Bernie signaled to Grannit that they had the right man.
“We’ve been tracking him for a week,” said Grannit.
“I’m aware of that, Lieutenant,” said Whiting, gesturing to his assistant to make a note. “You’ll feature prominently in our report.”
“Where you taking him?” asked Grannit.
“He’ll be processed and questioned at SHAEF headquarters. After that it’s up to the G2. We’d like your report, come in tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. Where do you think he was headed?”
“The Trianon Palace at Versailles. Where General Eisenhower’s holed up.”
“We’ll let ’ em know Ike can get back to business, thanks to you. Good work, Lieutenant.”
Whiting shook Grannit’s hand, saluted, and headed back to the second black sedan. His assistant got in to drive, alongside a third man, a uniformed MP.
Massou joined Grannit as they drove away, and walked him through the crime scene.
“An MP came on them here in the middle of a dispute,” said Massou. “Between your two men and a Paris patrolman, from the local precinct. He’s the other body. I’m told he has been under investigation for corruption. The MP says he drew a gun. They had officers here within fifteen minutes of the shootings.”
“The MP that just left with them?”
“They wanted to get his statement,” said Massou.
Grannit watched the sedan edge past the police vans and drive away. Bernie stood under the roofline, out of the way, looking out at the narrow, winding streets that reminded him of Greenwich Village set on the side of a hill. The rain that had fallen earlier had turned to snow.
“Did you question him first?” asked Grannit.
“I did, briefly.”
Massou borrowed a flashlight and walked Grannit through the alley. “The patrolman had a gun on the two fugitives when the MP arrived. There was some confusion. He said the German, Von Leinsdorf, showed him a counterfeit American badge.”
“How do you read it?”
Massou shrugged. “The patrolman waited for them here, under the stairs.” With the end of his umbrella he pointed to a couple of cigarette butts near the back wall. “A robbery, or something more complex. The MP hears raised voices, walks into it. Our patrolman panics, shots are fired. Two men die. There’s blood on the wall, on the ground. But the monster you’re after is in hand, so does the rest really matter?”
“I guess not.”
One of Massou’s men brought him a glass of beer. “Would you care for something? Wine, or brandy? Coffee perhaps.”
Grannit shook his head. Massou extended the invitation to Bernie, who declined.
“My officer’s gun was never fired,” said Massou. “It seems the MP was quicker on the draw. The only other anomaly is this.”
He produced a straight razor from his pocket.
“It was lying on the street. Perhaps it belonged to the dead American, Bennings?”
“Hard to say,” said Grannit.
“Just another night in Montmartre,” said Massou, wearily. “Chasing a murderer, through the middle of a war.”
Grannit pulled his flashlight, bent down, and took a look at a bloodstain on the ground. Working back from there, he found a bullet hole in the wall and dug it out with a penknife.
“It’s from a Colt,” said Grannit, pocketing the slug. “The MP’s gun.”
Massou finished the beer and handed the glass back to one of his men. “You should have a look at the apartment upstairs.”
Grannit and Bernie followed Inspector Massou upstairs to the apartment. He told them the concierge had confirmed that Von Leinsdorf and Bennings had lodged there for two days. Grannit took a look around, found an empty jerrican in the back room and an edition of Stars and Stripes, but little else of interest. They walked back downstairs a few minutes later.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Lieutenant?” asked Massou.
“I don’t know what it would be.”
“The driver will take you where you wish to go,” said Massou, putting on his hat. “The end of the hunt is never what it should be.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Massou shook Grannit’s hand and then turned to Bernie with penetrating but not unkind scrutiny. “It’s none of my business, young man, but you’re not a military policeman, are you?”
Bernie glanced at Grannit before answering. “No, sir, I’m not.”
“I ask to satisfy my personal curiosity.” Massou lit his pipe and studied Bernie as he spoke. “To the untrained eye it may seem that what we do, our methods, differ from those we pursue by only a matter of degree. Our authority may be sanctioned by law, but it can seem as harsh as these savages we hunt.” He kept looking at Bernie, but the rest seemed directed at Grannit. “In certain instances, perhaps your own, which depend on the judgment of others, there are laws of nature that on occasion supersede those of men. I wish you well.”
Massou tipped his hat. As he walked to a waiting car, a military police jeep drove up and the MP on board handed something off to a CID man, who walked it to Grannit.
“Addressed to you, sir,” said the officer, handing over an envelope. “Came over in the pouch from London.”
Grannit opened the envelope and found a manila folder insider. He opened it and turned on the flashlight. It contained a few clipped and weathered articles from London newspapers. Stories from the mid-thirties about the dismissal of a high-ranking diplomat named Carl Von Leinsdorf from the German embassy. There was a photograph of the man and his wife and teenaged son. Bernie could see Erich’s face in the boy, smiling and untroubled. A briefer article, accompanied by a photograph of the father, mentioned the man’s suicide in Stockholm a few months later.
“Is that him?” asked Grannit, nodding to the photograph.
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t mention why his father lost the job.”
“From what I heard,” said Bernie, putting it together, “I think they found out the father was Jewish.”
“Don’t know why they make such a big deal out of it.” Grannit took the folder back. “So am I.”
Bernie took a moment to register that.
“We stopped him, anyway. That’s what matters.”
“I gotta take you in, Bernie.”
“I know.”
“We could wait till morning.”
“Let’s get it over with.”
SHAEF Headquarters, Paris
DECEMBER 21, 11:00 P.M.
They rode in the backseat as the same police driver steered them through the night streets toward SHAEF headquarters in the Place Vendôme.
“I’d like to try and write my parents,” said Bernie. “Would you let me do that before…?”
The rest of his question hung between them.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know if they’re still alive. They live in Frankfurt, at least they did a couple months ago. I’d like to let ’ em know I tried to help. Help the Americans.”
Grannit looked at him. “We can do that.”
“Always thought I’d see the neighborhood again. I dream about Park Slope all the time, you know? That’s where I always go. Think that means I’m really an American, deep down, if I dream that way?”
“Maybe so, kid.”
“That’s something, anyway,” said Bernie, watching the city go by out the window. “Beautiful place, isn’t it? Doesn’t even look like anybody lives in it.”
“It’ll outlive all of us.”
“You have to put cuffs on me when we go in, Earl?”
Grannit thought about it. “No.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
They pulled up outside of SHAEF headquarters, a ponderous bank building fronted by massive columns, commandeered after the Liberation. Grannit gestured for Bernie to get out first, then followed him, tipped his hat to the driver, and the police car sped off. Grannit took Bernie by the arm and they walked up the steps to the entrance. A heavily armed detail of MPs patrolled the front.