The Hunt

though, and he watched Keegan’s every step as Keegan left the embassy.

In Der Schwarze Stier Verein, Berlin’s most notorious nightclub, nobody paid any attention to Francis Keegan. The downstairs room was nothing more than an elaborate beer hall, a mob scene, crowded, smoky and boisterous, the heat oppressive. Keegan decided he would stay long enough to have a nightcap and hear the singer.

As he weaved through the crowd toward the bar, the manager, Herman Braff, pushed his way through the dancers toward him.

“What an honor, what an honor,” the chubby little sycophant babbled. “I am always flattered when you come, Herr Keegan.” Herman’s tuxedo was a disaster of wrinkles and sweat stains and his shirt was soaked down the front. Rivulets of perspiration dribbled down his face which he dabbed constantly with a handkerchief.

“Looks like a great night for you, Herman,” Keegan said.

“Lots of beautiful ladies.” Braff winked. “Just your type.”

“How about the new singer?”

“Nein, nein, nein.” Herman shook his head vigorously, waving off the idea with his hand. “Not your type at all.”

“I came to hear her sing, Herman, not to propose.”

The German laughed. “Not to propose, that’s a good one,” he said. “Your type is .

He put his two hands out in front of his chest as though he were carrying a large bundle, then rolling one hand across his buttocks in an imaginary parabola.

“Wonderful, Herman, you should be up there on the stage doing impressions.”

Keegan shook his head sadly at the grinning manager and looked around the packed club. Smoke clouded the ceiling, the odor of stale beer was overpowering and the band was loud, dominated by the tuba and drums. There were young couples at most of the tables, some dressed in brown uniforms with swastikas on the arm, most of them thick-necked, blond and garrulous. Stag men stood two and three ‘deep at the bar. The chorus line was dancing furiously on stage as though trying to finish their number as quickly as possible. On the packed dance floor, couples undulated, mauled each other and ignored the stage show.

“How about those two in the corner booth?” Herman pressed on, nudging Keegan’s arms with his elbow. It was important to Herman to impress Keegan for Keegan was a trendsetter. If he liked a place, he would draw others to it, expatriates who spent their American dollars and English pounds freely. “They are Americans. And they’re with two boys. College students I would guess. They look bored.”

“I came to Europe to escape Americans,” Keegan said, squinting his eyes and peering through the swirling haze toward the corner, studying the two women as best he could. Both were brunettes, stunning, perfectly coiffed and dressed to the teeth. One, in a shiny, glittering short formal, her black hair cut in a pageboy, looked absolutely defiant, as if challenging every man in the room to try and pick her up. There was something about her, something familiar. Perhaps he had seen her photograph in the rotos. Perhaps she was an actress. The lack of visibility in the room prevented any real scrutiny.

Vanessa Bromley and Deenie Brookstone were ready to ditch the two American boys who had brought them to the club. Vanessa had tired quickly of their stupid college talk and undergraduate mentality. After all, she had come to Berlin not as a sightseer, but, as she put it, “to raise almighty hell,” which definitely did not include being squired by two Dartmouth boys who knew her parents.

“I didn’t come over here to end up with the same ninnies we left behind,” she said.

Now the boys had sealed their fate by refusing to take them upstairs, to the private club called Das Goldene Tor where the nightclub act was supposedly more shocking than the one at the Crazy Horse in Paris.

“They’re naked all over,” Deenie had whispered earlier in the seclusion of their suite. “Men and women.”

“Why are you whispering?” Vanessa asked.

“I don’t know,” Deenie answered, still whispering. “It’s just so . . . scandalous.”

“Only if we’re seen. I’m sure nobody from Boston would be caught dead there.”

“I’m real nervous.”

“Will you stop whispering.”

“I can’t help it.”

Now the two absolute juveniles were preventing them from learning firsthand just how depraved the show really was.

“They’re both virgins,” Vanessa said with disgust, watching them thread through the crowd toward the men’s room. “You can just tell.”

“So am I,” Deenie said weakly.

“Don’t be silly!”

“I am.”

“Deenie, you’re nineteen years old. How come we’ve never talked about this before?”

“I don’t know. It just never came up. How long. . . when did you

“Christmas holiday last year.”

“Who . . .