Von Igelfeld stared at the Librarian. This was information of the very greatest significance.
‘This blotter?’ he asked. ‘Reading this very blotter?’
The Librarian glanced at the blotter which von Igelfeld now held out before him. ‘I can’t say whether it was that one exactly. But certainly something similar.’
Von Igelfeld narrowed his eyes. This made the situation even more serious; not only had Unterholzer used his room in his absence, but he had tried to read what he, the unwilling host, had written. This was an intolerable intrusion, and he would have to confront Unterholzer and ask him why he saw fit to pry into the correspondence of others. Of course, Unterholzer would deny it, but he would know that von Igelfeld knew, and that would surely deprive him of any pleasure he had obtained from poking his nose into von Igelfeld’s affairs.
Von Igelfeld returned to his room in a state of some indignation. He replaced the blotter on his desk and looked carefully around his room. What would be required now was a thorough search, just in case there was any other evidence of Unterholzer’s presence. One never knew; if he had been so indiscreet as to read the blotter in the washroom, knowing that anybody might walk in on him, then he may well have left some other piece of damning evidence.
Von Igelfeld examined his bookshelves closely. All his books, as far as he could ascertain, were correctly shelved. He looked in the drawer which held his supply of paper and ink; again, everything seemed to be in order. Then, as he closed the drawer, his eye fell on a small object on the carpet – a button.
Von Igelfeld stooped down and picked up the button. He examined it closely: it was brown, small, and gave no indication of its provenance. But his mind was already made up: here was the proof he needed. This button was a very similar shade to the unpleasant brown suits which Unterholzer wore. This was undoubtedly an Unterholzer button, shed by Unterholzer during his clandestine tenancy of von Igelfeld’s room. Von Igelfeld slipped the button into his pocket. He would produce it at coffee so that everybody could notice – and share – Unterholzer’s discomfort.
When von Igelfeld arrived in the coffee room, the others were already seated around the table, listening to a story which Prinzel was telling.
‘When I was a young boy,’ Prinzel said, ‘we played an enchanting game – Greeks and Turks. It was taught us by our own nursemaid, a Greek girl, who came to work for the family when she was sixteen. I believe that she had played the game on her native Corfu. The rules were such that the Greeks always won, and therefore we all wanted to be Greeks. It was not so much fun being a Turk, but somebody had to be one, and so we took it in turns.’ He paused, thinking for a moment.
‘What a charming game,’ said the Librarian. ‘My aunt tells me that when she was a girl they used to play with metal hoops. You would roll the hoop along the ground with a stick and run after it. Girls would tie ribbons to their sticks. Boys usually didn’t. If your hoop started down a slope you might have to run very fast indeed! She said that one day a small boy who lived opposite them, a boy by the name of Hans, rolled his hoop into a tram line and the hoop began to roll towards an oncoming tram. My aunt told me that . . . ’
‘One of Professor Freud’s patients was called Hans,’ interjected Prinzel. ‘He was called Little Hans. He was always worried that the dray-horses would bite him. His father consulted Professor Freud about this and Professor Freud wrote a full account of the case.’
The Librarian looked aggrieved. ‘I do not think it can be the same boy. I was merely recounting . . . ’
‘My wife reads Freud for the sheer pleasure of the prose,’ said Unterholzer. ‘She received some training in psychology during her studies. I myself have not read Freud, but it’s perfectly possible that I shall read him in the future. I have not ruled that out.’
‘This boy with his hoop,’ said the Librarian. ‘It was stuck in the line and was rolling directly towards the tram. I think that this must have been in Munich, although it could have been in Stuttgart, because my aunt’s father, my great-uncle, removed from Munich to Stuttgart when my aunt was eight, or was it seven? Eight, I think, but don’t quote me on that. I might be wrong. But the point is that when a hoop gets into a tramline, then there is only one way for it to go. That’s the problem. You can imagine if you were that boy’s father and you saw the hoop stuck in the tramline. Well, the father was there, as it happened, and he ran . . . ’
He stopped, not because he had been interrupted, but because von Igelfeld had arrived. Immediately they all stood, Prinzel reaching forward to shake von Igelfeld’s hand, followed by Unterholzer, who smiled with pleasure as he did so. Von Igelfeld watched Unterholzer; such hypocrisy, he thought, but so well concealed. Well, the button would put an end to that.
They settled down to enjoy their coffee.
‘It’s wonderful to have you back,’ said Prinzel. ‘The Institute doesn’t seem to be the same place when you’re away.’
No, thought von Igelfeld, it wouldn’t be, would it? There would be a different person in my room. But he did not give voice to such churlish doubts, instead he remarked brightly: ‘I cannot tell you how happy I am to be back in Germany. Cambridge is a fine place, but you know the problem.’
They all nodded sympathetically. ‘Four months in an inferior institution must be very difficult,’ said Unterholzer. ‘I expect you had a battle to get anything done.’
‘Yes,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘Everything is so irrational in that country. And the people, quite frankly, are utterly eccentric. You have to analyse their smallest pronouncements to work out what they mean. If it is bad weather they will say things like, “Charming weather we’re having!” ’
‘And yet the weather isn’t charming,’ said Unterholzer. ‘Why then do they say that it’s charming?’
‘Why indeed?’ agreed von Igelfeld. ‘They often say the direct opposite of what they mean.’
‘That’s extremely strange,’ said the Librarian. ‘In fact, one might even describe that as pathological.’
‘And then they consistently understate a position,’ went on von Igelfeld. ‘If they are very ill, or dying, they will say something like, “I’m feeling very slightly below par.” It’s very odd. You may recall Captain Oates going out of his tent into the Antarctic wastes. He knew that he would never come back. So what did he say? “I may be some time.” This actually meant that he would never come back.’
‘Then why didn’t he say that?’ asked Unterholzer.
Von Igelfeld shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is something which I shall never understand,’ he said. ‘It is quite beyond reason.’
Prinzel smiled. ‘It was just as well that you understood how to deal with these people, Captain Oates and his like,’ he said. ‘I should have been terribly confused.’
‘Thank you,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘But in spite of all this, I did enjoy the experience.’ He paused, and they waited. This was the moment. ‘And of course it was a great reassurance to know that I had my room at the Institute to come back to.’
The silence was complete. Von Igelfeld did not look at Unterholzer, but he knew that his words had found their target. He would wait a few more seconds before he continued; if he waited too long, the Librarian might start talking about hoops or whatever and he did not want the dramatic impact of his find to be diminished.
He took a deep breath. ‘Speaking of rooms, I found something in my room this morning. It was very puzzling.’ He put his hand into his pocket, watched by all eyes, and extracted the button, holding it up for all to see. ‘This.’