Dussander said nothing. He was clutching the arms of his chair, and his toothless, deflated mouth was trembling. Todd didn’t like that. It made him look like he was on the verge of tears. That, of course, was ridiculous. The Blood Fiend of Patin in tears? You might as well expect Chevrolet to go bankrupt or McDonald’s to give up burgers and start selling caviar and truffles.
‘I got two sets of prints,’ Todd said. ‘One of them didn’t look anything like the ones on the wanted poster. I figured those were the postman’s. The rest were yours. I found more than eight compares. I found fourteen good ones.’ He grinned. ‘And that’s how I did it.’
‘You are a little bastard,’ Dussander said, and for a moment his eyes shone dangerously. Todd felt a tingling little thrill, as he had in the hall. Then Dussander slumped back again.
‘Who have you told?’
‘No one.’
‘Not even this friend? This Cony Pegler?’
‘Foxy. Foxy Pegler. Nah, he’s a blabbermouth. I haven’t told anybody. There’s nobody I trust that much.’
‘What do you want? Money? There is none, I’m afraid. In South America there was, although it was nothing as romantic or dangerous as the drug trade. There is — there was — a kind of “old boy network” in Brazil and Paraguay and Santo Domingo. Fugitives from the war. I became part of their circle and made a fortune in minerals and ores — tin, copper, bauxite. Then the changes came. Nationalism, anti-Americanism. I might have ridden out the changes, but then Weisenthal’s men caught my scent. Bad luck follows bad luck, boy, like dogs after a bitch in heat. Twice they almost had me; once I heard the Jew-bastards in the next room.
‘They hung Eichmann,’ he whispered. One hand went to his neck, and his eyes had become as round as the eyes of a child listening to the darkest passage of a scary tale — Hansel and Gretel, perhaps, or Bluebeard. ‘He was an old man, of no danger to anyone. He was apolitical. Still, they hung him.’
Todd nodded.
‘At last, I went to the only people who could help me. They had helped others, and I could run no more.’
‘You went to the Odessa?’ Todd asked eagerly.
‘To the Sicilians,’ Dussander said dryly, and Todd’s face fell again. ‘It was arranged. False papers, false past. Would you care for a drink, boy?’
‘Sure. You got a Coke?’
‘No Coke.’ He pronounced it Kok.
‘Milk?’
‘Milk.’ Dussander went through the archway and into the kitchen. A fluorescent bar buzzed into life. ‘I live now on stock dividends,’ his voice came back. ‘Stocks I picked up after the war under yet another name. Through a bank in the State of Maine, if you please. The banker who bought them for me went to jail for murdering his wife a year after I bought them… life is sometimes strange, boy, hein?’
A refrigerator door opened and closed.
“The Sicilian jackals didn’t know about those stocks,’ he said. Today they are everywhere, but in those days, Boston was as far north as they could be found. If they had known, they would have had those as well. They would have picked me clean and sent me to America to starve on welfare and food stamps.’
Todd heard a cupboard door open; he heard liquid poured into a glass.
‘A little General Motors, a little American Telephone and Telegraph, a hundred and fifty shares of Revion. All this banker’s choices. Dufresne, his name was — I remember, because it sounds a little like mine. It seems he was not so smart at wife-killing as he was at picking growth stocks. The crime passionnel, boy. It only proves that all men are donkeys who can read.’
He came back into the room, slippers whispering. He held two green plastic glasses that looked like the premiums they sometimes give out at gas station openings. When you filled your tank, you got a free glass. Dussander thrust a glass at Todd.
‘I lived adequately on the stock portfolio this Dufresne had set up for me for the first five years. But then I sold my Diamond Match stock in order to buy this house and a small cottage not far from Big Sur. Then, inflation. Recession. I sold the cottage and one by one I sold the stocks, many of them at fantastic profits. I wish to God I had bought more. But I thought I was well-protected in other directions; the stocks were, as you Americans say, a “flier”…’ He made a toothless hissing sound and snapped his fingers.