Indeed they had a list, a warder had once told him; there were 211 ways of concealing an object in a cell; and he cursed the thought.

But what he had to find now was a hiding place that would serve for an hour and a half. The inspection by the doctor would not last longer, and that’s all the time Nets would have to search his cell.

In the back of the hymn book? No, that was a bad place. In the mattress? That would do, but he did not have enough time to slit it and sew it up again in the half-hour before his examination. Besides, he would first have to get the proper thread from the saddler’s room.

What a pity he had emptied his bucket; it wouldn’t have damaged the note to slip it into the muck at the bottom for an hour and a half, but unfortunately the bucket was empty.

Should he stick it to the underside of the table with bits of bread?

He began to roll the pellets of bread, and then he stopped; the trick was too well known, and one glance under the table was enough.

Kufalt was growing nervous. A bell was ringing for the end of the last recreation period; in a quarter of an hour he would have to go before the doctor. Should he take the note with him? He could roll it up very tight and push it up his behind. But perhaps the nets instructor might tip off the head screw in the infirmary, and they would search him properly—they might very well examine him for cancer of the rectum!

He was at a loss. This was what would happen when he got outside. There were so many possibilities, and a ‘but’ to all of them. A man must make up his mind, but that was just what he could not do. How should he? In these five years he had been deprived of all power of decision. They had said, ‘Eat,’ and he had eaten. They had said, ‘Go out,’ and he had gone; and ‘Write,’ and he had written his letter.

The ventilator was not a bad place. But too well known, much too well known. There was a crack in the planking of his bed—but a single look would catch the glint of paper. He could stand the stool on the table and put the note on the electric light shade, but that was a common trick; besides, anyone might see him through the peephole in the door when he got onto the table.

He turned quickly round and looked at the peephole. Ah! There was a goggle eye, a fishy eye that he knew well.

In a fury of feigned rage he leapt at the door and hammered on it, shouting: ‘Get away from the peephole, damn you!’

A sudden crash, the door flew open, and there stood the chief warder, Rusch.

Now for a bit of acting, for Rusch liked none but his own jokes. You had to be humble to the chief warder, and Kufalt played his part to perfection as he stammered: ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I do beg your pardon, I thought it was that rat of an orderly who’s always sneaking after my tobacco.’

‘Eh? What’s that? Don’t make a racket. You’ll have all the paint off the door.’

‘There’s never a speck of what there shouldn’t be in my cell, you know that, sir,’ said Kufalt in an ingratiating tone; ‘not a scratch in the varnish.’

The chief warder—a rather stubbly Napoleon, the real ruler of the prison, curt, always springing something unexpected, embittered enemy of every reform, of the grading of prisoners, of the governor, of the officials, and of every prisoner—made no reply but marched up to the little cupboard on which hung a list of personal effects and special privileges.

‘How about the birds?’ he asked.

‘Birds?’ said Kufalt, with a bewildered grin.

‘Birds! Birds!’ snarled the despot, and tapped the list. ‘There are two canaries down here. Where are they? Swapped already, eh?’

‘But, sir,’ said Kufalt reproachfully, thinking anxiously of the hundred-mark note still hidden in his scarf. ‘They died when the central heating went wrong this winter. I told you about it.’

‘That’s a lie, a damn lie. Maass the shoemaker has two too many. They’re yours. You swapped ’em.’

‘But, sir, I told you they were dead. I went to the glass cubicle and reported it.’

The chief warder stood beneath the window. His back was turned to the prisoner, who could see only his fat white hands fumbling with the keys.

‘If he would only go!’ prayed Kufalt inwardly. ‘At any moment I’ll have to go to the doctor, and with the note in my scarf. I shall get rumbled, and hauled up.’

‘Category three,’ growled the chief.