Kiss Me Twice

by Thomas Gifford

  “Now that brings us back to yours truly, scoutin’ around the Germany that was left. Found myself up in the mountains, pretty little village, birds singin’, I’m just pokin’ around, followin’ up on some hints we’d gotten about this Moller character. I thought I might see if I could dig up his brother, a respected doctor, name of Rolf Moller. Maybe Manfred might have told Rolf about what he was doing for Göring …

  “It was no problem to find Rolf. He had a nice little clinic in this village, sort of a rich man’s retreat. … Turns out Rolf was a head doctor, a psychiatrist as well as a surgeon, and he had a staff of other doctors, nurses, a damn nice little setup. Some of the Party leaders had gone there for everything from face-lifts to happy pills to clap cures. And his brother in the SS was a pal of Göring’s and when you looked at his clinic and went out to the house, one of those gingerbread chalet places lookin’ out across this beautiful peaceful valley, damned if you’d ever think there’d been a war on. I hated to leave. I didn’t leave for a few days—most particularly after Rolf invited me to stay with him. So I bunked there in the lap of luxury for a spell and had me some long talks with Rolf and on the second, third day I met Mrs. Moller and I just knew I’d seen her somewhere before.

  “Then one night, I woke up like a scared rabbit, twitchin’ my nose, floppin’ my ears, blinkin’ my eyes—I knew where I’d seen Frau Moller.

  “Murder on Ice. Murder Goes Skating. I’d seen the movies and this woman, Frau Moller, was the star! The skater. Karin Richter.” He grinned, watching Lew stiffen. “Your dead wife.”

  Cassidy was alone again, the smell of MacMurdo’s tobacco lingering behind him like evidence in the case. He stood at the open window watching the rain beginning to patter on the empty lawn. Karin had gone somewhere and soon he was going to see her again, look into her eyes, search for a sign. He took a deep breath, fixed his attention on the willows drooping heavily in the rain. Summer was suddenly shedding its heat, turning into fall. He tried to imagine that summer day in the Hartz Mountains, tried to get a picture of Sam MacMurdo’s face, the eyes narrowing, when he looked at the unexpected woman and knew that somewhere he’d seen her before. …

  The galloping Colonel had been doing his homework since he’d got wind of Manfred Moller’s mission, stumbled across Karin, and put two and two and two together.

  He’d begun by knowing that Moller had set off across the North Atlantic by U-boat with Ludwig’s priceless minotaur and the money to pave Göring’s escape route. Since then he’d learned that the U-boat had made landfall in Nova Scotia. It had limped the final two hundred miles with mechanical problems, no hope of going back or, indeed, of going much of anywhere. They’d come the final hundred miles in a typically dense March fog. Nobody noticed their arrival. It was dark and icy and bitterly cold on the Cabot Trail when the crew finally stumbled across some dumbfounded local lawmen and insisted they be taken prisoner and given someplace warm to sleep and maybe a bowl or two of soup. By that time Manfred Moller had slipped away into the fog with the Ludwig Minotaur and a backpack full of money.

  Then a man answering Moller’s description had engaged a private plane, flown by a known German sympathizer of Irish lineage, who had confided to a mechanic that he was taking a passenger to the States and then coming back, to hell with the fog. The mechanic had told MacMurdo, who had flown up from Halifax himself, that it was a big old seaplane from the early thirties, great puffy pontoons; he’d shown MacMurdo a photograph of the beat-up old crate that made MacMurdo glad he hadn’t been a passenger. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was heading into one of those hidden backwoods lakes deep in the Maine wilderness.

  But the pilot never came back. The plane had never been found. As far as anyone could prove, Manfred Moller was no more.

  “I don’t believe it,” MacMurdo had said. “That son of a gun is alive. He’s out there with the king’s minotaur and all that money and he’s either setting up Göring’s network … or he’s setting himself up to be one very rich Nazi survivor. My bet is he’s a good soldier, he’ll try to fit himself into the Nazi networks. You know what I think happened, Lew? I think they flew in through the fog and rain and wind, they came down outa that fog, I can feel that old rust bucket quiverin’ and shakin’ and rattlin’ and they’re thinkin’ where’s all this fuckin’ fog end, for God’s sake? And all of a sudden, real quick like, they’re sittin’ right on top of them old Douglas firs, pontoons just skimmin’ along and up ahead there’s a piece of lake about the size of your thumbnail, like landin’ a beat-up old jeep on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Battle of the Coral Sea. … Well, maybe one of the firs clipped a pontoon, tore it up, or the wind comes up like your Great-aunt Fanny on a tear, and you just barely stagger onto the lake, everybody bangin’ around inside that old tin cockpit, old Manfred holdin’ on to his damn minotaur for dear life … and they make it by the skin of their teeth and they’re sittin’ there thankin’ God for small favors and Manfred takes a deep breath, gets out his Luger, and bags himself one prop jockey, bang. Then he gets the lifeboat out, does whatever he’s got to do to wreck the pontoons, and paddles like a mad bastard for shore while the plane sinks. … Now all Moller has to do is find a way to survive and, pard, he’s one resourceful old boy.” MacMurdo had been pacing the library, acting out all the roles including that of the plane. Now he came to rest, half sitting on the desk. “He’s been in the States I figure six months, hiding, waiting … he’s out there, pard, and I want you to find him. You and your pal Leary and Harry Madrid. I can’t do it, Lew. I’m in charge of lookin’ for all the Nazis in America … now, don’t gimme that look, we got ourselves an edge.” He smiled. “We’ve got Karin to use as bait.”

  Cassidy shook his head. “Wait a minute. That won’t hold water. Why should he come out for Rolf Moller’s wife?”

  “Oh no, no, think again, pard. I don’t think I said Karin’s married to Dr. Rolf, did I? No, no, Karin’s husband—present company excluded—is Manfred Moller. And he’s gonna be mighty glad to know she’s right here waiting for him! Beautiful, ain’t it?”

  When MacMurdo left the room Cassidy stood at the window trying to pull himself together. He knew what was coming next and he wasn’t sure he was ready for it. He didn’t have much time.

  He heard a soft knock on the door and he said, “Come in.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN ONE SENSE HE FELT as if he’d seen her yesterday on Pier 42 with all the gulls around them. In another it was as if he were meeting her for the first time, meeting someone he’d heard too much about. She came into the library and hesitated, still as one of the glum oil portraits, looking for him; then she saw him over by the window but seemed not to know quite what to do about it. His throat was suddenly very dry. When he tried to swallow he ran into some trouble making the mechanism work. He was trying to take her in all at once, the sight of her, but the flood of memories kept getting in the way, bouncing him along like a cork, a man struggling for survival in the tide of the past.

  Her eyes drew him in first. They were intelligent, of course, alert, and still seemed to glow, the unusually luminous pale brown he’d never seen in anyone else. Huge eyes, something like tan, as if darkness had been bleached out of them. The wide straight mouth, the faint hollows beneath high Nordic cheekbones, the broad shoulders, slim hips, long willowy legs. Her hair was different. It hung straight down one side of her face like a curtain, almost obscuring her left eye, and was tucked behind her ear on the other. She moved slowly into the room, like an explorer who wasn’t about to do anything stupid, watching him as she came.

  Memory was lapping at him, drowning him. He searched her expression for any glimmer of recognition, felt a flush spreading across his face at the memory of her body, the ways she’d revealed to him that she wanted sex, how much he’d enjoyed learning the secrets of her needs, striving to satisfy them. …

  Now he was seeing her, knowing she was indeed back from the dead, seeing in her face that she had no re
al notion of who he was. All the memories of them together were now only his memories and that fact, knowing they had shared the moments but now only he could reflect on them and treasure them and smile at them and keep them alive—that fact made him feel more desperately alone than he’d ever thought anyone could be. For her, their shared past had never happened and he was just another man, a stranger.

  The man in the brown suit followed her into the room. He had a schoolmaster’s bearing, ramrod straight. His eyes looked larger than life behind thick circular lenses, gold-framed. His pale brown hair was cut short. His mouth was small and his lips were delicately shaped, almost bee-stung. The suit was a well-cut country tweed, brown with a faint red line, and he wore a vest. He must have been very glad the temperature was doing a nosedive. The suit bore the stamp of Savile Row, which certainly made it prewar. He crossed the room and extended his hand. “I am Dr. Rolf Moller. This is Frau Manfred Moller.”

  “I’m Lew Cassidy.” The two men shook hands.

  Karin came closer, put out her hand. “How do you do?” She didn’t sound quite the same. Probably she hadn’t spoken much English for a long time. He took her hand, fought off the hope of some kind of gentle, knowing squeeze, and then her hand was gone. She’d put a bulky cable-knit cardigan on over her sundress. She’d pushed the sleeves up and tortoiseshell bracelets clicked on her wrist.

  Rolf Moller was speaking to her in soft, precise English with a vaguely British accent. He’d spent time in London. “Karin, Mr. Cassidy is the man Colonel MacMurdo has been telling us about. Mr. Cassidy is going to find Manfred for us—”

  Karin looked up quickly, the curtain of hair swaying, her eyes fixed on him. “Oh, will you find him?” She was almost breathless. Cassidy heard her concern and anxiety. There was a resonant crack of thunder and the wind came up noisily in the dried remains of the summer flowers. “Can you promise us, Mr. Cassidy? Do you know where he is?”

  Cassidy shook his head. “No, no, I don’t know where he is.” He couldn’t stop looking at her. For a moment she returned his stare with a puzzled expression, self-conscious. Finally he looked away, embarrassed. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  “You must find him.” Her voice wasn’t as steady as he remembered it: she sounded as if she’d been wounded. And, of course, she had. It was dawning on him that she was no longer the same person he’d known and loved. “You must understand, it’s … it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “I understand,” Cassidy said. “Believe me, I do. But you must realize that Manfred Moller may very well be dead.” Her fingers flew to her mouth as if in uncontrollable panic at the thought of Moller dead. She turned toward the window. The rain slanted past, blown in tattered sheets across the lawn. “You must be prepared for that possibility.” He waited, watching her silent, eloquent back as she wrapped her arms around herself, tiny fists clenched. “Mrs. Moller?” He forced himself to say it.

  “No, he must be alive … somewhere. I’m sure.” She turned back to the room. “I’m sure he’s alive. … You don’t know him, but he—he … it’s the kind of man he is. … I’m not putting this at all well. I’m sorry.”

  “Well,” Cassidy said, “Colonel MacMurdo seems to agree with you. Prevailing opinion seems to be that your husband is a hard man to kill—”

  “Oh, he is, he is. Mr. Cassidy … you must find him. …”

  Rolf Moller said: “You can understand what a nerve-wracking experience this is for Karin—”

  Her voice was breaking. “He’s more important to me than you can possibly imagine … more than I can tell you …” She shook her head in frustration, brushed the veil of hair away from her eyes, pulling it back behind her ear. She wiped a tear from her cheek, turned away again, and made a soft noise in her throat. When she raked her fingers through her hair he saw that her nails were bitten, the paint chipped. She wasn’t the same. She threw herself down in one of the leather chairs, pulled a lace handkerchief from the pocket of the cardigan and sniffled into it. Her hair had swung loose again and she yanked it back savagely, pulling it away from her temple.

  It was Cassidy’s day for scars. Now he saw one like a pale pinkish-white zipper disappearing into her thick hair. He flinched at the sight of it. Dr. Moller leaned down and put his arm around her trembling shoulders. He was shaking his head at Cassidy.

  “Now, now,” he murmured to her, “it’s going to be all right, liebchen. You’ve had a long day. She’s exhausted, Mr. Cassidy. She really should get some rest before dinner. Karin?” He stood back, looking at her like a keeper waiting for his beast to perform.

  “Please forgive me,” she said, glancing up at Cassidy. “I’m behaving like a child.”

  “Nothing to forgive, I assure you.”

  “And you’re too kind,” she said. She stood up. “We’ll speak again soon, please?”

  “You can bet on it.”

  “Find him as quickly as you can. Please.”

  Cassidy nodded. Rolf Moller took her arm, escorted her to the door where he stood speaking softly into her ear.

  Cassidy could see the problem, the big problem, already; like a neon sign outside a tough private eye’s office window. It was flashing in his face and somebody was playing a saxophone, or would have been had it been one of his father’s pictures. MacMurdo and Karin both wanted him to find Manfred Moller. But for very different reasons, which was where it all got very complicated. She wanted her husband back. The Galloping Colonel wanted to destroy him and demolish his escape network. She couldn’t know. Could she? Maybe she knew it was the only way of finding him. Maybe she’d solve the rest of the problem once they found him … or maybe MacMurdo had lied to her. …

  Karin. She seemed to have split into two people, right in front of him. Which was his Karin? Which was Manfred Moller’s? Hell, did Lew Cassidy’s Karin even exist anymore, anywhere but in his own memory? They might have been husband and wife a million years ago on another planet.

  Rolf Moller cleared his throat and Cassidy realized he hadn’t been paying attention. Karin was gone and Moller was fitting a cigarette into a black holder. The cloudy darkness outside had plunged the library into a funereal gloom. Flame sprang from a gold lighter and Moller inhaled. “I said, perhaps we should have a word. You must have questions, Mr. Cassidy.” He crossed to the desk and turned the lamp on. A yellow glow spread warmly.

  “Questions,” Cassidy said. “Sure. What shape is she really in? What does she remember, how far back? What the hell is that scar on her head? She and MacMurdo could put their heads together and make a matched set.”

  Moller pursed the bee-stung lips. The light reflected on the thick lenses, turning them flat, opaque, as if he had no eyes. Smoke curled slowly from his nostrils.

  “What she remembers,” Moller mused. “Forgive my being utterly frank with you—but obviously you can see that she has no memory of you. Which, I must assume, is your primary concern. You were frank with her about the possibility that my brother is dead.” He shrugged. “I am frank with you, eh? What shape is she in? She is physically quite well, healthy, alert, good reflexes, the brain functioning normally. You understand, Mr. Cassidy, it is a miracle that Karin is alive at all. Do you know how I found her?”

  “I know nothing about any of this. Until a couple of weeks ago I thought she was dead. For three years plus I’ve assumed my wife was dead—”

  “Your wife is dead, I’m afraid—”

  “And then I found out she’s alive, married to this shadowy SS officer, and doesn’t know me from Adam. That’s what I know”

  Moller carefully lowered himself into one of the wing-backed club chairs, crossed his legs at the knee, and adjusted what was left of the crease in his tweeds. “Please don’t think I’m not sympathetic to your unhappy plight, Mr. Cassidy. It’s just that we in Germany have had our own problems. We tend to be self-involved these days. But you have had a great shock, too, and the fact that it’s a question of amnesia”—he sighed heavily—”makes it all the more unpredict
able. Amnesia is uncharted territory to a very substantial degree. …” Then he took Cassidy back to Cologne with him and it was 1942 again.

  It had all been a matter of purest fate, the way Rolf Moller saw it. He had been called to Cologne to treat a prominent party official whose heart had just about given out. He was walking back to his hotel when the bombing began. A bomb landed a block away. The front of a building cracked open to reveal a sheet of flame bursting through a cloud of brick dust, then crashed down on a black Mercedes that seemed almost human, straining to outrun it. Rolf had dashed for his life, ducked into a commercial office building, and prayed for all he was worth. The bombing lasted forever, went on and on, the street shaking as if suffering an interminable earthquake, the din pounding and pounding and pounding until he thought he was screaming, hammering at his senses until he could no longer hear even his own voice or the phantom scream welling within him. The city seemed engulfed in fire and the explosions kept racketing away and it took a while for him to realize that the bombs were no longer falling and he was more or less alive.

  “I finally went out into the street,” he said, “and it was beyond belief, bomb craters and smoking piles of bricks and stone, wrecked cars with bodies spilling out like entrails, bodies sprawled in gutters and hanging from windows, draped over the sills where fire and smoke got them, broken glass underfoot, fires burning everywhere, a searing kind of heat as if the sun had rushed closer to Earth. … I wanted to see what good I could do as a doctor—what was needed, of course, was a thousand doctors, a triage team trained to put the hopeless victims out of their agony … but if a triage unit had found Karin, well, I’m very much afraid she would have been considered hopeless. … I found a woman wandering in the rubble, firelight reflected in her eyes, covered with dirt and blood, dress stiff with blood, eyes glassy, unfocused, stumbling as if she were sightless, unable to respond when I called to her. By the time I got to her she had fallen to her knees and was crawling, cutting her knees and hands. … She pulled herself into a sitting position and the street, I’ll never forget it, the street was both burning and flooding, fire everywhere but water spewing out of broken mains, she was leaning with her back against a dented, undetonated bomb, yes, a bomb … and she’d dragged a woman’s severed leg with her, as if it were somehow worth saving. … The ground kept shaking with random explosions and there were sirens going off, firefighters here and there, ambulances trying to get into the streets past the mountains of smoking debris, hearses were being used as ambulances, there were horse-drawn delivery carts, people were staggering around moaning or screaming from the pain of their wounds, creatures stranded in Hell. …