The American flicked his match at Wolf and snorted with derision. “And do you imagine he ever said that to any of the people who were imprisoned in Dachau?” he said. “Like hell he did. Probably shot them in the head where they fell. Not a bad idea at that. Save me the trouble of taking him back to the prison hospital.”

“That’s hardly the point of this exercise, is it? I thought you just wanted what’s buried here.”

“Sure, but I’m not going to dig. These shoes are from Florsheim.”

I took the pickax from Wolf, angrily. “If there’s half a chance of getting rid of you before this evening,” I said, “I’ll do it myself.” And I sank the point of the pick into the grass as if it had been the American’s skull.

“It’s your funeral, Gunther.”

“No, but it will be his if I don’t do this.” I wielded the pick again.

“Thanks, comrade,” whispered Wolf, and sitting underneath the tree, he leaned back and closed his eyes weakly.

“You krauts.” The American smiled. “Stick together, don’t you?”

“This has got nothing to do with being German,” I said. “I’d probably have done it for anyone I didn’t much like, including you.”

I was at it for about an hour with the pick and then the shovel until, about three feet down, I hit something hard. It sounded and felt like a coffin. The American was quickly over to the side of the hole, his eyes searching the earth. I kept on digging and finally levered out a box that was the size of a small suitcase and placed it on the grass at his feet. It was heavy. When I looked up, I saw that he was holding a thirty-eight in his hand. A snub-nosed police special.

“This is nothing personal,” he said. “But a man who’s digging for treasure is just liable to think he deserves a share. Especially a man who was noble enough to turn down a hundred marks.”

“Now that you mention it,” I said, “the idea of beating your face to a pulp with the flat of a spade is rather tempting.”

He waved the gun. “Then you’d best throw it away, just in case.”

I bent over, picked up the spade, and launched it into the flower bed. I put my hand in my pocket and, seeing him stiffen a little, laughed. “Kind of nervous for a tough guy, aren’t you?” I brought out a packet of Luckies, and lit one. “I guess maybe those krauts who are still picking pieces of shell from their mouths were just careless with their eggs. Either that, or you tell a good story.”

“Now, here’s what I want you to do,” he said. “Climb out of that hole, pick up the box, and carry it to the car.”

“You and your manicure,” I said.