He slammed his fist on the briefcase and his mouth abruptly contorted, a ropey blue vein springing to life on his forehead. What now, I wondered? Kohler caught the change and picked it up quickly.
“In a sense, Bill, the Professor is here in his old capacity with the Einzatgruppen” He faltered, and I could see a thin trickle of sweat oozing from the part of his brilliantined hair. “Two months ago we received a report in Washington that was very disturbing. It’s probably no more than a rumor, but we decided to…”
“Do not dismiss it as a rumor!” The Professor’s voice was even shriller than usual, and the vein was pulsing spasmodically. “You do not know it is a rumor!” He turned to me almost plaintively. “Do you see what I mean by complacency, Lieutenant? If the Einzatgruppen had thought in terms of rumors and dismissed leads on those grounds, half our suspects would have escaped. Such reasoning is used as an excuse to evade action!”
Kohler’s face had gone a chalky white.
“I didn’t mean…”
“I know what you meant, I know all you bureaucrats! The Geheime Staats Polizei! What do you do today? Chase down embezzlers and petty criminals, execute a few fugitive priests, drown yourself in red tape. Ach, if Heinrich were still alive he would roll over in his grave!”
I decided not to try and unscramble those metaphors. Kohler sat rigid in the chair, hands tightly clasped in his lap, his lower lip trembling slightly, his eyes boring into the wall. Beck had stiffened imperceptibly but he maintained his outwardly relaxed expression. Both their careers hung by a thread, and they knew it.
“This is precisely why I have come to you, Lieutenant,” von Leeb said, turning to me. “For this job I need a man who knows New York City intimately, a man who is not chained to his desk, a man who has had firsthand experience in tracking down the most clever and elusive criminals. I do not want an armchair detective, I want a real detective!”
I looked at Kohler out of the corner of my eye, but he was still studying the wall. So von Leeb had picked me. For what?
“Professor,” I said carefully, “it will be an honor to work with you in any capacity.” Under these circumstances, ass-licking was equivalent to survival. “If you could just give me some details…”
“Ja-ja, of course.” The vein was quieting down. “It will be good to deal with a true professional.”
God, I thought, even if I make von Leeb happy, the Gestapo will never forgive me for this. The Professor opened his tattered briefcase, thumbed through a sheaf of papers, and held out two foolscap pages to me. Beck quickly took them and laid them on my desk, his eyes still expressionless.
“This report was forwarded to Berlin after an unconscionable six-weeks’ delay.” Another nail in Kohler’s coffin. “It is sketchy, incomplete, vague, it even could be an inconsequential rumor as Herr Kohler is at such pains to suggest. But Reichminister Heydrich was not prepared to dismiss it so lightly. He summoned me to Berlin and requested I handle the matter personally. So I have. Please examine it, and then tell me what you think.”
My eyes wouldn’t focus at first, and my shirt was plastered to my back with sweat. I read the file carefully, forcing myself to absorb every word. It certainly was sketchy. Nothing more, in fact, than a facsimile of a complainant’s report by one Leonard Pickett to the duty officer at the 16th Precinct. It appeared that Pickett, who owned an antique store on lower Fifth Avenue, was assaulted and robbed by an unidentified male on May 14, 1974. In the struggle, an item of jewelry worn by the attacker was retrieved by Pickett and handed over to the investigating officer. This item, and a copy of the report, was forwarded to the Gestapo after a detective at the Sixteenth was struck by its appearance. A photograph of the thing was attached, a thin silver tube on a chain, covered with what looked like chicken scratches. I put the report down.
“That’s most interesting, Professor,” I said judiciously, feeling like a man picking his way through a mine field. “Is there any further…”
“I am aware it means little to you, Lieutenant, and that is understandable.” Unlike poor Kohler I seemed slated for kid glove treatment. “Let me fill you in on the background. On the day in question this shopkeeper had arranged a window display of his latest European consignment, and among those items was a small collection of Jewish artifacts from the camps, lampshades made of their skin, ashtrays wrought from their skulls, that kind of thing. Of no intrinsic value, but of considerable interest to antiquarians and specialized collectors. On the occasion of the assault, Pickett was about to close his shop when an elderly man entered and stood regarding the Jewish items for several moments. Finally, he reached out to a lampshade and touched it, then picked up one of the skull ashtrays, holding it up in both hands before his face. At this point Pickett approached him and requested that he refrain from handling merchandise. Without warning the man wheeled around and attacked the proprietor, flinging him to the floor, where they grappled together. It was at this point that the object of jewelry the old man wore was torn off. Pickett succeeded in flinging his assailant from him, and the man fled the store, taking the skull with him. He was never found, and it was only several weeks later that an officer about to close the case examined the item of jewelry more carefully and detected its true significance.”
I decided to risk an interruption.
“Which was, Professor?”
“The man was wearing a Jewish religious symbol known as a mezzuzah, containing a miniature parchment scroll from the Torah, their so-called holy book. It means Lieutenant, that the man who attacked Pickett is a Jew! It means that here in the heart of New York City a Jew is still alive, mocking us, denying all our years of struggle and sacrifice!” His voice was rising to a scream. “It means that unless we seek him out and track him down, the poison still lives on in the bloodstream of humanity, as virulent as ever!” He was shaking, his hands clenching and unclenching, the blue vein throbbing furiously. “But he shall not escape us. He shall not! You shall see to that.”
I had to hold my own hands together to keep them steady.
“The last Jew on earth is here in New York, Lieutenant. And it is your job to find him.”
I thought fast. Von Leeb might be mad as a hatter but he was still an O.P.C., and one word from him could finish me with the force. Or put me in the lobo ward at Bellevue, for that matter. I looked him straight in the eye, like I always do when I’m lying, and spoke softly but firmly.
“Professor, I’ll find him for you if I have to turn the city inside out.”
The old man darted a snidely triumphant glance at Kohler.
“I knew my instinct was right in bypassing the Gestapo.” Kohler continued looking straight ahead as von Leeb turned back to me and smiled fraternally. “Lieutenant, I’m convinced you are the right man for the job. You shall pursue this question to the exclusion of all else, and you will have the full cooperation of the Gestapo, as well as the local branches of the Abwehr and Wehrmacht Intelligence.” He extracted a sheet of paper from his briefcase, unclipped a vintage fountain pen from his jacket pocket, and scrawled something on it. “This is a commission from the Ministry of Interior, instructing all civilian and military authorities to grant you full and unquestioning cooperation. For the duration of this investigation it grants you more effective power than anyone else in the country, up to and including President Lindbergh. With it you may commandeer any men, resources or transport you deem necessary.” He gestured impatiently and Beck scurried over, took the paper, and deposited it on my desk. “The one thing I stress most emphatically, however, is that you inform no one outside this room of the true purpose of your investigation. Not a word of all this must be allowed to reach the public. Do you understand? Not a word.”