There was a shaving kit in the washroom, a bottle of aspirin, comb, toothbrush, and toothpaste, eye drops. He walked back through the bedroom, sat on a couch in the salon and waited.
They were walking toward the Mercedes when Harry noticed a police car double-parked next to it, two cops looking in the windows. He grabbed Cordell’s biceps, steering him in another direction.
“Man, what you doing?” Then Cordell tuned in, saw what was happening. “Yeah, okay, I’m with you. Let’s go this way.”
They had walked a couple of blocks, hailed a cab and took it to Harry’s hotel. They entered from the rear side, boosted themselves up on the loading dock, walked through the stockroom, moving past floor-to-ceiling shelves. Saw a couple of maids filling their carts with room supplies. No one said anything or seemed to notice them.
He turned a light on when they walked in the suite, Cordell trailing behind, wide-eyed, looking around the living room. Harry pointed to a cabinet under the TV. “Help yourself to the mini-bar. I think it has Courvoisier and I know it’s got Coke.” He sat on the couch, watching Cordell open the cabinet, staring at all the bottles: soft drinks, water, juice, beer, and little airline bottles of whisky, vodka, gin, and assorted liqueurs. Cordell turned and looked at him.
“Want something, Harry?”
“Scotch and soda.”
“Dewar’s cool?”
Harry nodded. Cordell mixed the drinks in heavy lowball glasses, came over and handed him his Scotch and he took a sip. “Perfect.” He looked at his watch. 5:15. “I’ve got to make a few calls,” he said to Cordell. “Relax, turn on the TV. You can watch Hogan’s Heroes in German. I’ll be in the bedroom.”
He walked in with his drink, sat on the bed, put his glass on the end table, picked up the phone and called Colette, assumed she’d be back from Nuremberg by now, but got her answering machine. “It’s Harry. Meet me at Odeonsplatz at 6:00.” He’d tell her what happened later.
Next he dialed the operator. Although he had never talked to her he felt an obligation to call Joyce, tell her what had happened. He asked for a US operator and then a listing in Palm Beach, Florida for Joyce Cantor. There was a J. Cantor but the number was unlisted. Harry told the operator it was an emergency and she told him to call the police.
His second call was to Lisa’s partners, Irena and Leon. Harry tried the number, let it ring ten times and hung up. He went in the closet, opened the safe, picked up his passport, and slid it in his shirt pocket. He grabbed the extra ammunition, took out the Colt, opened the cylinder, ejected the spent shell casings and loaded three rounds in the empty chambers. He snapped the cylinder back in position, slid the gun in the waistband of his khakis behind his back. He went in the bathroom, threw the spent casings in the toilet and flushed it.
Twenty-five
Hess stood in front of the house at 64 Kaulbachstrasse at 4:52 p.m., holding the package under his right arm. He rang the buzzer and waited, brushed dandruff off the shoulder of the uniform, looked at his reflection in the glass, adjusted the cap, straightened it over his face.
A woman’s voice said, “Who is it?” She spoke with a pronounced Polish accent.
“The postman.” He liked saying it, thinking of himself as a common man everyone trusted. “Special delivery for Herr Lukiski.”
“He is not expecting anything. Who is it from?”
“The name is Martz, a Munich address.”
“What would Lisa be sending him?”
“Fräulein, I have no idea.”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m thinking out loud. Leon is in the shower and I am cooking dinner. Will you leave it inside the door, please.”
Hess found it interesting she would offer this information about what they were doing. It was because he was the postman. She trusted him. “No, I am sorry, you have to sign for it.”
“Can you bring it up?”
That was what he was hoping she would ask. “Yes, of course.”
She buzzed him in and he walked up the narrow staircase. She was standing in the doorway when he reached the top, an attractive woman with blonde hair, wearing an apron over a dark skirt and white blouse. He could smell onions cooking, he could hear music. Hess gave her an avuncular smile. Now he could hear a phone ringing somewhere inside. She glanced back but made no move to answer it.
“You are working late,” Irena Pronicheva said.
“The packages must be delivered.” It sounded like something a friendly postman would say. He was surprised the Jews were still so gullible after all that had happened to them. It was difficult to comprehend.
“Do you have a pen?”
He patted his shirt pocket. “No, I’m sorry. Someone on my route forgot to give it back.”
“I will get one, please come in.
He stood just inside the flat, watched her walk into another room and disappear before closing the door. If she recognized him Hess saw no sign of it. The grilled onion smell was stronger and it made him hungry. The music was Mozart, good old Wolfie, his opera Don Giovanni. He wondered if the average postman could distinguish one Mozart opera from another. He glanced around. A framed Picasso print over the fireplace mantel caught his eye, Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, from his proto-Cubist period. These Polish Jews were surprisingly cultured.
When she came back in the room his arms were raised, fingers pointed up as if conducting the orchestra, a nice touch for a postman.
“So you enjoy Mozart, I see.”
He brought his arms down to his sides. “Very much.”
“My favorite opera is Die Entführung aus dem Serail,” she said smiling, animated now.
“I can understand why.”
“I have a pen,” she said, holding it up, showing it to him.
“Herr Lukiski must sign. The package is addressed to him.”
She turned toward the darkness of the other rooms. “Leon, you have to sign for it.”
Hess said, “Something smells like it is burning.”
She swore in Polish. “Excuse me.”
She turned and moved into the kitchen. He heard her shake a skillet on the stovetop. He shifted the package from his right arm to his left, and saw a man coming toward him from another room. Lukiski was big, bearish, long dark hair still wet from the shower and a full beard. Hess was surprised‚ expected someone more handsome and fit to be living with such an attractive woman. The idea of it annoyed him.
“For me, are you sure? What would Lisa possibly be sending?” He seemed to sniff the air. “Irena, something is burning.”
From the kitchen she said, “I am taking care of it.”
Lukiski glanced at him. “Where do I sign?”
“Right here.” Hess pointed to the signature line.
He signed his name and Hess handed him the package. The woman came in from the kitchen as he was shaking it.
“Leon, what is it?”
“How do I know?”
“Open it, will you.” She glanced at Hess. “Thank you very much. We won’t keep you.”
He drew the Luger from under his jacket. “I can’t leave just yet. I must ask you some questions.”