folks still all hot and bothered about that Archduke’s murder. Three times I had to drive to Scherl’s where the telegrams are posted up. They’ve got the murderer under lock and key, Herr Hackendahl.