The Grave of Truth by Evelyn Anthony

eyes.
    â€˜Help yourself to a drink,’ she said.
    â€˜No, thanks,’ Max said. He noticed the half empty glass beside her chair. Tension crackled in the air like electricity after a storm.
    He had gone to a barber’s for a shave, and spent an hour walking along the Seine near Les Invalides, thinking thoughts that had taken him a long way from Paris. As he faced Sigmund Walther’s widow, it could have been a lifetime since he had taped that interview in the same room, instead of twenty-four hours. He had a sense of sharp anticipation, a flutter in the stomach, as he waited for her to speak.
    â€˜You have something to tell me about my husband,’ she said.
    â€˜Yes,’ Max answered. He found a cigarette, offered one to her, and lit them both.
    â€˜Please,’ he caught the tension in her voice, ‘please tell me.’
    â€˜I held your husband as he died,’ he said quietly. ‘He said one word, and it didn’t come out by accident. He meant me to hear it. “Janus.”’ He watched her as he said it. No shade of expression passed over her face. The large grey eyes returned his look. ‘Was that all? He said nothing else?’
    â€˜No. He died immediately afterwards,’ Max leaned a little forward in his chair. ‘What did he mean, Fräu Walther?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Janus was a Roman god—it doesn’t make sense.’
    â€˜You’ve never heard him mention it?’
    â€˜No, never.’
    Max felt suddenly depressed. ‘Could I change my mind and have a drink now?’
    â€˜Of course; I’ll get it for you—what would you like?’
    â€˜Don’t move, please, I’ll get my own. One for you?’ He was surprised when she emptied the glass and held it out to him; she didn’t seem the type of woman who drank except to be polite.
    He poured whisky for them both and his depression deepened. He hadn’t expected her to lie. ‘Janus.’ She hadn’t been surprised; he had the feeling that she had been expecting him to say it. He sat down opposite her.
    â€˜Your husband was murdered,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Janus was the reason, that’s what he was trying to tell me. If you want to get the people who killed him, you’ve got to tell me what Janus means. Before you answer, Frau Walther, I’d like to tell you something. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it said by a dying man.’
    The rigidity went out of her so quickly that she sank back in the chair and closed her eyes. ‘Who are you working for?’
    â€˜Why should I be working for anyone?’ he countered. ‘Stop lying to me, Frau Walther. Who is Janus?’
    â€˜A Roman god with two faces,’ she said. ‘That’s all I know. It’s a code of some kind. Sigmund was trying to find out what it meant.’ She raised her head and looked at him. ‘When did you hear it first?’
    â€˜In 1945. It didn’t mean anything to me then; it was just part of a nightmare. Since then it’s become a real nightmare; I dream about it—something in me won’t let it rest. Then your husband gets shot down, and it’s right back in the present day. You asked me who I was working for—I’m not working for anybody but myself. I want to know who or what Janus is, that it can kill a man like Sigmund Walther.’
    â€˜And the other man,’ she asked him, ‘the one you mentioned who said it before?’
    â€˜That’s a long story,’ Max Steiner said. ‘Let me ask you something—do you want to find your husband’s murderers?’
    There was a spot of colour blazing on each cheek when she answered him. ‘I’ll do anything, pay anything—how could you even ask—’
    â€˜Because I want to be sure,’ he interrupted. ‘You may prefer to let the police handle it. Their record for finding high-grade political