It was an old house among many old houses in central Europe. Its notoriety in Edelburg stemmed from its supreme organization and remarkable preservation. While time had gradually decayed its neighbors with mildew, mites, or flame, this particular house had remained remarkably unchanged. The house’s timelessness was attributed to the meticulous upkeep of its long chain of occupants. How the house was passed from owner to owner remained a mystery. There was never seen any form of advertisement of sale whether by sign or in the paper. The only consistency observed in the occupants was that they were always men of mature adulthood. Each seemed devoted to the preservation of the house.
The current owner and sole resident, Herr Metzger, was a man by whom one could set his watch. Each morning at eight o’clock he’d walk to town, enjoy a roll and coffee at the bakery, check his mailbox at the post office, and return home. On Saturdays he was known to relax in his backyard during pleasant weather. On Sundays he attended the Protestant church, was as congenial with the neighbors as necessary, and then disappeared into his house until the following morning. He enjoyed a comfortable retirement, yet no one could say how exactly he’d acquired his wealth. But such curiosity rarely extended beyond mere conversation; it was not uncommon to have inherited a substantial sum of money in that part of town. What was an intriguing mystery to some was where he kept his money. It was a well-known fact to certain people that Herr Metzger was one of the few upstanding citizens not affected by the crash of the bank of Edelburg five years previous.
Three young men, for whom such rumors held delicious appeal, sat together one Thursday evening at the café. This trio was composed of men who, though still in their twenties, had already reached a state of disillusionment with their lots in life. Friedrich was a journeyman frame maker. Wilhelm, a promising scholar, had been forced by financial difficulties into the role of private tutor. The third member of the party went simply by his family name of Herzog. Though currently abstaining from any form of occupation, he was perhaps the most aware of himself of the three young men. At the very least, he was certainly the most linguistically adept. Herzog spoke a fine rolling German with a seductive resonance that never failed to grant him an air of nobility.
“My dear friends,” began Herzog with a mild grin over his coffee, “how many evenings have we spent at this very table plotting and dreaming? In how many daring theories have we both exercised revenge upon our enemies as well as profited in so grand a fashion as to deliver ourselves from the bondage of everyday life? Well, today I have for you a proposition that I fully intend for us to put into effect. For, you see, the money I’ve inherited will not finance my idleness forever, and, though I present the appearance of a rather luxurious peasantry, the time has arrived for action. So tell me, are you with me?”
“With all due respect, Herzog,” protested the tutor, “you really should tell us the plan before demanding commitment.”
“Wilhelm, Wilhelm,” mused Herzog, “I’ve grown fond of your dramatical handicappedness. But if I must, I’ll explain. My plan is to break boldly into the house of a particular well-known citizen of this town. He is indeed perhaps the only upstanding gentleman upon whom the gaze of our schemes has not fallen.”
“But you can’t mean,” began Wilhelm, then, quelling his excitement, he whispered, “but you can’t be referring to old Herr Metzger?”
“Why not? Isn’t it clear he must have quite a treasure trove stowed away in that spider hole of his?”
“In theory, yes, but how could we know where to look? And besides, we’d have such scant opportunity to break in. The man never leaves.”
“His absences are short,” contended Herzog, “short but regular! What more can a doer of ill deeds ask for than predictability?”
“That is a good point,” mused Friedrich, breaking out of his caffeinated daze, “but it still does not sound so secure as your enthusiasm would lead me to believe.”
The young Herzog smiled a secretive smile and leaned back in his chair triumphantly. He had a keen ability for subtle flattery. By withholding information, baiting with enthusiasm, and tempting with well chosen silence, he made himself the master of others’ moods. He would both give his comrades the pleasure of defeating him as well as grant himself the silent satisfaction of having purposefully organized it. After soaking up the questioning looks of his friends, he leant forward and grinned.
“My friend Friedrich, with you I can always count on someone to cut to the heart of the matter. I must confess that I’ve left the keystone of my plan thus far veiled. You see, every great act of crime involving some form of invasion utilizes an inside man. I, my friends, shall be that man! In no time at all I will have inserted myself into the house and residence of our future friend and victim Herr Metzger.”
“And how do you intend to do that?”
“It’s already begun! Beginning tomorrow, I’ll be renting a room from him. The idea had been brewing about in my head for quite some time now, and it was just the other day that I’d planted myself before his house at exactly the time he was due to walk into town. There I stood as if caught in idle reverie as he closed and locked his door and proceeded along the path towards myself and the street. He stopped when he arrived at my location and asked, a bit perplexed, if I hadn’t anything wrong with me. I then turned towards him, affecting the manner of one waking from a dream, and with sluggish words I greeted him and said, ‘Ah, sir, Herr Metzger, I’d just been passing along, and the light caught your house in just such a manner that…ah, indescribable emotion!’ He smiled, thanked me for the complement, and bid me a good morning as if to escape, but I was not going to let him get away so easily. I, of course, knew his routine precisely, and I made to walk with him as if it were incidentally my own destination. My time was short before we’d have reached town, so I could not waste words with too many pleasantries. One gets the feeling from Herr Metzger, besides, that he, like you Friedrich, would indeed rather avoid excessive conversation. Instead, I kept right on target and persisted with admiration of his impeccable house. From there I cleanly transitioned into my own (fictional) plight. I said, ‘You know, Herr Metzger, the issue of housing is rather at the fore of my thoughts; the situation I’m in now has rubbed me rather the wrong way. I’ve been scouting about for a new landlord who is more like me, you know, a person more inclined towards the simpler, quieter pleasures of life, and less inclined towards boisterous spousal disagreements.’ This seemed to strike a chord with him, or, at least, I detected a reaction, which was better than nothing. ‘I’d bet you have quite a surplus of space in that fine old house of yours. It’d sure be an honor for a quiet scholar like myself to compose verse amidst such aesthetic grandeur.’ You’d think he’d take a hint from this and other such statements, but I practically had to strike it upon his head before he finally responded, ‘So, you want to rent from me.’ I jumped upon this least hint of agreement, ‘Ah! Very good, sir, I say it’s a deal,’ and I seized his hand and shook heartily. He gave me a queer look as I released his hand then screwed his face up and stared at a nearby building as if debating with himself. I looked on with considerable anxiety, hidden of course, as various cryptic emotions crossed his countenance until finally he turned back upon me with a look that bordered rather close upon amusement, as if to say, ah, what harm could it do, and he said, ‘Very well, come by this Friday at precisely three-thirty in the afternoon and we’ll work out some arrangement.’ And with that he left me for the bakery to have his roll and coffee, and I took a triumphant walk around the block.”
Young Herzog’s friends found themselves once again in awe of their friend’s wit and ingenuity, and, after he’d finished his tale, they each stared into the ether for a moment, each one contemplating the consequences of their friend’s actions—each one wondered to himself if, when the time came, he would have the nerve. And there was indeed one piece to this theoretical aspect of the plan that was missing, noted Wilhelm. He felt a certain heaviness in his limbs as he imagined sneaking into the house. It occurred to him that they lacked a moral justification: Herr Metzger was an odd man and not exactly friendly, but he could detect in his character no significant moral defect under which the trio could rally should their confidence quail. Wilhelm said nothing on the subject, though. He could not bear to risk impeding this potentially exciting chain of action.
Friday arrived and found Herzog walking briskly through the street towards the old house. He carried in one hand a suitcase and in the other a briefcase; he wanted to convey the impression of both finality and scholarship, one of which he felt was legitimate. He took the four steps up to the front stoop in two strides, placed his items on the ground, and caught his breath. The door opened before he could knock. Herr Metzger stepped onto the porch grimacing. He looked down at Herzog’s items.
“Herr Metzger, good day, I got tangled up on my way—ran into a talkative neighbor.”
The old man did not seem to hear him, “You’re late.” As he said it, he paused before the word “late,” as if the very idea disgusted him. Nevertheless, the old man held the door open so Herzog could bring his items in. They then sat over coffee and worked out the details.
The first days of young Herzog’s residence with Herr Metzger were filled with awkward moments as he adjusted to the peculiarities of the old man’s lifestyle. He was a man of extreme silence and order. Though clearly of stable finances, Herr Metzger did not indulge in house servants of any kind. Herzog immediately attempted to insert himself into the man’s daily routine by offering various small courtesies such as the cooking of breakfast or taking charge of the cleaning. The young opportunist found it surprising that the old man did his own laundry. He soon learned, though, that Herr Metzger tolerated no slightest imperfection in their execution. He was met with rather frequent glares and scoldings. But eventually, after enduring countless such ignominies, Herzog grew accustomed to the man’s system of life. He even began to feel that he was trusted.
One day, as Herzog sat at his writing desk composing a letter of greeting to a cousin, he felt a presence. He was surprised to turn and find Herr Metzger holding an errant sock between thumb and forefinger. Herzog stood and accepted the sock, thanking the old man and assuring him he’d not interrupted anything important. As he turned to leave, Herr Metzger’s attention became focused upon the corner of the room where a cracked violin case sat.
“That is your violin?” he asked.
“Hmm, that? Oh, yes, I was once rather proud of my musical abilities.”
“Are you proficient?”
“Rusty to be sure, but it would come back quickly. Would you care to hear a song? I’d not taken the old thing out of its case; I’d feared to disturb you with its racket.”
“I would enjoy greatly to hear a proper song or two at your leisure. I shall be reading in the sitting room.”
That evening Herzog indulged the old man with his instrument. Herr Metzger demanded songs composed with mathematical rigidity and distinct melody. Improvisation or alteration of measure was met only with dissatisfaction. When the young violinist struck the notes of a regular song with precision and accuracy the old man seemed literally transported. He would sit rigidly upright with his hands placed neatly upon his knees, his eyes closed, and his head held slightly back and askew as if to give the music access to his better ear.
The young opportunist was thrilled to find that he now had something the old man desired; his mind drafted plan after plan of how he could exploit this appreciation of music. In the meantime, however, Herzog spent the brief periods of Herr Metzger’s absence in exploring the house for signs of his mysterious wealth. When the landlord would leave each morning, Herzog made it a point to be seen deeply engrossed in a book in the sitting room. Once the front door had clicked, he would resume his exploration. By process of elimination, he learned that if there were anything hidden in the house then it must be in the room beside Herr Metzger’s bedroom on the second floor. It took him two days to learn how to work the lock with the various small files, wires, and sundry pieces of metal he could find about the house. Once within, he was awed to find a veritable treasure trove. Herr Metzger was clearly not a man to take risks with paper currency and banks. A prodigious collection of gold and precious stones resided in two chests of drawers, which stood side by side against the wall opposite the door. Above hung a medium sized oil painting in an austere frame. It was a portrait of a very stern man sitting rigidly in a chair in formal clothing at least fifty years out of fashion. He could detect no resemblance to Herr Metzger. The room was otherwise unadorned save a large, plain rug overlaying the hardwood floor.
At the next opportunity, young Herzog met with his two accomplices at their favorite café. Over coffee and cigarettes, the frame maker and the tutor filled in all the details that Herzog had missed since moving in with Herr Metzger. The other two knew from his overly reserved demeanor that their friend had some grand announcement to make, but they also knew that he would drag out the anticipation as long as possible.
“Ah, yes,” said the young Herzog eventually, “our friend Herr Metzger is indeed a strange fellow. Never have I met with such a rigid organization. He strikes me as almost like a professional soldier, but then, perhaps too sophisticated. And indeed, it is through his sophistication that I’ve discovered our opportunity.”
“You’ve found his money?”
“Come now, Friedrich, what do you take me for? Of course I’ve found it, and I’ve also found the perfect way to distract him so that we can take advantage of evening’s cloak to commit our little deed. You see, given the location of the loot, one would have to creep past his room on floorboards that are simply not to be trusted for secrecy. The man is not a sound sleeper. This rules out a simple nighttime burglary. We could, in theory, take advantage of the time in the morning when he goes into town, but at such an hour the risk of being seen is too high. The only other time of his absence is on Sunday when he goes to church—”
“We can’t commit a crime on Sunday!” exclaimed Friedrich.
“Do I look like the type of man who’d rob another on the Sabbath? Of course not. As I mentioned, we shall take advantage of the evening with music! When I have the old man in his sitting room with my violin, I can charm him like a cobra. If I play well enough, I’ve found that he’ll remain inactive for nearly an hour before he grows impatient—plenty of time for you two to quietly enter through the front door with sacks, sneak upstairs, pick the lock, and take enough from his stash to grant us a good bit of security. It’s simple, really; as long as you can hear my music, you’ll be free to act.”
Wilhelm and Friedrich did not know what to say. It was overwhelming to them to suddenly be faced with the real prospect of action. Friedrich wanted to say that surely this was all becoming far too serious to be tasteful, and Wilhelm wanted to draw attention to the moral dilemma that still faced them if for no other reason than to seek a bit more shelter in abstraction. Yet, when they looked at the confident face of Herzog, both friends found they could only say, “Okay.”
And then the day arrived: all too quickly for his friends and all too slowly for young Herzog. He’d been working perhaps harder than he’d ever in his life at attempting to restructure a musical composition for the violin that he particularly liked in order to eliminate its freewheeling and innovative aspects. The chosen day for the deed was a Monday; Herzog had calculated that the day after Sunday was the day least likely to invoke feelings of righteousness in his friends: the sermon would be freshly forgotten and the prospect of a week of drudgery would likely inspire despair and acceptance of immoral action. Oh, Herzog was a clever one. And so, on this rather drab Monday, the young conspirator proudly proposed the fruits of his musical tinkering after he and Herr Metzger had finished a sober supper of cabbage, potatoes, and sausage. The old man very nearly broke into a smile at seeing the effort the young man had made on his behalf. He agreed with his own lukewarm brand of enthusiasm to retire to the sitting room with a pot of evening tea to enjoy his renter’s musical talents. Herzog blew out the candles in the kitchen where they’d dined and lit the candelabra upon the coffee table in the sitting room. Herr Metzger, as was his habit, took the seat directly facing the doorway. It was not a comfortable seat, if one were to imagine comfortable as being something like a cloud in heaven, but it was stiff and was patterned with rigid style and thus well suited itself to the conservative tastes of old Germania. Herzog approached the door, which looked directly through the kitchen and into the entrance foyer through which the burglars would soon arrive, and closed it.
“Ah, that really isn’t necessary, Herzog.”
“Hm, ah, well it is merely for acoustics’ sake, sir.”
“Oh, yes, acoustics.”
“Very good, sir,” said the relieved Herzog and then, after pouring himself a cup of tea, proceeded to a slightly more comfortable love seat across from the old man. He sipped from his tea, improvised a music stand from a few books on a small table, and withdrew his violin from its case.
“You are ready, sir?”
The old landlord assented, and the music proceeded with almost military repetition and precision. Meanwhile, outside, Wilhelm and Friedrich lurked beneath the shuttered window with faces smeared with dirt in case they should be seen and burlap sacks beneath their arms. The music crept out the window, and the two burglars exchanged nervous looks of solidarity and proceeded quickly and quietly through the front door which Herzog had unlocked. After a moment, their eyes adjusted to the dark foyer and they ascended the stairs, taking care to step on the edges to minimize squeaking. They’d even left their shoes home for this adventure to soften their footsteps even further. Once up the stairs each of the young men drew a candle from his pocket. Wilhelm struck a match and lit each wick, and with their new light they proceeded very carefully down the hallway past one, two, three doors. The handle was of unpolished brass just as their friend had advised. The two burglars turned and looked at each other and let escape a brief sigh of excitement. Friedrich grasped the handle and gave it a test turn—and the door opened. The two looked at each other surprised and slightly perplexed. But each silently assured himself that Herzog must have forced it for them ahead of time. They crossed the threshold and were each somewhat disappointed by the lack of exciting furnishings. As Friedrich carefully closed the door, Wilhelm examined the two rather plain chests of drawers in which they’d find their fortune. Friedrich arrived at his side, and they exchanged a look of preparation before readying their sacks and stepping forward. Then, suddenly, inexplicably, the candles each extinguished themselves, leaving the two scared burglars in unsettling darkness—
* * *
Herzog stood in the mud of the street near the building where Friedrich lived. The other renters whom he’d met in the hallway had all claimed not to have seen the young frame-maker in several days, and he’d found that they could be of no further help in locating his friend. He’d met with a similar ignorance at the home of Wilhelm, but there he’d hoped the mystery was related more to the apathy of his neighbors than to any actual disappearance on his part. Herzog looked rather gray standing there in the mud under the gaze of one lazy crow perched atop a house. He sighed and walked to the café and seethed over a cup of coffee as the notion gradually overtook him that somehow his two best friends had decided to betray him and run off to France or Denmark with the money he’d made it possible for them to steal. It was not long, though, before he was forced to admit that this was rather unlikely. What disturbed him was the utter lack of reaction or change on his landlord’s part. He’d enjoyed the modified concerto that Herzog had played for him despite perceiving a few flaws which he’d attributed to virtuosity and youthful blood. After a quarter of an hour the old man’s eyes had fallen closed and he’d assumed the position he always took when the music captured him, except that this time there lay upon his face the faintest hint of a smirk. Herzog could not, of course, be certain if he was being overly analytical on account of the events occurring above them, but the observation had nevertheless unsettled him. He’d played on for about thirty minutes more before he’d reached a significant pause, and the old man had stood and announced he was going to bed. They both did so uneventfully, and morning came after a sleepless night. Three days then went by in which Herzog remained in his room as decided in their scheme to give the impression that he was deeply immersed in his fictitious studies. Life went on exactly as if nothing had happened. On the fourth and fifth days his two friends failed to arrive as expected at the café. On the sixth he took it upon himself to determine what had become of them.
He left the café after thinking over all this and wandered through the streets of the town aimlessly. There was left one important thing for him to do. He’d not yet had the courage to enter the room with the chests of drawers. An overindulgence in romances and such fiction had impressed upon him the fear that somehow the stern man in the painting would strike him dead or instill in him an insurmountable horror that would likewise lead him to death or insanity. But now he resolved that on the very next day, when Herr Metzger took his morning walk into town, he would enter the room and determine if any clue could there be found.
The next morning, at five minutes past eight, Herzog stood before the door. He tried the knob, which was locked, and withdrew the instruments from his vest pocket with which to force the lock. He did not breathe as he swung the door open and timidly stepped past the threshold. With a careful eye he surveyed the appearance of the room and its few adornments: chests of drawers, painting, rug. Everything was as it was the last he’d been there. He crossed the room towards the chests and the painting, which refrained from supernatural effect. The first drawer he opened seemed to contain exactly what it had before. He tried the second and third drawers only to find the same thing. After searching all the ten drawers of the two chests, Herzog realized that nothing had been disturbed. Nothing seemed to have occurred that night: so why did his friends disappear? With confusion and a growing feeling of abjection, Herzog turned and began briskly to leave the room. His footsteps were bolder now than they’d been when he entered, and in crossing the rug he heard a peculiar sound as his foot struck the floor. It sounded almost like the clank of metal. Now suspicious, he looked at the door and then down at the large rectangular rug. He stepped to the side of the room and, seizing the edge of the rug, lifted it up and folded it back onto itself, exposing a square plate of metal perhaps four feet per side that seemed to be set flush with the floor, bolted down, and welded shut. Tentatively, Herzog approached the plate and knocked on it. It sounded hollow. Suddenly he started back in fright as he heard what sounded like an answering knock beneath. He knocked again to be sure it was not an echo or effect of the settling of the house, and there sounded again a muffled knock, and this time he even thought he detected the faintest sound of a human voice—no more than a whimper or a moan. In horror, Herzog searched all around the plate to see if it could be lifted, but it had been so well seated that he could not even get a finger in to test it, and he suspected that the recessed bolts were not simply decoration. In a horrified stupor the young Herzog stood and, not knowing what else to do, replaced the rug, left the room and, after some effort, forced the lock back to conceal that he’d been inside. He did not have long before Herr Metzger would return, so he quickly ran downstairs to find an access to whatever was beneath the room with the chests of drawers. There was none. He could tell that there was indeed a space there, but in every direction there stood a wall between him and the void. Hopeless, Herzog attempted to recollect his wits and distract himself with a book in the sitting room.
Days passed in absolute regularity. Herzog could conceive of no solution to this mystery short of smashing through a wall. The tedium of his existence, the burden of the mystery, and the knowledge that his funds would not last much longer inevitably led him to write the following letter before departing from Herr Metzger’s home with no warning and only the most important of his possessions.
My dear Maria, There was a time when playful words would have poured from my pen onto the page of this letter, but where once I found eloquence I find now only cold. I fear that my lifestyle has perhaps taken the turn you predicted so long ago. As you read this, I shall already be on my way to your home in Switzerland. I hope you will forgive what appears to be rashness on my part, but I assure you that were I to have done otherwise I would most assuredly find myself committed or lying at the rocky foot of cliff. Ah, forgive my poor taste! All shall be explained. Your loving cousin, KH
