THE RING

You have gained a ring.

What of it? ‘Tis a figure, a symbol, say;

A thing’s sign: now for the thing signified.

MULLER first saw the ring at an auction. There were many auctions in those days. Men, even vanquished men, must eat. So they disposed of their most cherished possessions for staggering sums—sums which were actually a pittance, because in postwar Germany, the Germany of 1923, it cost three billion marks to mail a postcard, ten billion for a loaf of bread.

It was an economy of chaos where housewives and tradesmen haggled in figures formerly used only by astronomers computing the distances to stars. Lifetime savings were drowned in the flood of presses that gushed forth new currency as fast as the old became valueless. Women trundled to market barrowloads of print which—if the shopper hurried—might buy enough food for one good meal. The walls of a room could be papered with marks less costly than wallpaper itself.

Muller was more fortunate than most of his countrymen. After the war, the New York daily for which he had been correspondent gave him back his old job, that of covering the news from the bedlam that was Berlin. He was paid, not in reichsmarks, but in good American gold. Thus, though the pay was meager, he got by …

The ring was a curious piece: antique gold, ponderously conceived and elaborately executed in a somehow weirdly macabre serpentine design. Why he bid on it, Muller did not know. Possibly because its grotesquerie fascinated him. Or because a latent imperialism was titillated by the auctioneer’s provocative hint that it had been “a Crown piece, gentlemen. From the Kaiser’s own personal collection.” Or perhaps simply because the ring was offered, he had the money with which to bid, and he had never been able to resist the challenge of a public auction.

Whatever his original reason, it was certainly this latter which sharpened his interest when he heard three successive bids topped by a thin voice at the far end of the hall. For Muller thus to be thwarted was to double his interest in an objective. Consequently he called his new offering, “One trillion marks!” in a tone of cold determination which he hoped might discourage his competitor.

After a moment’s pause the thin voice raised the bid to one and a quarter. So Muller’s attempt did not bring the desired result. But it did bring him a visitor. Even as the auctioneer’s gaze queried Muller’s response to this new offer, the crowd parted and a small man thrust his way to Muller’s side.

“If you please, sir—” he said.

Muller was surprised to discover his competitor was a member of the clergy; an old man, a priest.

“Yes, Father?” he said.

“The ring—” faltered the priest. “I beg of you, sir … bid upon it no longer.”

Muller stared at the small man curiously.

“But, really—” he began.

“It is of the utmost importance. Believe me, sir, you cannot, must not—”

Muller roused suddenly to the realization that the auctioneer, hearing no higher bid, had twice cried the sale of the ring to his competitor. “Going!” he was calling. “Going for one and a quarter—”

Barely in time Muller stopped him.

“Two!” he cried.

The auctioneer smiled and began shaking the new bid like a banner before his audience. The priest stared helplessly at Muller. “Please, sir!” he repeated. “You do not understand. This ring, it is—” He turned abruptly. “Two and a half!” he called.

Muller stirred fretfully. “But, why?” he demanded. “Why is it so important to you? You, a man of the cloth … what do you want with jewelry? What earthly reason—?”

“I can’t explain now,” begged the priest. “There is no time. It is no earthly reason, but … another. You must not buy it. No one must buy the ring but myself. There is a history, a legend–-.”

He chose a poor argument. His words only succeeded in increasing Muller’s desire to own the piece. Muller no longer doubted that the ring indeed somehow had found its way into this cheap auction house from the erstwhile Kaiser’s coffers. It was perhaps an imperial signet, or some rare and ancient objet d’art, possibly a notorious poison-ring from medieval days. Whatever its history or purpose, Muller was determined to have it if the price lay within his range.

Quietly he said, “I’m sorry, Father. But I, too, want the ring.” And turning to the bench, “Three trillion!” he called.

The little priest watched miserably as Muller went forward to claim his purchase, pressing through a crowd which hummed with pleased excitement. There is magic in numbers, and three trillions of marks sounded like a fabulous price … even though its true value was no more than thirty American dollars.

The ring was a trifle large, but Muller wore it home. He and his wife rented a small furnished flat in a middle-class residential district. It was a wretched place, but the best they could afford. The drains were bad, the roof leaked when it rained, and the apartment was sadly in need of both painting and repapering. Muller had mentioned these things several times to his landlord, but with no success. A firm demand might have brought results. But Muller, in simple truth, was rather afraid of the landlord, a fierce old Prussian with brows like thunderclouds and great mustachios bristling with challenge.

The neighborhood, never better than mediocre, was not improved by postwar conditions. Everywhere was hunger and poverty, near-anarchy. The worst problem was that of the soldiers returned from the front. For four long years they had dwelt with death and violence; they did not now find it easy to compromise with a fate that brought worn heroes home to starve.

Freed from military restraint they had become a law unto themselves. When they disliked a thing they spoke up openly and loudly against it. When they were angered, they did not argue … they struck. When they were hungry, they ate … and where or how they got food was only their concern and that of those from whom they stole.

Thus it was not surprising that as Muller turned into his street he heard cries of anger and fear, and as he neared a greengrocer’s tiny shop he saw three ex-soldiers assaulting its owner, his neighbor.

What is surprising is that Muller did something about it. In those days it was wisdom under such circumstances to bawl for the police, seek shelter from the thieves’ vengeance, and hope for the best. Had Muller stopped to think twice he might have done just that, for he was not a notably courageous man.

But it was instinct, not logic, which governed his reflexes. He raced suddenly forward, shouting as he ran, and before he himself realized what he was doing he was fifth party to the little drama.

The bandits whirled, reaching for guns. But somehow it did not occur to Muller to be afraid. His brain was inflamed with a fierce and almost holy rage. It was as if some inner conviction of right imbued him with a power transcending petty fears. He knew a reckless, half-impatient contempt for his antagonists; for an instant he understood the mad gallantry of Don Quixote striking spur against the whirling windsails, knew the impulse which caused de Bergerac, beset by a hundred hirelings, to laugh defiance at their blackguard blades, crying, “Bring me giants!”

Sheer impetus swept him forward, and before the nearest thug cried warning Muller was upon him, in a single motion smashing the Luger from his grasp, scooping it up, and turning it against the befuddled trio.

It occurred to him later that his speech and actions were like something from a very poor play.

“Drop your guns, all of you,” he cried. “And raise your hands. I’ll shoot the first scoundrel who moves!”

But, melodrama or not, his command brought instant response. The thieves froze in their tracks, moving no muscle until the police came. The greengrocer, beside himself with gratitude, wept salty thanks.

Muller was, he could not deny, considerably set up over his little adventure. Rather complacently he conceded he had acquitted himself rather well in a difficult situation. As he climbed the steps to his flat, he was mentally reviewing the story he should tell Hilda. With proper modesty, to be sure, but at the same time making it quite clear that he had struck a neatly heroic figure in the action.

Unfortunately, his tale was delayed in the telling. Hilda met him at the door. She had been crying. Wordlessly she held forth a slip of paper, a cablegram from his New York employers. Or erstwhile employers. For that, in effect, was the cable’s message. In crisp sentences it informed Muller that effective immediately his guaranteed monthly salary was discontinued, that in the future he would be paid a flat word rate plus cable costs on such news items as were accepted.

Muller stared at the devastating notice, stricken. It meant for him, as well he knew, and as his employers must also have known, utter disaster. It was only the assurance of a regular income that enabled him to exist under Berlin’s precarious economy. With such guarantee removed, he no longer had the means with which to buy his way into those furtive inner channels of diplomacy which were his news sources; such bribes became pure speculation. With the additional cost of prepaying cable fees which might—but also might not!—be assumed at the other end, his entire job became a desperate gamble with fate that each week would offer at least one newsworthy story.

He wet dry lips. “When did this come?” he asked.

“An hour ago,” said Hilda. Her white lips thinned to angry lines. “It’s your own fault,” she accused. “You brought this on yourself. You, with your dreary stories of breadlines and riots, poverty, misery—”

“I write the truth,” said Muller. “Those things exist. They’re news.”

“Not the news America wants to hear,” she retorted. “The war is over. They want to forget about it. They’re not vengeful. They don’t want to gloat forever over the downfall of a former enemy. I’ve told you all along you should send them bright stories, gay society comments, inside hints on Government scandals.”

Muller only half heard her. His thoughts were seething at the rank injustice of this message. He neither would, nor wished to, argue with Hilda the truth of her accusations. All he knew was that a dreadful wrong had been committed. He had been a good correspondent, faithfully performing a newspaper man’s proper function: that of reporting vital news events as he sees them. To be cast thus to the wolves without being allowed to speak a word in his own behalf roused in him a sudden fury completely submerging his first sick sense of despair. His hands clenched at his sides and a fierce rebellion trembled through him. His anger was a wave that bore on its crest defiance and a sense of power illimitable.

He crumpled the cablegram in one fist, hurled it to the floor, strode to the telephone.

“—your own fault,” complained Hilda, behind him. “If you had followed my advice—”

Muller spoke without turning. His voice was steel cold. “Shut up!” he snapped. Then, to the operator’s murmured, “Bitte?” he demanded, “Long distance. Overseas division.”

Hilda’s face was white. Her eyes had widened and she stood with the back of one hand pressed to her lips as if he had struck her. It occurred to Muller in a dim, abstracted fashion that, in effect, that was what he had done. Never before had he raised his voice to her in such a manner. He was an easy-going man; he had been an easy-going, submissive husband. But no more.

Her lips worked mutely for a moment. Then, “What are you doing, Otto?” she asked. “Whom are you calling?”

“New York.”

“You … you’re going to ask them to reconsider?”

He shook his head savagely. “No!” he said. “Damn them! I’m going to show them … Yes?” He turned back to the phone as the operator’s voice informed him he had his first connection. “New York,” he said.

Hilda started to speak, then said nothing. Muller knew what she was thinking. Only twice before had he ever spoken to New York, and then at the expense of his employers. The cost of such a call was tremendous; it loomed doubly so now his every source of income was cut off. Hilda knew how little ready cash they had on hand. Yet with eyes fixed upon him in a new, strange wonderment, she held her peace.

Muller did not call his old employers. He called, instead, a news syndicate of international renown. The call was pure madness. Muller was a very young journalist; theirs one of the oldest and greatest news-gathering organizations in the world. If they knew Muller’s name at all it was but casually, for ninety percent of his stories to America had appeared under the anonymous byline: “By cable from our special correspondent in Berlin.”

Yet a miracle transpired that day. Not only did his call go through; it found the ear of the Foreign Editor himself. He listened as Muller explained briefly who he was, his background, his capabilities. Then the editor spoke, and the impossible happened.

“Muller, eh?” he said. “Heard of you. Well, Muller, you called at just the right time. Two hours ago, in a staff conference, we decided to resume German coverage on a prewar basis. We’re coordinating the activities of all our correspondents over there and establishing a branch office in Berlin. Think you’re capable of handling the job?”

Bring me giants!

“I am,” said Muller calmly.

“Very well,” said the cool, metallic voice. “We’ll give you a try. Rent an office immediately, equip it, and send us an itemized account of expenses. We’ll cable you the names of your new staff and résumé of your duties. Oh, by the way, about salary: the job pays a hundred a week.”

“A hundred—”

“More if you make good,” said his new employer. “Goodbye, Muller.”

And the connection was broken.

Muller turned to his wife, weak with belated comprehension of his own daring, but transcendently happy. She read the triumph in his eyes and moved forward.

“Otto—” she said hesitantly. “Otto—”

He told her then … or started to. He didn’t finish, for she moved still closer, laying her cheek against his. “I’m sorry, Otto,” she whispered. “You were right. Forgive me, my clear.”

It was luck, of course. Such a stroke of fortune as comes but once in a lifetime. Muller learned afterward that Henderby, the Foreign Editor, was one of those crisp Yankees who pride themselves on snap decisions. A spur-of-the-moment man. To that fact, and that the need for such a man as Muller had arisen two short hours before he called, Muller owed his job.

On the strength of his newly won affluence Muller—after telling off the outraged landlord in no uncertain language—gave up his old flat and rented a new one in a better residential section, transferring to a hotel until the new apartment should be ready for occupancy.

It was the first time in their married years that he and Hilda had been able to afford even the minor luxuries of life. Hilda, thrilled as a bride, hurled herself joyfully into the task of furnishing a home to her heart’s desire, while Muller turned himself to the equally pleasant job of setting up press headquarters.

A week later they moved into their new apartment. The promised repairs were not yet quite complete. The woodwork had been repainted, the floors sanded and waxed till they glistened, but the paperhangers were a day behind schedule. The landlord apologized for this, blaming the decorator, an ancient Bavarian.

He in turn shrugged and complained, “Grosser Gott, what can I do with the labor situation what it is? Such worthless, good-for-nothing help I get these days—”

He jerked his head contemptuously toward a shiftless assistant lethargically setting the scaffold; a lean, pimply young man with sullen eyes.

Hilda laughed. “It doesn’t matter, Otto. They’ll be finished by tonight. And then we’ll have our own lovely home … at last.” She kissed him with the cleft preoccupation of a wife whose thoughts are on more important matters. “Now run along to work. I’ll see you at suppertime.”

“Yes,” said Muller. “Goodbye, my dear.” Then, remembering, he stripped the ring from his finger. “By the way, if you should go clown the street this afternoon, leave this with Pfieuger, the jeweler. It’s a trifle large; I’ve almost lost it several times.”

Then he went to his office.

He was surprised to find a visitor awaiting him. It was the little priest of the auction house. He stirred forward eagerly as Muller entered.

“Herr Muller?” he said. “I’m so glad to find you at last. I have been trying all over town to learn your name. The auctioneers didn’t know, and it was terribly important that—” He stopped suddenly. His eyes, seeking Muller’s hands, clouded. His voice was strident with a note of panic. “The … the ring, Herr Muller?” he demanded. “You have not lost it? Or given it away?”

“No,” said Muller. “The ring is at my home. It is to be repaired.”

“Thank God!” said the priest. “It is about the ring I have come. Herr Muller, please … it was three trillion marks you paid for the ring, was it not? That day I could not compete against you. But when necessity prods, even a priest must find money. I have scraped together all I could get—

He drew from his pocket a tumbled pile of bills, set them on the desk between them beseechingly.

“Not three, but ten trillion, Herr Muller. Will you take it for the ring, accepting at once a handsome profit … and the thanks of an aged man?”

“But, my dear sir,” said Muller a bit impatiently, “I don’t wish to sell the ring. It is not a question of money. I bought it because I liked it, wanted it. And besides, it has become a sort of … well, you might say good-luck piece—”

“No!” interrupted his visitor sharply. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Not good luck, no! The reverse.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Muller querulously.

The small man sighed deeply, seeming to ponder deep within himself for a long moment.

“My son,” he said at last, “I suppose I shall have to tell you. I did not want to if it could be avoided. But since you refuse to part with the ring I must tell you why I want it so desperately. Why neither you nor any other man must be permitted to hold it in his possession.”

“Any man?” repeated Muller. “But you want it.”

The old man met his gaze firmly. There was unwavering candor in his eyes and in his voice.

“Not for myself, my son. I want the ring in order that I may exorcise … and destroy it.”

Muller stared at him in blank bewilderment. There was something in the priest’s tone which inveighed with all the dread solemnity of a High Mass.

“Exorcise … and destroy?” he repeated.

The priest nodded, choosing his words with deliberate care.

“What I am about to say you may find strange, Herr Muller. We of the Church are straightforward men, living —or striving to—in the uncovert ways of righteousness and light. We attempt to discourage mysticism and superstition; these are false branches on the tree of knowledge.

“Yet we are not fools. We who have delved into the story of mankind know that all things are not easily explainable, that all things are not clean and godly. There stir in the world today, as in that Garden millennia ago, purposes dark and subtle, designed toward the overthrow of all that is good and noble in mankind.

“These are the forces of evil. Such a force is embodied in the ring you own.”

“Force,” said Muller, “embodied in an inanimate object? But, Father—”

The priest lifted a lean white hand in admonition.

“Be not too swift to scoff, my son. We have ample reason to believe that some inanimate objects have a life peculiarly their own. The legend of the power of Solomon’s Seal —which is to say Solomon’s signet—is too widespread to brook easy dismissal. There was the rod of Moses, and the cup of Joseph of Arimathaea, the Grail from which Our Lord drank on the last eve. These things are symbols of divine strength and truth. But they have their evil counterpart in other things. The witches’ broom, the necromancer’s wand, and … the Ring of Judas.”

“Ring of Judas?” repeated Muller.

The old man nodded soberly.

“That is what I have called it. Studying the ring’s tragic history, I have traced its ownership—with many gaps—back through the centuries to that unhappy traitor. Where he got it, if from some still more ancient bearer of misery or no, I have no way of guessing.

“But since the day greed stirred Iscariot to sell earth’s Saviour for a slender purse of coins, the history of this ring’s ownership is one of terrible, brief grandeur followed by black tragedy.

“I do not know how many men have worn the ring. But certain names I do know. From writings I have read, from ancient paintings whereupon is depicted the serpentine coil of power. Caesar Augustus, Tiberius and Nero … these one time owned the ring. Later, fierce Attila, Saladin and Genghis Khan.

“Philip of Spain wore the ring when his golden galleons scourged the seven seas. It weighted the Prussian Frederick’s rheumy fingers when he set a world ablaze, and its evil aura inspired Napoleon to conquest and destruction. Lately, as the auctioneer truly told, it was the possession of Wilhelm of Hohenzollern. And today,” he finished somberly, “the ring is yours … and the evil power thereof.”

“But the power of this ring?” asked Muller. “What is this evil?”

“Must you ask, my son? Do you not see the dreadful parallel in the lives of all those men? This is the curse of Iscariot’s ring: that lie who wears it shall aspire and win to world-shaking greatness. The strength to sway men’s minds is his, and power illimitable with which to achieve his purposes.

“But always, at the end, shall this power be warped to a design of grief and misery for mankind. And as for the owner himself, his life shall end in violent death or bleak despair.”

Muller stared at the old man. The story was incredible, of course. Fantastic. Or … was it? Muller found himself recalling suddenly the small but curious incidents which had befallen him recently.

There was that episode with the thieves. Never before had he known such vast, almost contemptuous sense of power as during that short interlude. Then his relationship with Hilda, which during this past week had subtlely changed somehow. A small thing, but it was he who directed, now; she who obeyed.

More important was the matter of his new job, its winning and its scope. Power. Power not measurable in world-shaking emphasis yet, true. But … later?

Reluctantly, he found himself acknowledging there might be something in what the old priest warned. It occurred to him suddenly that today, for the first time since he had won and worn the ring, he felt more placid. During the past week he had been possessed of a strange new confidence in himself, in his judgment, his capabilities; he felt an almost headstrong cocksureness of his own rightness in all things. Was this the power of the ring? Muller did not know. But a gathering doubt warned him that it was.

There was another point … irrelevant perhaps, but significant. The purchase price of the ring. A fantastic price of three trillion marks. It had no apparent analogy in the ring’s history. But when one stopped to consider it, that sum—translated into older terms—amounted to precisely the amount for which the ring’s first owner had sold the life of his Friend. Thirty pieces of silver.

It was this last thought which made Muller’s decision for him. He was not a specially devout man, but he tried to be logical. And it seemed to him that here was evidence too weighty to be lightly dismissed.

By acceding to the old priest’s request, he had nothing to lose, but—perhaps—everything to gain. If the ring were in truth a ring of power it had achieved enough of its purpose for him. He held now all the rank and authority to which he aspired. He felt no urge to become a molder of destinies.

He nodded. “Very well, Father,” he said. “I don’t pretend to understand, and I’m not sure I believe … quite. But you shall have the ring.”

At Muller’s apartment they found Hilda wearily but happily erasing the last vestiges of the decorator’s labors. She was embarrassed at meeting a clergyman in her dishabille, but Muller cut short her apologies.

“The ring, Hilda? Did you take it to Pfleuger?”

“Not yet. I had planned to go later this afternoon. I’ll get it for you.”

She disappeared into the bedroom recently cleared by the old Bavarian, who was now methodically removing the paraphernalia of his trade. She returned in a moment, puzzled.

“It doesn’t seem to be there, Otto.”

“It must be there,” said Muller.

“I know. I put it on the bureau. I remember perfectly.”

“It can’t have grown legs and walked away,” said Muller impatiently. “There’s been no one in the house but you and—”

He nodded toward the old paperhanger, who shuffled forward.

“Your good wife is right, Herr Muller,” he said. “It was on the bureau. I saw it myself, when my assistant—” He stopped suddenly, his old eyes abruptly clouding. Muller read the meaning of his hesitation.

“Yes? Your assistant. Where is he?”

“He is … gone,” said the old man.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“I don’t know. This was his last day with me. He was going home … somewhere in the south of Germany.”

“Then he took it!” stormed Muller. “He is a common, pilfering thief.”

The old Bavarian twisted his hands in honest agony. “Maybe so, Herr Muller. I cannot say. I did not know him well. He was a new man … an ex-soldier. We cannot pick and choose these days.”

“Of course,” interrupted the priest gently. “It is not your fault, my friend. But we must find him, get back the ring. Where is his home?”

The old man shook his head. “That I do not know.”

“But, confound it,” said Muller, “you must know something about him. Who is he? We’ll set the police after him. What was his name?”

The Bavarian whined, “It is not my fault, Herr Muller. I am sorry. I will pay for the ring. I did not know—”

“His name, old windbag! Tell us!”

“Name?” said the old man. “Ah, yes … his name. Ach, he is a bad one, that one. I curse the day I ever laid eyes upon him … common little thief! His name is Shicklgruber. But it is Hitler he calls himself these days … Adolf Hitler.”

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