The statement surprised me so that I forgot, momentarily, that he hadn’t denied the allegation. One tended to think of John as self-engendered, like Minerva from Jove’s headache.

He went on blandly, “You’d remember every grisly detail, too, if you had heard them as often as I did. The Battle of Berlin was the old boy’s favorite topic of conversation when he got to reminiscing about the good old days in general and his own heroism in particular. He’d rave on for hours about how Churchill tried to convince the Allies to drive through to Berlin, and how bloody Eisenhower held back. He had studied the subject intensively, and I was the only one who’d listen to him. Or rather, who could be coerced into listening. I was young and frail and helpless—”

“And abused and whatever,” I agreed. “Is that why you became a pacifist?”

“Because of Papa’s ghoulish war stories?” John grinned. “I wouldn’t call myself a pacifist. It’s impossible to convince some people of the error of their ways without hitting them as often and as hard as one possibly can. I’m simply opposed to people hitting me.”

“Emulating dear old Dad’s heroism is not your aim?”

“Emphatically not. Which is why I am presently avoiding publicity. In case it has slipped your mind, I am still being sought by the police of several countries, including Germany.”

“Public enemy number one.”

“More like number one hundred and ten. I never aspired to greatness. Neither do I aspire to spending ten to fifteen years in prison.”

“So you won’t help me.”

“No.”

“All right.” I reached for the handle of the door.

John’s hand closed over mine. “Don’t be a sorehead. Let me buy you a drink and we’ll reminisce about old times.”

“No, thanks. You can drop me at my car if you will. It’s parked near the gallery.”

Conversation during the drive back was minimal. His brow unclouded, his hands light on the wheel, John whistled tunefully as he drove. I recognized the song: “Oh Mistress Mine, Where Are You Roving?”

Good question. John acted like a man who was at peace with the world, having fulfilled a tedious duty to an old acquaintance. His behavior was unexceptional, his logic was unassailable—and he had been courteous enough to refrain from hinting, even obliquely, that I must have invented the whole preposterous story as an excuse for trying to locate him.

I could have killed him.

“That’s my car,” I said, pointing.

“I know,” said John, driving past.

“Of course you do. I should send you the mechanic’s bill.”

“I trust it wasn’t excessive,” John said anxiously. “There were only a few minuscule wires dislocated.” He turned the corner and stopped. “This is a bit more private,” he explained. “I presume you’d rather not be seen in my company.”

“You mean you’d rather not be seen in mine.”

“Just a precaution. You do have an untidy habit of attracting predators.” Before I could reply to this blow below the belt—the most recent set of predators had been put on my trail by John himself—he leaned across me and opened my door.