“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 sired 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.”