The Choice

Pulaski walked out of the hotel. The rain was cold.

He went back to the Palace. He found the Procureur in the hallway. The old man was carrying a stack of files that looked like they weighed more than he did.

-I found him, Pulaski said.

The Procureur stopped. He looked around. The hallway was empty, but he lowered his voice anyway.

-The clerk?

-Schultz. A nobody. He killed Frelinghuysen because the man wouldn't stop bringing him names to type. A grudge murder. Simple.

-So now you have to bring the Germans the names for him?

-I can bring him in to Amigo without them. The prosecutor doesn’t need the papers to prove a murder. They’ve got plenty of papers.

The Procureur looked at him, tired. What did it matter? The Nazis would take full control soon anyway.

-There’s so many killers, the Procureur said. But a killer at a desk, that’s a dangerous thing I suppose.

He walked away. His boots made a soft, shuffling sound.

-Burn the papers, the Procureur said. It’s just trash if it’s not evidence.

Pulaski stood in the center of the great hall.

-Just trash. Yeah. It’s not a problem.

He walked toward the exit.

Meanwhile, Adolfus Schultz finally went back to Room 12 to sit at his desk.

He looked at his hands. They were stained with the gray broth from the canteen.

Then he saw it.

The red folder was sitting on his typewriter. DRINGEND.

He opened it. His heart hammered against his ribs.

It was a memo from the Lieutenant.

The numbers were down. Was an informant missing?

Schultz felt the room spin.

Schultz looked at the brass seal. It was sitting there. Waiting to be used.

He walked out of the room. He walked out of the building.

He ran toward the Palace of Justice, through the rain.

He found Pulaski outside, leaning against a black Citroën, rolling a cigarette.

-Detective, Schultz wheezed.

Pulaski lit his cigarette.

-You’re away from your desk again, Adolfus. That’s a bad habit.

-They’re going to find out he’s misisng, Schultz said. He wants the names for the transport. By tonight.

-So type them. You’re a clerk.

-I don't have the names! Schultz shouted. Then he lowered his voice, looking at a passing gendarme. I don't know who the rat was watching.

-I have the names, Pulaski said. I had them. I burned them.

Schultz stared at Pulaski. His mouth hung open. A drop of rain ran down his nose.

-You burned them? he whispered. All of them?

-Trash, Pulaski said. The boss said so. It’s not a problem. I don’t like reading other people's mail anyway.

-But I need them! If I don't give the Lieutenant twelve names, he’ll send the SD to Saint-Gilles to find Frelinghuysen. They’ll find the body. They’ll find the bruise.

-Then you’d better start making up some very convincing sounding names.

Schultz grabbed the door of the Citroën. He was shaking so hard the metal rattled.

-I can’t. They check the names against the census. They check the addresses. I’m just a clerk. I don’t have the imagination for this.

Pulaski blew a cloud of smoke.

-Then I guess I’ll see you at the Amigo. Or the gallows. Whichever comes first.

He walked away.

The fire in the basement of the Palace was small. It was just a trash can in the furnace room. Pulaski watched the edges of the papers curl. They turned black,then white, then vanished.

-Trash, Pulaski muttered.

He stirred the ash with a rod. The paper was gone. The neighbors were safe. And his only evidence was a handful of gray flakes.

He went upstairs to the Procureur’s office. He stood in the doorway.

-The Frelinghuysen case, Pulaski said.

The Procureur was writing with a fountain pen. It made a scratching sound.

-Yes?

-I’m not filing charges on the German.

-Oh? the Procureur asked, finally looking up.

-No witnesses, no motive.

The scratching stopped. The Procureur looked at the empty hallway behind Pulaski.

-And the papers?

-Just trash.

The Procureur leaned back. He looked relieved.

-Then it is an open file. Unsolved.

-It’s not a problem, Pulaski muttered.

A week passed.

Pulaski walked the streets of Saint-Gilles. He saw Kleer through the window of the tailor shop. The man was sewing. He saw Madame Colline on her balcony. She was breathing the air.

Nobody talked about Frelinghuysen. It was like he had never lived in 4B. The room was locked.

Then the flags started to go up.

Great red banners. Menacing. They hung from the government buildings. They hung from the Palace.