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Authors: Brett Halliday
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the right down a wide hall, pushed open a wooden door that stood slightly ajar.
Otto Phleugar sat behind a bare desk in a small, plainly furnished office. He got up when Shayne entered, bustled around the desk, and took the detective’s hand. “It is good that you come, mine friend. Sit here.” He drew up a straight chair and pressed Shayne into it, then tiptoed to the door with an incongruous show of caution, closed and latched it firmly. He returned to his chair and sat down, nervously wiping perspiration from his face.
Shayne watched him with narrowed eyes. “You act like the Gestapo was after you, Otto. What the hell is this all about?”
A shudder traveled from Otto’s three chins down to his protuberant stomach. “It is not good to make the joke.” He sighed, wagging his head from side to side mournfully. “I am on the—what you would call the spot.”
Shayne lit a cigarette very deliberately. “Gorstmann?”
Otto Phleugar gave a start of surprise, of fear. Beads of sweat began to form on his face again. “From how do you know about Herr Gorstmann?”
Shayne said, “I was guessing. He’s new here and—well, I don’t like the looks of his horse-face.”
The restaurant proprietor leaned close and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did he—was he seeing you when you came to my office?”
“I didn’t notice. Suppose he did? What’s this head-waiter got on you?”
“It is of the most difficult. You must try to understand. It is not good to make the laugh about the Gestapo. Herr Gorstmann is not only the headwaiter. He comes with authority from Berlin.”
Shayne’s expression hardened. “Authority from Berlin doesn’t mean a damned thing in the United States. You’re a fool if you’re trying to ride both sides of the fence, Otto. A dangerous fool if you’re playing that game.”
“That I understand so well,” Phleugar moaned. “To you I must talk. It is not what I wish. The good citizen I am want to be.”
Shayne leaned back comfortably. “You’d better tell me all about it. But I’m not promising a thing. You can’t play your silly Gestapo games in wartime without getting your fingers burned.”
“That I understand. Hate I have for myself in here.” Phleugar tapped his stomach. “This I cannot endure longer. I will tell it to you and you will the advice give.”
“Get started,” said Shayne evenly, “but don’t expect too much sympathy from me. Damn it, Otto,” he exploded, “you’ve had twenty years of good living in this country. You don’t owe Germany anything. If you give me any information I think should go to the authorities, that’s where it will go. Start talking.”
“It is well.” Otto mopped his fat face again. “Herr Gorstmann to my restaurant came three days ago. Business was bad as you see it tonight. Since the war people remember I am German and do not come to eat. This is not fair, but what can I do?”
Shayne said, “I admit it’s tough, but it’s no excuse for you to turn against the country, Otto.”
“That I tell myself. So I tell Herr Gorstmann when he tell me I must hire him in my restaurant so he will escape the eyes of the law. There would be money for me each month—money I need if I do not close the Danube.
“But I liked it not, Mr. Shayne. To Herr Gorstmann I say that I am the American citizen and I must not do this.
“Then he is with threats for me. The eyes of the Gestapo, he relates, are everywhere. I have cousins in Germany. Of my good wife, there is her mother in Hamburg. If I refused Herr Gorstmann there would be trouble—death for those so unfortunate who remain under the Nazis. Could I say no to Herr Gorstmann?” He spread out his hands appealingly.
“Yes,” Shayne growled. “If there was an ounce of guts in that fat body of yours you would have refused. You should have called me or the police as soon as Gorstmann came to you with his threats. Good God!” he pounded out, “your relatives in Germany will have
Otto Phleugar sat behind a bare desk in a small, plainly furnished office. He got up when Shayne entered, bustled around the desk, and took the detective’s hand. “It is good that you come, mine friend. Sit here.” He drew up a straight chair and pressed Shayne into it, then tiptoed to the door with an incongruous show of caution, closed and latched it firmly. He returned to his chair and sat down, nervously wiping perspiration from his face.
Shayne watched him with narrowed eyes. “You act like the Gestapo was after you, Otto. What the hell is this all about?”
A shudder traveled from Otto’s three chins down to his protuberant stomach. “It is not good to make the joke.” He sighed, wagging his head from side to side mournfully. “I am on the—what you would call the spot.”
Shayne lit a cigarette very deliberately. “Gorstmann?”
Otto Phleugar gave a start of surprise, of fear. Beads of sweat began to form on his face again. “From how do you know about Herr Gorstmann?”
Shayne said, “I was guessing. He’s new here and—well, I don’t like the looks of his horse-face.”
The restaurant proprietor leaned close and asked in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did he—was he seeing you when you came to my office?”
“I didn’t notice. Suppose he did? What’s this head-waiter got on you?”
“It is of the most difficult. You must try to understand. It is not good to make the laugh about the Gestapo. Herr Gorstmann is not only the headwaiter. He comes with authority from Berlin.”
Shayne’s expression hardened. “Authority from Berlin doesn’t mean a damned thing in the United States. You’re a fool if you’re trying to ride both sides of the fence, Otto. A dangerous fool if you’re playing that game.”
“That I understand so well,” Phleugar moaned. “To you I must talk. It is not what I wish. The good citizen I am want to be.”
Shayne leaned back comfortably. “You’d better tell me all about it. But I’m not promising a thing. You can’t play your silly Gestapo games in wartime without getting your fingers burned.”
“That I understand. Hate I have for myself in here.” Phleugar tapped his stomach. “This I cannot endure longer. I will tell it to you and you will the advice give.”
“Get started,” said Shayne evenly, “but don’t expect too much sympathy from me. Damn it, Otto,” he exploded, “you’ve had twenty years of good living in this country. You don’t owe Germany anything. If you give me any information I think should go to the authorities, that’s where it will go. Start talking.”
“It is well.” Otto mopped his fat face again. “Herr Gorstmann to my restaurant came three days ago. Business was bad as you see it tonight. Since the war people remember I am German and do not come to eat. This is not fair, but what can I do?”
Shayne said, “I admit it’s tough, but it’s no excuse for you to turn against the country, Otto.”
“That I tell myself. So I tell Herr Gorstmann when he tell me I must hire him in my restaurant so he will escape the eyes of the law. There would be money for me each month—money I need if I do not close the Danube.
“But I liked it not, Mr. Shayne. To Herr Gorstmann I say that I am the American citizen and I must not do this.
“Then he is with threats for me. The eyes of the Gestapo, he relates, are everywhere. I have cousins in Germany. Of my good wife, there is her mother in Hamburg. If I refused Herr Gorstmann there would be trouble—death for those so unfortunate who remain under the Nazis. Could I say no to Herr Gorstmann?” He spread out his hands appealingly.
“Yes,” Shayne growled. “If there was an ounce of guts in that fat body of yours you would have refused. You should have called me or the police as soon as Gorstmann came to you with his threats. Good God!” he pounded out, “your relatives in Germany will have
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