to the appointment of the Alien Property Custodian and that it should therefore have descended to Johann Schirmer under the German law. There have been one or two cases of German-Swiss claims against the Custodian which have succeeded. There are all sorts of possibilities.”
“And won’t the papers have fun when they get hold of them!” said Mr. Budd.
“Well, they don’t have to get hold of them, do they? Not for the present anyway.” Mr. Sistrom seemed to have come to a decision. “I don’t think you ought to be too hasty about this business, Harry,” he said. “Naturally, we’re not going to get involved in any newspaper nonsense, but we’re in the possession of certain information that nobody else has access to. We’re in a strong position. I think that before we come to any decision about who’s going to act we ought at least to send someone quietly to Germany to see if this Johann Schirmer can be traced. I don’t like the idea of just letting the Commonwealth take all this money because we can’t be bothered to fight them. If he’s dead and without issue or heir, or we can’t find him, then we can think again. Maybe I’ll just tell the Commonwealth the facts and leave it to them in that case. But if there is some chance that the man may be alive, no matter how slight, we should bend our effort to find him. There is no need to hand over a substantial fee to another firm for doing so. Our charge for services is made irrespective of whether we are successful or not. I see no reason for turning down the opportunity.”
“But, my God, John J.-”
“It’s perfectly ethical for the administrator’s attorneys to endeavour to find the heir and be paid for their efforts.”
“I know it’s ethical, John J., but jeepers-”
“In this kind of office one can get too narrow,” said Mr. Sistrom firmly. “I don’t think, either, that just because we’re afraid of being annoyed by a little newspaper publicity we should let the business go out of the family.”
There was a silence. Mr. Budd heaved a sigh. “Well, if you put it that way, John J. But suppose this man’s in the Russian zone of Germany or in jail as a war criminal?”
“Then we can think again. Now, whom will you send?”
Mr. Budd shrugged. “I’d say a good, reliable, private inquiry agent was what we needed.”
“Inquiry agent!” Mr. Sistrom dropped his gold pencil. “Look, Harry, we’re not going to make a million dollars out of it. Competent private inquiry-agents are far too expensive for a gamble like this. No. I think I have a better idea.” He turned in his chair and looked at George.
George waited with a sinking heart.
The blow came.
Mr. Sistrom smiled benevolently. “How would you like a trip to Europe, Mr. Carey?” he said.
4
Two weeks later George went to Paris.
As the plane from New York banked slowly and began to lose height in preparation for the landing at Orly, he could see the city turning lazily into view beneath the port wing. He craned his head to see more of it. It was not the first time he had flown over Paris; but it was the first time he had done so as a civilian, and he was curious to see if he could still identify the once familiar landmarks. He was, besides, at the beginning of a new relationship with the place. For him it had been, successively, an area on a map, the location of an Army Air Corps headquarters establishment, a fun fair in which to spend leave periods, and a grey wilderness of streets to wander in while you sweated it out waiting for transportation home. Now it had become a foreign capital in which he had business to attend to; the point of departure for what, in a facetious moment, he had thought of as an Odyssey. Not even the knowledge that he was acting merely as an inexpensive substitute for a competent private inquiry agent could quite dispel a pleasurable feeling of anticipation.
His attitude towards the Schneider Johnson case had changed somewhat during those two weeks. Though he still regarded his connection with it as a misfortune, he no longer saw it as a major disaster. Several things had conspired to fortify his own good sense in the matter. There had been Mr. Budd’s protest against sending so able a man on so pedestrian a mission. There had been his colleagues’ blasphemously expressed conviction that, having become bored with examining claims, he had cunningly misrepresented the facts in order to get himself a free vacation. Above all, there had been Mr. Sistrom’s decision to take a personal interest in the matter. Mr. Budd had crossly attributed this to vulgar greed; but George suspected that Mr. Sistrom’s apparently simple desire to milk the estate while he had the chance contained elements of other and less businesslike wishes. It was fantastic, no doubt, to suggest that, in a financial matter of any kind, a partner in Lavater, Powell and Sistrom could be influenced by romantic or sentimental considerations; but, as George had already perceived, fantasy and the Schneider Johnson case had never been very far apart. Besides, the belief that a schoolboy lurked in Mr. Sistrom was somehow reassuring; and reassurance was a thing of which he now stood in need.
After a further visit to Montclair, he had set to work deciphering Mr. Moreton’s diary. By the time he had completed the task and identified all the photographed documents in the deed box he was aware of an unfamiliar feeling of inadequacy and self-doubt. Munster, Muhlhausen, Karlsruhe, and Berlin-he had dropped bombs on many of the places in which Mr. Moreton had worked to piece together the history of the Schirmer family. And killed quite a few of their inhabitants, no doubt. Would he have had the patience and ingenuity to do what Mr. Moreton had done? He was inclined to doubt it. It was humiliating to be comforted by the knowledge that his own task was likely to prove simpler.
The morning after his arrival in Paris, he went to the American Embassy, established relations with the legal department there, and asked them to recommend a German-English interpreter whom they had themselves used and whose sworn depositions would later be accepted by the Orphans’ Court in Philadelphia and by the Alien Property Custodian.
When he returned to his hotel a letter awaited him. It was from Mr. Moreton.
My DEAR MR. CAREY:
Thank you very much for your letter. I am, of course, very interested to hear that my old friend John Sistrom has decided to take the Schirmer inquiry further, and very pleased to know that you are to have the responsibility. I congratulate you. You must stand well with John J. to be entrusted with this job. You may be sure that no newspaper will get a word out of me on the subject. I note with pleasure your flattering intention of taking the same precautionary measures as I did to ensure secrecy. If you will permit me to give you a word of advice on the interpreter question-don’t take anyone you feel you do not like personally. You will be so much together that if you do not quite like him to begin with, you will end by hating the sight of him.
As to the points in my diary on which you were not clear, I have set but my answers to your questions on a separate sheet of paper. Please remember, however, that I am relying upon my memory, which in some instances may have failed me. The answers are given “to the best of my knowledge and belief.”
I have given some thought to your problems in Germany and it seems to me likely that Father Weichs, the Bad Schwennheim priest, will be among those with whom you will be getting in touch at an early stage. But when I tried to recall what I had said to you about my interview with him, it seemed to me that I had left out several important things. My diary, I know, gives only the barest facts. It was my last interview in Germany and I was in a hurry to get home. But, as you may imagine, I remember the occasion vividly. A more detailed account of it may prove of some service to you.
As I told you, he informed me of Friedrich Schirmer’s death and I gave him a cautious account of my reasons for inquiring about the man. We then had some conversation which, as it concerned Johann Schirmer to some extent, I will give you as I remember it.
Father Weichs is, or was, a tall, fair man with a bony face and sharp blue eyes. No fool, I warn you. And nothing passive about him. My halting German set the muscles of his jaws twitching impatiently. Fortunately, he speaks English well, and after the courtesies were over, that was the language we used.
“I hoped you might be a relative,” he said. “He spoke once of an uncle in America whom he had never seen.”
“Had he no relatives here? No wife?” I asked.
“His wife died about sixteen years ago, in Schaffhausen. She was a Swiss. They had lived there for over twenty years. Their son was born there. But when she died he returned to Germany. During his last illness he used
