The Hunt

“So they let you through and followed you to her flat.”

“No way. Somebody started to follow me but I dumped them.” He stopped and looked at his two abductors for a moment and smiled. “Of course. It was you guys. You’re the ones I dumped. And since I dodged you and you showed up at her place anyway, you knew where she lived. Hell, you were after me. Why?”

“I will ask the questions, you just talk.”

“Okay. Want me to tell you what I don’t think?” Keegan said.

“So? What don’t you think, Herr Keegan?”

Keegan again held a hand up so it blocked the harsh light and looked back and forth between his captors.

“I don’t think you’re Gestapo. You don’t look like Gestapo, you don’t act like Gestapo, you sure as hell don’t dress like them. Your hair’s too long and you wear beards. And if you were Gestapo, you wouldn’t be asking me about customs. Besides, if you were Gestapo we’d be down in one of those dingy state buildings and I’d probably have electrodes attached to my testicles. Isn’t that the way they do it?”

“You are very perceptive, Herr Keegan. But we knew that. What else don’t you think?”

“Well, if you aren’t Gestapo then my guess is you’re probably just the opposite. What are you, some kind of vigilantes? Guerrillas? And what am I doing here? And what were you doing ransacking Jenny Gould’s apartment?”

“We were not responsible for that.”

“Then who was? The Gestapo?”

“You’re very clever, Mr. Keegan, the question now is, where do you stand?”

“About what?”

“About Vierhaus. How close is your relationship with Vierhaus?”

“Vierhaus! I don’t have a relationship with Vierhaus. I’ve seen him at a couple of parties and I got stuck in a steam bath with him once. And what the hell business is that of yours anyway? Who the hell are you?”

“Vierhaus is the head of an organization called Die Sechs Fuchse,” the bearded man said. “You didn’t know that?”

“The Six Foxes?” he said.

“It is a special intelligence group, completely separate from the SS. He is head of this group and he reports only to Hitler.”

“You telling me that Vierhaus is some kind of superspy?”

The big, bearded man nodded slowly. “He is perhaps more dangerous than Himmler or even Heydrich. Everyone knows what they are up to but Herr Doktor is a question mark. We know he advises Hitler so we know he has influence. We also know he has a soul as black as my beard.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it is my business to know it, Herr Keegan.”

“Well, just what the hell is your business, anyhow? And what’s all this got to do with me? I’m not a German.”

“You claim to be in love with a German.”

Keegan’s temper exploded. Where was Jenny and who were these jokers and what was all this wind about Vierhaus and superspies and the Gestapo? He jumped up suddenly, sending the chair spinning off behind him. It clattered against the wall. The man with the gun got edgy and held it at arm’s length pointed straight at Keegan’s head.

“That’s none of your goddamn business!” Keegan snarled, walking up to him until the muzzle was an inch from his forehead. “And I’m tired of you waving that thing in my face. Either put it away or use it,” he said flatly.

“Don’t be foolish, American.”

“I think you’re all bluff. You didn’t bring me here to waltz, you brought me here because you want something. Now why don’t you just get to it and stop waving that piece around.”

“Don’t make light of the .

“Hey, why the hell am I here?” Keegan demanded. He moved forward until the muzzle of the pistol was touching his forehead. “There, you can’t miss. Now, either you pull that trigger or tell me what the hell you want. I told you I don’t know anything about Vierhaus. And how do you know about my relationship with Jenny. . . and what the hell business is it of yours anyway?”

The bearded man stared at him for several seconds. He reached out and lowered the arm of the man with the gun.

“My name is Avrum Wolffson,” he said finally. “Jenny is my half-sister.”

“Your sister!” Keegan said with shock. He stared at Wolffson for several seconds, then said, “Well, she ought to get after you for playing with guns.”

“Do you make a joke of everything?”

“Why not? Life’s a joke. And the older you get the funnier it gets. Look, I came over here to get my fiancee and take her back to Paris. I get here, her apartment is a mess. She’s gone. I get a face full of chloroform, I wake up in a warehouse someplace with hot lights and guns in my face and you guys giving me the third degree, now you tell me you’re her brother? What the hell is going on?”