Avenue Louise 453

Avenue Louise was wide. The trees were deep green. It was the prettiest part of the city. It was a fortress.

Pulaski got off the tram. He adjusted his hat. The sun was trying to break through the gray. It made the wet pavement shine.

He walked toward Number 453.

Sandbags were piled high. Steel hedgehogs sat on the sidewalk. Two guards stood by the door. They wore helmets. They held submachine guns.

-Halt.

-Halt, Pulaski muttered as he stopped.

The guard was young. He had a scar on his chin. He looked like he wanted to shoot something.

-Belgian Police, Pulaski said. I’m here to return property. I have a pass.

He handed over the card with the red stripe. The guard took it. He looked at the card. Then he looked at Pulaski’s face.

He saw the blonde hair. He saw the blue eyes. He saw the calm.

-Wait here, the guard said.

-I’m a detective, Pulaski muttered to himself. Waiting is half the job.

The guard went inside. Pulaski looked at the windows. They were taped. To stop the glass from flying when the bombs came.

A black car pulled up. An officer got out. He looked at Pulaski.

-A very Belgian name, Pulaski, the officer said, looking at the pass, laughing.

-Nice car, Pulaski whispered. Probably gets great mileage.

The guard came back. He handed the pass to Pulaski.

-Go to the desk in the lobby. Room 12 is the civilian liaison.

-Thank you, Benoit.

-My name is not Benoit.

-It’s not a problem. You look like a Benoit.

Pulaski walked inside.

The floor was marble and clean.

Pulaski walked to the main desk. A soldier sat there. He had a face like a dried apple.

-Property to return, Pulaski said.

-Name?

-I don't have a name. I have this.

Pulaski showed the blue stamp on the thick paper.

-I found this with a wallet, he said. A lot of francs. I want to make sure they get to the right man.

The soldier looked at the stamp. He only saw the seal of his office. He nodded.

-Administrative Annex. Room twelve.

-Is it a specific desk?

-Ask for the civilian ledger.

Pulaski walked down the hall, looking around aimlessly.

-Civilian ledger, he muttered. Sure. It’s not a problem. I’m just the delivery boy.

He found Room 12. He pushed the door open.

The room produced noise. Ten typewriters. Nine men in gray suits. It sounded like a hailstorm on a tin roof.

He walked over to one of the clerks and showed him the page he brought, revealing just the stamp.

-Returning some property for this one, he said. His voice was flat.

The clerk near the window stopped typing. He pointed to the back of the room.

-That is Schultz’s desk. Desk six.

-Is he in?

-He usually isn’t, the clerk said, shrugging and returning to his keys.

- He is at the archives. Or the washroom. Or the canteen.

-Busy guy, Pulaski muttered.

He walked to Desk 6. It was tucked in a corner. Near a radiator that hissed like a snake.

The chair was empty. The desk might as well have been too.

There was a heavy brass seal sitting on a black ink pad. It was the same size as the bruise on Berger’s neck.

Pulaski sat on the edge of the desk. He looked at the other clerks. They were drowning in paper.

He felt the three thousand francs in his pocket.

-I’m here, Adolfus, he whispered to the empty chair. I’ve got your money. I just need to know why you stopped typing long enough to kill a rat feeding you.

He settled his hat. He looked at the door.

-I’ll wait, he said. I have nothing but time and a wet coat.

The radiator hissed. It sounded like a warning. Pulaski stayed on the edge of the desk. He leaned back. He watched the room.

The nine clerks were like one ugly machine. Their heads were down. Their fingers were gray from the carbon. They typed and typed.

-Nice place you got here, Pulaski muttered. Quiet. Productive. Banal.

The clerk with the thin mustache looked up. He was at Desk 4. He looked tired.

-He is not coming back soon, the clerk said. Schultz has a sensitive stomach.

-Is that right?

-He spends an hour in the canteen.

-It’s a good skill, Pulaski said. Better than typing.

Pulaski looked at Schultz’s desk. It was too clean. No family photos. No personal trinkets. Just the brass seal and a stack of blank forms.

He reached out. He touched the seal. It was heavy. Cold. He could see the mirror image of the eagle in the brass.

-He must be a fast typer, Pulaski said. To have so much free time.

The clerk at Desk 4 snorted.

-He is the slowest in the Annex. That is why he is never here. If he is not at his desk, the supervisor cannot give him more lists.

Pulaski rolled a cigarette. He didn't light it. He just tucked it behind his ear.

-Smart guy, Adolfus. He doesn't like the work.

Pulaski looked at the empty chair. He thought about Berger.

He stood up. His coat was still damp. It smelled like the street.

-I’ll try the canteen, he said. A man with a sensitive stomach shouldn't be hard to find.

He walked toward the door. He stopped at the threshold.

-One more thing, he said.

The clerks didn't look up.

-Does Schultz always carry his seal with him? Or does he only take it when he goes to visit a friend?

Nobody answered.

Pulaski walked out into the hall.

-Archives, washroom, canteen, he muttered. You’re a busy one, Adolfus. But you left your mark.

He walked toward the stairs.