Different Seasons(103)

“Mr. and Mrs. Bowden? Do you have any objections to Todd seeing Mr. Weiskopf?”

“Not if Todd doesn’t,” Dick Bowden said. “I’d like to be present, though. I’ve read about these Mossad characters—”

“Weiskopf isn’t Mossad. He’s what the Israelis call a special operative. In fact, he teaches Yiddish literature and English grammar. Also, he’s written two novels.” Richler smiled.

Dick raised a hand, dismissing it. “Whatever he is, I’m not going to let him badger Todd. From what I’ve read, these fellows can be a little too professional. Maybe he’s okay. But I want you and this Weiskopf to remember that Todd tried to help that old man. He was flying under false colors, but Todd didn’t know that.”

“That’s okay, Dad,” Todd said with a wan smile.

“I just want you to help us all that you can,” Richler said. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Bowden. I think you’re going to find that Weiskopf is a pleasant, low-pressure kind of guy. I’ve finished my own questions, but I’ll break a little ground by telling you what the Israelis are most interested in. Todd was with Dussander when he had the heart attack that landed him in the hospital—”

“He asked me to come over and read him a letter,” Todd said.

“We know.” Richler leaned forward, elbows on his knees, tie swinging out to form a plumb-line to the floor. “The Israelis want to know about that letter. Dussander was a big fish, but he wasn’t the last one in the lake—or so Sam Weiskopf says, and I believe him. They think Dussander might have known about a lot of other fish. Most of those still alive are probably in South America, but there may be others in a dozen countries ... including the United States. Did you know they collared a man who had been an Unterkommandant at Buchenwald in the lobby of a Tel Aviv hotel?”

“Really!” Monica said, her eyes widening.

“Really.” Richler nodded. “Two years ago. The point is just that the Israelis think the letter Dussander wanted Todd to read might have been from one of those other fish. Maybe they’re right, maybe they’re wrong. Either way, they want to know.”

Todd, who had gone back to Dussander’s house and burned the letter, said: “I’d help you—or this Weiskopf—if I could, Lieutenant Richler, but the letter was in German. It was really tough to read. I felt like a fool. Mr. Denker . . . Dussander ... kept getting more excited and asking me to spell the words he couldn’t understand because of my, you know, pronunciation. But I guess he was following all right. I remember once he laughed and said, ‘Yes, yes, that is what you’d do, isn’t it?’ Then he said something in German. This was about two or three minutes before he had the heart attack. Something about Dummkopf. That means stupid in German, I think.”

He was looking at Richler uncertainly, inwardly quite pleased with this lie.

Richler was nodding. “Yes, we understand that the letter was in German. The admitting doctor heard the story from you and corroborated it. But the letter itself, Todd ... do you remember what happened to it?”

Here it is, Todd thought. The crunch.

“I guess it was still on the table when the ambulance came. When we all left. I couldn’t testify to it in court, but—”

“I think there was a letter on the table,” Dick said. “I picked something up and glanced at it. Airmail stationery, I think, but I didn’t notice it was written in German.”

“Then it should still be there,” Richler said. “That’s what we can’t figure out.”

“It’s not?” Dick said. “I mean, it wasn’t?”

“It wasn’t, and it isn’t.”

“Maybe somebody broke in,” Monica suggested.

“There would have been no need to break in,” Richler said.

“In the confusion of getting him out, the house was never locked. Dussander himself never thought to ask someone to lock up, apparently. His latchkey was still in the pocket of his pants when he died. His house was unlocked from the time the MED-Q attendants wheeled him out until we sealed it this morning at two-thirty A.M.”

“Well, there you are,” Dick said.

“No,” Todd said. “I see what’s bugging Lieutenant Richler.” Oh yes, he saw it very well. You’d have to be blind to miss it. “Why would a burglar steal nothing but a letter? Especially one written in German? It doesn’t listen. Mr. Denker didn’t have much to steal, but a guy who broke in could find something better than that.”

“You got it, all right,” Richler said. “Not bad.”

“Todd used to want to be a detective when he grew up,” Monica said, and ruffled Todd’s hair a bit. Since he had gotten big he seemed to object to that, but right now he didn’t seem to mind. God, she hated to see him looking so pale. “I guess he’s changed his mind to history these days.”

“History is a good field,” Richler said. “You can be an investigative historian. Have you ever read Josephine Tey?”

“No, sir.”

“Doesn’t matter. I just wish my boys had some ambition greater than seeing the Angels win the pennant this year.”

Todd offered a wan smile and said nothing.

Richler turned serious again. “Anyway, I’ll tell you the theory we’re going on. We figure that someone, probably right here in Santo Donato, knew who and what Dussander was.”