identity papers, the like. These sympathizers gave Faust a phony passport in the name of Wolfgang Lanser. Sometime in the late 1940s — it is not known precisely when — he was smuggled out of the country and shipped off to South America. His first port of call was Uruguay. All this — what I have told you so far — took me ten years of work to uncover.”
Pendergast inclined his head.
“He settled in a series of remote towns, earning money from doctoring the peasants, but it appears he was not long welcome in any one place; apparently his prices were extortionate, and at times he displayed a propensity for trying out various, ah,
“The inveterate experimenter,” Pendergast murmured.
“By 1958, I had tracked him to Uruguay. Somehow, he learned I was on his trail. He changed identities again — this time to Willy Linden — had a facial operation, and moved to Brazil. But that’s where the trail ends. Because around 1960, he vanished completely. I could turn up nothing, absolutely nothing further, on his whereabouts or his activities. In fact, it was only twenty-five years later, in 1985, that I came upon his grave site — and that itself was almost a coincidence, more a lucky break than the result of careful investigation. The remains were identified from dental, and later from DNA, records.”
“When did he die?” Pendergast asked.
“As near as could be established, sometime in the late 1970s, 1978 or ’79.”
“And you have no idea what he was doing those last twenty years?”
Weiss shrugged. “I tried to find out. God knows, I tried.” He finished the drink with one quick movement, his hand now trembling slightly.
For a few minutes, the two men remained in silence. Then Weiss looked over at Pendergast.
“Now tell me, Mr. Pendergast: what is your interest in Wolfgang Faust?”
“I have reason to believe he may have been… connected in some way to a death in my family.”
“Ah, yes. Naturally. He ‘touched’ thousands of families in that way.” Weiss paused. “After I came upon the remains, the case was basically closed. Other Nazi-hunters had little interest in filling in the gaps of Faust’s life. The man was dead: why bother? But finding a body, or bringing someone to justice, just isn’t enough. I believe we must know all there is to know about these monsters. It is our responsibility and our duty to understand. And there are so many unanswered questions about Faust. Why was he buried in the middle of nowhere in a plain pine box? Why did nobody in the area have any idea of who he was? Nobody I questioned in a twelve-mile radius of the grave site had ever seen or heard of the man named Willy Linden before. But after my accident… there was no one to take over for me.
Weiss suddenly put down the empty glass and pushed the file toward Pendergast. “You want to know more about the man, what he was doing in those last twenty years of his life? Then
Pendergast moved to free his arm but Weiss held on. “Carry on my work,” he repeated. “Find out where that devil was, what he was doing. Then we can finally close the book on the Dachau Doctor.” He stared into Pendergast’s face. “Will you do this?”
“I’ll do what I can,” Pendergast replied.
After a moment, Weiss relaxed. He released his grip on Pendergast’s wrist. “But be careful. Even today, such demons as Dr. Faust have their supporters… those who would guard the Nazi secrets, even beyond the grave.” And he tapped the arm of his wheelchair significantly.
Pendergast nodded. “I shall be careful.”
The passionate fit had passed, and Weiss’s face was calm and gentle once again. “Then all that remains is for us to have another drink — if you’re so inclined.”
“I am indeed. Please tell your wife that she mixes an excellent julep.”
“Coming from a man of the Deep South, that is a compliment indeed.” And the older man lifted the pitcher and refilled their glasses.
CHAPTER 50
DR. OSTROM’S OFFICE AT MOUNT MERCY HAD ONCE BEEN — rather fittingly, Esterhazy thought — the consulting chamber of the hospital’s “alienist.” It still bore traces of the building’s days as a private hospital for the wealthy: a large, rococo marble fireplace; elaborately carved moldings; leaded-glass windows, now fitted with steel bars. Esterhazy almost expected a butler in white tie to enter, sherry glasses balanced on a silver salver.
“So, Dr. Poole,” Felder said, leaning forward in his chair and placing the palms of his hands on his knees. “What did you think of this evening’s session?”
Esterhazy glanced back at the psychiatrist, taking in his eager, intelligent gaze. The man was so obsessed with Constance and the strange aspects of this case that it was blinding his professional objectivity and normally prudent nature. Esterhazy, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about Constance or her perversities, beyond her use as a pawn in his game. And not caring gave him a huge advantage.
“I thought you handled her with great tact, Doctor,” he said. “Refusing to address her delusions directly, but only within the context of a greater reality, is clearly a beneficial strategy.” He paused. “I have to admit quite frankly, when I first approached you about this case, I had my doubts. You know the long-term prognosis of paranoid schizophrenia as well as or better than I do. And my earlier treatment of her was, as I’ve explained, less than satisfactory. But I’d be the first to admit that, where I once failed, you are now succeeding — to a degree I’d never thought possible.”
Felder flushed slightly, nodded his thanks.
“Have you noticed that her selective amnesia has abated to some degree?”
Felder cleared his throat. “I have noticed that, yes.”
Esterhazy smiled slightly. “And it’s clear that this facility has played no small part in her progress. The welcoming and intellectually stimulating atmosphere of Mount Mercy has made a huge difference. In my opinion, it’s helped turn a very guarded prognosis into a rather more optimistic one.”
Ostrom, sitting in a nearby wing chair, inclined his head. He was more reserved than Felder, and — though clearly interested in the case — not obsessed with it. Esterhazy had to treat him with great care. But flattery was universally effective.
Esterhazy flipped through the chart Ostrom had provided, trying to pick out any nugget that might assist him. “I notice here that Constance seems to react to two activities with particular favor: library hours and recreational time spent on the grounds.”
Ostrom nodded. “She seems to have an almost nineteenth-century attraction to outdoor strolls.”
“It’s a positive sign, and one I believe we should foster.” Esterhazy put the folder aside. “Have you thought of arranging a day trip away from Mount Mercy, such as a walk through the botanical gardens, perhaps?”
Ostrom glanced at him. “I must confess I haven’t. Off-site trips normally require court approval.”
“I understand. You say ‘normally.’ But I believe that, under the medical rules, if Constance is determined by Mount Mercy to be no danger to herself or others, and furthermore if the outing is deemed medically necessary, no court ruling is required.”
“We rarely go that route,” Ostrom replied. “The liability is too great.”
“But think of the patient. The
Here Felder chimed in, as Esterhazy hoped he would. “I wholeheartedly agree with Dr. Poole. Constance has demonstrated not one iota of aggression or suicidal ideation. Nor is she an elopement risk: quite the contrary. Not only would this reinforce her interest in outdoor activity, but surely you’d agree that such an expression of confidence on our side would be highly beneficial in getting her to lower her defenses?”
Ostrom considered this.
“I think Dr. Felder is absolutely correct,” said Esterhazy. “And on consideration I believe the Central Park Zoo
