The Traitor Blitz

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Before I could say anything, Hem exclaimed enthusiastically, "Herf ord is delighted! He doesn't know what to say! Mama is just as thrilled. Lester has his tail between his legs and is all smiles. You get your four pages. Big spread. They're driving Leichenmuller crazy with the layout."

  "And my by-line?"

  "Big caps, boy! Don't worry. It's your story. Nobody's going to take it from you. And in the advance publicity they're announcing the 'New Roland'!" He laughed.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Oh, everything," he said. "Herford has smelled blood, because Lester told him about the objections to your article—you know, more about the man, how to stimulate him—so Herford asked sacred-cow Stahlut to do a quick analysis. The computer just handed it in. Brace yourself! The series you're doing now is

  going to lead straight into one about the male, his desires and peculiarities. You'll write a connecting article, and then the new series starts. Herf ord just asked me if you could really handle the two assignments at the same time."

  "Of course I can!"

  "Herford's going all-out," said Hem. "He's aiming for a number-one rating with your two series: sex and sob stuff. And the switch to the left. The computer prophecies a success ne plus ultraV

  "That was to be expected."

  "No, it wasn't. And the computer came up with a title for your new sex series: Total Man'!"

  "What?"

  "Total Man,'" said Hem. "Has been accepted. They're already designing the title. There's going to be a front-page conference this afternoon. We're starting off with your camp story. We'll probably use the boy lying on the floor after he fainted, the one with the trumpet lying beside him. Marvelous picture! Tell Bertie. He'll be pleased. In the next number we start Total Man.' They're trying to think up something special for the title page. Listen, you're not a pervert, are you?"

  "No."

  "Well, for Total Man' you're going to have to be. It's going to be a chronicle of all the perversions known to men. Do you have enough material on it? I've sent for everything we can get hold of."

  T have something better," I said. "Tutti. You know— Leichenmiiller's super-whore. I'll consult her."

  "Great!"

  "I'll treat myself to a few happy hours with Tutti," I said, "and now listen: Instead of making a long story of it, I'll just play back what was said at police headquarters." I took my recorder, pushed the play button, and held it up against the phone. Thus Hem was able to listen to our entire conversation with Klein and Rogge, and I heard it for the second time, and again it worried me. What still lay ahead of us? I put the recorder aside and told Hem about the men from MIB who were guarding Conny Manners. In Frankfurt, Hem's secretary, Ruth, was taking everything down in shorthand.

  "I'm going to have lunch now," I said, "then Bertie and I will take off to the Hamburg headquarters of MIB. See what we can get out of them."

  "It won't be easy," said Hem.

  "I know."

  "Call me again. And send the new films."

  "Okay," I said, and hung up.

  The two maids had knocked on the salon door and stuck in their heads. I nodded, and they came in to clean the salon. "You don't have to be too thorough," I said, and gave each of them ten marks. "It looks fine. The hotel's full, isn't it? You must have plenty to do."

  "Plenty," said the prettier of the two girls. I took the recorder and put it down beside my typewriter on a bureau.

  After this I made four disastrous mistakes. One of them was unavoidable; the other three were not.

  After I had laid down the recorder, something occurred to me. The small table on which the telephone was standing had a built-in radio with three knobs. You could get the North German Radio on it, taped music, and music from the bar. I had to find some way to keep Irina amused this afternoon while she was alone—or, as she had said, she'd go crazy. I thought I'd ask one of the disc jockeys in the bar (I knew them all) to play LPs by Peter Nero, Ray Connif f, and Henry Mancini—things like that, while I was away. I also wanted there to be music when Irina was trying on the things I'd bought her, which I intended to get her to do before we left. I pressed the button for the bar, but got no sound. I pressed the two other buttons. They didn't work either. I called central.

  "423. Roland. My radio isn't working. Would you please send up the electrician?"

  "Right away, Herr Roland."

  "Thanks."

  The electrician came a few minutes later—a young man, slim, blond, wearing blue overalls and carrying a tool box. A friendly fellow. "Hello," he said. "Your radio isn't working?"

  "No. All channels are dead."

  He knelt down in front of the radio and opened his toolbox. "We'll soon fix that," he said, and began to unscrew the front panel. And I was thinking of what lay ahead for me—two important series, my comeback as a serious reporter... perhaps! I took a drink from my flask.

  The two maids finished their work and left with their vacuum, our used towels, and their cleaning cart. "What's wrong with it?" I asked the electrician. 324

  "Nothing much. One bulb and a dirty connection."

  "How long will it take you?"

  "About half an hour."

  "I have to go and eat. My friends are waiting for me. We'll be in salon 436. Lock up when you leave and bring me the key, please." I gave him twenty marks.

  "Thank you very much," he said. "Ill bring the key to you when I'm done."

  He busied himself with a screwdriver. I watched him for a few minutes, then I said, "All right. I'm off," and hurried to join Irina and Bertie, who were waiting for me. With which I had made three of my four mistakes.

  It should never have happened to me after so many years in the business, but it did. I was too elated and too presumptuous and too damned sure of myself. In spite of all my experience, I trusted the wrong people and thought I was on the track of the truth. I had lost sight of the fact that all things are only partially true, the other part false, that truth and lies, justice and injustice interplay, and that those one trusts can betray and those one mistrusts can be one's salvation.

  Mistake number one: That the radio wasn't functioning should have aroused my suspicion. In my situation, I should have looked at it myself and seen to it that it couldn't function, instead of calling in an electrician I didn't know.

  Mistake number two: I should never have left the suite while the electrician was working on the radio. No employee or stranger should have been allowed to be in the suite unless one of us—Irina, Bertie, or I—was present.

  Mistake number three: I was so excited, like a goddamned beginner, that I left the recorder on when I put it down beside my typewriter. I had been fiddling with the buttons while our conversation with the two men from Security was running for Hem, after which I had absentmindedly left it on Play. So far this was not a mistake, but when I picked up the recorder later and

  saw'that it was off, I didn't think anything of it; I thought it had just turned itself off when the tape had run out, and that was when I bungled it. Again I was in a hurry. Thinking that the tape was full, I took it out, put it away, and inserted a new one. When I finally listened to the tape that had run out and heard what was on it at the end, it was too late. The tragedy had already taken place.

  This is what I heard: The sound of the radio being turned on. The sound of the vacuum. My voice: "423. Roland. My radio isn't working. Would you please send up the electrician?"

  That was the first thing the recorder picked up after our conversation with the security men at police headquarters. This was followed by my conversation with the electrician and my leaving. Then a pause, interspersed by the sounds of the work being done on the radio. Then the voice of the electrician: "It's the microphone. It's come loose," and a furious voice, no accent: "Idiot! Too dumb to install a microphone! What would I have done if Herr Roland hadn't called you in?"

  The electrician: "I'm sorry. I can't help it. Two screws came loose."

  The strange voice: "Because you didn't tighten them pro
perly! If Roland hadn't fiddled around with the radio and seen it didn't work, it would have been a disaster!"

  The electrician: "It won't happen again. I'll do anything you want, if only you'll keep your promise."

  The strange voice: "I'll keep my promise if everything turns out all right and nothing goes wrong that's your fault. Otherwise, you can forget my promise, you idiot!"

  The electrician: "Listen! I'm risking everything for you—my job, getting caught, jail!"

  The strange voice: "For me? For your father is what you mean, isn't it?"

  The electrician: "Yes, yes... of course " And in between,

  the sound of filing, scraping, tapping; and then the voice of the 326

  electrician again: "Testing... one, two, three, four, five— How does that sound to you?"

  The strange voice: "Sounds fine. Beats me! To plant a microphone is too much for the young man!"

  The electrician: "I can only say again, I'm sorry"

  "You deliver good work, we deliver the goods." A short laugh. "Or perhaps I should say we don't deliver the goods."

  More noises of the men working, about five minutes, then: "Now it's in again."

  "Pack up and take the key to Roland."

  "Yes. And—and thank you again."

  After that the tape ran out without recording anything more except the steps of the electrician and the opening and closing of the door.

  I made my fourth mistake right after that—but, as already mentioned, this was one I couldn't have avoided.

  I walked into the salon where Irina and Bertie were sitting. They had waited for me and I was touched. "We've ordered," said Bertie. "Lady Curzon soup. Sole Walenska. Peach Melba. Moselle wine, Spatlese. The waiter recommended it. All right with you?"

  "Sounds great," I said, smiling happily at Irina. She looked at me solemnly, but said nothing. She had on very little makeup and was still wearing her light blue skirt and matching pullover and her flat shoes. Bertie had rung for the floor waiter. Now there was a knock and the door opened.

  By now it was afternoon, and according to the morning waiter, my friend Oscar should have been on duty. But he wasn't. The man who rolled in the table with its damask cloth, hot plates, wine, and the soup wasn't Herr Oscar. It was a waiter I had never seen before.

  "Good afternoon, monsieur," he said to me, as he started to serve. He spoke with a French accent.

  "Good afternoon," I said. "I thought Herr Oscar was on duty after two."

  "And he was, monsieur," said the strange waiter. "But tomorrow I have something I must do, so we switched."

  "And what is your name?"

  "Jules, monsieur. Jules Cassin." He had served the mock turtle soup; now he poured a little white wine into my glass. I tasted it. The wine was excellent, and I told him so. He said, "Merci, monsieur," and withdrew after filling our glasses.

  "Well, cheers!" I said, emphasizing just that, and we began to eat. Nobody spoke. It was as if we were sitting at a table with three persons missing. Finally I asked, "What's the matter with you two?"

  "Well," said Bertie, "Fraulein Indigo is alone all the time, worrying. She told me a little about it. It's understandable."

  "Of course it's understandable," I said.

  And then both of us started trying to console her. Bertie cracked jokes, nothing rough, and all I could think of was that I was in love with Irina, no doubt about it. I stroked her hand and assured her that in a few hours we would know a lot more. Waiter Jules came with the sole, and served us elegantly. He was an older man—over fifty, I decided—and had all the charm and lithe facility of a French waiter. The sole was marvelous. My spirits rose rapidly. I wasn't nervous anymore, and I told Bertie that we were getting four pages and everybody thought his pictures were terrific. Irina ate slowly, her head bowed. She didn't say a word.

  Jules Cassin came in with the Peach Melba and asked if we wanted coffee. "Yes," I said, "and cognac. Remy Martin. But in our suite, please."

  "Very well, monsieur. Here is your key. The house electrician gave it to me. Your radio is working again."

  "Thank you, Jules."

  One of the chandeliers was lit. Because of the steady rain outside, it grew dark very early. The weather was abominable and we soon had to go out in it. We ate our dessert, and I told Irina, "I've brought you some things. I want you to wait here until I've had time to unpack everything and arrange it in the bedroom."

  Suddenly she smiled. "Oh, yes," she said. "That will be fun." And Bertie and I smiled at each other because Irina was smiling, and I was as delighted with her smile as if it had been a sunrise I 328

  had been waiting for in the cold for a long, long time. I rang, and when Jules came, I told him that we were going back to our suite.

  "Very well, monsieur." I noticed that he was trying to give me some sort of message, something he didn't want to mention in front of the others, so I gave Bertie the key and said, while I was pretending to look in my wallet for a tip, "Go on ahead. Ill be right with you," and Bertie and Irina left the room.

  "So what is it, Herr Jules?" I asked, and gave him twenty marks.

  'Thank you, monsieur." He looked at his wristwatch. "It is just nine minutes before 3:30. At exactly 3:30 your publisher will call you."

  "What do you mean? How do you know?"

  "Later. He will explain everything to you; that is to say, he won't but Herr Seerose will."

  "How do you know his name?"

  He laughed. "How do I know his name?" But then he was serious again. "The call won't come here, monsieur, but at Club 88."

  "And where is that?"

  "Opposite the hotel. The doorman will give you an umbrella. All you have to do is cross the street."

  "And why doesn't my publisher call me here at the hotel?"

  "He'll tell you why; that is to say, Herr Seerose will. It is very important. Please be sure to go."

  "Is the club open now?"

  "It is not a club, it is a bar. It opens at three. When you get back, you will know a lot more and understand everything much better. Now please go, monsieur. In five minutes—"

  So I started back to my suite, and this was when my fourth mistake began, the worst one, but I suppose it was a mistake anyone could have made.

  "And, oh, yes! Most important!" I was already at the door when Jules came hurrying after me and pressed a folded piece of paper in my hand. "Here... take this—"

  "What is it?"

  "Take it with you to the bar. You'll need it."

  Club 88 really was directly opposite the hotel, in an old patrician house. Small, intimate, decorated in red and almost empty. Two couples, very much in love, sat at small tables, whispering. I checked my borrowed umbrella in the cloakroom, sat down, and ordered a double Chivas, neat. The waitress, a pretty girl in a black minidress, pink apron, and pink cap, had just brought me my drink when she came back to my table. "Herr Roland?"

  "Yes."

  "You're wanted on the phone, Herr Roland."

  I looked at my watch. It was exactly 3:30.

  The waitress walked ahead of me, past the bar, and opened a mahogany door that led into a lighted passage. The passage led to the rest rooms; the telephone booth was near the door. The receiver was lying on a shelf under the phone. I walked into the booth, picked up the receiver, and said, "Roland."

  "Blitz Publishing House. Frankfurt calling, Herr Roland." I recognized Marion's voice.

  "Yes," I said. "Hi, sweetheart! What's the matter with you people? Why don't you call me at the hotel?"

  "I'll connect you, Herr Roland." Click, and she was gone.

  "Roland? This is Herford."

  "Good afternoon, Herr Herford. Why—'"

  "No questions, please. We have to move fast. You'll soon know why. But first, from the Bible: Romans twelve, verse twelve. 'Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; continuing instant in prayer.' Do you believe in prayer, Roland?"

  "Certainly, Herr Herford."

  "Good. And now—congratulations, Roland."r />
  "Thank you."

  "Great stuff, what you're doing. Herford is delighted. Frau Herford is also delighted. This is going to be the best thing we've ever done."

  "Knock on wood."

  "Now Herr Seerose wants to speak to you. We're in my

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  studio." And the next thing I heard was the cultured voice of our general manager, the well-dressed gentleman with the impeccable manners. "Hello, Roland."

  "Hello," I said.

  "What sort of a booth are you in? A perfectly ordinary one?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Jules seems to have done the right thing. No one can hear us."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." His tone was curt. "That's why I'm calling you there and not at the hotel."

  "You mean to say that in the hotel—?"

  "Jules will explain everything. Just to be safe, describe him, please."

  "I'd say fifty-three, my height, gray hair, slim, green eyes, speaks with a strong French accent."

  "What kind of a watch is he wearing?"

  "Gold band, narrow, square."

  "Black dial?"

  "Yes. But—"

  "He has the watch from me. Did he give you a note?"

  "Yes."

  "Read the names to me."

  I took the note out of my pocket and read, "Patrick Mezerette. Frangois Tellier. Robert de Bresson. Michel Moreau. Charles Rabaudy. Philippe Fournier. Bernard Apis."

  "Very good. No doubt about it, that's my Jules Cassin."

  "Your Jules Cassin?"

  "He'll explain everything. And please—hereafter if we need to contact each other, we will do so through Jules. Don't forget. But now / have to explain what you must do, and what this Jan Bilka business is all about."

  "Why must you explain it to me?"

  A pause, then, "Because I know more about it than you do. I am—hm—on very good terms with certain American services, and I have been in touch with one in Hamburg about Herr Bilka and the whole story you've dug up. I take it you are also of the opinion that Herr Bilka is trying to sell something?"

  "Yes. That's what Engelhardt and I think."

  "And do you know what this thing is that Bilka has to sell?"

  "No."