Quest for Anna Klein, The Read Free

show that, for all my youth and limited travel, I was at least familiar with Paris and its environs. “The distance would have been too great.”
    Danforth’s smile seemed indulgent, a worldly old man educating an unworldly youthful one. “No distance is too far for guilt to travel.” He shrugged. “But yes, the priest was no doubt speaking metaphorically.”
    Despite his faintly pedagogical, didactic air, I had to admit that a certain gravity emanated from Danforth, an intense centeredness; reason enough, I decided, to play it his way a few minutes longer, go at things a little less directly than I’d planned, allow him the occasional digression. Such mental wandering was typical of advanced age, after all, and besides, it was always possible that some little jewel of useful information might be gleaned along the way.
    Still, I wanted to hoe a more or less straight row, which is why I made my next statement. “They all spoke several languages. The people recruited for the . . . Project.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œRobert Clayton’s report to the State Department,” I answered. “I have to say it makes for rather interesting reading, all that cloak-and-dagger business.”
    â€œHow old are you, Paul?” Something in Danforth’s voice was at once hard and tender, both the scar and the flesh beneath it.
    â€œTwenty-four.”
    Danforth nodded. “At around your age, I was a callow young man, running the family business. Picture me, if you can.” He seemed to disappear down the long tunnel of his own past. “A young man with plenty of money and a lovely fiancée, dressed to the nines, having dinner at Delmonico’s.”

Delmonico’s, New York City, 1939
    A burst of flame swept up from the pan as the tableside chef splashed brandy onto the steak, and the people at the surrounding tables joined them in laughter and applause that seemed to circle ’round the dining room and linger in the drapery, lending yet more sparkle to the light.
    â€œThat’s the show,” Clayton said happily, and in response they all lifted their glasses, Clayton and Caroline, his wife of six months, Danforth and Cecilia Linnartz, his fiancée, blond, with dazzling blue eyes, who seemed still not quite used to the glint of her engagement ring.
    â€œConfusion to the French,” Clayton said as a toast.
    Danforth looked at him, puzzled.
    â€œIt’s an old Anglo-Saxon toast,” Clayton explained. “My oh-so-English uncle taught it to me.”
    They’d driven to Beaver Street in Clayton’s spanking-new car, a gift from his father on his most recent birthday, and during the trip they’d cruised past the remnants of a late-afternoon riot. There’d been a few overturned cars, a couple of them set on fire and still smoldering, and the streets had been strewn with placards. Caroline had looked unsettled by the scene, but she was a nervous girl, Danforth knew, and he liked the way Cecilia, calm and cool, had quickly soothed Caroline’s rattled nerves.
    Once they arrived at Delmonico’s, the incident had fled their minds, and for the past few minutes they’d looked very much the happy foursome they were, Clayton talking at full tilt, stopping only to sip his six-olive martini.
    â€œThe marble portal out front, did you know it came from Pompeii?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s the story that went out,” Danforth said. “But my father doubts it.”
    â€œWhy?” Clayton asked.
    â€œBecause it would have been very hard to get it out of Italy,” Danforth answered. “Even out of Naples, corrupt though that city is.”
    Clayton laughed. “Then it must be a fraud,” he said. “But Dan-forth Imports can get anything out of anywhere, right, Tom?”
    â€œRight,” Danforth said confidently.
    Something sparked in Clayton’s eyes. “A great skill, that,” he