A Quiet Flame

“Not much of an answer, but I won’t lose any sleep over it. If you think I’ve done an unsatisfactory job, you can refuse to pay me. I won’t argue about that. But when I say ‘Not exactly,’ that’s exactly what I mean. There are rarely any definite answers in the private-detective business. There are only probablys and maybes and not-exactlys. They’re the kind of answers that are to be found in the crevices of what we’re allowed to know for sure. I have no evidence to say your brother and your sister-in-law are dead. I didn’t see their bodies. I didn’t see their death certificates. I didn’t speak to anyone who saw them die. All the same, I know they’re both dead, sir. It’s not an exact kind of knowing, but there it is. Fact is, it’s best I don’t say any more. For your sake and mine.”

There was a silence. Then Señor Yagubsky said quietly, “Thank you, young man. Of course, I’ve known they were dead for a while. If they were alive, they’d have got in touch, but a brother is a brother and a twin is a twin and you feel an obligation to find out what you can. To have someone independent tell you what you think you know already. And you’re right, of course, that isn’t an exact kind of knowing but it’s better than nothing, right? So thank you again. I appreciate your candor. Not to mention your discretion. I know what kind of people are in this government. But I’m a Jew, Señor Hausner. I’m used to it. Maybe if I had more money and I was ten years younger, I’d go and live in Israel, but I don’t and I’m not. So I say may God bless and keep the Peróns a long way from me and mine.”

“Don’t forget, sir. Tell Anna to call me. I’ll be at my hotel.”

“I know, I know. Urgently. Germans. Every time you people open your mouths, I hear a clock ticking. Hitler might still be in power if he hadn’t been in such a hurry to do things.”

THE NEXT MORNING, I went to meet the colonel at the Jockey Club, as arranged.

The luxury of the Jockey Club of Buenos Aires would have put any Berlin or London club to shame. Inside, there was a great, empire-style rotunda, a fine marble statue of the goddess Diana, and a magnificent staircase that looked like the eighth wonder of the world. There were Corinthian columns everywhere, and these were ornamented with onyx, ivory, and more lapis lazuli than a Russian Orthodox cathedral. I found the colonel in the library—although calling the library at the Jockey Club a library was like calling Rita Hayworth an actress. There were plenty of books, it was true, but nearly all of their bindings were tooled with a little bit of gold, so that it was like entering a long-lost burial chamber in the Valley of the Kings. And there were some members who clearly belonged in a tomb: old men with profiles you might have seen on a thousand-peso note. There were no women in that club, however. They wouldn’t know what to do with a woman in the Buenos Aires Jockey Club. Try and saddle her, probably, or, in the colonel’s case, defenestrate her.

He put down the book he was reading. I sat in the chair opposite and, curious, picked it up. I’m always interested in what mass murderers are reading.

“Martín Fierro, by José Hernández,” he said. “Our national poet. Are you familiar with this?”

“No.”

“Then I give it to you. I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s somewhat romanticized, but I’m sure there are elements that will appeal to you. The hero is an impoverished gaucho whose house, farm, wife, and family are all gone. Destroyed. He gets himself into one scrape after another. Knife fights and other brutal combats and various affairs of honor. Eventually, Martín Fierro becomes an outlaw, pursued by the police militia.” The colonel smiled. “Perhaps this is a familiar tale to a man like you, Gunther. Certainly this book is very popular here in Argentina. Most children grow up able to quote a few stanzas from Martín Fierro. Myself, I know most of it by heart.”

“Assuming you have one.”

The colonel smiled almost imperceptibly. “To business,” he said.

There was a briefcase beside his leg. He laid his hand on it for a moment. “In here is one hundred thousand American dollars. Fifty from Evita and fifty from von Bader. There is also an Argentine passport in the name of Carlos Hausner. This bag is yours if you tell me what I want to know. The true whereabouts of Fabienne von Bader.”

“Let’s not forget her mother,” I said. “Ilse von Bader. Her real mother. Not Evita Perón. And certainly not Isabel Pekerman. Beats me why you went to all that trouble.”

“Originally, we thought it might add to the sense of urgency if you believed that only the girl had disappeared. A girl who merely goes away with her mother hardly needs to be found with any great urgency.”

“True. But why the Evita story as well?”

“Evita is a woman who believes in the personal touch. As I’m sure you remember. She thought that an appeal to you from her, in person, would encourage you to find Fabienne.”