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“I’d like to know what scurvy trick this is,” Fulmar said. “And on whom.”
“At the moment, that’s impossible,” Baker said.
“Shit!” Fulmar said, but he took up the fountain pen and copied the message onto the blank sheet of paper.
When he had finished, Baker picked it up, examined it, nodded, and said, “Fine. Now do it exactly the same way on the postcard.”
As Fulmar complied, Baker took a Zippo lighter from his pocket and burned the first copy. When he had examined the final version and found it satisfactory, he burned the original message.
“Get up,” he ordered. After Fulmar complied, Baker sat down at the desk. He laid the cardboard sheets on the desk and then the postcard. Then he wet his index finger with his tongue and ran it over “Joachim Freienstall,” rendering the name illegible.
Fulmar’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say anything
.
Baker waited for the spit to dry, then very carefully wiped the postcard with his handkerchief, paying particular attention to the glossy side with the photograph of the Kurhotel. Next, holding it with his handkerchief, he extended the card to Fulmar, who made no move to take it.
“Now what?” Fulmar asked.
“Take the card and lay it on the cardboard,” Baker said.
“Will my index and thumb prints be enough?” Fulmar asked sarcastically. “Or should I put the rest on it, too?”
“Pass it back and forth a couple of times between your hands,” Baker said.
Fulmar did as he was told. Baker then laid the second sheet of cardboard on top of the postcard, replaced the rubber bands, and put the whole thing back in his pocket.
“You understand, of course,” he said,“that you are to mention this to no one?”
“The thing about you, Baker,” Fulmar said,“is that you’re such a truly devious bastard that I really have no idea what you’re up to.”
“In our business, Eric,” Baker said,“there are those who would take that as a first-rate compliment.”
He put out his hand.
“That’s it,” he said,“unless there’s something I could do for you in Washington? ”
Fulmar pointedly ignored the hand.
“Not a thing you could do for me,” Fulmar said. “You’ve already done enough for me. Or to me.”
“I’m really sorry you feel that way, Eric,” Baker said.
“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” Fulmar said.
Baker shrugged and walked out of the room. Fulmar looked at the closed door for a full minute, his face lost in thought. And then a look of genuine concern crossed his face.
“Christ!” he said, and hurried out of the room.
He had remembered a Red Cross girl with absolutely marvelous eyes who had said she would meet him at quarter to six in the bar.
Chapter FOUR
The Wardman Park Hotel
Washington, D.C
16 December 1942
