“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To Gestapo headquarters in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse,” I said. “I’m going to find that lion.”

NINE

FRENCH RIVIERA

1956

I sipped the perfectly mixed gimlet that Maugham’s stone-faced butler had just brought up to the rooftop writing aerie and winced a little as I felt the navy-strength gin entering my hardening arteries like a good quality formaldehyde. Why else does anyone drink? Then I lit a cigarette, pulled hard on the filter, and waited for the sweet Virginia tobacco to deliver the coup de grâce to my senses after the dulling effect of the alcohol. Why else does anyone smoke? Meanwhile, a thin black cat had entered the room, and something about its stealthy, careful movements suggested that it was my own soul’s dark relation, come to make sure that I didn’t tell the old English writer too much. Never trust a writer, the cat seemed to be telling me; they write all sorts of things down. Things you didn’t mean to tell them. Especially this one. He already knows your name; don’t give him any more information. He’ll use it in some book he’s writing.

“I’d be grateful if you kept all that to yourself,” I said. “Me being a former detective from Berlin. It’s not something I want people to know about.”

“Of course. You have my word.”

“Anyway it’s not a story in which anyone comes out with very much credit,” I said. “Myself included.”

“That’s rather the point of a good story,” said Maugham. “I dislike heroes at the best of times and I much prefer men with flaws. Believe me, that’s what sells these days.”

“Then the surprise is that I haven’t been in a novel already. Seriously, though. In retrospect, I should have done a lot more to talk the captain out of his chosen course of action. But he was my old commander and I was used to doing what he asked. Which isn’t enough of an excuse, really. But there it is. It’s just another regret I have in the ten-volume apologia that’s the story of my life.”

“Ten volumes, eh? That sounds interesting.”

“Big print, though.”

“So what h-happened?” he asked. “In your story.”

“Nothing good,” I said. “It was a disaster for the captain, and in time for me, as well. It brought me back to the attention of General Heydrich, who, later that year, blackmailed me into returning to the police, which meant working for him and, eventually, the SD.”

“Blackmailed? What did he have on you?”