Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

“We feel otherwise.”

“But you have no evidence. However, the real killer is now among us and since you have the handcuffs ready I suggest you arrest him instead.”

Gonzales halted, his eyes moving about the beach and the assembled men; weapons vanished as he looked around. “Indeed,” he said. “You would not care to name this killer and give me evidence to support your contention?”

“I would. Very few people knew that Davidson had been stabbed, certainly not the general public because the papers mentioned only death by violence, without details. Is that true?”

“It is. We do our best not to supply future murderers with lessons on technique.”

“Agreed. Yet there is one man here who knows all about this technique. Not too long ago he said something to me about not caring if I decimated the FBI ranks completely with my knife work.” Tony stabbed an accusing finger in Carlo D’Isernia’s direction. “You said that, didn’t you?”

D’Isernia looked very tired. “There is always the possibility,” he sighed.

“Sounds logical,” Sones said. “The knife, a traditional Italian weapon.”

“No ethnic insults,” Timberio shouted. “The knife is an Int tional weapon, you cannot calumnify Italians in that manner!”

“Please,” D’Isernia said. “I wish to make a statement.” He was not only tired, but seeming very old. “Though I did not kill Davidson I know who did. And, in a way I feel responsible for that man’s death. The murderer is . . .”

“Schwein!”

Robl shouted the word as his hand whipped the knife from his pocket, the great blade springing out, striking instantly to sink it up to the hilt in D’Isernia’s back. It happened in less than a second, the knife slamming home, D’Isernia’s eyes going wide with shock, the shouted word still in the air.

Gonzales was moving at the same time, but he was yards away and could not stop the blow. But he did seize Robl an instant after it had been struck and with sudden twists and rapid motions of his hands had him in the air, on the ground, pinned solidly with his arms locked behind his back.

“Karate shotokan at least,” Sones said, nodding appreciatively.

D’Isernia was lying on his side on the sand looking suddenly shrunken, the wicked handle of the knife protruding from his back. He smiled crookedly when Tony bent over him, he spoke his voice was weak but clear.

“You see how he condemns himself? If not out of hi mouth at least out of his own hand. But he struck too quickly this time, not true—though true enough. I do not mind. No! Do not touch the knife. Listen to me instead, while I can still talk. man, can you hear me?”

“I can,” Gonzales said, kneeling close while Robl was held securely by his patrolmen. The others gathered around, whole plan, all of it, it is my doing, my creature. And the too, although indirectly. We were watching at the airpor and I, when the airplane arrived with Hawkin here and the other FBI agent, Davidson. I recognized him. He used to work at ruins of the museum. And the fragment from the corner of the Da Vinci, all that was left after the raid. I bought them and paid him well. But I could do nothing with the paintings, other than to admire them, they were too well known to sell. The Cellini has helped me during some very bad times. But they did serve a purpose when I sought out Robl and told him the plan. A fake Da Vinci was painted, done by Elmyr, a very good man though quite expensive, and the real fragment of painting integrated into the corner. The rest you know. I have failed. You have Robl, a simple murderous type, and you have his fake Hitler accomplice, Jakob Platz, for all he is worth. But I have failed in the bigger thing. All of this was meant to smoke out Hochhande, but it has not succeeded. I have failed.”

“On the contrary, my good friend, you have succeeded admirably, your plan worked to perfection.” Jacob Goldstein sir down at the dying man.

“What ... what do you mean? Do not torture me at this last hour.”

“I speak only the truth. You have smoked him out and he is here.” Goldstein spun about to face the silent watchers. “Come now, Hochhande, speak up. I know who you are. Your fingerprints will prove it. Step forward and admit your existence—or must I drag it from you?”

There was utter silence; no one moved. The sun shone warmly on the sand. Then the sand moved, whispered as a foot shu. forward, then another.

“I am tired of hiding,” Jakob Platz-Adolf Hitler said, leaning on his canes and moving painfully. “It took you many years to find me. Fools. That Italian thief is smarter than you all. I never suspected him, never.” He drew himself up, as well as he could, coming to attention. “I am Kapitan Hippolyt Hochhande, My disability prevents me from clicking my heels.”

“At last ...” Carlo D’Isernia said, smiling, and died.

“Would someone be so kind as to explain?” Lieutenant Gonzales said.

“Permit me,” Jacob Goldstein said. “A tale of murder and greed now comes to an end. This Hochhande ran a prison camp in Italy where, apparently, D’Isernia’s family was killed. D’Isernia concocted a plan to unearth Hochhande using these works of art. The Americans were blamed for destroying the museum that housed them, and he played on this guilt by asking a large sum of money for their return. Unhappily, they must continue to bear this guilt, only partly alleviated by the return of one of the paintings to Italy. So the pieces fall into place. Italy has the painting.”

“Safely,” Timberio said. “It will be returned and the Americans will get full credit for their part in this matter.”

“Davidson was murdered, and the police now have the killer in their hands.”

“We do,” Gonzales said, smiling at the unhappy Robl. “Justice will be done.”

“The ransom money has been returned, the United States Treasury will be satisfied.”

“No one leave till ah count it.”

“So it ends. D’Isernia died happy, if anyone can be said to die happy. All the pieces fall into place.”

“What about this one?” Gonzales asked, pointing at Hochhande.

“What about me?” Hochhande shouted, spitting the words at them. “You can do nothing to me, my papers are in order, I have committed no crimes in Mexico except to file under a false name. That was done to protect myself, a matter of survival, no crime. I have a passport in my true name, issued legally by Argentina, so go ahead, export me there. You cannot touch me. You are all fools, never bright enough to see me although I was in full view all the time. A little surgery to resemble the Fiihrer, needed to obtain the paintings, placed in the bank here by Robl in his name. It was done, and once done capitalized upon. How I have laughed at you! Who would have expected a double disguise? Once you had penetrated to the identity of Jakob Platz, dead many years ago on the Russian front if you want to know, you were instantly satisfied. I lived in your midst and laughed at you. I would still be laughing if that fool Italian had not tempted that idiot Robl with his grandiose plans.”

He swayed and almost fell. Goldstein looked at him with eyes that brimmed with centuries of sorrow.

“A very good question, Lieutenant. What shall we do with this miserable old man? I am sure, as he says, that his papers are legal to with doubt, will permit his exit to Argentina where he will once more vanish. So, what to do? To my knowledge he has committed no Mexican crimes. He means nothing to you, does he, Lieutenant? If you are concerned for his safety I will be glad to take care of him for you. When we leave here I will see that he goes where he belongs.”

“Stop him, Lieutenant, you have a duty! He wishes to take me, take me to Germany the way he did with that Dummkopf Thasler, smuggle me out in an El Al airplane concealed in a case of kosher pickles. Nein! You must not let this happen.”