spoon.
“Ah, that’s lovely.” Flynn rubbed his hands again. “Tell me, Mrs. Sawyer, when you left here after cleaning up Monday night, was there water in the carafe in the living room next to the whiskey bottle?”
“No, sir. Of course, there wasn’t. That had been washed out, dried out, and stoppered.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Who’d leave water out to go stale, when it’s so easily replaceable? Was the whiskey bottle there when you left?”
“What whiskey bottle? Which whiskey bottle?”
“There was more than one?”
“There were a lot of bottles on that table. That was Mister Connors’ little bar. There were Scotch bottles, bourbon bottles, gin bottles, sherry and port decanters. Plenty of clean glasses.”
“What happened to them?”
“Mister Fletcher put them away. I found them all in a cupboard in the kitchen. I figured he couldn’t stand the sight of such things anymore than I can.”
Flynn looked his question at Fletch.
“No,” Fletch said. “I didn’t.”
“And,” Flynn asked Mrs. Sawyer, “I suppose you’ve been rummaging around in that cupboard, touching the bottles and thus obliterating any fingerprints which might have been on them?”
“Of course, I’ve been touching the bottles. I’ve been shoving them back and forth. They’ve been in the way of the sugar, salt, and pepper.”
“‘The sugar, salt, and pepper.’ A most active cupboard. No use,” said Flynn. “Thank you, Mrs. Sawyer.”
“You want anything else, you just let me know,” she said. “I’m so far behind in my own work, I have no hope of finishing, anyway.”
“Salt of the earth,” said Flynn, pouring out his tea. “Salt of the earth.” Across the hall, the kitchen door swung shut. “Of course it’s always the salt of the earth that destroys the evidence.”
They sat in, the red leather chairs, two men in sweaters, one in a jacket as well, one with a cup of tea, the other with a Scotch and water.
Through the light curtains of the long windows was a dark sky. Every few moments a gust of wind from the Boston Gardens splattered a sheet of rain against the windows.
From six storeys below they could hear the hiss of tires going along Beacon Street.
“A dark, gloomy day like this,” said Flynn, “reminds me of when I was in boy in Munich, growing up. Dark days, indeed.”
“Munich?”
“Let’s see. On a day like this, a rainy fall Saturday afternoon, I’d be obliged to be in the gymnasium—the real gymnasium, the sports place—doing pushups, scrambling up ropes, wrestling until the blood was ready to burst our heads.”
“You’re Irish.”
“That I am. Or we’d be out running miles in the wet, around the countryside, looking out for the little red markers, sweat and rain mixed on our faces, the air heavy in our lungs, the ground just turning hard beneath our feet. What a splendid way to bring a boy up. No doubt I owe my current hardy constitution to it.”
“To what?”
“I was a member of the Hitler Youth.”
“You what?”
“Ah, yes, laddy. A man is many things, in his past.”
“The
“You’ve got it just right, laddy.”
“How is that possible?”
“As you’ve said yourself: Anything is possible. Is this whiskey all right?”
“Very good,” said Fletch.
“Not being a drinking man myself, I’m shy in making choices for others. I’m afraid it was the peculiar shape of the bottle that caught my eye.”
“It’s fine.”
“I don’t suppose one should buy the whiskey for the bottle?”
“One might as well.”
“For all you drink, you mean. I see you’re not a gulper.”
“Not in front of you anyway. How could Francis Xavier Flynn be a member of the
“Now, haven’t I asked myself that same question a thousand times?”
“I’ve just asked you again.”
“The Republic of Ireland, of course, had little to do with the war. Relentlessly neutral, as they say, on the side of the Allies. My Da was the Republic’s consul to Munich. Is it getting clearer?”
“No.”
“In 1938, when I was about seven years old, it was decided, because of the unusual world circumstances, that I would stay on in Munich with my parents, instead of returning home to school by myself, as would have been normal. I spoke German as well as any boy my age, had had my first years in German schools, looked and dressed German. And, as my Da said, entrusting me with this great responsibility, I had reached the Age of Reason.
“So my pa took up agreein‘ with,the Nazis in public, although he hated their ideas as any decent man would. We remained in Germany throughout the war. I remained in the German school, became a member of the Hitler Youth. The short pants, the neckerchief, the salute, the whole thing. Marched in the rallies. Was the young star at some of the gymnastic shows. People forgot I was Irish altogether.”
“Flynn, really…”
“Believe it, if you will. I was a perfect member of
“But, you know, you’d be surprised what a wee boy in short pants and a Hitler Youth shirt and a bicycle and a camera can do. He can roam the countryside, sometimes with his friends. Tours of installations would be set up for us. You’d be amazed how soldiers and officers will show things to a wee boy they wouldn’t show their own mothers. Anything I didn’t understand, I’d take a picture of; anytime I came across what I suspected was a Nazi dignitary, I’d get his autograph. You’d be surprised at the number of high Nazi officers who’d be moving about in great secrecy but would stop to sign their names on a slip of paper for a small boy. Ah, I was a wonder, I was.
“And I had a couple of friends I corresponded with all during these years, in Dublin. One was Timmy O’Brien, Master Timothy O’Brien, and the other was Master William Cavanaugh. I used to write them excited letters about my life, where I’d been and what I’d seen. I was full of the old Nazi malarkey—a bragging schoolboy, I was, if you read the letters. I’d get letters back, doubting my word. I’d send photographs and autographs, and every proof I had.
“Of course, my Da was the ghostwriter of my side of the correspondence. And both Masters O’Brien and Cavanaugh had their actual address in London, at headquarters for British Intelligence.”
“My God.”
“An unusual way to grow up. My father also was using the consulate to help sneak British and American filers out of the country, home again. It was all very difficult on my mother.”
“Is this true, Flynn?”
“I was fourteen at the end of the war. Munich was rubble. There was no food to be had. I expect you’ve seen the pictures. It’s all true.
“Before the Nazis withdrew, they shot my parents. Each of them. A single bullet between the eyes. In the kitchen of our apartment. I don’t think the Nazis had any evidence against them. I think it was one of those arbitrary murders. There were lots of such incidents, those days. I found them after standing an air raid watch.”
“What did you do then?”
“Oh, there were weeks and months to go yet. At first, I lived with the family of a friend. They didn’t have any food or heat, either. I was on the street, living under things that had already fallen down. Even after the surrender, there were weeks and weeks of wandering around. You see, I was afraid to go up to the British or American soldiers. An odd thing. I was afraid of them. Of course, I was half-crazy.
