The Hunt

“First of all it isn’t just my plane,” Keegan said brusquely. “It belongs to four of us, a Frenchman and two Brits are in on it with me. We share it and we schedule a month ahead so we can all make our plans. I’d have to check with all three of them and I don’t even know where they are right now. It could take hours. And if the Nazis find out, and they will find out, they’ll probably confiscate it. I can just see myself explaining that to my Parisian partner. You ye going to have to eat a hundred and fifty thousand bucks, Louie, Hitler decided to use our plane for weekend picnics. “

“Listen to me,” Wallingford said desperately. “If they catch this man they’re going to execute him.”

“Then don’t let them catch him. Just leave me out of it. This isn’t my fight.”

“It’s everybody’s fight. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

“Stop preaching. Call in your intelligence chief and lay it off on him.”

“I can’t involve them, damn it!”

“You’re a real case, you are. You can’t get involved because you’re a diplomat. Fuegel can’t get involved because he’s in the immigration service. Reinhardt can’t get involved because he’s on the dodge. But I can get involved because I’m just plain good old Frankie Keegan, rich American sucker, that it?”

“No one would suspect you,” Wallingford said. “We get him out in your car, take him to the airport and he’ll be in Paris before morning. All he needs is a passport.”

“For the last time, I’m not going to get involved in local politics. What’s the matter, don’t you know’ anybody else with an airplane?”

“Nobody that’s here now, no.”

“That’s flattering.”

“Look, we’re not talking about politics here, we’re talking about a man’s life,” Wallingford implored. “You heard what the SA did to his best friend. You know what they’ll do with Reinhardt? They’ll take him over to the basement of Landsberg prison and behead him. Behead him!”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s the way they do it these days. I can show you intelligence reports. Last month they beheaded three university students simply for distributing The Berlin Conscience. This guy writes the fucking paper. You wonder why he’s panicked?”

Keegan shook his head.

“Damn it, Keegan!” Wallingford sat down heavily on the secretary’s chair and shook his head. “There isn’t any politics here anymore,” he said wearily. “It’s a one-party situation. There won’t be another election in Get-many until Hitler is dead.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Keegan said. “Knock off Hitler.”

“You’ve got a lousy sense of humor.’ Wallingford’s shoulders sagged. “I gave you credit for more guts than this.”

“Look,” Keegan answered angrily. ‘Once and for all, I don’t play politics, particularly German politics! The Germans adore Hitler. He drives down the street and everybody’s out heil- ing away, throwing flowers in front of his car. Germany’s in love with him. And Reinhardt’s a traitor to Germany!”

“He’s not a traitor, he’s a writer who is speaking out against things he feels are wrong.”

“One man’s traitor is another man’s patriot.” Keegan tapped Wallingford in the middle of his chest. “Know what I think? You got caught with your pants down on this. You knew this guy was in hot water but you didn’t have a plan. Now FDR wants him smuggled out of the country and you’re up against the wall.”

“I’ll admit I wasn’t prepared for the President’s reaction. Besides, it happened too quickly. Some miserable little Judenjager probably turned Reinhardt and Probst up.”

‘Judenjager?”

“Jewhunters. It’s what they do for a living. Trace family trees, look for a Jewish connection, report rumors to the Gestapo. Sometimes they are Jews themselves trying to stay out of trouble.”

“Stool pigeons.”

“Right. Stool pigeons.”

“Call in your people,” Keegan said, patting Wallingford on the shoulder. “Tell them what the President wants and cut them loose. You don’t have any choice. Hell, I think the plane’s in Paris anyway and even if it wasn’t we couldn’t find a pilot this late at night.” He turned to leave.

“I thought I could count on you,” Wallingford said.

“That’s what you get for thinking, Wally,” Keegan said without turning around. He went back to the other room.

“Good luck, Herr Reinhardt, I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Keegan said to the terrified little man. “1 can do this for you. If you get out, there’ll be ten thousand dollars on deposit in your name at Chase Manhattan Bank in New York to help you get started in America.”

“That’s most kind of you, sir. Thank you.” Reinhardt turned to Wallingford. “Perhaps the Black Lily?” he asked.

“What’s the Black Lily?” Keegan asked.

“You don’t want to be involved,” Wallingford said, “so stay out of it completely.”

“Fair enough,” Keegan nodded, and left the room.

When he got back downstairs, the actress was gone. The little man with the hump on his back was still there,