Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’d like to stay but I have to get back to work. If you ever need me just pick up the phone.”

“No, I’ll whistle, Harry. Remember?”

“Sure.” That’s what he’d said to Joyce at the Frankels’, thinking of the movie To Have and Have Not, the night Hess had surprised them.

“Say goodbye to Cordell for me.”

“He feels bad about what happened.”

“He should never have been put in that position. I’m not his responsibility. I’m not yours, either.” Joyce took a breath. “You think this is the end of it, Harry?” She looked at him as if she could read his mind. “You don’t, do you?”

“I know he’s gone. Left in a hurry. According to Conlin, Hess alias Max Hoffman flew to New York City. His name was listed on the American Airlines manifest.” They knew it wasn’t the real Max Hoffman. Police had discovered his body buried in the garden behind his house, sniffed out by a German shepherd from the K-9 unit. But he didn’t think Joyce had to hear that. “Joyce, he’s wanted in Germany and now he’s wanted here. I think he’ll just disappear.”

“Harry, you always say the right thing.”

Harry had paid for a room for Cordell at the Breakers, and bought him a plane ticket back to Detroit. With the Colombians after him Cordell was anxious to get out of town. They flew Eastern Airlines first class to Detroit, Cordell excited, up front with the high rollers, drinkin’ champagne before the plane took off and Courvoisier and Coke after it did. “Man, you do it right, Harry.”

“What are you going to do when we get back?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’re you going to stay?”

“I could sleep in your basement.”

“How about the guest room?”

Cordell nodded. “What are the neighbors gonna say, you got a colored guy stayin’ with you?”

“You think I care what the neighbors say?” Harry paused. “How about a job? Try playing it straight for a change. You might like it. Nobody’ll be coming after you with a gun.”

“You makin’ conversation or makin’ an offer?”

“Know how to work a guillotine shear?”

“Yeah. Sure, Harry. Doesn’t everyone?”

“How about a grapple hook?”

“Got any jobs you need done indoors, sittin’ at a desk?”

“Become an expert at everything, one day you can buy me out.”

“That’s just what I want to do — own a scrap yard.”

Harry walked in the kitchen, put his suitcase on the floor, Cordell standing in the doorway, duffel balanced on his shoulder. “Your room’s at the top of the stairs to the left. You’ll like the floral motif.”

Cordell moved down the hall and disappeared.

Harry went to the phone and checked his messages. There were forty-two. He fast-forwarded through them, erasing the sales calls and political pitches, until he heard Colette’s voice. “Harry, I’m staying at a friend’s. Call me as soon as you can. I’ll explain everything.” Colette took a breath. “Harry, I love you.” She’d never said it before, nor had he, and it made him happy, it made him want to see her and hold her. Harry dialed the operator, gave her the phone number in Munich. It rang a dozen times and he hung up. He’d try her again later.

“That’s her,” Stigler said to Riemenschneider, sitting next to him in the front seat of his work van. He watched the blonde, in a cap and raincoat, come out of the apartment building and move down the street in a cold steady drizzle. People were walking under umbrellas and traffic was heavy. He could see a blur of headlights and taillights through the wet glass. Bauman was sitting on a toolbox in the back of the van.

“Will you turn on the heat? It’s freezing back here.”

Franz started the engine, turned up the heat. Riemenschneider got out and took off after Colette. Franz waited a few minutes then made a U-turn and cruised to the end of the block. He saw the big man standing in the square waving at them. Franz pulled over and rolled down the window.

“She went into a restaurant,” Riemenschneider said.

“We’ll wait.”

Fifteen minutes later Franz saw Colette Rizik approaching, coming toward him through the haze, crossing the deserted square, rain still coming down. When she was right in front of him he said, “Excuse me, do you know the time?”

She was carrying a white plastic carryout bag, stopped, looked at her watch and said, “Eight thirty-eight.”

Franz could see Riemenschneider’s wide bulk in silhouette coming behind her. “I had to get a new tire after what you did. Cost me forty Deutschmarks.”

Colette swung the carryout bag at him and started to run. Riemenschneider, surprisingly quick for his size, had closed in fast, grabbed her in his powerful arms, lifted her off the ground, Colette screaming, and Baumann coming behind Riemenschneider wrapped duct tape over her mouth and around her head, and taped her hands behind her back.

Colette opened her eyes and looked around. She was in a small room with an adjoining bath. They had removed the duct tape, but her wrists were cuffed to a chain that was bolted to the wood plank floor. She got up and looked out the window. The room was on the second floor of a house surrounded by woods. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, dried herself, went back and sat on the edge of the bed.

Sometime later, the door opened. Colette saw Franz Stigler’s head look in. “She’s awake.”

Ernst Hess came in and stood next to the bed.

“That day I came to your apartment dressed as a postman, I have been wondering, what gave me away?”

“Your shoes.”

“No one noticed but you. But that’s your business, isn’t it? Observing, remembering details.” Hess smiled. “That’s what saved you. If you hadn’t noticed my shoes, you would have been shot, and I’m guessing the article never would have appeared.”

“I mailed the photographs to Berlin after I escaped.”

“My point exactly. Was it fate? Was it luck?”

“I don’t know, but you’re the last person I would have expected. Why would you risk coming back?”

“There was some unfinished business. Now that I have you I can reel in Harry.”

“He’s not going to come back here. He’ll be arrested and you know it.”

“You think that’s going to stop him?”

“I would worry more about myself if I were you. The reward is up to half a million dollars. Somebody is going to recognize you and call the police. Keep an eye on Franz and his buddies. How much do you think an electrician earns in a year? One phone call and he’s rich.”

Hess moved to the door, opened it. “Franz, come in here.” Stigler shuffled in the room, standing at the foot of the bed. He seemed nervous in Hess’ presence.

“Fraulein Rizik thinks you are going to turn me in to the authorities and collect the ransom.”

“I would never do that,” Stigler said, giving Colette a dirty look.

“Franz, how much money do you earn in a year?”

Stigler shrugged. “Forty-five thousand marks.”

“The reward is one million, seven hundred and forty thousand. Maybe Fraulein Rizik is right.”

Hess winked at Colette, and Stigler looked helpless, caught in this hypothetical scenario.

“Herr Hess, I can assure you, I would never…”

Hess grinned, enjoying the game. He liked to make people squirm. “It’s okay, Franz. I am just pulling your leg.”

Stigler seemed to regain his composure.

“But if I hear anything…” Hess let it hang, patting Stigler on the back and grinning again. “Let Fraulein Rizik stretch her legs and have something to eat. I will be back later.”