The Confession

77

It crawled to us and stopped, its brakes gasping. The rain had given its hull a bright sheen, washing away a little of the dirt. The doors opened and spilled passengers onto the platform. We each took a side of the crowd, watching faces under newspapers held like umbrellas. As the crowd thinned, I saw Louis holding a small, beaten suitcase. I motioned toward him, and Leonek nodded.

Leonek retreated to the other side of the engine as I sat on a bench that faced the opposite direction. I wanted to hide my height. Then I leaned forward as if to tie my laces and looked back between my legs. His feet shuffled past. Ten seconds more. Then I stood slowly and turned around. His back disappeared into the main hall, followed by Leonek’s.

I tossed Leonek my keys and waited by the front door. As he started my car and swung around to get me, Louis climbed into a taxi.

We followed it south. Leonek had to speed up suddenly at some corners, nearly running down irate pedestrians, and below the passenger’s seat I pressed my foot into the imaginary brake. “Turn on the wipers.”

“Rain’s not so bad.”

“Turn them on.”

The streets narrowed, and the taxi stopped at the Hotel Metropol. Louis went inside.

I said, “Let’s give him a minute to get to his room.”

Leonek parked across the street, and we checked our pistols for cartridges.

The lobby’s low ceiling gave the white room a feeling of immense breadth. The men lounging on the upholstered chairs with issues of The Spark didn’t seem to notice us, but I still wondered how many of them were state security men-this was a hotel that housed foreigners, after all-and if they knew anything about Louis. The clerk was a young man who set his fingertips on the counter when he spoke; “Good evening, comrades! Two rooms or one?”

“We’re looking for one of your guests.”

I showed him my certificate, and that made him more eager. “Well of course, Comrade Inspectors. Do you have a name?”

On a hunch, I tried Nestor Velcea first.

He went through a ledger, tapping his fingers happily on the page, but found no Velcea.

“I’m sorry, comrades. Perhaps,” he said, then lowered his voice. “Perhaps an alias? ”

Leonek looked at me, but I shook my head, “Maybe you’ve seen him. About this tall.” I held my hand at shoulder-height. “Blond hair. Missing a finger on his left hand.”

“A finger missing? Oh, that’s good. But no, no one like that.”

I leaned on the counter. “All right. Let’s have Louis Rostek, then.”