XPD by Len Deighton

stealing everything they could lay their hands on.’ His eyes were still on Stein and he smiled again. ‘Crooks in uniform: it’s an amusing formula.’
    Stein’s hands went out with a speed that was surprising in such an overweight physique. His huge fingers and thumb grasped Breslow’s shirt collar with enough force to rip the button loose. He shook Breslow very gently to mark his words. ‘Don’t ever act disrespectful to me or to MacIver or any of our friends, Breslow. We don’t let strangers discuss what we did back in 1945. We left a lot of good buddies out there in the sand and the shit and the offal. I buried my kid brother on the battlefield. We stumbled on a little good fortune … that’s the way it goes. The spoils of war … we were entitled. You just remember that from now on.’ He released his grip and let Breslow straighten up and adjust his collar and tie.
    ‘I’m sorry to have offended you,’ said Breslow, with no trace of regret. ‘I understood you to say that you were not one of Mr MacIver’s comrades.’
    Stein realized that he had been deliberately provoked into revealing more than he’d intended. ‘The spoils of war,’ said Stein. ‘That’s what it was.’
    ‘No offence intended,’ said Breslow, with a humourless smile. ‘You can call it anything you want; it’s quite all right with me.’
    Disarrayed by his exertions, Stein hitched up his trousers and tucked in his shirt with a practised gesture. ‘Were you in the war, Mr Breslow?’
    ‘I was too young,’ said Breslow regretfully. ‘I spent the war years in Canada working for my father.’
    ‘Breslow,’ said Stein. ‘That name comes from Breslau, the German town, right? Were your folks German?’
    ‘What do I know about towns in Germany!’ said Breslow in a sudden burst of irritation. ‘I am a US citizen. I live here in California. I pay my taxes and stand at attention when they play the national anthem … What do I have to do? Change my name to Washington DC ?’
    ‘That’s a good joke,’ said Stein, as if admiring an expensive watch. He took the Coca-Cola can and shook the last few drops into his glass before draining it.
    ‘You’ll get your money, Mr Stein,’ said Breslow. ‘Providing of course that you furnish the necessary agreement signed by Mr MacIver. We’ll not wait for probate if that’s what’s worrying you.’ Breslow sipped a little of his cognac. ‘There is a lot of money available to buy the documents Mr MacIver spoke of.’
    ‘What documents?’
    ‘Secret documents … about Hitler. Surely you’ve heard of them.’
    ‘I might have heard rumours,’ admitted Stein.
    ‘A great deal of money,’ said Breslow.
    ‘And the job for my son?’
    Breslow looked again at the biographical résumé that Stein had put on his desk. ‘Well, he has no experience of movie making, and of course no labour-union membership.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Still, it might be possible to make a place for him. Especially if he’s inherited his father’s forcefulness.’
    Breslow tucked the résumé under the leather corner of his large blotting pad. Then he took the Coke tin and the glasses, wiped away a few spilled drops and threw the paper napkins into the waste basket. It was a fussy gesture and Stein watched him with contempt. ‘I’ll get my secretary to fix an appointment for me to meet your son,’ said Breslow. He smiled and moved towards the door. Stein did not move. ‘Unless you have any questions …’ said Breslow to spur his departure.
    ‘One question, Mr Breslow,’ said Stein. ‘Why are you carrying a gun?’
    ‘Me?’
    ‘Don’t kid around with me, Breslow. It’s in a holster in your belt. I saw it just now.’
    ‘Oh, the tiny pistol.’
    ‘Yeah, the tiny pistol. What’s a nice respectable movie producer like you doing with a Saturday night special in your waistband?’
    ‘Sometimes,’ said Breslow, ‘I have to carry a lot of cash.’
    ‘I knew there had to be a reason,’ said