Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Devlin Judge, here to see Miss Bach.” As he spoke there was a commotion behind the door. The butler took a step back and whispered something about “being polite,” and “it not being her place,” then stalked off. In his place stood a slender blonde woman wearing a sleeveless brown dress.

“We’ve really had quite enough of your chums coming onto our land and acting as if they can take as much game as they please,” she began, in the same faultless English. “Morning, noon, and night, that’s all one hears. Pop. Pop. Pop. It’s absolutely dreadful. Father detests it. He jumps in his bed every time a rifle goes off. He’s very ill and needs all the rest he can get. That means peace and quiet…” she paused long enough to study the insignia on his shoulders “…Major. And as for the chamois they’re butchering, I shouldn’t be surprised if the forests will soon be empty of them. One doesn’t use a bloody machine gun to kill a small antelope. Wouldn’t you agree, Major…”

“Judge,” he answered. “Devlin Judge. Judge Advocate General’s Corps.” He winced at his mistake. “Excuse me, Provost Marshal’s Office.” In the course of her speech she had moved onto the landing, so that she stood only a few inches from him. She wasn’t beautiful, at least not by New York standards. Her hair showed dirty roots and fell in an uneven tide onto her shoulders. Her face was too angular and bore not a trace of makeup. A universe of tiny freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Her lips were dry and, in places, cracked. Why, then, was he so insistently cataloguing her faults?

She had set a hand on her hip and was nibbling at a chewed fingernail. “So?”

Inclining his head, he asked slowly, “So what?”

“So what are you going to do about the ruckus? Just because we lost the war doesn’t mean you can step allover us. The shooting is driving us mad. Forget about Papa. I’m going to kill myself if it doesn’t stop soon.”

Judge needed a moment to recover from her verbal barrage. Making a half-turn, he stared out at the forest and, as if sensing his attention, the shooting stopped.

“Congratulations, they’ve taken another chamois.” Her triumphant grin stank of sarcasm. She looked over his shoulder, but not before he noticed that she had a chipped front tooth. “I should bloody well charge for them. Twenty dollars a head. That would solve things.”

“I assume you are Ingrid Bach,” Judge said, finally, his patience wearing thin.

“Go to the top of the class, Major. If you don’t mind, though, I prefer my husband’s name. Von Wilimovsky. Ingridvon Wilimovsky. These days Bach is about as bad as Hitler. Pity us, don’t you?”

Pity wasn’t the word he had in mind. Disdain and scorn were more like it, and if she continued rambling on like a broken phonograph, he’d add despise to the list, too. He hadn’t expected her to be overtly contrite, but Christ, she could at least play at humility. Instead, she was just one more rich girl waiting for the favors she was owed.

She stepped into the entry and motioned for Judge to follow.

He was inside a medieval lair, a wood-paneled great room that could swallow his one-bedroom apartment whole. A minstrel’s gallery circled the perimeter, and below it hung enough portraits to fill the Met. The paintings were spaced at three foot intervals. Here and there, however, one was missing, leaving him with the impression of a decaying set of teeth. A great fireplace yawned at the far end of the room, dark, unlit, and tall enough for a man to step into.

Seyss, you here? Judge thought to himself. In a place this big, he could keep himself hidden for years. Maybe he should have taken Honey’s advice and brought along a few men to search the premises.

“I expect you’re here to see Father,” she said. “He’s no better than last week. The doctors call it zweite kinderheit . Second childhood.”

Judge saw no reason to disabuse her of the notion. “Keep ’em talking” was the interrogator’s cardinal rule. She led him into a small parlor, with throw rugs and easy chairs and lace-curtained windows looking onto the lake. The horns of a dozen small mountain goats and, he guessed, chamois, decorated the paneled wall. Sitting down, she freed a cigarette from the folds of her dress.

Judge tucked his cap under an arm, drawing a Zippo from his pocket. He’d given up smoking, but experience had taught him that good manners opened doors as well as loosened tongues. “ Allow me.”

“An officer and a gentleman,” she said, guiding the lighter to the cigarette. “How pleasant.”

Judge lowered himself into an armchair opposite her, gazing at the lake, then at the imposing mountains. Not a bad place to pass the war. On the table next to him was a petite green porcelain vase. A second glance revealed a glass cabinet against the wall filled with similar pieces.

“ Schön Dresden ,” he said, speaking German to satisfy an unannounced urge to impress her.

Ingrid Bach brushed the vase with her fingertip. “Meissen is my one true love. Did you know that King Augustus thought it would prevent him from growing old? An antidote to decay: he called it. When he died, they counted forty thousand pieces of porcelain inside his palace.”

“My mother was a collector, too,” said Judge, looking to establish a common ground.

“Oh?”

“Well, not exactly. She had two pieces.”

Ingrid laughed, then caught herself. “That’s a start anyway. Why didn’t you say you were from Berlin?”

“My mother was from Berlin,” he said. “I’m from New York.” He never volunteered Brooklyn.

“My cousin is from New York, too. He’s in the Foreign Service. I believe he’s traveling to Potsdam as we speak. His name is Chip DeHaven. Do you happen to know him?”

Judge raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Most recently, Carroll “Chip” DeHaven had served as an aide to President Roosevelt at Yalta and Teheran, but he had made a name for himself as First Secretary to the US Embassy in Moscow. During the first years of the war, he’d been a vocal supporter of Lend-Lease and one of the few to call for America’s early entry into the war. Judge couldn’t imagine that she was related to such an East Coast blue blood. “Your cousin is Chip DeHaven?”

“Father’s sister’s second son. Just don’t call him Carroll. He positively hates that name.” And when she saw his continued skepticism, she shot him a nasty glance. “511 Fifth Avenue. Corner of 62nd. Just up from the Sherry. We used to visit when I was a little girl.”

She meant the Sherry Netherland hotel, of course. Suddenly he found her smug delivery overbearing. He knew why, even if he didn’t care to admit it. She was the rich girl lording it over her poor guest. Every bit as annoying as the Yalies who infested the US attorney’s office. “The Sherry” as if she owned the place. No doubt she’d crossed on the Hindenburg.

“Actually, I’m not here to see your father,” he said, sitting straighter to signal that the pleasantries were over. “I’m an investigator with the Third Army. That’s General Patton’s outfit. I came to speak with you.”

Ingrid Bach’s face lost its color. “Me? Whatever for? Shouldn’t you be chasing down my brother? I mean he’s the shit of the family. I’m just a nurse and widow.”

Judge had never seen a guiltier response. The shifting of focus off herself; the hands grappling at one another; the voice jumping half an octave. She was up to something. The only question was whether it was harboring a fugitive war criminal.

“We’re looking for a man who we have reason to believe may have visited you recently.”

Her glib tongue had suddenly grown tired. “Oh?”

“His name is Erich Seyss.”