Jonathan Rabb - The Second Son

He said, “I don’t think they’re doing it on purpose.”

“Of course they’re not doing it on purpose,” she said, stirring again. “That’s what makes them pricks. They know exactly where he is. They just don’t want to tell us.”

Hoffner nodded and asked, “Is the boy about?”

“Still,” she went on, “I imagine they’re expecting some really wonderful reels of war-torn Barcelona, bodies and red flags, rifles in the air. And all by the end of the week. Isn’t that exciting?”

Hoffner had told himself to wait until dinner to bring things up but, truth to tell, he had never been much good at waiting. He said, “I suppose I’ll just have to go and find him, then.”

“He’s up in your rooms,” she said. “Where else would he be? I think he’s got something special planned for you today.”

Hoffner waited and then said, “I wasn’t talking about the boy.”

It took her a moment to follow. When she did, she continued to ladle through the meat.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “You meant Georg. Going to Spain and bringing him back. Yes, that would be very nice of you. And some eggs while you’re out. We’re running low.”

“They’ve given me the sack at the Alex.” He waited for her to turn. “This afternoon,” he said. “It’s a few years early, but they think it’s for the best. After all, I’ve had such a nice career up until now.”

She was still holding the spoon. He noticed a glint of Georg’s empathy register in her eyes: it was nice to see it. She said, “I’m so sorry, Nikolai.”

He shook his head. “No reason. Not much police work going on at the place now, especially for a half-Jew cop.” She tried an awkward nod, and he said, “So I’ll go see this Wilson fellow tomorrow. The one who runs Georg’s office. He’s always seemed nice enough. Let him know what I’m planning to do.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before she said, “What?”

Hoffner continued easily. “I’m sure he knows where Georgi was filming last. No reason to put any of that in the notes. I’ll start there.” The spoon began to drip and Hoffner pointed. “You might want to watch that.”

Her silence turned to confusion. “You’re not being serious?” Chicken stock splattered to the tile but she ignored it. “You know, I don’t find this funny.” When he continued to stare at her, she said, “They may be pricks, Nikolai, but they’re right. He’s followed someone up into the hills. That’s what this is.” She found a dishrag and crouched down to clean up the spill. “He’ll get the footage he wants and come back down. And then he’ll come home.” There was an unexpected frailty in her need to believe what she was saying. “It’s the Spanish. Do they even have telephones?” She stood and turned on the faucet.

Hoffner watched as the dishrag now began to get the worst of it. He said, “We both know Georg’s never gone this long without a wire or a letter.” When she said nothing, he took hold of the envelope, pulled out the note, and-glancing through it-realized she had managed it almost verbatim: “mayhem,” “thrived.”

“ ‘Incomplete communications,’ ” he said, reading. “That’s a dangerous little phrase.” He waited and then added, “If you need me here, I won’t go.”

“Need you?” she said; he heard the first strains of anger in her voice. She turned off the faucet and said, “That’s not it and you know it.”

She continued to stare into the sink, and Hoffner suddenly realized how badly he had missed it. This wasn’t anger. This was fear. It was a cruel sort of stupidity that had let him think she might actually be encouraging, even excited at the prospect. All he had done was to make the danger acutely real for her.

He set the page back on the table. “No one else is going after him, Lotte. No one else wants to think they have to.” And for some inexplicable reason: “There’s probably a better story in it if they don’t.” He was too late in realizing how deeply this had cut her. Instead, he found a bit of grease on the table and began to rub his finger along the wood.

Her eyes remained on the faucet. “So you just get on a train and go to Spain, is that it?”

His fingers had become sticky. He looked for something to wipe them on. “I’ve a friend who can fly me in.”

“A friend?” she said in disbelief, turning to him. “So this has been in the works for some time.”

Hoffner let the silence settle. “Yes.”

“Of course it has,” she said. “And getting the sack from the Kripo-that just makes it easier, doesn’t it?”

“I was going anyway.”

She tossed over the dishrag. “I’m sure you were.”

“As I said, I won’t go-”

“Yes, you won’t go if I tell you I’m too weak to let you. Would that cause some real misgivings, Nikolai, a moment of genuine concern? But then I’ve never played the martyred wife with Georg, so why should I try it with you?”

At twenty-four, she already had more resilience than he would ever know in himself. And courage. It took a kind of courage for bitterness to stand up to fear. It was something he had seen only in women. Or perhaps it was what he provoked in them. Either way, it made him feel small in its presence.

He focused on the rag as he wiped off the grease. “It’s more chaos now than-” He stopped himself. Than what, he thought-killing? How much more could he possibly mangle this? He looked at her. “They haven’t drawn the battle lines. There aren’t any fronts to be held. They’re picking sides, and a man can get lost in that, no matter how noble his intentions. A man like that needs someone to come and find him.” And, perhaps trying too hard to redeem himself, he said, “If it were you, Lotte, I wouldn’t need to go at all. You’d be just fine.”

She held his gaze. It was a strained few moments before he caught the flicker of surrender in her eyes. Another moment and she pointed to the rag. “They’re still pricks,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, tossing it back. “They are.”

It was enough for both of them.

She turned to the pot and, with one more unexpected kindness, said, “He’ll be impossible if you don’t go up now. Just try not to get him too frantic before dinner.”

The walk across the back lawn to the carriage house was mercifully dry. Hoffner kept his head down, careful not to notice the tiny pair of eyes following him from the second-floor window. He pulled open the door, mounted the steps, and instantly heard the scurrying of Mendel’s little feet above him. At the top of the railing, Hoffner saw Elena, the boy’s nanny, who was standing behind a lamp. To a four-year-old, a woman of her size-thick in all the right places-could actually be hidden behind such things. There was a stifled giggle from the blanketed lump on the sofa.

“What a long day I’ve had,” Hoffner said. “How nice it is, finally to be alone. I’ll just stretch myself out for a nice rest.”

He tossed his hat onto a chair and began to ease himself down onto the sofa. Instantly, the boy’s hands gripped Hoffner’s shoulders with shrieks of “Not alone! Not alone! Not alone!”

Hoffner went through all the required confusion-“My goodness! Who’s that? The sofa’s alive! Help me!”-as they ran around the room, Mendel clinging tightly to his back. Finally, Hoffner pulled the boy around to the front and they both slumped back to the sofa with a smothering of kisses for Mendy’s neck and belly.

This was, with only minor variations, the routine every day, down to the last few gurgles of laughter before Hoffner finally let go. Mendel quickly leaped to the ground and raced over to the drawing table in the corner.

Elena, well practiced, now stepped out from behind her lamp and said, “We spent a good deal of time on this one, Herr Chief Inspector. A little trouble getting all the letters of your name to fit over your head, but we finally managed it.”