Reinhard Heydrich

Reinhard Heydrich had arrived, on his way to Paris. The Hangman. And the SS came with him.

He was in the city to oversee the final integration. The Nazis were fully taking over.

Pulaski sat at his desk. He was rolling a cigarette. His hands were steady.

Benoit came into the room.

-Of all people.

-Detective?

-What is it, Benoit?

-There’s a car outside. A black one. From the Avenue.

Pulaski looked out the window. The car was there. It was idling.

-They’re asking for you, Benoit said. By name.

Pulaski licked the paper of his cigarette. He tucked it behind his ear.

-They missed their rat, he muttered.

-What should I tell them?

-Tell them I’m coming, Pulaski said. Tell them I’m always ready for a chat.

He grabbed his hat. He adjusted the brim. His blonde hair was neat.

He walked down the stairs and out to the car.

-I'm Pulaski, he said to the man in the passenger seat.

The man didn't smile. He had silver runes on his collar.

-Get in, Detective. We have an audit to discuss.

Pulaski sat in the back.

-I hope you have a good filing system, he muttered as the car pulled away. Because I’m all out of paper.

The black car didn’t look out of place in the street like it should have. Not anymore.

Nobody looked. They didn’t want to see who was inside.

The car arrived at Avenue Louise 453. The guards waved the car through. The gates closed.

Pulaski was led to the third floor. The hallway was quiet. The typewriters were still going, but Pulaski couldn’t really hear them.

He was pushed into a large office.

A man sat behind a desk. His uniform was perfect. He had the silver runes of the SS on his collar. He looked at a file.

-Sit, the officer said.

Pulaski sat. The chair was hard.

-I’m Sturmbannführer Klirr. I oversee the internal security of the Liaison offices.

-Nice office, Pulaski muttered. Great view.

Klirr looked up.

-We have completed our audit of the Administrative Annex. We checked the logs. We checked the typewriter ribbons. We even checked the ink on the fingers of every clerk.

Pulaski looked at his own boots.

-And?

-Our men are clean, Klirr said. It is impossible for a German clerk to have committed this crime.

-Impossible is a big word, Pulaski said.

-It is an ideological certainty. A soldier of the Reich does not murder a V-Mann over a workload. To suggest otherwise is defeatism.

Pulaski leaned back. He chuckled.

-Sure. You checked the work, didn’t like how it added up.

-Schultz is a drone, Klirr said. He is too incompetent to plan a murder. He has been cleared. All of them have.

The officer slammed the file shut.

-Somebody killed Frelinghuysen. He was one of ours, for sure.

-That’s news to me.

Klirr leaned over the desk.

-We believe it was a British operative. An insurgent. A professional saboteur sent to protect the names in Saint-Gilles.

-A spy, Pulaski muttered. It’s a nice story. Very dramatic.

-It is the only story. And you are going to prove it.

Pulaski looked at the officer.

-That sounds like a lot of work, he finally said.

-You have forty-eight hours.

Pulaski stood up.

-I’ll see what I can find, he said. But British spies don't usually leave their business cards at the crime scene.

-Then you will have to find where he dropped it, Klirr said.

Pulaski walked out of the office. He walked down the hall to Room 12.

The door was open. Schultz was sitting at Desk 6. He was typing. His hands were shaking so hard the keys were jamming.

Pulaski stood in the doorway. Schultz looked up.

-They cleared me, Schultz whispered.

-Yeah, Pulaski muttered. You’re a hero of the Reich, Adolfus. Too stupid to be a killer.

Pulaski walked over to the desk. He leaned in close.

-They want a spy, he whispered. They want a big, scary Englishman in a trench coat.

-I don't know any Englishmen, Schultz said.

-You’re going to help me build one, Pulaski said. We’re going to give them exactly what they want.

Pulaski walked toward the exit.

-It’s not a problem, he muttered to the hallway. I always liked the theater.