“My God!” Da Silva said wonderingly, almost to himself. “He really does have a bad heart!”
“I’m sorry,” the small man said haltingly, catching his breath, aware that the shock he had suffered was much more severe than any in the past, secretly surprised at his own rapid recovery. “I’m truly sorry, but I thought...” He looked at them blankly, shrugged, began again. “It was the shock. You see, even in New York, our own people... They knew about the camp, of course, but nobody knew the number...”
Da Silva straightened, heaving a massive sigh of relief. His lean, athletic figure stretched, easing the tension of his body; his dark expressive eyes were honest and serious.
“I am on your side, you know,” he said quietly, his voice attempting to convince and soothe at the same time. “You would do me a very great favor by accepting my word for it, because I cannot stand many scenes like this if we are going to work together. I have always prided myself on my complete lack of fear, my mustache, and my family name, but you frightened me as I have never been frightened before!” A twinkle came into the steady eyes. “Please do not do it again, or I may begin losing faith in the other two!”
The man on the couch attempted a weak smile. “I haven’t been too well lately,” he said haltingly, confidingly, “and the trip was very tiring. But I insisted on going through with it. The others weren’t too sure, but I insisted. After all, three years is a long time, and we had done a lot of work... And it was too late to try to develop a new man, a...” He paused, searching for a name. “A Fritz Mueller, let us say, or a Karl Schmidt...” His voice trailed off.
Da Silva nodded sympathetically, apparently understanding this ambiguous statement. Wilson had retired to the desk and was watching the scene with half-closed eyes, his face as impassive as ever. The old man sighed. “I still don’t understand about the number...”
“Yes.” Da Silva lit a cigarette, and he paused after tossing the dead match into an ash tray. “The number. Yes. Well, when I decided to work with you, I made it my business to find out everything about you. As well as about many of your friends. And, naturally, as much about our enemies as possible, although I have a fair file on them as it is. The number... well, I have the contacts, I have the patience, and if you will, I also have the curiosity.”
“You found out everything about me?” The old man’s voice was curious, and also tinged with wistfulness.
“Just about everything, I think.” He seated himself beside the older man, his hand reaching out and almost touching the other’s knee, as if in sympathy. “You, my friend, are Ari Schoenberg, age sixty-one, number 2657782, released from the Buchenwald concentration camp in April of 1945 by the American Army.” He inhaled deeply and watched the curls of smoke swirl sinuously toward the air conditioner.
“You spent three months in an American Army hospital outside of Paris. You spent another four months in a camp outside of Paris while you attempted to locate your family, or the remnants, through the Refugee Committee. My information regarding this particular period is a trifle vague, but apparently you found enough of them to manage entrance into the United States about the end of 1945.”
The old man stirred. “Not relatives,” he said, as if to himself. “Friends. Or maybe a better word is ‘contacts.’”
“Friends, then. Or contacts. Let me see, what else?” The dark head leaned back, reading the dossier printed in his memory. “Yes. In the United States, you disappeared for some years.” There was a slight tone of frustration in his voice as if vaguely ashamed of this hole in the dossier. “We do know that an Ari Schoenberg took out his final citizenship papers in the city of Denver, in the State of Colorado, in 1953...” He looked at the old man questioningly.
“Yes,” said the other.
There was a sigh, almost of pleasure, at this confirmation. “Then, about three years ago, Ari Schoenberg disappeared. In his place, or rather not in his place, appeared a certain Hans Busch. In the name of Hans Busch you have authored anti-Semitic pamphlets and statements. In the name of Hans Busch you have been accused by the newspapers of being active in the reorganization of Nazi activities in the United States, and financing, if not actually participating in, the burning of synagogues and the wave of swastika paintings that we are all familiar with.” He eyed the other man sideways, a faint smile creasing his face. “But the interesting thing is that nobody has ever seen this famous Hans Busch. He is only known by name...” He seemed to be awaiting a comment, but the old man sat listening, his hands locked between his legs. “We also know that in the name of Hans Busch you became the owner of the two trading companies which you are now accused of robbing.” The thin, tanned head suddenly came down. “By the way, off the record — and just to satisfy this devilish curiosity of mine — how did you ever manage to be accused of embezzling from yourself?”
The old man smiled, an almost elfin grimace that transformed the pale face. “I took in a partner, a wonderful bookkeeper. Our group have their talents, you know, even if keeping secrets does not seem to be one of them. Any more on that list in your head?”
Da Silva laughed. With the laugh, everyone seemed to relax, recognizing that the crisis was over. “Not too much. Your group has been after Interpol to pay more attention to the rounding up of suspected Nazis here in Brazil, because you felt the main attempt at a rebirth was not in Germany, or in the United States, but here in this country.” He paused, frowning, snuffing out his cigarette. “I agree with you on that, by the way. I have certain information that makes me certain of it; as a matter of fact, that is how I became involved in this. At any rate, Interpol turned you down. Sympathetically, sadly, remorsefully; but definitely. Not their problem, no proof, other organizations more proper for the apprehension of — and so forth, and so forth. Am I right?”
“You are quite right.” Ari was thinking now; the shock had passed and his brain was free to study this development. The pain in his chest had dulled and his mind was clear. He studied the man before him carefully. “You are frighteningly right. If you could gather all of the facts that I have worked so hard to hide these past three years, what is to prevent the others from gathering them just as easily?”
Da Silva shook his head slowly. “To begin with, it was not easy,” he said. “It was not easy at all. But that is not the point. Why should they doubt you? What motive would they have? I am with Interpol, and I am familiar with all of the correspondence. When it was officially decided to refuse help to your group, I asked for leave of absence to work with you as an individual, because I am sure you and your group are right. Of course I investigated. But why should they?”
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“No, no! Why should they? My dear Ari, the Nazi group here are more than anxious to believe that a certain Mr. Hans Busch, known for his sympathy to their great cause, is loose in Brazil with two million dollars. Two million dollars, I might point out, which he cannot take home again without embarrassing questions being raised. They will feel sure that they can prevail upon him to share the wealth, either through the force of their common convictions, or through any other means they feel necessary to use. Why should they doubt Mr. Busch? They know who he is; among other things, he is the answer to their constant prayers. Who questions the existence of Santa Claus on Christmas Eve? In July, possibly, but on Christmas Eve?”
He paused and looked at Ari. “No,” be went on slowly, “they will not check on Mr. Busch as a person; his cover is safe. However, they will most certainly check in great detail on his two million dollars, you may be sure of that! Although I hope that our meeting this morning helped to convince them on that score.”