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"Granted, I haven't met him face to face, but he is no stranger to me." Kippmann read from the folder.
"'Oskar Rondheim, alias Max Rolland, alias Hugo von Klausen, alias Chatford Marazan, real name Carzo Butera, born in Brooklyn, New York, July 15, 1940. I could go on for hours about his arrests, his convictions.
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He was pretty big along the New York waterfront. Organized the fishermen's union. Got muscled out by the syndicate and dropped from sight. Over the past few years we kept close tabs on Mr. Rondheim and his albatross industries. We finally put two and two together and came up with Carzo Butera."
A sly grin crept across Pitts face. "You've made your point. It would be interesting to see what your scandal sheet has to say about me."
"I have it right here," Kippmann said, matching Pitts grin. "Care to see it?"
"No, thanks. It couldn't tell me anything that I don't already know," Pitt said flatly. "I would be interested though in seeing what you have on Kirsti Fyrie."
Kippmann's expression went blank and he looked as if he had been shot. "I was hoping you wouldn't get around to her."
"You have her file also." It was more statement than question.
"Yes," Kippmann answered briefly. He saw there was no way out, no argument that would stand. He sighed with uneasiness and handed Pitt rUe number 883-57.
Pitt reached out and took the folder. For ten minutes he examined the contents, leafing very slowly, almost reluctantly from documents to photos, from reports to letters. Then finally, like a man in a dream, he closed the folder and gave it back to Kippmann.
"I can't believe it. It's ridiculous. I won't believe it."
"I'm afraid what you read is true, all of it." Kippmann's voice was quiet, even.
Pitt pulled the back of his hand across his eyes.
"Never, never in a thousand years would I have His voice faded away.
"It threw us out of gear too. Our first hint came when we could find no trace of her on New Guinea."
"I know. I'd already pegged her for a phony on that score."
"You knew? But how?"
"When we had dinner together in Reykjavik, I described a recipe that called for shark meat wrapped in a seaweed known as echidna. Miss Fyrie accepted it.
Rather strange behavior from a missionary who spent years in the jungles of New Guinea, don't you think?"
"How the hell should I know." Kippmann shrugged. "I don't have the vaguest notion as to what an echidna is."
"An echidna," Pitt said, "is an egg-laying spiny anteater. A mammal very common to the landscape of New Guinea."
"I can't say I blame her for missing the catch."
"How would you react if I said I was going to barbecue a New York cut steak wrapped in porcupine quills?"
"I'd say something."
"You've got the idea."
Kippmann stared at Pitt with an admiring look.
"What put you on to her in the first place? You wouldn't have tricked her without a nudge, without a suspicious hint."
"Her tan," Pitt answered. "It was shallow-not burned deep like one acquired after years and months spent in a tropic jungle."
"You, sir, are very observant," Kippmann murmured thoughtfully. "But why . . . why bother to trip up someone you barely knew?"
