The Hunt

“Just fine, Wally. Generous of you to ask.”

Wallingford glared at him for a moment, then took his elbow.

“Marlene, may I borrow him for a moment or two?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Keegan said as Wallingford led him away.

“You’ve got to do something about that band, Wally,” Keegan said.

“Like what?”

“I suggest deporting them. The sooner, the better.”

“Just keep smiling and listen,” Wallingford said softly. “You know where my office is on the second floor?”

“Of course I know where your office is. And stop talking without moving your lips, you look like Edgar Bergen.”

Wallingford affected a frozen smile and said casually, “Wait about five minutes. Then go out on the terrace and come back in the side door. I’ll meet you up there_”

“Damn it, Wally, I was talking to the most beautiful, the most sensual, the most . .

“Don’t be difficult, this is very serious,” Wallingford said, still with that frozen grin. “Five minutes.” And he moved back into the crowd.

Keegan looked back toward Marlene but Gault had already swept her onto the dance floor. The little hunchback was nowhere to be seen. Keegan went to the terrace and lit a cigarette.

From an alcove in the ballroom, Vierhaus continued to watch Keegan as he casually puffed on his cigarette, picked a carnation from the flowers at the edge of the garden, and fitting it into the slit in his lapel, strolled into the garden, vanishing into the damp, moonless night.

Keegan walked around the corner of the building, went back in through a side door and went up the stairs two at a time. Wallingford was waiting for him in the upper hallway.

“All right, Wally, what the hell is this all about?”

“You know who Felix Reinhardt is?” Wallingford asked nervously.

“The writer? Sure. He’s the one who called Hitler the greatest actor in the world and said they should have given him a stage instead of the whole country.”

“The whole world’s the son of a bitch’s stage,” Wallingford said. “Reinhardt’s here in my office.”

“Why doesn’t he come downstairs and join the rest of us peons?”

“Because he can’t,” Wallingford said, lowering his voice in exasperation.

Keegan laughed. “What’s the matter, is he on the lam?”

“Exactly.”

They entered Wallingford’s office, a large, book-lined room that smelled of leather and pipe tobacco. There were two men in the room. Keegan knew one of them casually. His name was Herman Fuegel, a tall, gangly, awkward-looking American immigration officer who worked in the embassy. Fuegel was an American but his parents had migrated from Germany and he was fluent in the language.

The other person was Felix Reinhardt. He was sitting on a sofa in the corner of the room, a heavy-set man in his early forties with thick, black hair that tumbled almost to his shoulders and deep-set, dark-circled eyes. His tie was pulled down and he was disheveled and nervous. A partially eaten plate of fruit and vegetables sat on the coffee table in front of him.

“Mr. Reinhardt, this is Francis Keegan, an American. We can trust him. Francis, this is Felix Reinhardt.”

“My pleasure,” Keegan said. Reinhardt merely nodded. It was obvious he was deeply disturbed.

“They killed Probst,” he blurted suddenly. “You wouldn’t believe it. They just walked in his office, four of them, and emptied their guns into him.” He made a gun from his forefinger and fist and said very slowly, “Bang ... bang . . . bang

like that, over and over until their guns were clicking empty. Bang. . . bang. . . then they burned the building with him inside. It was . . . worse than awful. Worse than .

“Easy,” Wallingford said, handing him a brandy. The writer sipped it and seemed to calm down.

“Who’s Probst?” Keegan asked, bewildered by the entire scene.

“A young German artist,” Reinhardt said. “We put out The Berlin Conscience together. He also counterfeited passports for us.

“Us?” Keegan said. “Who’s us?”

Reinhardt stared at him for a moment. “Enemies of the state. Communists, Jews, anyone who disagrees with our great Fuhrer,” he said bitterly.

“They killed him for making phony passports?” Keegan said with disbelief. “Who? Who did it?’

“The Sturmabteilung,” Reinhardt said.

“Am I missing something here?” Keegan asked. “Here we are, standing in front of an immigration man, and we’re talking about phony passports.”

“Christ, Keegan, you are thick,” Wallingford said.