Part 2 (1/2)

”Romanian names. It could help us to find out what this infection actually is, and where it came from.”

”As I remember, only one Romanian name . . . Dorin Duca. It came up several times. It was not completely clear, because the messages were so fragmentary, but it appeared that somebody called Duca was supposed to be a.s.sisting the operation in Antwerp. However we never came across any Duca, so I doubt if he actually came here. We keep a very close check on who comes into Antwerp, believe me, and who leaves.”

The boy arrived with a bottle of apple schnapps and a bottle of lemonade, and two very small gla.s.ses. Paul Hankar immediately filled up his gla.s.s, knocked it back and filled it up again. ”If the Allies hadn't taken the city, there would have been no resistance left by Christmas.”

”What did you do when your people became infected?”

”I told you. We isolated them, broke off all contact. We couldn't jeopardize any of our operations.”

”So I could talk to some of them, if I needed to?”

Paul Hankar shrugged. ”I think many of them got very sick indeed, so maybe not.”

”How sick?”

Paul Hankar looked from left to right, avoiding my eyes. ”Well, they are dead now,” he said at last. ”You understand for our own protection that we had to dispose of them.”

”How many?”

”Altogether? Maybe thirty-five, thirty-six.”

”Do you want to tell me how you did it?”

”I don't understand.”

”Do you want to tell me how you disposed of them?”

”Does it matter?”

”Actually, yes, it matters a great deal.”

He lifted his hand with his finger pointing like a pistol. ”We shot them in the back of the head. Then we threw their bodies into the Scheldt.”

”OK. I was afraid of that.”

”We did something wrong?”

I shook my head. ”You did what you thought was right. I can't blame you for that.”

”You think this was possibly easy easy? All through the darkest times of the occupation, we had trusted these same people with our very lives, and they in their turn had implicitly trusted us. They were not only friends but relatives, some of them-fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters.” same people with our very lives, and they in their turn had implicitly trusted us. They were not only friends but relatives, some of them-fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters.”

”Sure.” I didn't like to tell him that shooting a Screecher could only make things a thousand times worse. The only saving grace was that they had thrown their bodies into the river.

We sat in silence for a while. Eventually Paul Hankar picked up another paper napkin and blew his nose on it. ”I am very sad about Ann,” he said. ”She was always so careful not to compromise herself. I always thought that she and I would both survive.”

”I'm sorry,” I said. I didn't think that I was old enough to tell him how obvious it was that he had loved her.

He finished his drink and stood up. ”I have to go now. I hope I have a.s.sisted you. If you find the people who murdered her-”

”We will. But you won't find out about it. Besides, what's the point of telling an art-nouveau jewelry designer who died in 1901?”

He nearly managed to smile. ”You know the name Paul Hankar?”

I nodded.

”I'm impressed. I didn't know Americans had such culture.”

Man-trailing.

We left the hotel just as the pregnant-looking longcase clock in the lobby chimed eight. Frank was straining so hard on his leash that he sounded like a Cajun squeeze-box. It hadn't rained hard, but a fine wet mist had descended over the city, and the cobbles were all slippery and s.h.i.+ny. I could hear heavy bombers somewhere in the distance, but they were very far away. Drone, drone, drone Drone, drone, drone. Then that crumpity-b.u.mp-crackle crumpity-b.u.mp-crackle sound of anti-aircraft fire. sound of anti-aircraft fire.

Corporal Little said, ”Thirty-six of them, sir . . . Jesus. Do you know how far this could have spread? Half the city could be Screechers by now.”

”I don't want to think about it. Let's just concentrate on picking up the scent from Markgravestraat.”

We jolted our way back to Ann De Wouters's apartment building. Somebody had taken the dead horse away. We were flagged down three times on the way by Canadian troops who wanted to check our papers, so it took us almost twenty minutes before we arrived there. ”US Counterintelligence?” they asked, half respectfully and half disdainfully. Some of them were so young that their cheeks were still pink.

We were admitted to No. 5 by an old man in a saggy beige cardigan with a face the color of liver sausage. Frank snapped furiously at the old man's worn-out slippers so that he almost had to dance upstairs to get away from him.

”He won't hurt you,” I rea.s.sured him. ”I promise you, he's a friend to everyone.”

”I don't have any friends who try to bite my feet,” the old man retorted.

”It's not your feet, sir, it's your slippers. He thinks they're dead rats.”

We allowed Frank to have a good snuffle around Ann De Wouters's room. We said nothing while he crossed from one side of the linoleum to the other, thrusting his head underneath the bed and into the curtained-off s.p.a.ce where Ann De Wouters had hung her clothes. He spent a long time licking the dried blood that was spattered over the floor. Bloodhounds don't identify scents with their noses, but with their tongues. I was hoping that the Screechers had left plenty of traces of saliva for him to pick up on.

When he was finished, Frank sat up straight and made a whining sound in the back of his throat.

”You ready, Frank?” Corporal Little asked him.

”Urf,” said Frank.

We went back down the narrow staircase. There was a light s.h.i.+ning under Vrouw Toeput's door but I didn't want to disturb her. The old man with the dead-rat slippers was nowhere to be seen. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Frank ignored the front door and turned sharp right, heading toward the back of the building. He led us past an alcove crammed with mops and brooms and strong-smelling bleaches, and up to a heavy oak door. I pulled back the bolts and unlocked it, and we stepped out into the fairy-fine mist. brooms and strong-smelling bleaches, and up to a heavy oak door. I pulled back the bolts and unlocked it, and we stepped out into the fairy-fine mist.

”Told you,” I said. ”Out the back of the building, and on to Kipdorp.”

Frank hurried through a low archway on the opposite side of the yard, where six or seven bicycles were propped up, and then he hurried into the street, his claws clattering softly on the cobbles.

He hesitated for only a moment, and then he turned right, toward Sant Jacobs Markt, and Kipdorpbrug. Every now and then he paused and looked around, to make sure that we were following him. I seriously believe that he thought we were like two stupid children, and it was his responsibility to take care of us.

Although the sidewalk was wet, the scent of Screechers must have been very strong, because Frank went straight along the north side of Kipdorp and there was none of his usual circling and sniffing and whuffling around.

”I think we've got these jokers, sir,” said Corporal Little, triumphantly.

But when we reached Kipdorpbrug, Frank galloped straight up to the sandstone wall of the Maritime Bank and stopped. He looked upward, and barked, and then he turned back to us, whining in frustration.

We looked upward, too. The bank building was seventeenth century, five stories high, with a flat Flemish-style facade. Apart from the window ledges, there wasn't a single handhold between the sidewalk and the roof.