Break

The canteen was in the basement of a requisitioned hotel across the street.

Pulaski walked in.

He looked for the grey suit. Most of the men wore uniforms. Field gray wool. Silver buttons. But in the corner, near a dripping pipe, sat a man in civilian clothes.

He was pale. He was sweaty. He looked like he was melting into his chair. He was staring at a bowl of gray broth like a vegetable.

Pulaski sat down across from him.

-Mind if I sit? Sure.

The man moved his spoon. It made a scraping sound against the ceramic.

-It’s a free country, the man said.

Pulaski let out a loud laugh.

-Sure, I like that.

The man looked at him. He saw the blonde hair. He saw the blue eyes. He sat up a little straighter.

-Are you from the Liaison office? the man asked.

-No, Section Crime. Detective Pulaski. I’m looking for a man named Schultz.

The man blinked. He wiped his forehead with a stained handkerchief.

-I am Schultz. What is this about?

Pulaski reached into his pocket. He pulled out the roll of francs. He set them on the table next to the soup.

-Found your wallet, Adolfus.

Schultz looked at the money.

-That is not mine.

-Sure it is. It was in the pocket of a man named Berger Frelinghuysen. He’s a friend of yours, right? He visits your desk. He points at your mistakes. You left it on him, why?

-I don't know that name.

-It’s not a problem, Pulaski muttered. I forget names too. But I don't forget three thousand francs. That’s a lot of interest on a debt.

Pulaski leaned forward. The table was sticky.

-What’d you kill him for? And you left your paperwork behind.

Schultz looked around the room. The other soldiers were eating. Nobody paid attention when they didn’t have to.

Schultz looked at the money. Then he looked at Pulaski. His eyes were red.

-He wouldn't stop, Schultz said. Every day. More names. More addresses. He would sit on my desk. He would tell me I spelled the streets wrong. He made me type them again.

Pulaski watched him. He saw the grease on the man’s collar.

-So you hit him with the stamp.

-I just wanted him to go away, Schultz said. I wanted to go home. I’m tired of the paper, Detective. There is so much paper.

Pulaski sat back. He felt the cold air from the doorway.

-He was a rat, Pulaski muttered. Nobody likes a rat.

-He was work. So much work. I couldn't breathe anymore.

Pulaski picked up the money. He put it back in his pocket.

-It’s a simple story, he said. A clerk with a headache. It’s not a problem.

He stood up.

-But the Avenue doesn't like simple stories. They like spies. They like conspiracies.

-What are you going to do? Schultz asked.

-I’m going to have a cigarette, Pulaski said. And then I’m going to figure out how to keep the paperwork from killing us both.

He walked out.

-Too much work, he muttered in the rain. Yeah. That’ll do it.