Really the Blues by Joseph Koenig

Author:Joseph Koenig
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Pegasus

“Do I know him?” Colonel Maier asked when Weiler briefed him about his interview with Eddie.

“The American sought by Interpol.”

“Why haven’t I heard of him before?”

Weiler knew better than to contradict the colonel. Playing dumb was Maier’s way, one of them, of challenging him to weave disparate elements into the framework of the larger case.

“Piron is the Negro trumpeter in a jazz band on Place Pigalle sought for attempted murder in the United States.”

“Does Interpol headquarters in Berlin know you found him? After they’ve been apprised, you won’t be bothered with him again.”

“I have more ambitious plans for him.”

Maier cupped a hand behind his ear. Weiler had made a bold statement. He would have to back it up.

“The information came from our wiretap on the other American, Simone,” he said, “from which we concluded that Piron had impregnated the de Villiers girl.”

“What has this got to do with my investigation here?”

“She was a trollop. Her parents should be flogged in the public square for raising her without morals, and will have the rest of their lives to regret it.”

“There’s no rush to tell them what awful people they are,” Maier said. “Some of their business activities necessitate German participation.”

“By establishing Piron’s blame for her death, I was able to instill the fear of God in him,” Weiler said.

“Why should I care if he is afraid of God?”

“The bomb-maker found in the Seine—Janssen—played in Piron’s band. Goudsmit, who was head of Janssen’s organization, operated under the cover of a jazz musician. I will increase the pressure on Piron until he exposes their plot, and his role in it, and gives up the Cartier woman and the rest.”

“Why didn’t you threaten him with torture, give him a taste of it, and skip all of this fancy footwork?”

Weiler had no qualms against torture, other than that it was also Maier’s way, but he was determined to show his ways more effective. His brains were being wasted playing second fiddle to the doctrinaire colonel—unless he’d misjudged Piron, in which case he had none, and was begging for a posting on the eastern front.

“Let us try subtlety,” he said. “If it doesn’t yield better results, then we will break him physically.”

Maier didn’t appear to be listening, but held up one finger, wagging it. “Don’t we always?”

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