The Hunt aka 27 (11 page)

Keegan stood in the entrance to the main embassy salon, appraising the guests and listening to the band in the ballroom attempting to play jazz in a tempo that was more Victor Herbert than Chick Webb.

Keegan could not remember exactly what the occasion for the party was, there was
always
an occasion, but Wallingford had drawn a good crowd. There were the obligatory hangers-on, a few dull foreign diplomats, and, as usual, several officers of the German SS in their snappy black uniforms. There were also some new and interesting faces. The diminutive German actor with the pop eyes and the voice like an angry bee, Peter something, who had become an overnight sensation playing a child molester, was standing alone in a corner while in the opposite side of the room the English playwright, George Bernard Shaw, was holding forth to a large, mesmerized group, while the German actress Elizabeth Bergner, star of Shaw’s play,
Saint Joan,
stared up at him adoringly.

There were several other new faces. A half dozen beautiful women. Wallingford did have a good eye for pretty ladies.

One of them was a new international film star. She stood on the far side of the room, and was immediately attracted to the tall man in the tuxedo who seemed to command the doorway as if he owned it. She was also aware that everyone else had seen him too. A murmur of whispers swept the room.

“Who is he?” she asked her escort, an American military attaché named Charles Gault.

Whispers always started the moment Keegan entered a room. He attracted rumors the way J. P. Morgan attracted money. Men usually glared at him with disdain, women stared
at him with hunger. Royalty doted on him and the café society of England, France, Germany and Italy pandered him. Keegan materialized wherever the action was, slightly aloof, with an acerbic wit that intimidated men and an arrogant half-smile that dazzled the ladies. There was also a hard edge to his charm, a toughness that enhanced the rumors and added a hint of danger to his allure.

“That’s Francis Scott Keegan,” Gault answered.

“So that’s Keegan?” she said in a soft, husky voice, without taking her eyes off him.

“His notoriety always seems to precede him,” Gau
lt
answered.

It had. She had heard about this brash American playboy who was supposedly richer than Midas. Had heard that he had sired two or three illegitimate offspring among the rich and titled. That he was an American war hero. That he was a gangster with a price on his head. That he was an active member of Sinn Fein, the Irish rebel army. That he once cleaned out a Greek shipping magnate in a poker game and then gave it all back—with a shrug. They always added that.
With
a
shrug.

“I’ve even heard he’s a Russian nobleman, got out just ahead of the revolution,” Gault whispered.

“He’s no Russian nobleman,” her dusty voice answered. Keegan entered the room now, stopping to speak to Jock Devane, the American ambassador, and his wife Cissy.

“You will be at the lawn party Sunday, won’t you, Francis?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, kissing her hand.

“I’ve already picked you for my badminton partner.”

“Good,” he said and, leaning over, he confided, “I’ll work on my backhand for the rest of the week. We’ll cream ‘em.”

He moved on, shook hands with a Nazi SS officer, exchanged pleasantries with the wife of an American industrialist and rarely took his eyes off the actress.

“Interesting,” she said.

“Want to meet him?” asked Gault.

“Oh, he’ll be over,” she said with assurance.

As Keegan made his way casually through the room, stopping here and there to exchange greetings or kiss a perfumed hand, he was aware that one guest, a small man with a hump on his back, seemed intently interested in him. Keegan ignored him but was constantly aware of his presence.

His course through the room eventually steered him straight to the actress.

“Hello, Gault, how’re things wi
t
h the army?”

“Dull as usual. Francis, have you met Marlene Dietrich?”

“No,” he said, kissing her hand then looking directly into her eyes, “but I saw you in
Morocco
and
I’
ve been weak-kneed ever since.”

She laughed. “Should I be complimented?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“And what do you do, Mr. Keegan?”

“Francis.”

“Francis.”

“Not much of anything,” he answered. “I suppose you could say I’m on an extended holiday. A little business now and then.”

“How nice,” she said. “And when you’re not on holiday?”

Absolutely stunning, Keegan thought. Killer eyes and a taunting voice that was both promising and forbidding at the same time. She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her.

“I don’t remember,” he said with a crooked, almost arrogant smile, and changed the subject. “Are you doing a movie now?”

“I am going back to Hollywood next week,” she said. “I’ll be starting a new picture next year.”

“What’s it called?”

“The Devil Is a Woman.”

He grinned impishly and said, “How appropriate.”

“There’s a touch of the devil in
you,
Mr. Keegan,” she said, leaning closer to him, staring him straight in the eyes.

“Have you heard the latest?” Gault said, realizing the conversation was about to get away from him. “This morning Goebbels ordered all the American telephone exchanges to fire their Jewish employees. They can only hire members of the Nazi party in the future. And the embassy can no longer make contracts with
Jews. Can you imagine, the Germans telling us who to hire and who to do business with.”

“It’s their country,” Keegan said casually.

“No, it’s Hitler’s country,” Miss Dietrich said. “The irony is that he has never been elected to anything. He lost the election to Hindenburg and Hindenburg appointed him chancellor.”

“How do you feel about him?” Keegan asked the actress.

She hesitated for a few moments, looking around the room before answering. “I think he is an enemy of anyone who is creative or intellectual.”

“I’ll never understand why the Germans didn’t resist him,” Gault said.

“It takes courage to resist him, Charlie,” Keegan said. “We kicked hell out of Germany. The Versailles treaty bankrupted them. They haven’t got anything left to resist with.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Gault said, obviously annoyed by Keegan’s defense of the German people.

“It’s not a question of sides. Those are facts.”

“They started the war and we finished it. What would you have done, slapped their wrist?” Gault snapped back.

“Americans never have understood European politics,” Keegan said. “You know what they say, when Roosevelt was elected he forgave all his enemies; when Hitler was elected he arrested all his friends. A difference in point of view.”

“Point of
view?” Gault answered. “The
Sturmabteilung
are his personal police. They beat up people in the streets every day.”

“C’mon, Charlie, things aren’t that much different back in the states. The SA beats up Commies over here, we call the veterans Commies and beat them up in Washington. The Gestapo confiscates the Jews’ property, our banks confiscate peop
l
e’s homes. The SA beats up Jews, the Ku Klux Klan lynches Negroes. We have the same soup kitchens, the same hobo camps, the same unemployment. Hell, we just got lucky. We got Roosevelt, they got Hitler. And believe me, there are people back home who think FDR’s just as dangerous as Adolf.”

“Not so loud,” Gault hissed, looking around as though he expected someone from the State Department to jump out from behind the potted plants.

“You don’t see Hitler as a threat to America, then?” Miss Dietrich asked.

“Hitlers come and go,” Keegan said. “The Germans want him, they’ve got him. It’s none of our business.”

“Not
all
Germans want him,” she said.

Keegan’s look got hard for a moment.

“But you all have him,” he said. Then the grin returned. “Hell, I like the German people. I get alo
n
g with them.”

“I hear they almost got you at Belleau Wood,” Gault said.

“Yeah, well, we made a deal, the Germans and me. I forgave them for the war, they forgave me for the peace.”

“Isn’t that convenient,” Gault said sarcastically.

“Look, Gault, I’ve made a lot of good friends over here. I’m sure some of them are in the Nazi party, hell it only costs six marks a month to belong. I don’t ask them, it’s none of my concern. If Hitler’s their cup of tea, then I say they’re welcome to him. It’s none of our damn business wh
a
t the Germans do.”

“Please,” Miss Dietrich pleaded, “can we change the subject? I am so tired of it, everyone you meet these days talks politics, politics, politics.”

“It’s the national sport,” said Keegan. ‘We’ve got baseball, you’ve got the storm troopers.”

She scowled painfully at the analogy.

“What brought you here?” Keegan asked her, attempting to remove the scowl.

“Haven’t you heard? The American embassy is
the
social center of Berlin this season.” Her lip curled into a faint and delicious smile.

“I hope that doesn’t get back to Wally Wallingford,” Keegan said. “His head’s already ten sizes too big for his hat.”

“Speaking of the devil.” She nodded over Keegan’s shoulder.

Wallace Wallingford was the protocol chief of the embassy and its social director. He was a slight man in his early thirties, tense
and
formal, with blond hair that was already beginning to thin out and anxious, watery eyes. Like many career diplomats, Wallingford affected an air of superiority, an attitude which intimidated some. But on this night he seemed nervous and distracted. Tiny beads of sweat twinkled on his forehead.

“Marlene, darling,” he said, kissing her hand, “how generous of you to come.”

“You’re delightf
u
l, Wally,” she said, “but you do have a tendency toward overstatement.”

“And how are you, Francis?” Wallingford said.

“Just fine, Wally. Generous of you
t
o
ask.”

Wallingford glared at him for a m
o
ment, then took his elbow.

“Marlene, may I borrow him for a
m
oment or two?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Keegan s
a
id as Wallingford led him away.

“You’ve got to do something about that band, Wally,” Keegan said.

“Like what?”

“I suggest deporting them. The so
o
ner, the better.”

“Just keep smiling and listen,” Wallingford said softly. “You know where my office is on the second floor?”

“Of course I know where your office is. And stop talking without moving your lips, you look like Edgar Bergen.”

Wallingford affected a frozen smile and said casually, “Wait about five minutes. Then go out on the terrace and come back in the side door. I’ll meet you up there_”

“Damn it, Wally, I was talking to the most beautiful, the most sensual, the most
. .

“Don’t be difficult, this is very seri
o
us,” Wallingford said, still with that frozen grin. “Five minutes.” And he moved back into the crowd.

Keegan looked back toward Marlene but Gault had already swept her onto the dance floor. The little hunchback was nowhere to be seen. Keegan went to the terrace and lit a cigarette.

From an alcove in the ballroom,
V
ierhaus continued to watch Keegan as he casually puffed on his cigarette, picked a carnation from the flowers at the edge of
the garden, and fitting it into the slit in his lapel, strolled into the garden, vanishing into the damp, moonless night.

Keegan walked around the corner of the building, went back in through a side door and went up the stairs two at a time. Wallingford was waiting for him in the upper hallway.

“All right, Wally, what the hell is this all about?”

“You know who Felix Reinhardt is?” Wallingford asked nervously.

“The writer? Sure. He’s the one wh
o
called Hitler the greatest actor in the world and said they should have given him a stage instead of the whole country.”

“The whole
world’s
the son of a bitch’s stage,” Wallingford said. “Reinhardt’s here in my office.”

“Why doesn’t he come downstairs and join the rest of us peons?”

“Because he can’t,” Wallingford said, lowering his voice in exasperation.

Keegan laughed. “What’s the matter, is he on the lam?”

“Exactly.”

They entered Wallingford’s office, a large, book-lined room that smelled of leather and pipe tobacco. There were two men in the room. Keegan knew one of them casually. His name was Herman Fuegel, a tall, gangly, awkward-looking American immigration officer who worked in the embassy. Fuegel was an American but his parents had migrated from Germany and he was fluent in the language.

The other person was Felix Reinhardt. He was sitting on a sofa in the corner of the room, a heavy-set man in his early forties with thick, black hair that tumbled almost to his shoulders and deep-set, dark-circled eyes. His tie was pulled down and he was disheveled and nervous. A partially eaten plate of fruit and vegetables sat on the coffee table in front of him.

“Mr. Reinhardt, this is Francis Keegan, an American. We can trust him. Francis, this is Felix Reinhardt.”

“My pleasure,” Keegan said. Reinhardt merely nodded. It was obvious he was deeply disturbed.

“They killed Probst,” he blurted suddenly. “You wouldn’t believe it. They just walked in his office, four of them, and emptied their guns into him.” He made a gun from his forefinger and fist and said very slowly, “Bang
...
bang
. . .
bang

like that, over and over until their guns were clicking empty. Bang.
. .
bang.
. .
then they burned the building
w
ith him inside. It was
. . .
worse than awful. Worse than
.

“Easy,” Wallingford said, handing him a brandy. The writer sipped it and seemed to calm down.

“Who’s Probst?” Keegan asked, bewildered by the entire scene.

“A young German artist,” Reinhardt said. “We put out
The Berlin Conscience
together. He also counterfeited passports for us.

“Us?” Keegan said. “Who’s us?”

Reinhardt stared at him for a moment. “Enemies of the state. Communists, Jews, anyone who disagrees with our great Führer,” he said bitterly.

“They killed him for making phony passports?” Keegan said with disbelief. “Who? Who did it?’

“The
Sturmabteilung,”
Reinhar
d
t said.

“Am I missing something here?” Keegan asked. “Here we are, standing in front of an immigration man, and we’re talking about phony passports.”

“Christ, Keegan, you are thick,” Wallingford said.

“As long as he has papers nobody will question him,” Fuegel explained. “But if he comes in without papers, we have no choice but to deport him.”

“Even if you know his papers are phony?” Keegan said.

“As long as he has a passport and a hundred dollars in his pocket, there’ll be no questions asked. But he must have papers.”

“Christ, what a silly game.”

“Not silly, Keegan, necessary,” Wallingford said. “If we permit German refugees to enter the country without passports, there will be hell to pay with the German government. We’ve got to maintain some semblance of diplomatic relations with Germany. We have to know what the hell’s going on here and we can’t do it if they shut the embassy down.”

“So you’re on the run?” Keegan said to Reinhardt.

“Ja.”

“Running for his life,” said Fuegel.

“What did you do?” Keegan asked quietly.

Reinhardt looked up slowly and said, “I disagreed with Hitler. Unfortunately I am also a Jew. That’s what I did,
si
r
. I have a big mouth and a Jewish mother.”

“You’ve read his articles,” Wallingford said. “He’s an enemy of the state.”

“What the hell’s he doing here? Half the SS is down in the living room,” Keegan said.

“There was no place else for him t
o
go,” Wallingford said. “No place safe.”

“What am
I
doing here, Wally?”

“We have to get him out of Germany tonight.”

“Tonight!”

“There’s a warrant for his arrest. Specifically he’s been charged with sedition for publishing
The Berlin Conscience.
If they catch him, he’s finished.”

“What do you mean, finished?”

“For Christ sake, Francis, you heard what he said. The brownshirts broke into his partner’s place this afternoon, shot him in cold blood, then burned the building. You know what’s going on here!”

Keegan thought about the storm troopers on their nightly forays, torch flames whirling in the wind as they drove through the streets in their open trucks, chanting their persistent dirge, “Down with Jews, Death to Jews,” as they sought their prey. It was a common sight and like most people in Berlin, Keegan had become immune to its dreadful portent. Like most foreigners, he was reviled by the brownshirts but felt powerless to do or say anything against these drunken bullies with their insatiable appetite for violence. They had more power than the local police and they traveled in packs like hungry predators. Besides, it was a temporary thing, he thought. It would pass. And if the German people did not feel compelled to speak out against them what could
he
do? After all, it was their country. Germany was going through the trauma of revolution—death and fear were the companions of revolt. So he had learned to shut out the sounds of shattering glass and the cries of the victims, to turn his eyes away from the
Sturmab
t
eilung
as they looted Jewish stores, beat up the owners, and painted crude, six-sided stars on the doors.

Keegan shook his head and his eyes opened fully. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t get involved in local politics.” He leaned over to Wallingford, and added, “This isn’t your problem either, Wally.”

Wallingford turned to Reinhardt. “Will you excuse us a minute,” he said, and led Keegan into the adjoining office.

“We can’t just ignore him,” he said flatly.

“I admire him for going to bat for his country, but it’s
his
country. We have to
live
with these people. It’s none of our damn business.”

“Listen, Reinhardt is one of the few outspoken German writers left,” Wallingford said, his voice brittle with tension. “His articles and editorials have a strong impact on Germans. Hell, he could be nominated for a Nobel Prize this year—if he lives that long.” He paused for a moment, then leaned over and said softly, “President Roosevelt wants him out.”

“Ah,” Keegan dragged the word out, “we get to the payoff.”

“Call it anything you want, we need to move quickly, Francis.

“What do you mean
we?”

“This is everybody’s business. This man is a symbol. We need to get him out of Germany.”

“You
need to get him out of Germany. You blow this and you’ll end up third assistant attaché in some banana republic with tarantulas for a staff. Hell, you got the whole damn diplomatic corps, spies crawling out your kazoo and you want
me
to find
you
a forger. What am I supposed to do, go over to the Kit Kat Club and ask around? Why don’t you just grant him political asylum?”

“It’s too late for that,” Wallingfor
d
said, lighting a cigarette. “This man is a very hot potat
o
, he’s been accused of treason. Asylum would not go down w
e
ll at all, not well at all. My instructions are to get him out of Germany tonight and keep the government out of it. You’ve got a plane. Let us use it to get him to Paris. It’s two hours away. I’ll take care of the rest of it.”

“So that’s what this is all about. You want my plane.”

“Just to fly him to Paris. Two hours, for God’s sake.”

“First of all it isn’t just my plane,” Keegan said brusquely. “It belongs to four of us, a Frenchman and two Brits are in on it with me. We share it and we schedule a month ahead so we can all make our plans. I’d have to check with all three of them and I don’t even know where they are right now. It could take hours. And if the Nazis find out, and they will find out, they’ll probably confiscate it. I can just see myself explaining that to my Parisian partner.
You ye going to have to eat a hundred and fifty thousand bucks, Louie, Hitler decided to use our plane for weekend picnics.
“

“Listen to me,” Wallingford said desperately. “If they catch this man they’re going to execute him.”

“Then don’t let them catch him.
Just leave me out of it. This isn’t my
fight.”

“It’s everybody’s fight. You’ll learn t
h
at soon enough.”

“Stop preaching. Call in your
intelligence
chief and lay it off on him.”

“I can’t involve them, damn it!”

“You’re a real case, you are. You can’
t
get involved because you’re a diplomat. Fuegel can’t get involved because he’s in the immigration service. Reinhardt can’t get involved because he’s on the dodge. But
I
can get involved because I’m just plain good old Frankie Keegan, rich American sucke
r
, that it?”

“No one would suspect you,” Walli
n
gford said. “We get him out in your car, take him to the airport and he’ll be in Paris before morning. All he needs is a passport.”

“For the last time, I’m not going to get involved in local politics. What’s the matter, don’t you know’ anybody else with an airplane?”

“Nobody that’s here now, no.”

“That’s flattering.”

“Look, we’re not talking about politi
c
s here, we’re talking about a man’s life,” Wallingford implored. “You heard what the SA did to his best friend. You know what they’ll do with Reinhardt? They’ll take him over to the basement of Landsberg prison and behead him.
Behead
him!”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s the way they do it these days. I can show you intelligence reports. Last month they beheaded three university students simply for
distributing The Berlin Conscience.
This guy
writes
the fucking paper. You wonder why he’s panicked?”

Keegan shook his head.

“Damn it
,
Keegan!” Wallingford sat down heavily on the secretary’s chair and shook his head. “There isn’t any politics here anymore,” he said wearily. “It’s a one-party situation. There won’t be another election in Get-many until Hitler is dead.”

“Well, there’s your answer,” Keegan said. “Knock off Hitler.”

“You’ve got a lousy sense of humor.’ Wallingford’s shoulders sagged. “I gave you credit for more guts than this.”

“Look,” Keegan answered angrily. ‘Once and for all, I don’t play politics, particularly German politics! The Germans adore Hitler. He drives down the street and everybody’s out
heil
-
ing away, throwing flowers in front of his car. Germany’s in love with him. And Reinhardt’s a traitor to Germany!”

“He’s
not
a traitor, he’s a writer wh
o
is speaking out against things he feels are wrong.”

“One man’s traitor is another
m
an’s patriot.” Keegan tapped Wallingford in the middle of his chest. “Know what I think? You got caught with your pants down on this. You knew this guy was in hot water but you didn’t have a plan. Now FDR wants him smuggled out of the country and you’re up against the wall.”

“I’ll admit I wasn’t prepared for the President’s reaction. Besides, it happened too quickly. Some miserable little Judenjager probably turned Reinhardt and Probst up.”

‘
J
udenjager?”

“Jewhunters. It’s what they do for a living. Trace family trees, look for a Jewish connection, report rumors to the Gestapo. Sometimes they are Jews themselves trying to stay out of trouble.”

“Stool pigeons.”

“Right. Stool pigeons.”

“Call in your people,” Keegan said, patting Wallingford on the shoulder. “Tell them what the President wants and cut them loose. You don’t have any choice. Hell, I think the plane’s in Paris anyway and even if it wasn’t we couldn’t find a pilot this late at night.” He turned to leave.

“I thought I could count on you,” Wallingford said.

“That’s what you get for thinking, Wally,” Keegan said without turning around. He went back to the other room.

“Good luck, Herr Reinhard
t
, I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Keegan said to the terrified little man. “1 can do this for you. If you get out, there’ll be ten thousand dollars on deposit in your name at Chase Manhattan Bank in New York to help you get started in America.”