Dead Man's Tale by Ellery Queen

opened the door flashing his charming smile. “Come in, Mueller,” he said. “Come in, come in.”
    He limped after Mueller into the living room. Mueller turned to face him. He was crumpling his hat and trying to control the quivering muscles around his mouth.
    â€œWell, tell me all about it,” Dieter Loringhoven said, as if he did not already know that Hacha had successfully crossed the border. “Has the new Assistant Minister of the Interior been sped on his way to Prague?”
    Mueller mumbled an affirmative answer.
    â€œGood,” snapped Loringhoven. “The first the Czechs will know of it is when the next Five-Year Plan is announced from Prague by the new Assistant Minister, the son of a hero of the people—but, of course, this doesn’t interest you. You came, naturally, for the money. But tell me at least what happened at the border. You were delayed? I expected you sooner.”
    â€œSiroky was gone,” Mueller panted, as if he had run all the way upstairs. “I had to hide out—”
    â€œSit down,” Loringhoven said compassionately. “Sit down, Mueller. You’re shaking all over. Here’s some brandy.”
    Mueller spilled half of it raising the glass to his lips. His fat face was chalky. “They shot at me,” he stammered. “They tried to kill me, Herr Loringhoven. Even in the black-market days—may I have one more?” Loringhoven refilled the glass.
    â€œNever again,” Mueller said, “never again!” He drained the glass, and some colour came into his cheeks.
    â€œWell, it is over.” Dieter Loringhoven bestowed another smile on him. “You have earned a bonus, you know.”
    The smile was contagious. Mueller began to smile, too. Soon his jowls were shaking, not with fear but with laughter.
    Producing his billfold, Loringhoven took out a wad of hundred-schilling notes. “Fifteen hundred schillings,” he said, counting them out on Mueller’s lap. “You have earned it. A thousand schillings and a five-hundred schilling bonus. Well done!”
    Mueller seemed astounded. He stuffed the money into his pocket and jumped out of the chair.
    â€œ Danke, Herr Loringhoven. Danke schön! ”
    â€œWe must have a drink some time together when next I am in Vienna.”
    â€œYou are leaving, Herr Loringhoven?”
    â€œBut of course. My business here is finished.” He ushered Mueller to the door. “I wish to thank you for a splendid achievement.”
    A grin bisected Mueller’s face, making it look fatter. He punched Loringhoven’s shoulder with his pudgy left fist. Loringhoven winced. He detested physical contact.
    â€œYes, yes, yes,” Mueller babbled, pumping Loringhoven’s hand up and down. “Yes, yes—”
    He patted the pocket in which the money was stuffed, then staggered out into the hall.
    Dieter Loringhoven shut the door and looked at the hand that Mueller had pumped. He went into the bathroom and washed his hands thoroughly with soap and hot water. When he had dried them, he flung the contaminated towel on the floor.
    Then he lit a cigarette, picked up the telephone and gave the operator a number.
    â€œJa, bitte?” a voice answered.
    â€œThis is Pilsen Brandenburg.”
    â€œ Ja, Herr Brandenburg?”
    â€œGerhard Mueller. He is a bus driver for Cosmic Tours. Their office is on The Graben. When in Vienna Mueller lives at Praterstrasse 178.”
    â€œ Ja, Herr Brandenburg?”
    â€œLiquidate him,” Dieter Loringhoven said.
    The impersonal voice said, “ Jawohl .”

15
    â€œBut I can tell you this,” Theresa said in her surprisingly good English. “Maybe he’ll lead you to the border. Maybe he’ll tell you where Milo Hacha went. But he’ll never take you across. You couldn’t get him to take you across now for a million schillings.”
    â€œI don’t know this schilling