anything. What
was he doing there? What would he care about who got knocked off in
Yugoslavia?
And the rules had changed. The man sitting in
the other chair–the first one who had questioned him, on the very
first day—leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, the
eyebrows in his neat little face raised up almost into his patent
leather hair.
“We wish to question you concerning the
death—the assassination—of one Janik Shevliskin, an employee of the
People’s Government. We wish you to confess. Now, without further
delay. We have all the evidence we require to convict you in the
People’s Courts, and you will be sentenced to death.”
Guinness was listening, but his eyes were on
the colonel, whose upper lip was covered by a pair of perfectly
straight, coppery moustaches. He was a small man, perhaps only an
inch or two over five feet, and as the interrogator spoke, issuing
his demand for an immediate confession, the colonel smiled and,
almost imperceptibly, shook his head. It was a sign meant for him
alone.
“I haven’t killed a soul,” Guinness heard
himself saying. “I never heard of this guy, and I insist upon
seeing somebody from my embassy.”
4
“Why? You must have had a reason—what was
it?”
They were standing next to the fountain
behind the Nymphenburg Palace, listening to the water splash, with
only a couple of pale, languid goldfish, about the size of small
trout, drifting here and there beneath the cloudy strands of algae,
to keep them company. Guinness had his foot up on the rim of the
pool and was retying his shoelace, frowning with concentration.“I
suppose you must know I’ve always wondered. What made you do
it?”
Kätzner’s hands were in his trouser pockets,
which pushed his shoulders up and accented the faintly military cut
of his tweed jacket. He shrugged, somehow managing to confine the
gesture to his eyebrows.
“Are you really curious about such things? Is
that part of your price?”
When Guinness didn’t answer, even after the
shoelace had relinquished its hold upon his attention and he had
straightened up and was smoothing down his trouser leg, then
Kätzner too began peering down at the fish as they hung, almost
immobile, in the gloomy water.
“I was about to arrest Shevliskin—that was
why I was there. That was why we were able to arrest you so
quickly. The British must have known; that must have been why they
sent you. He was one of theirs, and doubtless they didn’t wish him
to fall into unsympathetic hands.” He smiled then, but not at
Guinness. At some reflection of his own, perhaps—in the water or
elsewhere. Or perhaps at nothing so specific. Under any
circumstances, he did smile. “I shouldn’t have liked to appear a
poor loser.”
Obviously, he didn’t even expect Guinness to
believe him—oh, about the arrest, yes. But not about the motive. At
least, not entirely.
“And then. . . Well, a distaste for amateur
productions, probably. Those fools were never going to get anything
from you—they even seemed to be laboring under the childish
delusion that you might actually have been innocent.”
“And, of course, you never. . .”
“No.”
It wouldn’t have occurred to Guinness not to
believe him. It seemed so self evident, but apparently Kätzner felt
some need to explain. He pointed to the crowd of people who were
coming down the palace stairway into the gardens; there were
probably fifteen of them, and they were obviously part of a
tour—the women were in front, listening to the guide, while the men
all seemed to be loitering behind, apparently bored by furniture
and plasterwork and the Baroque formality of trimmed hedges and
gray gravel walkways. It was to them that Kätzner was pointing.
“You see those safe citizens?” he said, and
took his hand down as if he were dismissing the whole group from
existence. “A few of them look old enough to have been in the
War—perhaps they were very brave. Let us hope so. I doubt if any
have
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