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wanted to get away from Broadway. The perfect busmanâs holiday place, because he wouldnât be restless for theatre there since the college would be more than happy to let him play around in Felixâs theatre as much or as little as he wished. He could pick up and leave off in Bradley whenever he chose. He wouldnât be staff, he would be a visitor; he wouldnât be bread, he would be cake.
    Puppchen (of course) agreed with him. She reminded Anni that Hanno had had his hemorrhage because of becoming so embroiled in Broadway. She stared down at the wide gold cuff bracelets which had arrived that day. âIt would be so good for Hanno to have a place like that,â Puppchen said.
    He had imagined her sitting just like that on the low bench in front of Felixâs fireplace, while he, in the big chair, read Montaigne. He had imagined them resting in Bradleyâs merciful sun on the stone terrace in front of Felixâs house. (Aie! That stone terrace and what had rested there.) That had led to this: that innocent happiness had led to this. Of course, it had first led to the happiest two months in Puppchenâs young life. âIâm so happy here, Hanno,â she had said. She had been happy. She had wanted to stay there and have their own baby there. And now this.
    Calm! Calm! He must not lose his head.
    This was what he believed he had not done that evening, not lost his head.
    When he knew the boy was dead, he had gone up to tell Puppchen what had happened. He had awakened her to tell her â¦ and then he hadnât been able to do it. Couldnât do it. So he had sat with her, waiting for her to go to sleep again (with the help of a sleeping pill), and he had told himself, Calm. Calm. Donât lose your head.
    He had gone downstairs again. Look, he had said to himself, the same room, Felixâs good room; your emotion lights it differently, that is all. He said to himself, I am the same Hanno. Calm.
    I told myself that if I remained calm, I would see that there was no fatal moment, no moment, that is, where the murderer chooses one course or the other. I told myself such an idea was from books. In real life, I told myself, with one hand on the telephone, it wasnât like that. If I decided not to dial the police then, I was not casting the die for a life of cops and robbers. All I would be doing, I told myself, was compounding theâwhatever the crime was. (Manslaughter, according to the K.K.K.) I would be compounding an additional something or other. I would only be breaking the law which said that the police must be informed immediately about such an accident. I would not be changing an accident into a murder.
    If I decided, I told myself, in one hour, in two hours, the next morning, to tell the police, all I would have done was break that law about not informing them at once. And all I would need to do would be to explain the delay to the police.
    I told myself that I was no poor, frightened peasant. I was no criminal tongue-tied before the police. Supposing, I decided, supposing I calmly made up my mind to hide the body in Felixâs funk hole? If it was ever found, and why should it be since nobody knew the boy was coming to the houseâthere was no connection between the boy and myself. The boy wouldnât be traced there; why should he be? But if it was found, I could then make as good a case for myself as I could make if I called the police then. It would be the same case, I told myself, the identical case.
    If the body was found, I would tell the police the truth, that it had seemed too good to pass up. Too good! I would make the police feel what I felt that evening. (Police are human beings.) I would make them weigh the alternatives as I was weighing them. I would tell them that being an actor, my job being to make people feel what I felt, it seemed easy. I could make anyone see that, in my boots, they would have done what I did.
    I was Hanno Dietrich, I told