The Robber Hotzenplotz Read online

  The Robber Hotzenplotz

  Otfried Preussler

  Translated from the German by Anthea Bell

  Illustrated by F. J. Tripp

  THE NEW YORK REVIEW CHILDREN’S COLLECTION

  NEW YORK

  THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS

  435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  www.nyrb.com

  Copyright © 1962 by Thienemann in Thienemann-Esslinger Verlag, Stuttgart

  All rights reserved.

  Originally published in German as Der Räuber Hotzenplotz

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Preussler, Otfried. | Bell, Anthea, translator. | Tripp, F. J. (Franz Josef), illustrator.

  Title: The robber Hotzenplotz / by Otfried Preussler ; translated by Anthea Bell ; illustrated by F. J. Tripp.

  Other titles: Räuber Hotzenplotz. English

  Description: New York : New York Review Books, 2016. | Series: New York Review children’s collection | Originally published in Stuttgart, Germany, by K. Thienemann in 1962 under title: Der Räuber Hotzenplotz. | Summary: When a robber steals his grandmother’s musical coffee mill, Kasperl and his best friend Seppel try to catch the robber, who enlists the help of his wicked magician friend, Petrosilius Zackleman, a gluttonous villain with a weakness for fried potatoes.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015036636 (print) | LCCN 2016005036 (ebook) | ISBN 9781590179611 (hardback) | ISBN 9781590179628 (epub)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Robbers and outlaws—Fiction. | Humorous stories. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Humorous Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Law & Crime. | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / General.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.P9245 Ro 2016 (print) | LCC PZ7.P9245 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015036636

  ISBN 978-1-59017-962-8

  v1.0

  Cover design by Louise Fili Ltd.

  For a complete list of books in the New York Review Children’s Collection, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:

  Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, Suite 300, New York, NY, 10014

  The Man with Seven Knives

  A Helping Hand for the Police

  Caution—Gold!

  A Piece of Bad Luck

  Heavily Disguised

  A Pistol Full of Pepper

  A Gloomy Outlook

  Petrosilius Zackleman

  An Adventure in the Dark

  As Stupid as Possible

  Poor Seppel!

  Three Doors in the Cellar

  The Mysterious Toad

  The Open Heath

  “The Owner of the Hat”

  A Magician of his Word

  The End of Petrosilius Zackleman

  A Fairy Lady

  A Wishing Ring

  A Great Day for Sergeant Dimplemoser

  Coffee and Plum Pie

  One day Kasperl’s grandmother was sitting in the sun outside her house, grinding coffee. Kasperl and his friend Seppel had given her a new coffee mill for her birthday. It was a musical coffee mill; they had invented it themselves. When Grandmother turned the handle, it played “Nuts in May.” “Nuts in May” was the tune Grandmother liked best.

  Now that Grandmother had her new coffee mill she enjoyed grinding coffee beans so much that she drank twice as much coffee as before. For the second time that day she had filled up the mill with coffee beans. She was just going to turn the handle again when suddenly she heard a rustling, snapping noise in the bushes.

  “Hand that thing over!” said a rough voice.

  Grandmother looked up in surprise. She settled her glasses on her nose.

  A strange man was standing beside her. He had a bushy black beard and a terrible hooked nose. He wore a slouch hat with a crooked feather in it, and he held a pistol in his right hand. With his left hand he pointed at Grandmother’s coffee mill.

  “Hand it over, I tell you.”

  But Grandmother was not afraid.

  “I beg your pardon!” she said indignantly. “How did you get in—and what do you mean by shouting at me like that? Who are you, anyway?”

  The stranger laughed so much that the feather in his hat wagged to and fro.

  “Don’t you read the papers, Grandmother? I’ll give you three guesses.”

  For the first time Grandmother noticed that the man had a sword and seven knives stuck in his broad leather belt. She turned pale.

  “Are you—would you by any chance be the robber Hotzenplotz?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “That’s me!” said the man with the seven knives. “Don’t make a song and dance about it. I don’t like fuss. Give me that coffee mill at once.”

  “But it doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” said the robber Hotzenplotz. “Just do as I tell you. I’m going to count to three . . .”

  And he raised his pistol.

  “Please don’t!” said Grandmother. “You can’t take my coffee mill. I had it for my birthday. When I turn the handle it plays a lovely tune.”

  “Exactly!” growled the robber Hotzenplotz. “I would like a musical coffee mill, too. Hand it over, now.”

  Grandmother heaved a deep sigh and gave him the coffee mill. What else could she do?

  Every day the newspapers were full of stories about the wicked robber Hotzenplotz. All the people were terrified of him, even Sergeant Dimplemoser—and Sergeant Dimplemoser was a policeman.

  “There now, that’s better!”

  With a grunt of satisfaction, Hotzenplotz stowed Grandmother’s coffee mill away in his knapsack. Then he closed his left eye. He glared at Grandmother with his right eye.

  “Now, you listen to me,” he said. “You’re to stay sitting on the bench here. Don’t move an inch. Sit and count to nine hundred and ninety-nine under your breath.”

  “What for?” asked Grandmother.

  “I’ll tell you what for,” replied Hotzenplotz. “When you’ve finished counting nine hundred and ninety-nine you can call for help. I don’t mind. But not a moment sooner, do you hear me? Or you’ll be sorry for it. All right?”

  “All right,” whispered Grandmother.

  “And no cheating.”

  As a parting gesture the robber Hotzenplotz waved his pistol at her again. Then he swung himself over the garden fence and disappeared.

  Kasperl’s grandmother sat on the seat outside her cottage, white as a sheet and trembling. The robber was gone, and so was her coffee mill.

  It was a long time before Grandmother could begin counting.

  Obediently she counted to nine hundred and ninety-nine.

  One, two, three, four . . . not too fast, not too slow.

  But she was so upset that she kept counting wrong. She had to go back to the beginning at least a dozen times.

  When at last she got to nine hundred and ninety-nine she cried “Help!” in a piercing voice.

  Kasperl and his friend Seppel were out shopping. They had been to the baker’s to buy a bag of flour, some yeast, and two pounds of sugar. Next they were going to the dairy to buy some cream. It was Sunday tomorrow, and on Sunday Grandmother always had plum pie and whipped cream. Kasperl and Seppel looked forward to that plum pie all week.

  “Do you know what?” said Kasperl. “I’d like to be Emperor of Constantinople.”

  “What for?” asked Seppel.

  “Because then I could eat plum pie and whipped cream every day.”

  “Does the Emperor of Constantinople have plum pie and whipped cream every day?”

  Kasperl shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. But that’s what I’d do if I were Emperor of Constantinople.�
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  “So would I!” sighed Seppel.

  “So would you?” inquired Kasperl. “Oh no, that wouldn’t work!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because there’s only one Emperor of Constantinople, not two. So if I’m Emperor of Constantinople, you can’t be Emperor of Constantinople too. You must see that!”

  “Hm,” said Seppel. “We’d just have to take turns then. One week you, and the next week me!”

  “Not a bad idea,” Kasperl agreed. “Not bad at all.”

  All of a sudden they heard a distant cry for help.

  “Listen!” said Seppel in alarm. “Wasn’t that Grandmother?”

  “Yes, it was Grandmother!” said Kasperl. “I wonder what the matter is.”

  “I don’t know,” said Seppel. “Maybe there’s something wrong . . .”

  “Quick, let’s go and see!”

  Kasperl and Seppel turned round and ran home. As they reached Grandmother’s garden gate they nearly ran into Sergeant Dimplemoser.

  He, too, had heard someone calling for help, so he came hurrying along.

  “Can’t you look where you’re going?” he said crossly. “You’re obstructing me in the execution of my duty. It’s against the law.”

  He strode into the garden after Kasperl and Seppel. They found Grandmother flat on her back on the lawn by the garden seat. She was lying perfectly still.

  “Is it very bad?” asked Seppel, hiding his eyes.

  “No,” said Kasperl. “I think she’s only fainted.”

  They carried Grandmother carefully into the sitting-room and put her down on the sofa.

  Kasperl sprinkled her hands and face with cold water. The water revived her.

  “Just think what’s happened!” said Grandmother.

  “What has happened?” asked Kasperl and Seppel.

  “I’ve been robbed!”

  “You don’t say!” interrupted Sergeant Dimplemoser. “Robbed, were you? Who by?”

  “It was the robber Hotzenplotz.”

  “Wait a minute. I’ll have to take a statement.”

  The sergeant busily opened his notebook and pulled out a pencil.

  “Start at the beginning, Grandmother. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and speak clearly and not too fast, so that I can write it all down. As for you two—” he turned to Kasperl and Seppel, “you just keep quiet until we’ve finished with the statement. Remember I’m an officer of the law. Is that clear?”

  So Grandmother told the whole story. Sergeant Dimplemoser wrote it down in his notebook, looking very important.

  “Shall I get my beautiful new coffee mill back now?” asked Grandmother, when he had finally finished writing and shut his notebook.

  “Of course,” said the sergeant.

  “How long will it take?”

  “Well—that depends. Of course, we have to catch the robber Hotzenplotz first. Unfortunately, we don’t even know where he hides out yet. He’s a sly one. He’s been running circles round the police for two and a half years now. But we’ll get him one of these days, never fear! We place the utmost reliance upon the zealous co-operation of the public.”

  “You place what where?” asked Kasperl.

  Sergeant Dimplemoser quelled him with a glance.

  “Are you deaf, Kasperl?” he asked. “We place the utmost reliance upon the zealous co-operation of the public!”

  “What does it mean?”

  “It means that people must help us get on the thief’s trail.”

  “Oh!” said Kasperl. “Would it help if anyone actually caught the thief?”

  “Well, of course, that would be best of all,” agreed Sergeant Dimplemoser, stroking his moustache. “But who do you think is going to try anything as dangerous as that?”

  “We are!” said Kasperl. “Seppel and me—are you coming too, Seppel?”

  “Of course I am,” said Seppel. “We have to help the police. We’ll catch the robber Hotzenplotz.”

  Grandmother was rather worried, but Kasperl and Seppel stuck to their guns. They were going to catch the robber Hotzenplotz and get Grandmother’s coffee mill back. The only drawback was that they didn’t know where to find the robber’s den.

  “We’ll soon find out!” said Kasperl. They spent Sunday morning thinking. Then all of a sudden Kasperl began to laugh.

  “What’s the joke?” asked Seppel.

  “Well, now I know what to do.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll soon see.”

  Kasperl and Seppel found an empty crate in Grandmother’s cellar. It had once held potatoes. They carried it into the garden. Then they shovelled fine white sand into it.

  “Now what?”

  “Now we’ll put the lid on.”

  They put the lid on the crate, and Kasperl fetched a dozen nails and a hammer.

  “There—nail it down, Seppel. As hard as you can.”

  Seppel nodded and set to work. With the very first stroke of the hammer he hit his thumb. Bother! How it hurt! However, he clenched his teeth and went on hammering bravely, like an expert nailer-down-of-potato-crate-lids.

  Meanwhile, Kasperl was getting the big paintbrush from the attic and mixing a pot of red paint. When he came back with the paintpot and the brush, Seppel had just hit his thumb for the fifty-seventh time. But the lid was firmly nailed down.

  “Now, watch this!” said Kasperl.

  He loaded the brush with red paint, and, much to Seppel’s astonishment, wrote on the potato crate, in huge bright letters:

  What could it mean? Seppel racked his brains, but he could not make head or tail of it.

  “Do you know what?” said Kasperl. “You could be making yourself useful by fetching the handcart from the shed, instead of just standing there sucking your thumb.”

  Seppel went off to the shed and wheeled out the handcart. Then he had to help Kasperl lift the crate. It was hard work; they were puffing and blowing like grampuses.

  “Oh dear!” groaned Seppel. “And on a Sunday, too!”

  As if things weren’t bad enough already! There was no plum pie and whipped cream in Grandmother’s house today—Grandmother was too sad about her coffee mill to make plum pie. Now they had to work like slaves too.

  In the end they did it.

  “Now what?” asked Seppel.

  “Now for the important part.”

  Kasperl took a gimlet out of his pocket and bored a little hole in the bottom of the crate. When he removed the gimlet, sand trickled out of the hole.

  “There,” said Kasperl with satisfaction. “That should do the trick.”

  Then he sharpened a matchstick with his penknife and stopped up the hole he had just bored.

  Seppel had been watching, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I just don’t see the point of that.”

  “Don’t you?” said Kasperl, laughing. “It’s quite simple. Tomorrow morning the two of us will wheel the crate out into the woods on the handcart. Hotzenplotz will be lying in wait. When he sees us coming he’ll read the words on our crate and he’ll think there’s gold inside.”

  “Oho,” said Seppel. “Then what?”

  “Well, then he’ll want to have the crate, of course. We’ll let him jump out at us, and then we’ll run away. Hotzenplotz will pounce on the crate and take it—well . . . where do you think he’ll take it?”

  “How should I know, Kasperl? I’m not the robber Hotzenplotz.”

  “Why, it’s easy, Seppel! He’ll take it to his den. But on the way the sand will be trickling out of the hole in the crate. So there’ll be a little trail of sand going through the wood. If we want to find the robber’s den we only have to follow the trail and it will lead us straight to him. What do you think of that?”

  “Wonderful,” said Seppel. “What a good idea. But don’t forget to take out the matchstick before we run away.”

  “Don’t worry!” said Kasperl. “I shall remember all right.”


  And he made a big knot in his handkerchief.

  The robber Hotzenplotz worked very hard at his job. During the summer he got up at six o’clock sharp every morning. He left his cave at half past seven, at the latest, and went off to work. This particular morning he was lying in wait behind the gorse bushes on the outskirts of the wood. He had been there since eight o’clock, watching the road through his telescope. Now it was half past nine and still there was no one to be robbed.

  “Times are bad!” grumbled the robber Hotzenplotz. “If things go on like this I’ll have to look around for another job, that’s what it will come to. Robbery doesn’t pay much in the long run, and it’s hard work too.”

  He was just going to take a pinch of snuff (though he seldom allowed himself to take snuff in working hours) when he heard a handcart creaking along the road.

  “Oho!” thought Hotzenplotz. “I’ve not been wasting my time after all.” Instead of reaching for his snuff box he raised his telescope again.

  On the road, two people and a handcart were just coming around the corner. There was a big crate on the cart. It looked heavy. The two people were struggling to push the cart along.

  What’s more, one of them was Kasperl! It was easy to tell him by his pointed cap.

  Who was the other one?

  Well, if one of them was Kasperl, then the other could only be his friend Seppel. Even the robber Hotzenplotz knew that.

  “I do wish I knew what was in that crate!” he thought.

  But wait—wasn’t there a notice on the crate? What did those bright red letters say. . . ?

  “Caution—Gold!” read the robber Hotzenplotz. He read it a second time and then a third time to make sure he had it right.

  No, there was no mistake. He had struck lucky at last. Perhaps he needn’t change his job after all.

  Swiftly Hotzenplotz pulled the pistol out of his belt and cocked it. He let Kasperl, Seppel and the cart come within a few feet of him. Then he took a great leap and jumped out into the road.

  “Hands up,” bellowed Hotzenplotz, “or I fire!”