He pointed to the papers on the table.
“Think about it. A chance to read your own obituary. Don’t you see, I couldn’t resist the temptation. You know me. Could I really pass it up?”
“That’s why you did this? To read your own obituary. Is that why you accepted a commission in the SS?”
“I am a Nazi, Freddie. You have known that for years. I never concealed that from you.”
“But to present yourself in public in that uniform. Do you realize what this has done to your standing in foreign countries? The United States will not book your pictures anymore. Neither will England or France.”
“The hell with all three of them. One of these days we will have a Johann Ingersoll retrospective in Paris, London, New York.”
“I don’t understand. What are you going to do?”
“Not me. Us, Freddie. What we’re going to do.”
“What the hell
“We’re going to die, Freddie,” Ingersoll said. His hand swept up from Kreisler’s shoulder, grabbed the back of his hair and snapped his head back. The other band drew the long knife from its scabbard and swiftly drew the gleaming blade from just below Kreisler’s left ear straight across to his right.
Kreisler did not feel the cut at first, the SS knife was that sharp. Then he felt a burning sensation under his Adam’s apple. He looked down and saw geysers of his own blood gushing from the gaping slice in his throat.
He tried to scream but managed only a wracking gurgle. He couldn’t breathe. He grabbed for Ingersoll but the actor stepped back and plunged the knife upward, under his ribs and into his heart.
Kreisler’s eyes rolled back and he fell like a rag doll in a heap on the floor, landing in a kneeling position, his forehead on the rug and his arms stretched back toward his feet.
Blood flooded the rug.
Ingersoll leaned over and wiped the blade clean on Kreisler’s suit jacket and put it back in its sheath. He rolled Kreisler over on his back and stuffed several newspapers in the wound to stem the bleeding. Kreisler stared up at him with vacant eyes. Ingersoll closed them with one hand. Then he rolled Kreisler up in the rug. He felt a rush of adrenaline. He started to get hard and he was almost out of breath. He leaned his head back, breathing heavily through his mouth. The rush of excitement continued for a full minute or two, swelling his groin, pumping blood into his temples. Then he slumped down on the edge of the table with a gasp of air.
In a few moments, he was able to walk across the room to the telephone and put in a long-distance call to Vierhaus in Berlin.
“Professor Vierhaus here,” came the oily answer.
“This is Swan.”
“Swan?”
“Yes, Swan. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“I had to take care of part of it myself.”
“I
“I just killed Freddie Kreisler. He’s rolled up in a rug in my living room at the Bergen House. I had no choice.”
Vierhaus paused for only a moment. Ingersoll could almost hear the gears clicking in the professor’s head.
“Have you finished your business there?”
“Yes. All the papers are in a strong box in the wine cellar. I trust you will handle all those affairs for me.”
“Of course.”
“You know about the wine, yes?”
“Yes. I am sure the Fuhrer will enjoy every bottle. Now listen carefully. I want you to leave there as quickly as you can. Leave in Kreisler’s car. Wear his coat and hat. Drive to the train station in Bergen. Leave the car keys under the seat. Someone will be there to meet you.”
“How will I know him?”
“He’ll be watching for Kreisler’s car. You’ll know him, he’ll address you as Herr Swan. We’ll take care of the body.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not all that much trouble,” Vierhaus said. “I’m . sorry you had to do it. We had more elaborate plans.”
“Unavoidable. By the way, remember what you told me about the dogs?”
“The dogs?”
“The German shepherds.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
When Ingersoll spoke next, he spoke with just a touch of pride.
“I don’t think I’ll be needing a dog when I begin training,” he said.
