Ira Levin - Boys from Brazil

Beynon frowned, poked at his glasses, and looked his doubts at Liebermann.

“It wasn’t a hoax, Sydney. He wasn’t a boy who would do that. He’s been missing three weeks, and he wrote home regularly, called even when he changed hotels.”

“Granted he’s probably dead,” Beynon said. “But mightn’t he have been killed simply for snooping around where he wasn’t welcome, another young fellow out after Mengele? Or even have been robbed and done away with by an ordinary thief? His death in no way proves that a…Nazi plot is under way to kill men of a particular age.”

“He had it on tape. Why would he lie to me?”

“Perhaps he didn’t. The tape might have been a hoax on him . Or maybe he was misinterpreting it.”

Liebermann drew a breath, let it out, and nodded. “I know,” he said. “That’s possible. That’s what I thought myself at first. And still think sometimes. But somebody has to check a little, and if I don’t, who will? If he was wrong, he was wrong; I waste some time and bother Sydney Beynon for nothing. But if he was right—then it’s something very big, and Mengele has a reason for doing it. And I have to find something concrete , so prosecutors will be in, not out, and stop it before it’s finished. I’ll tell you something, Sydney. You know what?”

“What.”

“There’s a Mundt in my book.” He nodded somberly. “Right where he said there was, in a list of guards at Treblinka who committed atrocities. SS Hauptscharführer Alfried Mundt. I forgot him; who can remember all of them? He’s a very thin folder: a woman in Riga saw him break the neck of a fourteen-year-old girl; a man in Florida was castrated by him and wants to come testify if I catch him. Alfried Mundt. So the boy was right once , maybe he was right twice . Will you get the clippings for me, please? I’d appreciate it.”

Beynon pulled in breath, and yielded. “I’ll see what I can do.” He tucked his cup down beside him and got his notebook and pen from his jacket. “Which countries did you say?”

“Well, the boy mentioned Germany, and England, and Scandinavia—Norway, Sweden, Denmark—and the States. But the way he said it made it sound like there was other places besides that he was leaving out. So you should ask also for France and Holland.”

Beynon glanced at him, and jotted shorthand.

“Thank you, Sydney,” Liebermann said. “I’m really grateful. Anything I turn up, you’re the first to know. Not only in this, in everything.”

Beynon said, “Do you have any idea how many men in their mid-sixties die every day?”

“By murder? Or in accidents that could be murder?” Liebermann shook his head. “No, not too many. I hope not. And some I’ll be able to eliminate by their professions.”

“What do you mean?”

Liebermann wiped a hand down over his mustache and held his chin, a finger crossing his lips. After a moment he lowered his hand and shrugged. “Nothing,” he said. “Some other details the boy gave. Listen”—he pointed at Beynon’s notebook—“be sure to put down there ‘between sixty-four and sixty-six.’”

“I did,” Beynon said, looking at him. “What other details?”

“Nothing important.” Liebermann reached into his coat. “I fly to Hamburg at four-thirty,” he said. “I’m speaking in Germany till November third.” He brought out a wallet, a thick worn brown one. “So whatever you get, please mail it to my apartment so I’ll have it when I get back.” He gave a card to Beynon.

“And if you find what looks like a Nazi killing?”

“Who knows?” Liebermann put his wallet back in his coat. “I only walk one step at a time.” He smiled at Beynon. “Especially in these shoes.” He braced his hands on his thighs and stood up, looked about and shook his head disapprovingly. “Mm. A gloomy day.” He turned and rebuked them all: “Why do you eat outside on such a day?”

“We’re the Monday Mozart Club,” Beynon said, smiling and cocking a thumb back toward the monument.

Liebermann held out his hand; Beynon took it. Liebermann smiled at the others and said, “I apologize for taking away from you this charming man.”

“You can have him,” Dermot Brody said.

Liebermann said to Beynon, “Thank you, Sydney. I knew I could depend on you. Oh, and listen.” He bent and spoke lower, holding Beynon’s hand. “Ask them please from Wednesday on. To continue, I mean. Because the boy said six men was going, and would Mengele send them all at once if some will do nothing for a long time? So there should be two more killings not long after the first one—that’s if they’re working in two-man teams—or five more, God forbid, if they’re working separately. And if, of course, the boy was right. Will you do that?”

Beynon nodded. “How many killings are there to be altogether?” he asked.

Liebermann looked at him. “A lot,” he said. He let go of Beynon’s hand, straightened up, and nodded good-bys to the others. Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, he turned and set off quickly toward the bustle and traffic of the Ring.

The four on the bench watched him go.

“Oh Lord,” Beynon said, and Freya Neustadt shook her head sadly.

Dermot Brody leaned forward and said, “What was that last bit, Syd?”

“Would I ask them to continue pulling clips.” Beynon put his notebook and pen inside his jacket. “There are going to be three or six killings, not merely one. And more besides.”

Paul Higbee took his pipe from his mouth and said, “Funny thought: he’s absolutely right.”

“Oh, come off it,” Freya said. “Nazis hating him over the telephone?”

Beynon picked up his cup and grappled at a sandwich-half. “The past two years have been awfully rough on him,” he said.

“How old is he?” Freya asked pointedly.

“I’m not sure,” Beynon said. “Oh, yes, I see. Just around sixty-five, I should think.”

“You see?” Freya said to Paul. “So Nazis are killing sixty-five-year-old men. It’s a nicely worked-out paranoid fantasy. In a month he’ll be saying they’re coming for him .”

Dermot Brody, leaning forward again, asked Beynon, “Are you really going to get the clips?”

“Of course not,” Freya said, and turned to Beynon. “You aren’t, are you?”

Beynon sipped wine, held his sandwich. “Well, I did say I’d try,” he said. “And if I don’t, he’ll only come pestering me when he gets back. Besides, London will think I’m working on something.” He smiled at Freya. “It never hurts to give that impression.”

Unlike most men his age, sixty-five-year-old Emil Döring, once second administrative assistant to the head of the Essen Public Transport Commission, had not allowed himself to become a creature of habit. Retired now and living in Gladbeck, a town north of the city, he took especial care to vary his daily routine. He went for the morning papers at no regular hour, visited his sister in Oberhausen on no particular afternoon, and passed the evenings—when he didn’t decide at the last moment to stay home—at no one favorite neighborhood bar. He had three favorite bars rather, and chose among them only when he left the apartment. Sometimes he was back in an hour or two, sometimes not until after midnight.

All his life Döring had been aware of enemies lying in wait for him, and had protected himself not only by going armed, when he was old enough, but also by keeping his movements as unpredictable as possible. First there had been the big brothers of small schoolmates who had unjustly accused him of bullying. Then there had been his fellow soldiers, dullards all, who had resented his knack for ingratiating himself with officers and getting easy and safe assignments. Then there had been his rivals at the Transport Commission, some of whom could have given lessons in treachery to Machiavelli. Could Döring tell you stories about the Transport Commission!