The Hunt

by William Diehl

  The streetcar pulled up and he clambered aboard. It pulled away with a groan as the two brownshirts reached his side of the street. One of them walked briskly alongside the streetcar as it pulled away, peering intently in the windows. Reinhardt turned his back to the brownshirt, watching the SA’s reflection in the window as the stormtrooper walked the length of the car checking the pedestrians from outside. He could feel his own heart beating in his temples. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly to calm down.

  Thank God, he missed me.

  He rode the bus for seven or eight blocks until the passengers began to thin out, then got off and flagged down a taxicab.

  “Take me to the American embassy,” he told the driver. “It’s on the Munich highway.”

  “Yes, I know it,” the driver said. He looked in his rearview mirror. “Are you an American?” he asked.

  “No, no,” Reinhardt answered quickly. “I m a carpenter. They want me to do some work for them.”

  “Make them pay good, eh?” the driver said with a smile.

  “Oh yes, they will pay dearly,” Reinhardt answered, trying to look relaxed.

  When they were two blocks from the embassy he saw the two touring cars parked across the street from its arched gate. Two men in black raincoats, their black felt hats pulled down over their eyes, were talking to the Marine guard at the gate. Four others sat in the cars across the street with the doors standing open.

  The Gestapo.

  “Stop here at the tobacco shop,” Reinhardt said suddenly. “I need to get some cigarettes.”

  “Right. You want me to wait?”

  “Not necessary. It’s only two blocks more. The walk will do me good.”

  He paid the driver, entered the store and bought a package of cigarettes, then left, walked away from the embassy and turned a corner. He hurried to a phone booth halfway down the block and stood with his back to the Street as he gave the operator the American attaché’s private number. He was sweating again, his breath labored. He could taste fear in his mouth. It seemed forever before the secretary answered.

  “Colonel Meredith’s office.”

  “The colonel, please,” Reinhardt said as he checked both ends of the street.

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  Were the phones tapped? he wondered. Could he take a chance?

  “Please, it is a matter of life and death. May I speak to the colonel.”

  “Can’t you give me your name?” she asked.

  He hesitated a moment then said, “No. Just give me the colonel, for God’s sake! Please.”

  There was a pause. For a terrible moment he thought he’d been disconnected. Then he heard a click and a blessed human voice.

  “This is Colonel Meredith. Who is this, please?”

  “This is an old friend, Colonel. You told me if I ever needed help I could call you . .

  “I recognize your voice, don’t say any more,” the colonel interrupted. “Are you close by?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause.

  “Two blocks, three blocks?”

  “Two blocks east. Side street phone booth.”

  “Do you remember the place we went for frankfurters?”

  Reinhardt looked over his shoulder. An American food store known as The Brooklyn Delicatessen was directly across the street.

  “Yes,” he said, and wondered why he was whispering.

  “Go there now. Immediately. I’ll have somebody there in two minutes.”

  “Danke. Please hurry.”

  Reinhardt walked briskly across the street and entered the store. As he walked in the proprietor was answering the phone. He listened for a moment, looked at Reinhardt, said something, hung up and jerked his head toward the rear of the store.

  Reinhardt went straight down the aisle and through a set of curtains into a tiny, cramped office with a rear door, an old roll-top desk stacked high with correspondence, and shelves of canned goods lining one wall. He waited, peering cautiously through the curtains. He could see the phone booth across the street. Moments crawled by.

  A Mercedes pulled up at the booth and four SA troopers jumped out. One checked the booth, the other three looked up and down the street. Then one of them pointed at the store.

  Panic seized the tousled little man. He turned and rushed out the back door.

  Two men stood just outside the doer, huddled in raincoats, hands stuffed in pockets, rain trickling off the brims of their hats. One held open the rear door of a sedan. A third man sat behind the steering wheel. Steam curled from the exhaust of the car.

  “Herr Reinhardt?” one of them said.

  Reinhardt’s terrified eyes jerked in their sockets.

  “It’s all right, sir,” said the taller of the two, grabbing him by the arm. “I’m Major Trace, U.S. embassy. Get in the car, quickly.”

  “They’re right behind me. The SA are right behind me!” he cried as he jumped in the backseat. The two Americans followed, one in the front, Trace in the back with Reinhardt. The car roared away before they got the doors fully closed.

  “On the floor, please,” Trace said firmly. Reinhardt dropped on his knees on the floor and the major threw a blanket over him.

  “No matter what happens, don’t move,” Trace said.

  Huddled under the blanket, Reinhardt almost vomited with fear. He felt the car skid around a corner, heard its horn blaring. The next few seconds seemed like hours. He felt the car slow down for an instant, then stop. He could hear muffled voices outside the car.

  My God, I am caught, Reinhardt thought. I am dead.

  Then the car started up again. A few seconds later, Trace said, “Okay, sir, you can breathe easy, you’re on U.S. soil.”

  Keegan stood in the entrance to the main embassy salon, appraising the guests and listening to the band in the ballroom attempting to play jazz in a tempo that was more Victor Herbert than Chick Webb.

  Keegan could not remember exactly what the occasion for the party was, there was always an occasion, but Wallingford had drawn a good crowd. There were the obligatory hangers-on, a few dull foreign diplomats, and, as usual, several officers of the German SS in their snappy black uniforms. There were also some new and interesting faces. The diminutive German actor with the pop eyes and the voice like an angry bee, Peter something, who had become an overnight sensation playing a child molester, was standing alone in a corner while in the opposite side of the room the English playwright, George Bernard Shaw, was holding forth to a large, mesmerized group, while the German actress Elizabeth Bergner, star of Shaw’s play, Saint Joan, stared up at him adoringly.

  There were several other new faces. A half dozen beautiful women. Wallingford did have a good eye for pretty ladies.

  One of them was a new international film star. She stood on the far side of the room, and was immediately attracted to the tall man in the tuxedo who seemed to command the doorway as if he owned it. She was also aware that everyone else had seen him too. A murmur of whispers swept the room.

  “Who is he?” she asked her escort, an American military attaché named Charles Gault.

  Whispers always started the moment Keegan entered a room. He attracted rumors the way J. P. Morgan attracted money. Men usually glared at him with disdain, women stared at him with hunger. Royalty doted on him and the café society of England, France, Germany and Italy pandered him. Keegan materialized wherever the action was, slightly aloof, with an acerbic wit that intimidated men and an arrogant half-smile that dazzled the ladies. There was also a hard edge to his charm, a toughness that enhanced the rumors and added a hint of danger to his allure.

  “That’s Francis Scott Keegan,” Gault answered.

  “So that’s Keegan?” she said in a soft, husky voice, without taking her eyes off him.

  “His notoriety always seems to precede him,” Gault answered.

  It had. She had heard about this brash American playboy who was supposedly richer than Midas. Had heard that he had s
ired two or three illegitimate offspring among the rich and titled. That he was an American war hero. That he was a gangster with a price on his head. That he was an active member of Sinn Fein, the Irish rebel army. That he once cleaned out a Greek shipping magnate in a poker game and then gave it all back—with a shrug. They always added that. With a shrug.

  “I’ve even heard he’s a Russian nobleman, got out just ahead of the revolution,” Gault whispered.

  “He’s no Russian nobleman,” her dusty voice answered. Keegan entered the room now, stopping to speak to Jock Devane, the American ambassador, and his wife Cissy.

  “You will be at the lawn party Sunday, won’t you, Francis?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, kissing her hand.

  “I’ve already picked you for my badminton partner.”

  “Good,” he said and, leaning over, he confided, “I’ll work on my backhand for the rest of the week. We’ll cream ‘em.”

  He moved on, shook hands with a Nazi SS officer, exchanged pleasantries with the wife of an American industrialist and rarely took his eyes off the actress.

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “Want to meet him?” asked Gault.

  “Oh, he’ll be over,” she said with assurance.

  As Keegan made his way casually through the room, stopping here and there to exchange greetings or kiss a perfumed hand, he was aware that one guest, a small man with a hump on his back, seemed intently interested in him. Keegan ignored him but was constantly aware of his presence.

  His course through the room eventually steered him straight to the actress.

  “Hello, Gault, how’re things with the army?”

  “Dull as usual. Francis, have you met Marlene Dietrich?”

  “No,” he said, kissing her hand then looking directly into her eyes, “but I saw you in Morocco and I’ve been weak-kneed ever since.”

  She laughed. “Should I be complimented?”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “And what do you do, Mr. Keegan?”

  “Francis.”

  “Francis.”

  “Not much of anything,” he answered. “I suppose you could say I’m on an extended holiday. A little business now and then.”

  “How nice,” she said. “And when you’re not on holiday?”

  Absolutely stunning, Keegan thought. Killer eyes and a taunting voice that was both promising and forbidding at the same time. She took out a cigarette and he lit it for her.

  “I don’t remember,” he said with a crooked, almost arrogant smile, and changed the subject. “Are you doing a movie now?”

  “I am going back to Hollywood next week,” she said. “I’ll be starting a new picture next year.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “The Devil Is a Woman.”

  He grinned impishly and said, “How appropriate.”

  “There’s a touch of the devil in you, Mr. Keegan,” she said, leaning closer to him, staring him straight in the eyes.

  “Have you heard the latest?” Gault said, realizing the conversation was about to get away from him. “This morning Goebbels ordered all the American telephone exchanges to fire their Jewish employees. They can only hire members of the Nazi party in the future. And the embassy can no longer make contracts with Jews. Can you imagine, the Germans telling us who to hire and who to do business with.”

  “It’s their country,” Keegan said casually.

  “No, it’s Hitler’s country,” Miss Dietrich said. “The irony is that he has never been elected to anything. He lost the election to Hindenburg and Hindenburg appointed him chancellor.”

  “How do you feel about him?” Keegan asked the actress.

  She hesitated for a few moments, looking around the room before answering. “I think he is an enemy of anyone who is creative or intellectual.”

  “I’ll never understand why the Germans didn’t resist him,” Gault said.

  “It takes courage to resist him, Charlie,” Keegan said. “We kicked hell out of Germany. The Versailles treaty bankrupted them. They haven’t got anything left to resist with.”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway?” Gault said, obviously annoyed by Keegan’s defense of the German people.

  “It’s not a question of sides. Those are facts.”

  “They started the war and we finished it. What would you have done, slapped their wrist?” Gault snapped back.

  “Americans never have understood European politics,” Keegan said. “You know what they say, when Roosevelt was elected he forgave all his enemies; when Hitler was elected he arrested all his friends. A difference in point of view.”

  “Point of view?” Gault answered. “The Sturmabteilung are his personal police. They beat up people in the streets every day.”

  “C’mon, Charlie, things aren’t that much different back in the states. The SA beats up Commies over here, we call the veterans Commies and beat them up in Washington. The Gestapo confiscates the Jews’ property, our banks confiscate people’s homes. The SA beats up Jews, the Ku Klux Klan lynches Negroes. We have the same soup kitchens, the same hobo camps, the same unemployment. Hell, we just got lucky. We got Roosevelt, they got Hitler. And believe me, there are people back home who think FDR’s just as dangerous as Adolf.”

  “Not so loud,” Gault hissed, looking around as though he expected someone from the State Department to jump out from behind the potted plants.

  “You don’t see Hitler as a threat to America, then?” Miss Dietrich asked.

  “Hitlers come and go,” Keegan said. “The Germans want him, they’ve got him. It’s none of our business.”

  “Not all Germans want him,” she said.

  Keegan’s look got hard for a moment.

  “But you all have him,” he said. Then the grin returned. “Hell, I like the German people. I get along with them.”

  “I hear they almost got you at Belleau Wood,” Gault said.

  “Yeah, well, we made a deal, the Germans and me. I forgave them for the war, they forgave me for the peace.”

  “Isn’t that convenient,” Gault said sarcastically.

  “Look, Gault, I’ve made a lot of good friends over here. I’m sure some of them are in the Nazi party, hell it only costs six marks a month to belong. I don’t ask them, it’s none of my concern. If Hitler’s their cup of tea, then I say they’re welcome to him. It’s none of our damn business what the Germans do.”

  “Please,” Miss Dietrich pleaded, “can we change the subject? I am so tired of it, everyone you meet these days talks politics, politics, politics.”

  “It’s the national sport,” said Keegan. ‘We’ve got baseball, you’ve got the storm troopers.”

  She scowled painfully at the analogy.

  “What brought you here?” Keegan asked her, attempting to remove the scowl.

  “Haven’t you heard? The American embassy is the social center of Berlin this season.” Her lip curled into a faint and delicious smile.

  “I hope that doesn’t get back to Wally Wallingford,” Keegan said. “His head’s already ten sizes too big for his hat.”

  “Speaking of the devil.” She nodded over Keegan’s shoulder.

  Wallace Wallingford was the protocol chief of the embassy and its social director. He was a slight man in his early thirties, tense and formal, with blond hair that was already beginning to thin out and anxious, watery eyes. Like many career diplomats, Wallingford affected an air of superiority, an attitude which intimidated some. But on this night he seemed nervous and distracted. Tiny beads of sweat twinkled on his forehead.

  “Marlene, darling,” he said, kissing her hand, “how generous of you to come.”

  “You’re delightful, Wally,” she said, “but you do have a tendency toward overstatement.”

  “And how are you, Francis?” Wallingford said.

  “Just fine, Wally. Generous of you to ask.”

  Wallingford glared at him for a moment, then took his elbow.

/>   “Marlene, may I borrow him for a moment or two?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Keegan said as Wallingford led him away.

  “You’ve got to do something about that band, Wally,” Keegan said.

  “Like what?”

  “I suggest deporting them. The sooner, the better.”

  “Just keep smiling and listen,” Wallingford said softly. “You know where my office is on the second floor?”

  “Of course I know where your office is. And stop talking without moving your lips, you look like Edgar Bergen.”

  Wallingford affected a frozen smile and said casually, “Wait about five minutes. Then go out on the terrace and come back in the side door. I’ll meet you up there_”

  “Damn it, Wally, I was talking to the most beautiful, the most sensual, the most . .

  “Don’t be difficult, this is very serious,” Wallingford said, still with that frozen grin. “Five minutes.” And he moved back into the crowd.

  Keegan looked back toward Marlene but Gault had already swept her onto the dance floor. The little hunchback was nowhere to be seen. Keegan went to the terrace and lit a cigarette.

  From an alcove in the ballroom, Vierhaus continued to watch Keegan as he casually puffed on his cigarette, picked a carnation from the flowers at the edge of the garden, and fitting it into the slit in his lapel, strolled into the garden, vanishing into the damp, moonless night.

  Keegan walked around the corner of the building, went back in through a side door and went up the stairs two at a time. Wallingford was waiting for him in the upper hallway.

  “All right, Wally, what the hell is this all about?”

  “You know who Felix Reinhardt is?” Wallingford asked nervously.

  “The writer? Sure. He’s the one who called Hitler the greatest actor in the world and said they should have given him a stage instead of the whole country.”

  “The whole world’s the son of a bitch’s stage,” Wallingford said. “Reinhardt’s here in my office.”

  “Why doesn’t he come downstairs and join the rest of us peons?”

  “Because he can’t,” Wallingford said, lowering his voice in exasperation.

  Keegan laughed. “What’s the matter, is he on the lam?”