The Dead Man's Brother Read Free Page B

completely covered by pale yellow carpeting. Its brown walls were buttressed by five glass-doored bookcases, and several simple etchings were tastefully hung. There was a small conference table, numerous chairs and a wide, shiny desk sporting two telephones, a dictaphone, an intercom unit, an unblotted blotter and a neat arrangement of pens, pads, calendar and bronze baby shoes. The only five windows in the room filled the wall behind it. In the corner to my right were two filing cabinets and a secretarial desk.
    I crossed the room partway and seated myself at the end of the conference table closest to the big desk. After a small hesitation, my guides approached and seated themselves, also—the small one directly across from me, the larger to my left.
    I drew up an ashtray, opened my cigarettes, offered them around. They shook their heads, so I smoked alone.
    Finally, "How long?" I asked.
    The man across from me started to shrug, then, "We’re a little early," he said. "It shouldn’t be too long a wait."
    He did not meet my eyes as he spoke, but neither of them had been so inclined for our entire acquaintanceship. They always looked away when I looked directly at them, though I had felt their gazes upon me often and caught them scrutinizing me on several occasions.
    I heard footsteps and voices, glanced out the door at two men who were approaching. When they entered the room my companions stood. I didn’t.
    Both men appeared to be in their fifties. The one who headed toward the desk had gray hair about a shiny bald spot, wore very thick glasses, had a heavily lined face and was smiling. His companion was quite obese and very ruddy. He wore a dark suit complete with vest, chain and Phi Beta Kappa key. He gave me a fishy stare.
    The other man—as if it were an afterthought—turned toward me suddenly, stuck out his hand and said, "My name is Paul Collins. This is Doctor Berwick."
    So I rose and shook hands. Then Collins turned toward my escorts and said, "Thank you. You may go."
    They closed the door behind themselves and Collins told me to sit down. We all did, and then proceeded to scrutinize one another for several moments. While I did not recognize either man, the name "Berwick" served to mesh rusty gear-teeth somewhere in the back of my mind. Still, the memory machine failed to turn over and crank out an answer. I only knew that I had once known something concerning the man.
    "You seem to have left some trouble behind you in New York," said Collins, still smiling.
    I shrugged slightly.
    "I’m innocent," I said, "for whatever that’s worth. Anyway, the thing is out of my hands now."
    "…and into mine, perhaps," he replied.
    "Please explain."
    In apparent answer, he leaned to one side and unlocked a drawer or door in his desk—using several keys, it seemed. When he straightened, he brought up a fat manila folder. He proceeded to turn several of its pages.
    "It appears," he said, "that you speak German, Italian and French quite fluently, and various other languages with some degree of proficiency…And a solid grounding in classical languages, too. That’s always nice."
    "I attended school in Europe," I said. "I’m sure your organization doesn’t need another interp—"
    "Yes," he cut me off. "Tugingen, wasn’t it? But it was in Rome that you met Carl Bernini."
    When I did not reply, he continued, "On your return to the States you enlisted in the Army, attended OCS and received advanced training in intelligence work after receipt of your commission."
    I snorted.
    "…you were then sent into combat areas on numerous occasions," he went on, "and subsequently shifted to more sensitive work behind the lines. You were listed as missing in action on four different occasions and twice reported as dead."
    "I know all those things," I said.
    "I will not suppose that you were ever an art thief," he said, turning several more pages, "nor that you and the late Mister Bernini were once closely associated in such