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“You’re interfering with my investigation, Major,” Derwin said.

Wallace reached for the telephone on Cronley’s desk, dialed “O,” and said, “Get me General Greene.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Der

win said.

“Cancel that,” Wallace said, and put the handset into its cradle.

Derwin went into his briefcase and pulled out a business envelope that he handed to Wallace.

“This was hand-delivered to me at my quarters in the Park Hotel,” he said.

“Hand-delivered by whom?” Wallace asked, as he took a sheet of paper from the envelope.

“I mean, it was left at the desk of the Park, and put in my box there, not mailed.”

“I never would have guessed,” Wallace said sarcastically, “since there’s no address on the envelope, only your name.”

A moment later, he said, his voice dripping with disgust, “Jesus H. Christ!”

He handed the sheet of paper to Cronley.

DEAR MAJOR DERWIN:

THERE ARE THOSE WHO BELIEVE THE EXPLOSION WHICH TOOK THE LIVES OF YOUR PREDECESSOR, LIEUTENANT COLONEL ANTHONY SCHUMANN, AND HIS WIFE WAS NOT ACCIDENTAL, AND FURTHER THAT THE PROVOST MARSHAL’S INVESTIGATION OF THE INCIDENT WAS SUSPICIOUSLY SUPERFICIAL.

THERE ARE THOSE WHO WONDER WHY CAPTAIN JAMES D. CRONLEY JR., OF THE XXIIIRD CIC DETACHMENT, WAS NOT QUESTIONED BY THE CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION DIVISION IN THE MATTER, OR, FOR THAT MATTER, BY THE CIC, IN VIEW OF THE SEVERAL RUMORS CIRCULATING CONCERNING CRONLEY:

THAT HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH MRS. SCHUMANN WAS FAR MORE INTIMATE THAN APPROPRIATE.

THAT COLONEL SCHUMANN NARROWLY AVOIDED BEING MURDERED BY CRONLEY AT THE SECRET INSTALLATION, A FORMER MONASTERY, CRONLEY RUNS IN SCHOLLBRUNN.

THAT AMONG THE MANY SECRETS OF THIS INSTALLATION, KLOSTER GRÜNAU, ARE A NUMBER OF RECENTLY DUG UNMARKED GRAVES.

It took Cronley about fifteen seconds to decide the author of the letter had NKGB somewhere in his title, or—considering the other Rahil—her title.

“I have determined both that this letter was typed on an Underwood typewriter, and the paper on which this is typed is government issue,” Major Derwin said.

“You’re a regular Dick Tracy, aren’t you, Derwin?” Wallace said.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, that really narrows it down, doesn’t it? There are probably twenty Underwood typewriters here in the Vier Jahreszeiten and twenty reams of GI paper. I wonder how many Underwoods there are in the Farben Building, but I’d guess four, five hundred and three or four supply rooms full of GI typewriter paper.”

“I was suggesting that it suggests this was written by an American.”

“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you, Derwin?”

“There’s no call for sarcasm, Major Wallace,” Derwin said.

“That’s coming to me very naturally, Major Derwin,” Wallace said. “Permit me to go through this letter one item at a time.

“Item one: The explosion which killed my friend Tony Schumann and his wife was thoroughly—not superficially—investigated, not only by the DCI, but also by the Frankfurt military post engineer and by me. And I was there before the DCI was even called in. The gas line leading to his water heater developed a leak. The fucking thing blew up. Tony and his wife were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Period. End of that story.

“So far as Cronley’s ‘intimate’ relationship is concerned, I was here when Cronley was ordered, ordered, to take Mrs. Schumann to dinner. He was as enthusiastic about doing so as he would have been . . . I don’t know what . . . about going to the dentist for a tooth-yanking.

“I’ve already dealt with that nonsensical allegation that Cronley attempted to murder Colonel Schumann at Kloster Grünau. That brings us to the unmarked graves at the monastery. What about that, Cronley? Have you been burying people out there in unmarked graves?”