The Hour of the Cat (38 page)

He left his desk, which was overshadowed by a larger-than-life portrait of a helmeted and belligerent Duce, and escorted Canaris to one of the windows that looked down on the piazza. “Czechoslovakia isn't Austria. Unless responsible men take charge, we may find ourselves drawn, in Dante's phrase, ‘Into the everlasting darkness, into fire and into ice.' War is like a runaway train. Once it starts, no one can know where or when it'll stop. There must be men in Germany with sense enough to prevent it from leaving the station, no?”

 

 

Ambassador Attolico concluded his conversation with the same metaphor Ciano had used in Rome. “This train is headed for a wreck, unless somebody stops it. Surely, there are those in the army high command who understand this.”

Canaris said little, nodding occasionally, trying not to notice the opera glasses trained on them from the other side of the house. On the way out of the box, Crinis reappeared and accompanied Canaris to the post-performance reception on the balcony. “I could see our Italian friend had taken you prisoner, so I decided to come to the rescue. Except for the Duce, they're all defeatists. We'd probably be better off if they joined the French and British and added a further measure of cowardice to the Allies.”

Producing a finely tooled leather case from his pocket, Crinis extracted two maduros. He bit off the end of one, spit it over the railing, and rolled his tongue over the tightly packed tobacco. He offered the other to Canaris.

“I don't know if I should,” Canaris said. “It's quite a while since I had a cigar.”

“Go on. If war comes, these will be at a premium.
Carpe diem
.” Crinis lit his cigar and held out the match for Canaris. A white-gloved orderly brought them two glasses of champagne. “The thing about war is that it heightens the senses in profound ways, and pleasures we might ordinarily take for granted acquire new intensity.” As a statuesque woman in a black gown came out on the balcony, Crinis ogled her.

“Pain and pleasure both increase in wartime.” Canaris gently puffed on the cigar. The taste was intense.

“The weak feel the pain. The strong find the pleasure.” Crinis took a sip of champagne. “You've heard about Werner Arnheim, I suppose?”

“Dr. Arnheim?”

“Yes.”

“He's my physician. I saw him last month. A routine physical. Has something happened to him?”

“A tragic case, I'm afraid. He had a nervous collapse, or so it was thought. He was brought to me for examination at the beginning of the month. He proved to be a congenital psychotic, afflicted by periods of severe delusion and paranoia. Though he'd managed to mask it for most of his career, in the end, as always happens, it overwhelmed him. He had a daughter with the same affliction, but hers manifested itself earlier.” The woman in black passed by again, and Crinis made a polite bow.

“I'm sorry to hear that. He seemed the nervous type but, still, a competent physician.” Canaris detected no hint that Crinis, whose gaze followed the attractive passerby, knew anything of Arnheim's visit or allegations.

“He's out of his misery now. He committed suicide last evening in the institution where he was being held. He hung himself in the shower.”

Unthinkingly, Canaris inhaled the cigar as if it were a cigarette. A rusk of hot air scorched his throat. His eyes filled with water.

“Are you all right?” Crinis patted him on the back. “Smoking a maduro is an art, you know, to be enjoyed slowly, like lovemaking.” He held up his cigar and gazed at it admiringly. “I've made sure I have an adequate supply. I don't intend to let the British navy come between me and a good smoke, the way it did in the last war.”

Canaris gulped his champagne. He would have thrown the cigar over the balcony into the street if Crinis wasn't standing there.

“One can feel sorry for Arnheim, of course, yet his fate is a reminder of the poisonous effect of degenerate bloodlines. There's no cure, I'm afraid, other than elimination.” Excusing himself, Crinis walked over to the woman who'd held his attention and struck up a conversation. She laughed at the first thing he said.

It was nearly 1:00 A.M. before the reception ended. Max de Crinis and the woman were nowhere to be seen. Canaris rode home with Heydrich. He felt dizzy and a little nauseated; Heydrich, whom he'd presumed to be a teetotaler, had seemingly made an exception in honor of the Duce's birthday, becoming relaxed and chatty. “You know, Wilhelm,” he said, “the generals may grumble but in the end they're soldiers, and they'll obey. The Wehrmacht will make short work of the Czechs and, seeing their ally defeated and annexed, the British and French will have no choice but to acquiesce.”

“The Czechs have 34 well-armed divisions dug into heavily fortified positions,” Canaris said. “If an attack bogged down, the French could easily overrun our western defenses, which are pitifully weak.”

“Come, Wilhelm, you're beginning to sound like General Beck and the weak-kneed tin hats around him.”

“Facts are facts.”

“Facts are paltry things in the face of destiny. The Führer understands that, even if the generals don't.” Heydrich leaned forward, pushed the glass back, and instructed his driver to get them home as fast as possible. They rode down the Unter der Linden in silence, west and south toward Wannsee, through the warm, dark, preternaturally quiet streets of Berlin.

The two rows of chairs in the FBI waiting room were lined in military order. The first visitor of the morning, Dunne was the sole occupant. In front of him, on a table with dachshund-sized legs, were neatly arranged issues of
Time
and
Reader's Digest
. Aside from the fact that the magazines were new, rather than six months old, and the two receptionists wore neat gray suits rather than medical whites, it could have been a doctor's office. The younger receptionist, whose wholesome Sonja Henie-like face indicated she was probably a Norwegian from Bay Ridge, had taken Dunne's name and told him to have a seat. She'd been curt and cold, more North Pole than South Brooklyn.

A quarter of an hour's worth of page-flipping sent Dunne back to the receptionist's desk. There'd been no thaw. “Have a seat, please,” she said without looking up. “You'll be called at the appropriate time.” The receptionists typed away non-stop on their Underwoods. The tinny tap-tap-tap was reminiscent of toy Tommy guns, perfect accompaniment to the framed photo of J. Edgar Hoover behind them, his bulldog face set in a perpetual scowl. A parade of agents came in and out. They traded helloes with the receptionists, who addressed each by name.

Dunne had hopped in a cab without having a cup of coffee or reading the papers. Hurry up and wait. A time-honored police tactic: Never let a civilian dictate the pace of work. It was about the only policelike feature in the orderly, spic-and-span room. The Best & Co. pair at the front desk turned from typing to filing. The agents coming past seemed to be dressed out of the same catalog as the receptionists, all in gray, brown, or blue suits, starched white shirts, sharp creases in their pants, jackets pressed and clean. They had the earnest air of salesmen going out on their rounds. The receptionist who'd spoken to Dunne stopped her filing. Without looking at him, she said, “Agent Lundgren will be with you in a few minutes.”

Two well-scrubbed agents emerged from inside and bantered for a moment with the receptionists. They fitted their hats to their heads and snapped their brims, Knights of the Gray Fedora, and exited into the hallway with a purposeful stride.

“Mr. Dunne, would you please step this way.” The receptionist opened the door behind her desk. “Agent Lundgren will see you.” Lundgren's office was directly across the hall. She motioned for Dunne to go in.

Jacket draped around the back of his chair, tie pulled down from the open collar of his shirt, Lundgren scribbled on a yellow legal pad. Beneath each armpit was a crescent of perspiration. He was the closest thing to a real cop Dunne had seen all morning.

“Sit,” he said.

“Should I give you my paw?”

Lundgren glanced up, a tight, disdainful grin on his face. “Don't bother. I'm out of dog biscuits.” He stopped writing and put down his pencil. He cleared his desk, tossing a folded copy of the
Standard
and a paper coffee cup in the wastebasket. “Just so we understand one another, I grew up in Flatbush, so don't think I'm impressed by your wise-ass routine. I knew a slew of Irishers like you. Half of them are in jail.”

“And the other half put them there. I called for an appointment because I've got an urgent matter to discuss.”

“Before you say anything, you should know your buddy Jerroff confessed. We don't operate like the police department and beat it out of people. We talk in a reasonable way. Unfortunately, sometimes it can go on a long time.”

“You turn him into an informer?”

“That's none of your business.” Lundgren rubbed his eyes. “Listen, Dunne, I've been up all night. I'm tired and want to go home. Jerroff swears up and down that you've never been part of his schemes. He's pretty much got me convinced, so why don't you go and ruin somebody else's day before I change my mind.”

“I want to report a murder.”

“Then go to the police.”

“This involves transporting people across state lines.”

“Kidnapping?”

“In a sense.”

“By whom?”

“A doctor.”

“For ransom?”

“For experiments. He puts them to death and then dissects them.”

“
Them
?”

“The inmates of his sanatorium.” Dunne didn't—wouldn't—say it. It was his business, nobody else's: there was no reason to believe that Maura, his sister, had ever been an inmate there, but it was her face that came to mind, blue eyes, sad and fearful.

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

“
All?
But nobody's reported any?”

“One tried. She was killed before she could talk. An innocent man's been framed by the police. He's on his way to the chair for a murder he didn't commit.”

“A regular crime wave.” Lundgren ripped the page off the pad and put it in the pocket of his jacket. His attempt to suppress a yawn came out sounding like a sigh.

“He's got help. A staff. A goon from the Bund acts as his bodyguard.”

“Spies too? This is quite a case. Undetermined number of people killed, but none reported, and no witnesses except a woman who gets killed to shut her up. And the motive of the police in framing the man accused of murdering her? I missed that.”

“I didn't say. I'm not sure.”

The intercom buzzed. Lundgren picked up the receiver. “Tell him not to leave. Tell him I'll be right out.” He pulled his tie tight around his neck and put on his jacket. “I got a detail in the Jerroff matter to attend to. Be right back.”

He returned shortly with Michael McCarthy. “Well, well,” McCarthy said. “Peck's bad boy returns.” He forced a smile as he leaned against the file cabinet in the corner. “What do you think, Lundgren, should we order a cake and throw a party?”

“Soon as he leaves.” Lundgren retook his seat.

“Agent Lundgren tells me you've stumbled on a mass murderer. Coming up in the world, aren't you? Last time we met you were focused on more prosaic concerns. By the way, how's Miss Dee?”

“Why don't you call and ask. I'm sure she'd love to hear from you.”

“Has she gone into the detective business? Or is she in her usual line of work?”

“Which line interests you?”

McCarthy blushed.

“He says he also wants to turn in a Nazi spy,” Lundgren said.

“I never said a spy. I said he was in the Bund.”

“We have a unit dedicated to the Bund. How about I put you in touch?”

“What really brings you here, Dunne?” McCarthy seemed taller than Dunne remembered. Legs crossed, hands in the pockets of his pleated pants, he had the athletic trimness of somebody who'd run track in college. It looked to Dunne as though he bought his clothes at the same stores as the Ivy League boys: A Fordham kid and cop's son doing his best to make it look as though he were from Yale or Harvard. But what to do about the reddish hair and the spritz of freckles across the nose and cheeks? A mick's mug. Try again, Mike.

“Business brings me here, just like I said. Don't want to listen? Well, sometimes it's inconvenient to listen when you're parked in a government job and can suck the public tit no matter what you do or don't do.”

“Listen, you five-and-dime grifter,” Lundgren said, “we don't have to take that guff from you.”