Six Graves To Munich

Rogan smiled back. “Have supper with me here tomorrow evening,” he said. “You understand I have to make some arrangements. I do not keep everything I need in this room.”

Eric Freisling smiled slyly and said, “We understand.” He wanted Rogan to know that they had searched the suite; he wanted him to know that they were not men to be trifled with.

Rogan looked at him steadily. “Come tomorrow evening at eight,” he said. He ushered them out of the room.

That night he could not respond to Rosalie, and when she finally fell asleep, Rogan lit a cigarette and waited for the familiar nightmare to come. He was on his third cigarette when it started.

And then in his mind a dark curtain was drawn aside and he was in the high-domed room of the Munich Palace of Justice. Far away in the limitless shadows of his brain seven men took their eternal shapes. Five of them were blurred; but two-Eric and Hans Freisling-were very clear, very distinct, as if they were standing in a spotlight. Eric’s face was as he had looked into it that fatal day, the slack heavy mouth, the sly, snapping black eyes, the thick nose, and stamped over all the features, a brutish cruelty.

The face of Hans Freisling was similar to Eric’s, but with cunning rather than cruelty in the expression. It was Hans who advanced on the young prisoner Rogan and encouraged him with false kindliness. It was Hans who looked directly into Rogan’s eyes and reassured him. “Dress in those nice clothes,” Hans had whispered. “We are going to set you free. The Americans are winning the war and some day you can help us. Remember how we spared your life. Change your clothes now. Quickly.”

And then, trustfully, Rogan changed his clothing; gratefully he smiled at the seven murderers of his wife. When Hans Freisling put out his hand in friendship, the young prisoner Rogan reached out to grasp it. Only then did the faces of the five other men become clear with their furtive, guilty grins. And he thought: Where is the seventh man? And at that moment the brim of his new hat tilted forward over his eyes. He felt the cold metal of the gun barrel against the back of his neck. He felt his hair bristle with terror. And just before the bullet exploded in his skull he heard his cry for mercy, the long shrieking “Ahhhhhhhh.” And the last thing he saw was Hans Freisling’s sly smile of delight.

He must have cried out loud. Rosalie was awake. His whole body was shaking, absolutely out of control. Rosalie got up out of bed, and using a smooth cloth towel, she wiped his face with cooling alcohol. Then she bathed his whole body with it. Next, she ran the tub full of hot water and made him sit in the steaming bath. She sat on its marble rim as he soaked. Rogan could feel his body stop shaking, the pounding of blood against the metal plate in his skull easing off.

“Where did you learn all this?” he asked her.

Rosalie smiled. “The last three years in the asylum I was used as a nursing aide. I was almost well then. But it took me three years to get up enough courage to run away.”

Rogan took her cigarette and puffed on it. “Why didn’t they release you?”

She smiled down on him sadly. “They had no one to release me to,” she said. “I have no one in the world.” She paused for a long moment. “Except you.”

The following day was a very busy one for Rogan. He gave Rosalie five hundred dollars’ worth of marks and sent her out shopping. Then he went out to do some necessary chores. Making sure he was not followed, he drove to the outskirts of Berlin and parked the Mercedes. He went into a pharmacy and bought a small funnel and some chemicals. At a hardware store he bought wires, a small glass mixing bowl, nails, tape, and a few tools. He drove the Mercedes to a deserted side street, its ruins not yet rebuilt, and worked on the interior of the car for almost three hours. He disconnected all the wiring that operated the rear brake lights, and ran other wires into the car trunk. He bored holes into the airtight trunk, and then put tiny hollow rubber tubing into the holes. He mixed the chemicals, then put them in the small funnel and placed it over the piece of hollow tubing that now came up from the floor to the steering wheel. It was all very ingenious, and Rogan hoped it would work. He shrugged. If it didn’t, he’d have to use the pistol and its silencer again. And that could be dangerous. It would hook him up with the other killings when the police compared ballistic tests. Rogan shrugged again. The hell with it, he thought. By the time they got all the evidence together his mission would be completed.

He drove back to the hotel and parked in the special area reserved for guests. Before he went up to his room he drew his suitcase from the storage cellar. Rosalie was already waiting in their suite. It hadn’t taken her long to spend the money. She modeled the seductive Paris gown she had bought, which scarcely covered her breasts. “If that doesn’t distract those two bastards nothing will,” Rogan said, with an exaggerated leer. “Now are you sure you know what you have to do tonight?”

Rosalie nodded, but he briefed her again, slowly and thoroughly. “Do you think they will tell you what you want to know?” Rosalie asked.

“I think so,” Rogan said with a grim smile. “One way or the other.” He picked up the telephone and ordered dinner for four to be sent up to the room at eight o’clock.

The Freisling brothers were punctual; they arrived with the food trolley. Rogan dismissed the waiter, and as they ate they discussed the terms of their deal. When they had finished eating he poured four glasses of Pfefferminz liqueur, half brandy, half peppermint. “Ah, my favorite drink,” Hans Freisling said. Rogan smiled. He had remembered the smell of peppermint in the interrogation room, the bottle Hans had carried around with him.

When Rogan capped the bottle he dropped in the drug pellets. He did it quickly and expertly; the brothers were not aware of what he was doing, though they were looking directly at him. With their natural suspiciousness, they were waiting for him to drink first. “Prosit,” Rogan said, and drank. The sweet liqueur almost made him sick. The two brothers drained their glasses, and Hans licked his thick lips greedily. Rogan passed him the bottle. “Help yourself,” he said. “I must go and get the documents. Allow me.” He went past them into the bedroom. As he did so he saw Hans fill his glass and drain it. Eric was not drinking. But then Rosalie leaned over, her creamy breasts showing. She filled Eric’s glass for him and let her hand fall on his knee. Eric lifted the glass and drank, his eyes on Rosalie’s breasts. Rogan closed the door of the bedroom behind him.

He opened the suitcase and took out the Walther pistol and its silencer. Quickly he fitted them together. Then holding the gun in plain view, he opened the door and walked back into the other room.

The drug in the liqueur was a slow-acting one, not a knockout drug. It was designed to cripple the victim’s reflexes so that he would move and react very slowly. It was similar to the effect that too much alcohol has on a man’s physical coordination, throwing it out of balance, yet leaving him the illusion that he is performing better than ever. So the Freisling brothers were not yet aware of what was happening to their bodies. When they saw the gun in Rogan’s hands they both jumped up from their seats, but they moved in slow motion.

Rogan pushed them back onto their chairs. He sat down opposite them. From his jacket pocket he took a flattened bullet, tarnished with age, and threw it on the coffee table between them.

“You, Eric,” Rogan said. “You fired that bullet into the back of my skull ten years ago. In the Munich Palace of Justice. Do you remember me now? I’m the little play-mate you sneaked up on while I was changing my clothes- and while your brother Hans kept telling me that I was going to be freed. I’ve changed a lot. Your bullet changed the shape of my head. But look hard. Do you recognize me now?” He paused, then said grimly, “I’ve come back to finish our little game together.”

Mentally dulled by the drug, they both wore looks of blank incomprehension and stared at Rogan. It was Hans who first showed recognition, whose face first showed the natural shock, fear, and terrified surprise. Then they tried to flee, moving like men underwater. Rogan reached over and again gently pushed them back in their seats. He frisked them for weapons. They had none.

“Don’t be afraid,” Rogan said, deliberately imitating Hans’ voice. “I’m not going to harm you.” He paused. “Of course I’ll turn you in to the authorities, but all I want from you now is a little information. As a long time ago you wanted some from me. I cooperated then, didn’t I? I know you’ll be just as intelligent.”

Hans answered first, his voice thick with the drug but still sly. “Of course we’ll cooperate; we’ll tell you anything we know.”

“But first we’ll make a bargain,” Eric growled sullenly.

As long as they kept sitting still the brothers seemed to function normally. Now Hans leaned forward and said with ingratiating friendliness, “Yes. What do you wish to know, and what will you do for us if we cooperate?”

Rogan said quietly, “I want to know the names of the other men who were with you in the Munich Palace of Justice. I want to know the name of the torturer who killed my wife.”