The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  “Okay, it’s all starting to come together, now listen to me and don’t interrupt,” Janeway began, until Babe said, “Can I get up?—is it all right now?—what time is it?—where are we?—what’s happening, you just saved my life, that was really nice, thank you.”

  “You just interrupted me, which is the one thing I asked you not to do—”

  “I wasn’t trying to be rude, but nobody ever saved my life before and I wanted you to be sure to know I was grateful—”

  “You just did it again,” Janeway said, “Now, if I answer your questions, will you just goddammit listen till I’m finished?”

  “I’ll try very hard; I will.”

  “Okay—about getting up, the answer is no, it isn’t all right, I don’t know what kind of total operation they’re running, and the less your head is visible, the longer it’s liable to stay attached to your shoulders, and where we are is the West Fifties, way west, near the Hudson, warehouses, deserted mostly except during the day, trucking then, meat storage, and it’s probably four o’clock or a little before, and I know I saved you, I was there when it happened, and what I want in return isn’t your thanks but your silence, your silence, Levy, understand me?—what I’m saying is shut up, think you can handle that?”

  “Yes sir,” Babe said quickly from the back seat, lying almost doubled over on the floor. He wasn’t really that bad a guy, Janeway, once you got to know him a little. Oh, probably he was spoiled about getting his own way all the time, but when people went around rescuing you from anguish and death, you could learn to overlook little things pretty fast.

  Janeway took a corner on what seemed like two wheels, the tires screaming in the darkness. “Okay. That first guy, the big one, was named Franz Karl, and he was a human pimple, that’s probably the nicest thing you could say about him. He thought he was a big ass-man, and he liked making people suffer—women were a specialty. He should have been a prison guard in some Southern jail—he hated blacks. That probably would have been his idea of heaven, just sitting around swilling beer and clubbing nigras whenever he got bored. Not much of a specimen, God knows.

  “The guy I shot was Peter Erhard. He was Karl’s cousin and boss. A higher-type pimple is all. That place we just left, they lived there. It wasn’t theirs, they didn’t own it, but they were told to live in it, so they lived in it. Tell them something simple enough to do and you could consider it done. That was their greatest achievement, they could follow simple instructions, and they served a purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  “Shut up—ever hear of Josef Mengele or Christian Szell?”

  Silence from the back seat.

  “Goddammit, Levy, answer me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Janeway, I’m getting everything all wrong, I thought you just said to shut up.”

  “I did, but that was a direct question.” Janeway took another corner, and again the wheels protested.

  “Mengele or Szell? No.”

  “Jesus,” Janeway exploded, “I thought you were supposed to be this self-proclaimed hotshot historian, haven’t you heard of any Germans except Hitler? You have heard of Hitler?”

  “Martin Bormann?” Babe tried.

  “Bormann’s dead, most likely—oh I know, I know, it’s always in the papers how he’s on the loose in Bogotá or running the singles program up at Grossinger’s, but most of the top Nazi hunters think he’s dead, and they’ve got a pretty good batting average, I wouldn’t want to argue with them. Szell and Mengele, though, everyone agrees they’re still with us. They ran the experimental block at Auschwitz. And they’re the two biggest Germans left alive.”

  Babe tried getting comfortable in the back seat, but the floor was too hard and too narrow, and his mouth was starting to throb now. Every time Janeway hit a bump, it hit his mouth like a fist.

  “The reason they’ve survived is very simple: They were smarter than anybody. They were always referred to as the ‘angel twins.’ Mengele they called the ‘Angel of Death,’ and Szell was the ‘White Angel,’ because he had this incredible head of beautiful prematurely gray hair. Mengele had a Ph.D. plus an M.D., and he was considered the dummy of the two.” He hit a pothole going top speed, and the car bucked.

  Babe cried out involuntarily.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing, go on—what’re you saying, the ones you just killed, they worked for these ‘twin’ guys?”

  “No. Just Szell. And they were only part of the payroll, believe me. Don’t you know how rich the big Nazis were?”

  “No. Millionaires?”

  “I guess you could say that without being accused of exaggeration, because, for example, in August of forty-four, when they figured things were going badly, a few of the top fellas got together and paid out five hundred million to Argentina in exchange for identity cards. These guys raped a continent. When Göring killed himself in forty-five—you know he stole paintings from the Jews—well, when he died, his collection was worth two hundred million dollars. That’s two hundred million then. Think what’s happened to the art market and think what’s happened to the dollar and you’re talking about at least a billion today.”

  The car hit another bump.

  “Jesus,” Babe said.

  “It really is incredible,” Janeway went on. “Mengele was born big rich, but Szell had to work for his. He was Mengele’s protégé, partly because he was so brilliant and partly because of his looks. See, Mengele hated his looks—he thought he looked like a Jew or a gypsy, and the thing was, he did. Half the crap he did was because somehow he was desperate to change his appearance, but why he grafted tits on men or tried to grow arms out of other people’s backs, no one knows.”

  “He didn’t do that,” Babe said.

  “You’re right, he didn’t succeed, but he sure as hell tried. Okay, that’s Mengele, now forget Mengele, because Szell’s the point of all this. I said he was poor going in, and naturally he started with gold, but then the word spread around Auschwitz that he was buyable, that you could escape if you paid enough to Christian Szell, and in the beginning he actually did let a few people out, just enough to keep the rumor alive. And these poor fucking Jews, well, they tried to keep anything they had of any value on their person, up their asses mostly, like any other convicts. And they’d come to Szell, or try to, and the richest ones he’d see, and make a deal with them, and once they’d given him everything they had, all their diamonds, whatever, he had them killed.

  “Both he and Mengele had life-and-death power in the experimental block, and with the things Mengele was doing to people, you couldn’t blame anyone for trusting Szell. They had to take the risk, what with goddamn Mengele raving around, convinced that if he just worked at it long enough, he could breed blue-eyed people.” Janeway took a long breath then. “Okay, Tom, that’s most of the back story. Is it clear?”

  “So far. Except, how does it get back to me?”

  “Szell’s father died accidentally within the last couple weeks.”

  “So?”

  “Remember I said Szell started on gold? Well, pretty soon he went into diamonds. He traded everything for diamonds. No paintings, no cash, just every diamond he could steal or get his hands on. No one ever knew how much he had, but in early forty-five he managed to fake his father out of Germany, and the old man came here.”

  “To America?”

  “To New York. He had a sister in Yorkville, and he lived with her under a phony name. Eventually she died, but he stayed on. He stayed and they stayed.”

  “ ‘They’?”

  “Szell’s diamonds. Szell gave his father every goddamn one except what he figured he’d need to make it alive to South America. He lived in Argentina till Peron got canned, and then he quick beat it to Paraguay. The diamonds stayed here, because Szell wanted it just that way, so that in case he ever got caught, his fortune would be safe and he could use it to buy his freedom with. His father kept a safe-deposit box, and whenever Szell needed money, he’d get word to the old
man, and they had a courier system set up. The diamonds would eventually wind up wherever the diamond market was highest at the time—sometimes Switzerland, sometimes West Germany—and then Szell would exchange whatever the top currency was for Paraguayan money and life would go on till he needed more. It all worked perfectly until the old man got totaled in the car crash. See, not anybody can use a safe-deposit box, just the renter and an alternate; they only have the alternate in case of this kind of thing, unexpected death. Szell was his father’s alternate, and what’s going on now is that his people are trying to figure out how dangerous it would be to try and sneak him into America for a day or two. Would the safety factor be too high? That’s their problem. Personally, I think he’s got to come, he hasn’t got a choice, he can’t let his fortune rot.”

  Safety factor, Babe was thinking, safe factor, and then he said, “Before, you said that Szell ‘naturally’ started off with gold. Why the ‘naturally’?”

  “Obvious reasons—he was famous for it—he’d knock it out of the Jews’ teeth, they never found much gold in the Auschwitz ovens. Szell was a dentist.”

  Babe stuck his head up over the seat then. “He’s not coming to America, Mr. Janeway. He’s come already. He’s here.”

  Janeway turned around and looked at Babe a moment. Then he went back to his driving. “No,” he said after a while. “We’d have heard something.” A while later he said, “And put your head back down.” And a while after that: “What makes you think so?”

  “Because it was a dentist damn near killed me, not Karl and Erhard.”

  “Go on.” There was an excitement starting now in Janeway’s voice. Babe could sense it rising.

  “He just kept saying the same thing to me over and over: ‘Is it safe? Is it safe?’ ”

  “What did he look like—did he have blue eyes?—did he have the gray hair?—”

  “Oh God, the eyes yes, they were incredibly blue, but he was bald, totally bald, except that—”

  “Except that doesn’t mean a damn thing, he could have shaved it off! Go on.”

  “He was just so good. He was so incredibly experienced when it came to hurting me—he knew just when I’d pass out, he could tell exactly what I was going to do right before I did it.”

  “Then the ‘is it safe’ business—that meant, ‘Is it safe for me to get the diamonds—is it safe for me, Christian Szell, in America, to go to the bank?’ because once he picks up those diamonds, anybody robs him is going to pick up a lot of money, fifty million, maybe five times fifty million, and you don’t pay taxes on it,” and then he was going on in triumph, “Son of a bitch, the bastard’s here and scared shitless about making his move!” Janeway was almost shouting now. “I’d be scared shitless too, because once he leaves the bank with that goddamn fortune, he’s helpless—he can’t very well go to the cops and tell them he was robbed!”

  “I still don’t get where I fit in.”

  “Obviously, the son of a bitch must think your brother told you something before he died.”

  “You’re saying Doc was involved with Szell?”

  “All our work cuts both ways—sometimes we sell secrets to other countries—no sweat, because we know they know our secrets. Szell stayed alive by ratting on other Nazis. So when there’d be raids to get him, he’d have word in advance and get out in time. Over a thousand of them have been brought to trial, and I’d guess Szell’s responsible for anywhere between twenty-five and fifty. Your brother was Szell’s contact. Erhard would get the diamonds from Szell’s father and he’d take them to your brother and he’d get them to Europe on one of his trips. To Edinburgh. There was a guy there, in antiques—he was the one always did the selling. There were rumors for years that he was ripping off Szell—you know, selling something for a half a million, turning over four hundred fifty thousand, like that, but he was so good at knowing where the market was strongest, he kept the job. Anyway, like I said, it was only rumors about the rip-off. Then he’d give the cash to a courier and it would go down to Paraguay and Szell. That was more or less the operation.” Janeway turned another corner, picked up speed. “Tom, I’m going to ask you something now, and please, you’re going to have to tell me the truth, I don’t care how hard it is.”

  “Anything.”

  “Stop protecting your brother—it’s clear you must be—he should have been dead when he got torn apart, I know about wounds, remember that, and I examined the body, remember that too. He must have wanted to see you so much he stayed alive for just one reason, to tell you something, something incredibly important. He wouldn’t have done what he did just to shout ‘Babe’ a couple of times and then keel over. Okay. Now’s the time. Let it out, it’s crucial: What did he say?”

  Babe lay quietly on the floor in the back. “I’ve told you everything important that happened, I swear.”

  “Maybe something unimportant, then—he’s dead, he doesn’t need your protection any more, and nothing you can say is going to shock me, people say terrible things in my business, I’ve heard about how dangerous he was, how he was a double agent, how he was a thief, a raving homosexual, you name it I’ve heard it about him, and I’ll bet he heard worse about me, but we’re dealing with a fucking Nazi now, we could try swimming through all the blood he’s spilled and never make it all the way across to the other side, so for Christ’s sake, what did he tell you?”

  “Nothing ...”

  “Shit,” Janeway said, and he slammed down on the brakes till the car stopped.

  Babe stuck his head up.

  They were back where they’d started, by the boarded-up house, and both Karl and Erhard were waiting. “I couldn’t make him talk,” Janeway said, getting out of the car. “He’s Szell’s now.”

  “No,” Babe screamed. “You killed them!”

  “You’re much too trusting,” Janeway said, “and it’s going to cause you grief someday.” Again the quick smile. “Welcome to someday.”

  Karl reached in for Babe. Babe had nothing left to fight with. Three minutes later he was strapped back in the chair.

  PART IV

  DEATH OF A MARATHON MAN

  23

  “HURRY IT UP,” JANEWAY said as Karl and Erhard finished strapping Babe into immobility. “One of you go get Szell.”

  Karl looked at Janeway. “You do not give me orders.”

  “Oh, come on, come on,” Erhard said, limping off. “We’ve no time.” Karl followed him.

  Babe just stared up at Janeway. “It was all lies, wasn’t it, all a lot of crap about you being this buddy of Doc.” Janeway said nothing for a moment, and as he watched him, Babe couldn’t catch much Gatsby resemblance any more. What Janeway really looked like was the Nixon lawyer Dean—a pilot fish they called him. A thing that hung around the biggest shark for power.

  “Scylla was a romantic fool, it killed him eventually. He was always trying to overpower his love objects with the breadth of his passion. Every lover he ever had was unfaithful to him. He was never as friendly with me as he thought—business before pleasure, didn’t someone once say something like that?” The dazzling smile again, and now Gatsby was back. “Who do you think got him involved with Szell?”

  Again, the footsteps in the hall.

  And just as Karl and Erhard had stiffened at their sound, so did Janeway now. Gatsby gone, the pilot fish returned.

  “I’ll leave you,” Janeway said, and then Babe and Szell were alone in the room. Otherwise, things were much the same: bright lamps, clean towels, the black leather case resting close. Szell stood at the sink, washing his hands. Done, he shook them, dried them with a towel. Then he brought them under the brightest lamp and examined them carefully. Evidently, something displeased him, because he went back to the sink and scrubbed again, harder than before. This time, when he was finished, he brought his hands back under the light and started talking. “You must pardon me, I am terribly fastidious, it is, you could say, my fetish. Where I live, I have my own laundress each and every day. She is greatly gifted
.” He took another towel, dried his hands, turned to Babe now. “So you are Scylla’s brother.”

  Babe didn’t answer.

  “Oh please—now is our time for conversation; pain is in great part mental, and believe me, there will be plenty of that coming up for you. But now, I think it would be pleasant if we talked. Would you like to know how you were taken in? The bullets were blanks, the knife had a retractable blade, only effective if you don’t look too long or too closely, but if you don’t, most effective indeed, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Babe said nothing.

  Szell walked over to him. “ ‘Thomas Babington,’ Janeway reports. After, of course, the great British historian. What do people call you? ‘Tom,’ I expect.”

  Babe closed his eyes.

  “I tell you something: I understand your having a certain aversion to me, but you see, I want to chat and I am in command just now, but I would never force my presence on someone who did not want it. Therefore, if you do not wish to speak to me, fine, if that pleases you; but if I wish to excavate more deeply into your cavity, then also fine, if that pleases me.”