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scrape of sandals on concrete, the crackle of a match. Burt smelled cigarette smoke through the closed door. Mrs. Keener was awake and attentive, but apparently he still wasn’t to see the woman of mystery.
    â€œTell me about the detective business,” said Rolf abruptly.
    â€œTell me about your business.”
    Rolf smiled. “I’m an importer. Very interesting the way I got into it. I don’t suppose you were in World War II …”
    â€œI was a kid,” said Burt. “I sold war stamps and collected paper.”
    â€œYes,” the man smiled benignly. “Well, I was in the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS. I happen to be of European extraction, I suppose you detect the accent.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo? Well, it’s been a long time. In the OSS I commanded a group which went into occupied countries to organize partisan groups. We sometimes used the local currency, but usually we carried a more negotiable commodity, gold, jewels, that sort of thing. To buy guns, food, and allies. It was often necessary to kill men, you understand—”
    â€œIt goes without saying in wartime,” said Burt. “Why say it?”
    â€œBecause … I have a point to make.” He leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Every man has a killer inside him, March. With some people it’s weak and easy to hold down. With others it’s strong; you try to hold it down and you can feel it snarling and growling inside you.” He leaned back and smiled. “I call it the beast.”
    â€œI see,” said Burt.
    â€œI’m sure you do.”
    The words came as a shock, and Burt wondered if the other had read his thoughts. For the talk of war spun Burt back to Korea, to those long nights on the parallel when one patrol had followed another, night after night, until death and danger had become a part of We like eating and sleeping, and almost as necessary. One night he’d gone out alone and come back with his knife bloody, and all he would remember afterwards was that a Chinese loudspeaker had played Sentimental Journey .
    â€œGo on, Rolf,” said Burt in a tight voice. “You were telling about World War II.”
    â€œYes. I let my beast out in those days. I let him rage and snarl and gorge himself; I was a hero, a patriot, but I was never foolish enough to think that society would let the beast run loose when there was no longer any need for him. So after the war I threw the chains on him.”
    â€œDid you?”
    â€œAh, you’re thinking about our fight.” Rolf reached for the bottle and poured a drink, thoughtfully watching the liquor rise in the glass. He proffered the bottle to Burt, but Burt shook his head, waiting. Rolf capped the bottle, then raised his glass and smiled. “Well, March, you have to feed the beast from time to time. Someday you may need him to save your life.”
    He leaned back and drank, closing his eyes as though the liquor were a delicious elixir. “Ah well, so I chained up the beast and searched for a socially acceptable occupation. I’d seen millions of dollars’ worth of war materials all over the world; now it would never be used. Mile-long rows of airplanes, tanks, jeeps, command cars, rusting on islands, in deserts, mountains. Why not remove the smaller units, radios, optical instruments, electronic gear, ship it home and sell it? You may know how that turned out; the men with government contacts and money covered the deal like a blanket. I made a few thousand, the others made millions before the stink reached the public. Then I thought of Europe, fugitive Nazis with their little caches of jewelry, gold, and art objects. I had the cash, and contacts who could provide them with new identities, and a safe hiding place—”
    â€œYou helped Nazis?”
    â€œI’m a businessman, not a patriot. Others took their money and denounced them to the authorities, but I fulfilled my