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headed places, else old Nussbaum wouldn't have taken him on like he-did. The assumption of the authorities was that he was despondent over his personal debts, but it just didn't wash with anyone who knew him at all well. He was on his way up and he knew it, too, moreover, he was proud as punch about his little boy, then two months old. Could it be, Danna. . . ? Could it be that our own Agent Henry Blutegel. . . ?"

    She blanched. "Pedro\ My God, Pedro, that's insane] Why in the world would even a thing like Blutegel. . . ?" She paused, then nodded slowly, "You think that perhaps . . . that, maybe, Bill mightVe learned something that could've frightened Blutegel enough to drive him to ... to. . . ?"
    Grimfaced, the dark man nodded. "Could be, Danna, could very well be, all things considered. Tell you something you didn't know, too: Bill Smith wasn't born a Smith. His dad legally changed the family name because he had become so ashamed of bearing his true surname early in World War Two. The name was Messerschmidt. Bill didn't tell many people the truth, only his closest friends, that he was originally Wilhelm Messerschmidt, and that he spoke, read and wrote excellent German.
    "Now, I've never done any divorce work, myself, but I know the procedure, nonetheless. Who can say that there did not occur some exchanges, possibly very heated exchanges, between the estranged couple? What would be more natural than that, saying things neither of them wished their listeners to understand, they retreated to the supposed safety of a language foreign to said listeners, spoke their thoughts or threats in German? Then, if the dispossessed and not in the least happy Blutegel had in some way learned that his one-time attorney most probably had comprehended all that had been said in his hearing. . . ?
    "Danna, this is an order: hand over all your cases to Dundas or Emily or Hammill. Hear? Devote all your working time to this Blutegel thing. Go wherever you need to go, do whatever you need to do: you write the checks, I'll cover them, never fear. It's

    the very least I can do for the shade of my dead friend, Bill. This slimy Blutegel may or may not be a hide-out Nazi, but right now I can clearly see him as a murderer and 111 be just as happy to see him proven the one as the other.
    "But, back to that other, have you heard anything from that man in Austria?"
    After a sip of sherry, she replied, "No, not directly, Pedro. I'm just now in contact with a group in New York City that's in some way affiliated with him and his group. I've also been talking on the phone with a young attorney who works for the Justice Department up in D.C., and I've sent both him and the New York people photocopies of my current file on Blutegel, plus the one I sent to Austria and yet another sent to a man who wrote to me from Tel Aviv. Just today, I got two letters—one from Bonn and one from Prague—asking for copies of the file." She grinned maliciously. "Just wait until you see this month's Xerox bill, Pedro, not to even mention the postage meter."
    He waved a hand in dismissal. "Forget it, Danna. Like I just said: you write the checks, I'll see to it that they're covered, all of them. Although I warn you, Danna," he grinned, himself, "any written to jewellers, department stores, boutiques or luxury auto dealers are yours, all yours to cover."
    Then all at once he sobered and, in dead-serious tones, said, "But, Danna, how ever much it costs in time or effort or money, get me proof of some kind on that bastard. It's no longer just his crusade against Fitz and Gus Tolliver now; now the sullied honor of an old friend is in the balance, too. When his death

    was ruled a suicide, his life insurance holders refused to pay one cent to his widow. I and some others have tried to help her but she's proud, she just won't accept anything that smacks of charity. But as she has no marketable skills, she's growing old long before her time trying to support herself and her kids on the