Free Little Apple by Leo Perutz

waiting-room came a short, stout, bearded man in a raincoat rather too small for him. He deposited his hat on Kohout's desk, bowed, washed his hands with imaginary soap, turned to Vit¬torin, said "Eiermann", and sat down.
    "Herr Eiermann," Kohout began, "I gather you wish to be sued for the repayment of a debt of fourteen kronen in the district court at Innsbruck. May I ask you for something on account?"
    "Why, don't you think my credit's good?" Herr Eiermann demanded.
    "Good or bad, it makes no difference," Kohout told him. "We don't give credit and we make no exceptions. Money in advance, that's our rule. You fork out, we sue. I'm not lifting a finger till I see a hundred and sixty kronen on this desk in hard cash."
    "I can't run to a hundred and sixty," Herr Eiermann replied after a pause for thought.
    "All right, I'm prepared to accommodate you. How much can you run to?"
    "A hundred at the outside."
    "Very well, make it a hundred. Fräulein Gusti, give Herr Eiermann a receipt for —"
    "But I can't raise the hundred for another three weeks."
    "Three weeks?" Kohout exclaimed. "Out of the question. How much can you raise right away, today?"
    Herr Eiermann grimaced as if he had swallowed something nasty. He was obviously in the throes of some internal convulsion.
    "I might be able to manage sixty."
    "Fräulein, give Herr Eiermann a receipt for sixty kronen and let's get this settled."
    "But I don't have the sixty kronen on me," said Herr Eiermann.
    "You don't have them on you? I guessed as much. You decline to pay, in other words?"
    "I never said that!" Herr Eiermann protested, sounding hurt.
    "I see, so you are prepared to pay. How much do you actually have on you, if I may make so bold?"
    "I'm not sure. Thirty, maybe."
    "A pleasure to do business with you," Kohout said wearily. "All right, for God's sake pay your thirty kronen and get it over."
    Herr Eiermann produced a leather briefcase of indeterminate colour, rummaged in the various compartments, and brought out three crumpled banknotes.
    Kohout took them between finger and thumb and dropped them into his open desk drawer. Then he ushered Herr Eiermann into Dr Eichkatz's office.
    Dr Eichkatz, seemingly exhausted, was seated at the desk with his eyes shut and his massive bald head propped on his hairy fists. The Virginia cigarette that dangled from his flaccid lips had gone out. His gaunt frame came to life as Herr Eier-mann walked in.
    "Herr Jonas Eiermann," Kohout announced. "Entry permit for Innsbruck, Tyrol.''
    "So you want to go to Innsbruck, do you?" said Dr Eich-katz. "What's your nationality, Herr Eiermann?"
    "I'm not Austrian," Eiermann replied.
    "I didn't ask what you aren't, I asked what you are," the lawyer boomed. "You aren't an Eskimo either, or a member of the African race, or a Mohammedan, or a cowboy, or an English viscount, or a Hindu dancing girl. You're none of those things, I realize that. Now kindly tell me what you are."
    "I'm a Polish citizen," Herr Eiermann replied, utterly intimidated.
    "At last, God be praised! So you're a Polish citizen who wants to go to Innsbruck. That'll be all, Herr Kohout," said Dr Eichkatz, and Kohout withdrew.
    The typist, who had finished her work, was single-mindedly devouring a cheese sandwich. Vit¬torin had risen and was striding up and down the room.
    "Some clients, eh?" sighed Kohout. "Haggling with Herr Eiermann was no fun. 'Pick 'em clean!' - that's what Dr Eichkatz keeps telling me, but it's easier said than done. Extracting money from a man like that is like getting blood out of a stone."
    It dawned on Kohout that Vit¬torin was growing impatient.
    "Now to business," he went on. "The folks outside can wait." He glanced at Fräulein Gusti and lowered his voice. "If only that creature would push off and leave us to talk in peace. She's usually out of here like a shot at half-past five. She's got a railwayman boyfriend - he waits for her downstairs. They're engaged, more or less, but he'll never marry