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him back. The light had definitely failed him now.
    “See here,” he said, his cheeks turning red, “if you’re from one of those collection agencies, I won’t put up with your breaking into my room. Just give me the bill and I’ll make partial payment and the rest when the show I’m in …”
    “Why did you write those letters?” I said, ready to push him back down. He bounced as if to try again and sat back.
    “I don’t understand.” He almost wept.
    “Neither do I, but if you answer some questions, one of us may be able to figure things out. The letters?”
    “For the movie,” he said.
    “The movie?”
    “Columbia Pictures,” he said with mock exasperation. “They hired me.”
    “Columbia Pictures hired you to threaten Albert Einstein?”
    I had dealt with actors before, all kinds, even looney ones who didn’t make sense and loonier ones who did, so I was prepared for a long morning, but I didn’t want it any longer than it had to be. I tried to look angry and impatient. Maybe I succeeded.
    “Yes,” Albanese bleated. “I was hired to star in a two-reel short, Axes to the Axis . I was a deluded young American who threatens Albert Einstein. After meeting Einstein, I learn the error of my ways and turn in the Fifth Columnists.”
    “That is a …” I began and then changed direction. “They actually shot this movie?”
    “Yes, in a loft near the Village,” cried Albanese. “I say, I really can do an American accent quite well. I really can. Listen, ‘Can one of you guys stop talking and hand me the catchup?’”
    “Yeah,” I said. The accent stunk. “Why did you actually have to write the letters?”
    “Authenticity, verity,” he explained. “The camera actually filmed me as I wrote.”
    I had a feeling Columbia wasn’t at the bottom of this, but it was damned hard to believe that Nazis or anyone else had actually gone through with making a movie, just to set up a simple-minded fall guy like Albanese. “How did the movie come out?” I asked.
    “I haven’t seen it yet,” Albanese said, trying to stand up again. This time I didn’t stop him. “The editing takes time, but Mr. Povey said that as soon …”
    “Who is Mr. Povey?”
    Albanese walked over to the mirror in the bathroom and his voice echoed back, “The director, Gurko Povey. He came here to escape the Nazis. He’s done magnificent films in Europe.”
    “Name one you’ve seen,” I said, following him to the bathroom. “No, I’ll make it easier. Just name one.”
    Albanese paused in his examination of his hair but didn’t look away from his reflection as he threw his hands out and sighed with undigested contempt for my lack of knowledge of the European cinema. “I don’t remember exactly,” he said. “Something to do with Grungecht or Groomlicht or something like that. They’re all in German.”
    “Was someone on Gurko Povey’s crew a big guy with close-cropped white hair?” I asked, watching him watch himself.
    “That’s a reasonable description of Mr. Povey himself. I tried calling him Herr Povey but he preferred the Anglicized form of address.”
    “Naturally,” I said. “So, how many people were involved in making this movie?”
    Albanese finished his inspection of himself and turned to me. He thought he had had enough. “Look here, you break into my room, push me around, ask all manner of ridiculous questions about my career and explain nothing. I’m late for a rehearsal and I can’t be …”
    But he could be. As he tried to walk past me on the “be,” the fingers of my right hand caught his neck.
    “Actor, you are in trouble,” I whispered, watching him turn pink. “Those letters were sent to Albert Einstein. They are threatening letters. And you are an idiot. Now I’m going to let you go and you are going to answer my questions. Try to blink your eyes if you understand.”
    His face was turning white but his eyes fluttered. I took my fingers from his throat and watched him go through