Read Online Dreams Bigger Than the Night by Paul M. Levitt - Free Book Online

were equally stumped? Rolf needed more proof than a discarded newspaper retrieved by another.
    As the second day passed into the third, Rolf decided to use Brundage as a lure. Until now, Avery had stayed well away from the deck rails, where an unseen assailant could shove him overboard. Rolf suggested that Avery, without Elizabeth, stroll to the outside railing, pause a minute, and then return to the glass-enclosed deck. If anyone made a move to follow, Rolf would of course be at Avery’s side to protect him—and might have a better idea of the persons assigned to harm Brundage. But nobody followed, and Avery returned to his wife. Standing by himself in the stern of the ship, admiring the great propellers leaving a wake behind the liner, Rolf heard a dog barking in the distance. Around a corner came a German shepherd running toward him. Its owner was nowhere to be seen. The dog playfully sniffed Rolf’s leg and turned its head, as if looking for its master. At that moment, Rolf leaned over, scooped up the dog, and threw it overboard. A few seconds later, the owner came scurrying around the corner looking for “Schatzi.” He was an elderly gentleman, well attired, and sporting a monocle. Had Rolf seen a dog? Yes, but it took off down the other side of the ship. The man had spoken in German. He thanked Rolf, bowed slightly, and disappeared.
    After dinner, Rolf accompanied the Brundages to their stateroom. As always, he entered first, looked around, and then, seeing there was no danger, stepped aside to admit the couple. Outside the door, Rolf saw a young cabin boy coming his way carrying a tray of food. He stopped the young man to ask if any of the passengers had been inquiring about the location of the Brundage stateroom. The boy hesitated. Rolf flashed his SS badge and handed him a ten spot.
    “As a matter of fact, since we left Bremen several passengers have asked me that question.”
    “Old or young?”
    “Mostly old, except for one person, who never leaves the cabin. But I don’t think . . .”
    Rolf interrupted. “What about meals?”
    “Good question. I have no idea.”
    “Perhaps a friend . . .”
    “I’ve never seen one.”
    “Room number?”
    “It’s . . . it’s 218.”
    “Not a word about this matter,” said Rolf. “I am here as a representative of the German government. Secret business.”
    The cabin boy’s eyes grew as wide as portholes, and he shook his head vigorously. “Not a word, sir, I promise.” And then, still balancing the tray of food, he hastily left.
    That same evening and the next day, Rolf shadowed Room 218, but no one entered or exited. So he descended below deck to the kitchen, where he found his way blocked by a small, cadaverous man who belied the belief that all cooks are fat.
    “No passengers allowed,” he said in German.
    Dozens of people were dashing about: cooks preparing food, scullions scouring pots, pans, and dishes, and waiters and waitresses carrying plates in and out of the kitchen. Once again Rolf flashed his SS badge. The skeletal cook forced a smile, revealing a mouth of bad teeth.
    “A word, please,” said Rolf.
    The cook wiped his hands on his apron and walked to one side. “Be quick, the diners are waiting.”
    “Are you in charge?”
    “I am the head cook, Benedict Strassen.”
    “Herr Strassen, do any of the passengers require a special diet, for example, a kosher one?”
    “Why do you ask?” said Benedict suspiciously.
    “I am looking for a man . . .”
    “For this you interrupt me. No, we don’t serve kosher.”
    Rolf thought twice before he spoke again, wondering whether Herr Strassen could be trusted. “A Jewish killer. Perhaps two of them.”
    Without replying, the cook waved his hand to a meat cook preparing pork chops. As the man approached, Benedict greeted him as Friedl and repeated Rolf’s question.
    Friedl looked at Benedict. The head cook wiped his perspiring face with his apron. “Tell him,” said Benedict. “He’s with the