Chapter 2
Matthew Pyne found the opener in the center drawer of his roll top desk, and finished a bottle of stout from the bag. He opened the bottle, took a sip, sighed, and settled back in the squeaky chair. He propped his feet up on the desk's extended side panel, and burped.
It has been a long, long, night, and the beverage had been gin. He and Carey had killed a half bottle of Beefeaters together, and he personally had polished off another full pint. The drinking was spaced over six hours of time and four bouts of hectic lovemaking, but he still wound up loaded. Now, several hours later, he was hungover, unshaven, and extremely depressed.
It would have been easy to keep the gin habit alive, but he thought better of it. He settled for the medicinal boost of the potent beer, or what-the-hell-ever the stuff was.
He had gallons of stout over the last couple of decades, but was wondering for the first time what it really was. That was how his mind was working of late-full preoccupation with trivia. But he planned it that way. If he started to think of pertinent matters, he would cast himself into an abyss. There were too many major problems lurking around the corner to snatch him.
He had time for only one more deep swig when a sound came from the outer office. Through force of habit he listened quietly for Carey's interception, but then he remembered.
Carey was officially fired as of the day before. That, in fact, had been the reason for their all night celebration. He straightened in his chair with the creaking resounding loudly in the sparsely furnished studio. These sounds inspired a call from his visitor.
"I say-are you there?" The voice was outside the door.
"Enter," he said with another swallow.
The door opened and Matt was startled by an incongruous figure. It was male, but it didn't fit in this setting at all. There was the bowler, the black umbrella, the dark topcoat with the chesterfield collar. The highly refined gentleman wore a meticulously plucked moustache. It was reddish with apparently waxed ends. "Matthew Pyne," he said as he crossed the cluttered studio.
It wasn't spoken as a question. The man seemed to know him. Matt's first impulse was to rise to his feet, but his ego held him back. Instead, he settled back again and propped his feet. "Which remaining sticks are yours?" Matt said, drawing again on the bottle. "The view camera and the enlarger went yesterday. The couch the day before. The desk and chair came with the bloody office, so I'm afraid you're a bit late. Unless you want those cables and that battered floodlight. Go ahead-be my guest."
The face was closer now. It was just above him, and the thin lips formed a smile. "Up against it, eh?" said the cultured voice.
Matt killed the bottle and dropped the empty into the wire basket beside the desk. As he took the second bottle from the brown bag on the floor, he weighed the smile and the question.
"You are a creditor, aren't you? You must be. You sure as hell, aren't here to get a portrait made."
"Look at me, old man," said the voice patiently. "You can't have blocked all memory. Or have I changed that much?"
Matt did look, and he squinted. He'd be damned if he'd take out his reading specs. For a moment he shook his head in negative response, but then recognition struck. He felt a lump of heat charge through his solar plexus. A sudden impulse tensed his muscles for attack, but just as suddenly the impulse subsided. Twenty years ago he'd have smashed the sensitive features of the stodgy Britisher, but that was then. He was mature now, wasn't he? Time had etched irrevocable changes. Time, time, time. My God, Matt thought to himself, twenty goddamn years of time. "Roland Guthrie," he said finally. "The years have been good to you."
Guthrie removed his hat and ran his hand back over the abundant blond hair. There was an interspersing of gray, but it was hardly noticeable. "I was thinking quite the same of you, old boy. You're a bit heavier, but you were half-starved when I knew you then. No, you're a remarkable specimen, Pyne. I couldn't be more pleased."
So much for the pleasantries. Roland Guthrie wasn't Matt's idea of a rainy day playmate. He put the bottle on the desk and sat up. "What brings you here, Guthrie? How the hell did you find me?"
Guthrie put the umbrella over his arm as he brought out a silver cigarette case. He extracted a long, non-filter cigarette. As he tamped its end on the base, he glanced at Matt intermittently. "The American vice-consul provided your last address. You were easy to find from there. But now that I've seen you, I'm amazed that we haven't crossed paths before. I'd surely have recognized you."
"We don't travel in the same circle, Rollo," said Matt restlessly. "Want one?" He held up the bottle.
"Guinness?" he said. "No thanks. Too bitter for me, old chap. I-suppose you wonder why I've come."
Matt nodded.
"I intended to ease into things by reminiscing a bit. That's the usual British approach to things. But your Americanism seems even more evident after your years of exile. One thing though-are you still married to that pretty fraulein. My, she was a beauty. All of us envied you terribly-despite the trouble she caused you."
An overpowering throb of heat glowed in Matt's temple, but he still controlled himself. Grimly, he said in a whisper, "You know goddamn well what happened, Rollo."
Guthrie blinked innocently. "No. I don't know what you mean."
Matt's reflexes did it. It simply happened. He cocked the full bottle of stout and slammed it against the far wall. With its splash and clatter he rose and walked through the gray light of the skylight to the front window. As he looked down into the snarl of the rainy-day traffic, he saw the sweet, clear-skinned face of Rachel. He saw the transparent blue eyes, the pout, the dimple on her cheek. He felt her frantic embrace, too. During that fleeting moment the warmth of her hungry body seemed very real. She had sneaked back into his consciousness like the haunting melody of a forgotten tune. He cast out the nostalgia as quickly as it came. "Her throat was cut, Rollo. It was all very mysterious," Matt said quietly. "I was refused permission to marry her, but I insisted-right ?"
"I thought you did marry, old chap-really."
"She stayed with me all through the proceedings, and when I was released and discharged we had a lifetime to spend together. That was what I thought, but it didn't work. She went out for a loaf of bread one night. I never saw her alive again."
"I-I'm sorry, old chap. Truly. I swear I didn't know."
Matt spun around to face Guthrie, who had followed him a few paces toward the window. The face seemed sincere. Perhaps he didn't know. But somebody knew, and someone wanted to make sure he didn't blab the allied intelligence secrets to a fantasized enemy. That was why she was removed. Although he had done his share of wartime dirty work in the Counterintelligence Corps, he would never forgive what they did to Rachel. No matter what the reason. He might have been partially stunned by his love for her, but he had never blown his cover. Rachel never learned the first detail of his military activity. Her information about Bormann was strictly voluntary. His mistake was passing it on. He should have forgotten about it. Hell, the war was over anyway.
"Easy, Matt," said Guthrie steadily. "I remember that look of death. I didn't come here to die. Perhaps you hold me responsible for what happened, but I left the service at the end of the proceedings. I had no knowledge of what happened. I hope you'll believe that."
Matt heaved a sigh and returned to his desk. "You did your share to destroy me," he mumbled, "but that wasn't really important."
There was only a moment of silence, but it was filled with a flurry of subliminal scenes. Matt was pleading with Allied Intelligence to check Rachel's story. He had information that was potent, but his words were ignored. Then came his drinking and the frustration. It was Roland who had discredited Matt. It was he who recommended that Matt be relieved of his credentials, and as a result, he was quietly mustered out. They called him fatigued, incompetent. The discharge was honorable, but the shame was deadly.
"It's true that I was instrumental in your removal from duty," said Guthrie. "I confided to my superiors that you were drunk and brawling, and that you might be divulging secret information to a questionable German subject."
Matt nodded with a lingering sigh.
"We couldn't risk that, Pyne. I was only guessing, but my superiors insisted that I make a formal charge. I doubt now that you told the girl anything."
"Thanks a lot," said Matt, his bitterness stirring again. "That's very helpful-twenty years later."
"You were hitting the bottle a bit heavily, weren't you? And many of our best men let down after the peace. We couldn't risk a leak."
Matt shot him a wry grin. "So you let the top Nazis slip right out of your fingers. We could have nailed Bormann at his Alpine hideout, Roland. Rachel had been one of his girl friend's. I even saw the man face to face on the streets of Munich in 1946. Nobody believed me."
"I know. We should have listened."
The rest of the story had been published in various forms. It became well-known that Bormann was heading a colony of Nazi bigwigs in South America. Matt had read every word published on the subject. He followed Herr Bormann via the printed matter, from Austria, to Argentina, Brazil-and was reasonably convinced that Bormann was running his Nazi underground movement from Parana, Brazil-near the Paraguay border. But it didn't matter to Matt-not any longer. That patriotic juvenile -Major Matthew Pyne-was as dead as if they had cut his throat along with Rachel's.
"How would you like a chance to complete the job you started in 1946, Matt?" said Guthrie gently. "How would you like to involve yourself in the capture of Martin Bormann?"
Nerves may have caused it, but the laugh was spontaneous. When the paroxysms trailed off, Matt shook his head. "You phony bastards. You still aren't short on guts. Is British Intelligence willing to expend a dispossessed American photographer to blaze a trail to the world's number one war criminal? Damn decent of them, I'd say."
"Intelligence has nothing to do with this," said Guthrie quickly. "I've been cold for years. My department is fiscal planning. But I do occasionally receive classified information. Chums, you know. It happens that rumblings show Bormann about to make a bold move."
"Who do you represent, the Israelis?"
He shook his head. "Let's say this will be a free-lance venture. Our pay will be the bounty. Bormann will bring $28,000 from the West Germans alone. There will be other rewards for him and his associates. We can finish up with more than fifty thousand each. I don't know about you, Matt, but I could use the money. I'm headed for automatic retirement in another two years, and I have a daughter just entering college."
Matt squinted and frowned. He clasped his hands and leaned over to stare at them. "I don't give a damn about money," he said quietly. "But if you can make me come alive again- I'm damned interested."
"I hoped you would be," said Guthrie with a full grin. "That's good-that's jolly good. I need you, Pyne. You came to mind the minute the scheme presented itself. I was prepared to go after you in America. I had no idea you were still in London."
"Let's hear your information," said Matt, impatient now that he had committed himself, "and I may as well tell you now, I have no operating money. I'm down to my last five pounds."
Guthrie nodded and brought out a long black wallet. "Here's something to tide you over." The note was a twenty. "I have some savings to draw upon. Perhaps as much as a thousand pounds. I'm willing to place it all on a winning number. You, Matthew, improve those winning odds appreciably."
"You may be misplacing your confidence," said Matt, folding the money, "but I'll give a fair day's work."
"I know," said Guthrie, extending a delicate hand. "That's all I ask."
Their handshake sealed the bargain.