Read Online The Madonna of the Sleeping Cars by Maurice DeKobra - Free Book Online Page B

of Berlin. Their evening dresses were very
decolleté
and their perfect complexions were quite evidently of the removable variety. “Ladies” who were habituées of the
Palais de Danse
and the night restaurants on the Kurfürstendamm.
    Varichkine introduced me to them in these terms: “I ordered a blonde and a brunette. I don’t think Franz did so badly, do you?”
    And turning to the two demimondaines he demanded, “What are your names?”
    “Frieda and Lieschen,” replied the brunette.
    “I am Frieda—this is Lieschen. And what are your names?”
    Varichkine drew himself up. “My friend is Mr. Müller and I am Mr. Schmidt. That’s all you need to know. You’re here to amuse us.”
    The brunette apologized, like a good girl. “We’re not stupid. It makes no difference to us.”
    And the blonde came to her friend’s assistance. “The important thing is to offer us a drink, don’t you think?”
    Varichkine ignored the remark and said to me with great courtesy, “Which one do you want?”
    “After you, Varichkine,” I protested.
    While we were carrying on this battle of politeness, the blonde and the brunette waited with all the placidity of two beribboned bovines. The blonde, done up like a candy-box in her straw-colored tango dress, arranged her bodice with a mechanical gesture. The brunette had the muscles of an acrobat, and looked to be hammered out of cold steel or gouged out of real marble. She modestly stooped to adjust a garter.
    “Tails for Frieda, heads for Lieschen,” Varichkine suggested, throwing a gold piece on the table.
    “Heads!”
    “Tails it is! I get Frieda.”
    He motioned to the brunette, who sat down docilely on his knee while Lieschen seized me by the neck, gurgling, “
Schatz
! I am going to drink out of your glass. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking about!”
    Varichkine turned a switch. The side lights went out. I was not particularly thrilled to find myself exposed to Lieschen’s advances in this semi-obscurity. But, inasmuch as it would have been most impolite to refuse any of my companion’s hospitality, I made no protest. Suddenly, a raucous cry rangout. A foot struck the table. A glass smashed into a thousand pieces.
    Frieda’s voice articulated in perfect Berlin slang, “
Ach
! Dog of a pig! Brute!”
    Lieschen whispered in my ear, “Is your friend always like that?”
    I did my best to reassure her. A few minutes passed. Lieschen, stretched out on the sofa beside me, was guzzling—thoroughly happy—the tumblers of Heidsick which I poured out for her. Across the table I heard some whispering, and the swish of silk which resembled nocturnal butterflies beating vainly against a muslin screen. Then, without warning, there came a cry of real alarm. The table was knocked over and the broken dishes scattered here and there. There was the noise of a struggle, followed by a wail from Frieda:
    “Help! The murderer!”
    Thoroughly alarmed, I turned on the lights and saw the poor wretch clutching her breast. Her eyes were wild with fear. Varichkine had taken a position before the door to prevent her escape.
    “What’s the matter?” I cried out.
    “Lieschen,” whimpered Frieda, “call the police. That brute! Do you know what he was going to do? Look! He was going to stab me with this fork.”
    The blonde in the straw-colored tango dress had got to her feet, terrified.
    Varichkine said calmly, “Hold on to her, old chap. What is the use of creating a scandal? Frieda is just a damned little fool who doesn’t understand a joke.”
    “Assassin! Murderer! Cutthroat!” She screamed these last epithets in a panic-stricken voice, her face besmirched with tears.
    Lieschen, enjoying a fit of hysterics, rolled around on thesofa and twisted my napkin savagely. I began to regret having accepted Mr. Leonid Varichkine’s invitation to dinner. He seemed to understand my mute rebuke and remarked with the utmost friendliness:
    “What difference does it make, my dear fellow,