Little Apple by Leo Perutz Page A

of cushions and cast-off clothes, they were dummies got up to look like visitors engaged in an animated conversation. One of them, which looked almost lifelike at a distance, was leaning forward with its arms resting on an old umbrella.
    Franzi was hugely delighted.
    "You nodded to them," she cried. "You actually nodded to them when you walked in - I saw you, so don't deny it! You fell for it, you silly boy! Did you really think I'd let anyone in tonight? I made them to pass the time - I was bored, you kept me waiting so long. Allow me to introduce them. The one with the umbrella is Herr Milosh Pavisish, the medical student from Agram in person. The other is His Excellency the Baron."
    It occurred to Franzi that her practical joke had shed a very questionable light on all her previous stories, and that Georg might be inclined to doubt the existence of the two men whose ludicrous effigies he now saw seated on the sofa. She hastened to rectify her blunder.
    "The gentleman from Agram really did have the cheek to turn up today," she said. "Just imagine, the doorbell rang at half-past six. I didn't budge - I knew it couldn't be you because it was far too early, and besides, you'd have knocked, not rung - so I sat there and let him ring, two or three times. In the end he went away - he's probably down in the street at this very moment, cursing in Serbo-Croat. You didn't see him, I suppose?"
    "I may have," Vit¬torin said. "There was a scrawny little fellow with a red moustache pacing up and down outside the door."
    This description was far removed from Franzi's mental picture of the young man from Agram. She shook her head.
    "No, it couldn't have been him. Short, skinny, red moustache? That sounds more like the Baron."
    "Really?" said Vit¬torin. "Does the Baron know your parents are away too?"
    "Oh no, he doesn't have a clue," Franzi said quickly. "Unless, of course, Herr Milosh told him. It's a possibility."
    Vit¬torin raised his eyebrows. "You mean they know each other?"
    The situation was getting out of hand.
    "No," Franzi said, "- I mean, of course they do, but only slightly. They're both members of the High Life Club - that's the extent of their acquaintanceship. But believe me, if I'd known it was the Baron I'd have given him a piece of my mind. You should see the letters he writes me, the cheeky devil! Let him stand down there and freeze, it serves him right. I'm going to make some tea now, Georg. Coming to the kitchen with me, or will you wait in here? I'll only be a couple of minutes."
    She hurried out. Vit¬torin remained standing beside the stove, his head in a whirl, his face convulsed with shame and anger. One half of him called the other a contemptible coward.
    It was an insult he wouldn't have tolerated from anyone else, but he repeated it, masochistically hurling it at himself again and again as he stared glumly into the fire. Yes, he was a contemptible coward - he didn't retract a syllable of it. Where had his courage fled to while she was in the room with him? He hadn't got a word out, and time was going by - inexorably ticking away. He had only a few minutes left. He must tell her, he couldn't put it off any longer. The opening words would be terribly hard to say, but once they were said the worst would be over. He had to come out with it. Ten-thirty at the station, and she still knew nothing . . .
    All at once he heard a delighted laugh from the hall: Franzi had spotted his knapsack. She flung the door open with an air of triumph.
    "I almost tripped over it," she exclaimed. "Your knapsack! Of course, I never thought of that! You had to pretend you were going away, or your family would have been suspicious. Where are you supposed to be off to, Georg? Tell me."
    "Russia," he replied, but his courage failed him, and he uttered the fateful word so quietly that she didn't hear. She put her arms around his neck.
    "Did they believe you?" she asked. "I'll tell you something, Georg: I don't care if they know you're with