21
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why Maria had been to Bernstein’s house before; but I had more important questions to ask as I tooled south on Highway 240, heading back toward the District of Columbia. At after four in the morning, traffic was light, and an alternate route was a good idea-it would not have been an easy tail job.
“Is Bernstein married?” I asked her.
“He was. He lost his wife in the war.”
I smirked. “What, Dresden?”
“Actually … yes. They didn’t have any children. He lives alone.”
“I’m liking this. I do hope you’re not lying. Any guard dogs? Alarms?”
“I’m not lying, and there’s no dog, no alarm.”
“Good. Now describe the neighborhood, and the layout of the house-quickly but in detail.”
She did, interrupting only to guide me through the shade-tree-rich suburban streets of the Bethesda area. Soon we’d turned off Fairfield Drive onto a quiet lane where a wooded area had been developed for housing. In the yellow glow of streetlamps sat half a dozen interchangeable new homes on either side, those anonymous boxy white cookie-cutter clapboard dream houses that were popping up these days like toadstools in every spare patch of suburban real estate. Their slightly sloping, generous lawns were golf-green immaculate, their yards stingily dotted with baby trees, while behind them loomed father forest, part of which they’d displaced.
Bernstein’s house, rather isolated on the cul-de-sac, although the smallest house in the little development, was no exception; like all of these homes, it had an attached two-car garage, and we were half a block away from the darkened house when he drove the Caddy up inside. Maria touched my arm, signaling me to stop and wait, and I did, and we watched him pull down the garage door. Soon a light switched on inside the house, creating a warm glow behind the drawn curtains of the living room.
Cutting the lights well before I got there, I guided the Studebaker up the gentle slope of the driveway, gliding to a stop.
“What now?” Maria whispered.
“Now,” I said, withdrawing the nine-millimeter from under my arm, “you drop in on the doc.”
She gave me a sharp look. “What’s my excuse for being here?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s not gonna get that far.”
She clutched my sleeve again. “Nathan … don’t underestimate this man. He … he’s capable of terrible things.”
“Concentration-camp-type things, you mean? Or is he just a strict boss?”
Then we were standing on his front stoop, a few cement steps up from the lawn, and the nurse was ringing the doctor’s bell and I was standing with my back to the house, against the outer wall, just to the right of the door, covering up the street numbers and mail slot. The nine-millimeter, in my right hand, was tucked behind me.
The door opened, and Bernstein, in that clipped precise middle-European-accented English, said, “Why, Maria-what are you doing here at this late-”
That was all he got out before I bulled my way in, grabbing onto Maria’s arm with my left hand, yanking her along-not really trusting her, after all-and sticking the nose of the automatic, clutched in my right fist, into the bastard’s neck.
“Shut the door, Maria,” I said, “then come around where I can see you.”
She shut the door and scurried into view.
“I see you don’t keep
“Mr. Heller, what in-”
“That’s all right, Doc. Neither am I.”
I withdrew the gun from his neck, gave him a push-not a shove, I’m no sadist-to back him off from me, a ways; he put his hands up, without being asked, and that pale well-chiseled face of his had gone white as milk, only his expression was curdled. Keeping the automatic trained on my reluctant host, I took the place in, the living room, anyway-checking to see if Maria had been truthful about the layout. To the left, an archway leading (she’d said) to the bedrooms and a TV room; just behind and to the right of Bernstein, an archway into the kitchen. So far, it seemed, she’d played it straight.
We were in the largest room in the house-cream-color plaster walls and a Chinese blue pile carpet, and a modern living-room suite with medium-blue boucle overstuffed sofa, matching easy chair and blond modern occasional pieces. Still, the place was underfurnished-Bernstein was a bachelor, after all-and the living room in particular didn’t look lived in, like a display room in a furniture store, only a little less homey. Nothing of the person living here showed.
“Nice digs, Doc-you’re really enjoying the all-American good life, great job, Cadillac, nice new house … that wonderful postwar world they promised us fighting men, looks like you wound up with it. Congratulations.”
Bernstein’s voice was calm, soothing; he patted the air with his upraised palms. “Mr. Heller-you’ve obviously had a relapse of your battle neurosis. You’ve fixated upon me for some reason, and I would suggest-”
“If I even suspect you’re layin’ a posthypnotic suggestion on me, you son of a bitch, I’m going to repaint these walls red. Guess how.”
His voice remained soothing, reasonable. “Can we talk about this, whatever it is?” He craned his neck to look at his nurse. “Maria? Can you explain?”
“I’m his hostage, too,” she shrugged, but her hands were on her hips, not in the air.
I nodded to a mirror with birds painted on it, over the sofa. “Gee, with your Zionist leanings, Doc, I’d figure you’d have a painting of Palestine on display, or maybe a big autographed picture of you and Ben-Gurion. I mean, you are the guy that suggested I embrace my Jewish side.”
“Obviously Mr. Forrestal’s death has unsettled you,” he said gently, the invisible eyebrows raising. “I only want to help you, Mr. Heller-why don’t you just put down the gun … after all, I’m unarmed, I’m in no way a threat to you … and we’ll talk.”
I pointed with the automatic, toward the archway just behind him. “We’ll talk in the kitchen, Doc. Come on, Maria-we’re all going to sit down, like one big happy family.”
The kitchen was small and blindingly white, closed white window blinds, white dinette set with chrome legs and white-and-chrome chairs, white cupboards, sparkling white Westinghouse refrigerator and gas range, with only the black-and-white speckled linoleum floor for relief. A shining steel electric percolator and toaster sat on the white countertop, but otherwise the kitchen had that same unlived-in look as the living room.
This was not a home; it was a place to hide.
I had Bernstein sit with his back to the countertop while I sat across from him, the stove behind me, my arm resting on the tabletop, nine-millimeter trained on him. Maria sat to my right, and both of them I directed to sit with their hands folded on the tabletop. The three of us sat there like we were waiting for Mom to serve us something.
His fingers interlocked prayerfully, Bernstein-his complexion seeming less albino-like in contrast with the harsh whiteness of the kitchen-asked, “Are you ready to tell me what this is about, Mr. Heller?”
“Sure, Doc-why don’t we start with Roswell?”
“Roswell,” he said. He pretended to think about that, shrugging. “And what is Roswell?”
“My intelligence may be limited, Doc, but don’t insult it, okay?”
His mouth twitched, or was that a sneer? “Have I treated you disrespectfully, Mr. Heller? I’d prefer you dispense with the ‘Doc’ cuteness. My name is Dr. Bernstein.”
“No it isn’t. I don’t know what it is, but it sure as hell isn’t Bernstein-though speaking of cute, that Jew routine of yours sure was. The Star of David tie tack-nice touch, Doc.”
His nostrils flared; the gray-blue eyes showed no fear, just an icy cast. “Gun or no gun, I won’t stand for this. My name is Joseph Bernstein and I’m a Jew … unlike you, Mr. Heller, a proud Jew, and this is some bizarre case of mistaken identity on your part. If necessary, I can get you the documentation to prove who I am.”
I smiled at Maria, whose eyes-like those of a spectator at a tennis match-were moving from me to Bernstein and back again, as our conversation bounced along on its merry way. “I’m sure you can, Doc,” I said. “I bet you
