The Folks at Fifty-Eight by Michael Patrick Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

Tribunals people; something about war crimes in the Prague and Warsaw ghettos.” He looked up, and the smile was gone. “Are you sure your name is Linz?”
    Carlisle was lying. He had no knowledge of anyone called Linz, but he knew the man sitting before him; knew who he was, and what he was.
    Kube’s eyes shifted left and right.
    “That must be some other Martin Linz. I was only a clerk.”
    Carlisle abandoned the lie and pronounced the most terrible of indictments.
    “Your name is not Martin Linz. Your name is Martin Kube, and you were one of the most senior Gestapo agents in occupied Europe. In the Warsaw ghettos you were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent civilians; in Prague many more. We know you reported directly to some of the most senior members of Adolf Hitler’s regime, firstly to Oberführer Josef Conrad Schmidt, and then to Reichsprotektor Reinhard Heydrich’s successor, Karl Hermann Frank. We also know that at one time you reported directly to Heinrich Himmler.”
    Kube met the accusation with a vehement denial.
    “But, that is simply not true. My name is Linz, Martin Linz. I was a Stabszahlmeister. That is a hauptmann; a captain with the administrative corps. I was the most senior cipher clerk in Wehrmacht headquarters Prague, but I was only a clerk. I remember Kube. I knew him quite well. He was Gestapo, you are right, but now he is dead. They say he died protecting the Führer’s bunker, slaughtered, like so many others, slaughtered by the bloody Bolsheviks.”
    It had been a good performance, maybe even a great performance. Carlisle was suitably impressed, or he might have been if he hadn’t already known the truth.
    “If that is so, then what happened to his body?”
    “Check the records. They burned his body and scattered the ashes to the winds.”
    “And what happened to your documents?”
    “Bandits stole my money and papers, probably the same bandits who gave me up to you. Cowards and deserters and the scum of mankind.”
    Alan Carlisle took a cigarette from the packet on the desk. He lit it, inhaled deeply, then tilted his head back and slowly exhaled. Kube looked longingly at the open packet. Carlisle saw, but didn’t offer. Instead, he began a carefully-rehearsed speech.
    “Herr Kube, you have the time that it takes me to finish this cigarette to start telling the truth. After that I will order your immediate transfer to the tribunals at Nuremberg. Make no mistake, this is your last chance to save yourself from the hangman, and that chance is literally going up in smoke as I speak. Do not try my patience any further. Tell me something interesting, and tell me now, or I do promise that your overdue appointment to burn in hell will be sooner rather than later.”
    Carlisle could give a good performance, too, when it suited him. He watched the German stare straight ahead and knew exactly what he was thinking. Kube was waiting for a further comment, some sort of inducement to give up what he knew. Carlisle wasn’t about to provide one. He stared blankly back, watching nervous perspiration gathering along Kube’s temples and forehead before running slowly down. It trickled into the German’s eyes. He blinked away the intrusion, and held the stare. Carlisle quietly watched, and waited, and smoked his cigarette.
    The cigarette was almost done now. He lifted the remnants to his lips, and. . .
    Suddenly, there it was. Kube’s eyes briefly flickered to the rapidly-dwindling stem of that vital cigarette and Carlisle knew that he had him. All he had to do was wait.
    When the German slowly nodded his head, it came as no surprise.
    “Most convincing, Herr Carlisle. I believe you would do exactly that, and so I will tell you what you want to know. I only hope that I am dealing with a gentleman. . . ?”
    Carlisle read the pause, but refused to provide the answer that Kube was obviously hoping for. He took a last long drag on the cigarette and moved to stub it out. When Kube