Boys from Brazil by Ira Levin Page B

thief? His death in no way proves that a…Nazi plot is under way to kill men of a particular age.”
    â€œHe had it on tape. Why would he lie to me?”
    â€œPerhaps he didn’t. The tape might have been a hoax on him . Or maybe he was misinterpreting it.”
    Liebermann drew a breath, let it out, and nodded. “I know,” he said. “That’s possible. That’s what I thought myself at first. And still think sometimes. But somebody has to check a little, and if I don’t, who will? If he was wrong, he was wrong; I waste some time and bother Sydney Beynon for nothing. But if he was right—then it’s something very big, and Mengele has a reason for doing it. And I have to find something concrete , so prosecutors will be in, not out, and stop it before it’s finished. I’ll tell you something, Sydney. You know what?”
    â€œWhat.”
    â€œThere’s a Mundt in my book.” He nodded somberly. “Right where he said there was, in a list of guards at Treblinka who committed atrocities. SS Hauptscharführer Alfried Mundt. I forgot him; who can remember all of them? He’s a very thin folder: a woman in Riga saw him break the neck of a fourteen-year-old girl; a man in Florida was castrated by him and wants to come testify if I catch him. Alfried Mundt. So the boy was right once , maybe he was right twice . Will you get the clippings for me, please? I’d appreciate it.”
    Beynon pulled in breath, and yielded. “I’ll see what I can do.” He tucked his cup down beside him and got his notebook and pen from his jacket. “Which countries did you say?”
    â€œWell, the boy mentioned Germany, and England, and Scandinavia—Norway, Sweden, Denmark—and the States. But the way he said it made it sound like there was other places besides that he was leaving out. So you should ask also for France and Holland.”
    Beynon glanced at him, and jotted shorthand.
    â€œThank you, Sydney,” Liebermann said. “I’m really grateful. Anything I turn up, you’re the first to know. Not only in this, in everything.”
    Beynon said, “Do you have any idea how many men in their mid-sixties die every day?”
    â€œBy murder? Or in accidents that could be murder?” Liebermann shook his head. “No, not too many. I hope not. And some I’ll be able to eliminate by their professions.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Liebermann wiped a hand down over his mustache and held his chin, a finger crossing his lips. After a moment he lowered his hand and shrugged. “Nothing,” he said. “Some other details the boy gave. Listen”—he pointed at Beynon’s notebook—“be sure to put down there ‘between sixty-four and sixty-six.’”
    â€œI did,” Beynon said, looking at him. “What other details?”
    â€œNothing important.” Liebermann reached into his coat. “I fly to Hamburg at four-thirty,” he said. “I’m speaking in Germany till November third.” He brought out a wallet, a thick worn brown one. “So whatever you get, please mail it to my apartment so I’ll have it when I get back.” He gave a card to Beynon.
    â€œAnd if you find what looks like a Nazi killing?”
    â€œWho knows?” Liebermann put his wallet back in his coat. “I only walk one step at a time.” He smiled at Beynon. “Especially in these shoes.” He braced his hands on his thighs and stood up, looked about and shook his head disapprovingly. “Mm. A gloomy day.” He turned and rebuked them all: “Why do you eat outside on such a day?”
    â€œWe’re the Monday Mozart Club,” Beynon said, smiling and cocking a thumb back toward the monument.
    Liebermann held out his hand; Beynon took it. Liebermann smiled at the others and said, “I apologize for taking away from you this charming man.”
    â€œYou can