Sixteenth Chapter The Police Commissioner Sends His Regards

The automobile had already reached Unter den Linden. Emil knocked three times on the window back of the driver. The car stopped. And the boy asked, “Are we almost there?”

“Sure,” said the man.

“I’m sorry to make you trouble,” said Emil, “but first I must go to Kaiser Avenue. To the Café Josty. There is a bouquet for my grandmother there. And my suitcase, too. Would you please be so kind?”

“What do you mean—kind? Have you some money in case what I’ve had isn’t enough?”

“I have money, Driver. And I must have the flowers.”

“All right,” said the man, turned left, went through the Brandenburger Gate and down the green, shady Zoölogical Gardens to Nollendorf Place. That place seemed to Emil much more harmless and friendly now that everything had turned out all right. But, anyway, he reached carefully into his inside breast pocket. The money was there.

Then they went up Motz Street to the very end, turned right, and stopped before the Café Josty.

Emil climbed out, betook himself to the counter, asked the maid to please give him his bag and his flowers, got them, thanked her, climbed up into the car again, and said, “There, Driver, now to Grandmother.”

They turned around, traveled the long way back, over the river Spree, through old streets with gray houses.

The boy would have liked to observe the neighborhood. But his things seemed bewitched. The suitcase kept toppling over. And if the suitcase stood still for a minute, then the wind seized the white paper around the flowers so that it rustled and tore. And Emil had to watch out to keep the bouquet from flying away.

At last the driver put on the brakes. The car stopped. It was Number 15 Schumann Street.

“Well, here we are,” said Emil and got out.

“Do you want any more money from me?”

“No, instead you get back thirty pfennigs.”

“Zat so?” said Emil. “Get yourself a few cigars with it.”

“I chew, my boy,” said the driver, and went off.

Then Emil climbed to the third floor and rang the bell at the Heimbolds’ door. There was a great cry behind the door. Then it was opened. And there stood the grandmother. She grabbed Emil by the collar, gave him a kiss on the left cheek and a clap on the right cheek at the same time, dragged him into the room by his hair, and cried, “Oh, you young rascal, oh, you young rascal!”

“Fine stories we hear about you,” Aunt Martha said smiling, as she gave him her hand. And Pony Hütchen offered him her elbows. She was wearing one of her mother’s aprons and she squeaked, “Careful, my hands are wet. I’m washing dishes—we poor women!”

Then they all went together into the living room. Emil had to take the place of honor on the sofa. And his grandmother and Aunt Martha beamed upon him as if he were a very valuable painting of Titian’s.

“Have you the loot?” asked Pony.

“Of course,” said Emil, took the three notes out of his pocket, gave one hundred and twenty marks to his grandmother, and said, “Here, Grandmother, here is the money. And Mother sends her best love. And you mustn’t blame her because she hasn’t sent you anything these last months. Business wasn’t so very good. And so this time she’s sending you more than usual.”

“Thank you, my dear,” answered the old woman, gave back a twenty-mark note and said, “That is for you because you are such a fine detective.”

“No, I can’t take it. You see I still have twenty marks from Mother in my pocket.”

“Emil, a boy must obey his grandmother. Put it in your pocket at once.”

“No, I shan’t take it.”

“What a boy!” cried Pony. “Nobody’d have to ask me twice!”

“Oh, no, I don’t want it.”

“Either you take it or I’ll get the rheumatism, I’ll be so angry,” declared the grandmother.

“Quick, put the money away,” said Aunt Martha, and poked the note into his pocket.

“Well, if you really want me to,” stammered Emil. “I thank you, Grandmother.”

“I am the one to be thankful,” she answered, and smoothed back Emil’s hair.

Then Emil handed over his bouquet of flowers. Pony brought a vase. But when the flowers were unwrapped they didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Just dried vegetables!” said Pony Hütchen.

“They’ve had no water since yesterday afternoon,” explained Emil ruefully. “It’s no wonder. When Mother and I bought them yesterday at Stamnitzen’s they were perfectly fresh.”

“I’m sure they were, I’m sure they were,” said the grandmother as she put the wilted flowers in water.

“Perhaps they’ll freshen up,” comforted Aunt Martha. “There, and now we will have dinner. Your uncle won’t be home until evening. Pony, set the table!”

“All right,” said the little girl.

“Emil, what are we going to have?”

“No idea.”

“What do you like best?”

“Macaroni with ham.”

“Well, then, you know what we are going to have.”

It is true that Emil had eaten macaroni with ham just the day before. But in the first place one can stand eating his favorite dish almost every day. And in the second place, it seemed to Emil as if at least a whole week had gone by since yesterday’s dinner with his mother in Neustadt. And he dug into the macaroni as if he were Herr Grundeis Müller Kiessling himself.

After the meal Emil and Pony ran down into the street for a while, as the boy wanted to try Pony’s little nickel-plated wheel. Grandmother lay down on the sofa. And Aunt Martha baked an applecake. Her applecakes were famous in the whole family.

Emil rolled through Schumann Street. And Pony ran after him, holding fast to the saddle. She maintained she had to, or her cousin would fly away. Then Emil had to get off, and she turned circles and threes and eights for him.

Suddenly a policeman appeared who carried a portfolio and inquired, “Children, do the Heimbolds live here in Number 15?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Pony. “We’re Heimbolds. One minute, Officer.” She shut her wheel in the cellar.

“Is there something wrong?” wondered Emil. He couldn’t help thinking of that plagued Jeschke.

“Quite the contrary. Are you the boy Emil Tischbein?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Um, well, you can congratulate yourself!”

“Who has a birthday?” asked Pony, returning.

But the policeman told them nothing. Instead he climbed up the stairs. Aunt Martha led him into the living room. The grandmother woke and got up, filled with curiosity. Emil and Pony stood by the table, much excited.

“It’s this way,” said the policeman as he opened the portfolio. “The thief that the schoolboy Emil Tischbein helped to catch early this morning has been identified as a bank robber from Hanover who has been wanted for four weeks. This thief had stolen a great deal of money. And our identification bureau have given him over for trial.

“Besides that, he has made a confession. They got back most of the money, which was sewed in the lining of his clothes. Nothing but thousand-mark notes.”

“Holy cats!” said Pony Hütchen.

“The bank,” continued the officer, “has been offering a reward for the last two weeks to anyone who could trace the man.

“And as you,” he turned to Emil, “have caught the man, you get the reward. The police commissioner sends his regards and is happy to know that your ability can be rewarded in this way.”

Emil made a bow.

Then the officer took a bundle of notes from his portfolio and counted them out on the table. Aunt Martha, who was watching closely, whispered, “A thousand marks!”

“Good gracious!” cried Pony. “I give up.”

Grandmother signed a receipt. Then the policeman left. But before he went Aunt Martha gave him a big glass of cherry brandy out of Uncle’s cupboard.

Emil sat down beside his grandmother and could not say a word. The old woman put her arm around him and said, shaking her head, “It is just unbelievable! It is just unbelievable!”

Pony Hütchen jumped upon a chair, started to beat time as if she were leading a chorus, and sang, “Now we’ll invite, now we’ll invite, all the other boys for a party.”

“Yes,” said Emil, “that’s all right. But first of all—probably now—what do you think?—Mother could come to Berlin too....”