And Rogan felt an overwhelming joy that this last time he was recognized, that his victim knew the crime for which he must die. He said, “You condemned me to death once.”
He heard the hypnotic voice say, “Rogan, Michael Rogan?” And von Osteen was smiling at him and saying, “I’m glad you’ve finally come.” He reached up and touched his furred hat. “You are far more terrible in my dreams,” he said. Rogan fired.
The pistol shot clanged through the marble corridors like some great bell. Von Osteen staggered back. He held up both hands as if to bless Rogan. Rogan fired again. The black-robed figure began to sag, the conical hat making the fall majestic, sacrilegious. People ran into the corridor from the adjoining courtrooms, and Rogan fired one last bullet into the body lying on the marbled floor. Then, with the pistol in his hand, he ran out of the side exit into the sunlit square. He was free.
He saw the waiting Mercedes just a hundred paces away and started for it. Rosalie was standing beside the car, looking tiny, as if she were at the end of a long tunnel. Rogan started running. He was really going to make it, he thought; it was all over, and he was going to make it. But a middle- aged, mustached policeman, directing traffic, had seen the gun in Rogan’s hand and rushed from his post to intercept him. The policeman was unarmed. He stood in Rogan’s path and said, “You are under arrest; you cannot brandish a weapon in public.”
Rogan brushed him aside and walked toward the Mercedes. Rosalie had disappeared now; she must be inside the car starting the motor. Rogan desperately wanted to reach her. The policeman followed him, grasping his arm, saying, “Come now, be sensible. I am a German police officer, and I place you under arrest.” He had a thick Bavarian accent that made his voice sound friendly. Rogan hit him in the face. The policeman staggered back, then ran after him clumsily, trying to herd Rogan into the Palace of Justice with his heavy body, yet afraid to use physical force because of the pistol in Rogan’s hand. “I am a police officer,” he said again, astonished, unable to believe that anyone would refuse to obey his lawful commands. Rogan turned and shot him through the chest.
The policeman fell against him, looked up into his eyes, and said, with surprise, with innocent horror,
Frozen in the sunlit square, Rogan’s own body seemed to disintegrate, the strength running out of it. But then Rosalie was beside him, taking his hand and making him run. She pushed him into the Mercedes and then roared out of the square. She drove wildly through the streets of Munich to reach the safety of their room. Rogan’s head had tilted to the right, away from her, and she saw with horror a trickle of blood seeping out of his left ear, the blood running against gravity, propelled by an inner pump gone awry.
They were at the pension. Rosalie stopped the car and helped Rogan get out. He could barely stand. She took the soaked gauze out of his left jacket pocket and held it to his mouth. His head jerked up and she could see the scarlet snake of blood trickling from his left ear. He was still clutching the Walther pistol in his right hand, and people in the street were staring at them. Rosalie led him into the building and helped him up the stairs. The spectators would surely call the police. But for some reason, Rosalie wanted him behind closed doors, shielded from everybody’s eyes. And when they were alone and safe she led Rogan to the green sofa and made him lie down and put his head in her lap.
And Rogan, feeling the ache of the silver plate in his skull, knowing he would never dream his terrible dreams again, said, “Let me rest. Let me sleep before they come.” Rosalie stroked his brow, and he could smell the fragrance of roses on her hand. “Yes,” she said. “Sleep a little.”
A short time later the Munich police entered the room and found them so. But the seven men in the high- domed room of the Munich Palace of Justice had finally killed Rogan after all. Now, ten years later, his damaged brain had exploded in a massive hemorrhage. Blood had poured from every aperture of his head-from his mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes. Rosalie sat quietly, her lap a basin filled with Rogan’s blood. As the police came forward she started to weep. Then slowly she bowed her head to bless Rogan’s cold lips with a final kiss.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The son of Italian immigrants who moved to the Hell’s Kitchen area of New York City, Mario Puzo was born on October 15, 1920. After World War II, during which he served as a U.S. Army corporal, he attended City College of New York on the G.I. Bill and worked as a freelance writer. During this period he wrote his first two novels,
He continued to write phenomenally successful novels, including
Mario Puzo died on July 2, 1999. His final novel,
