The prodigal spy

“No, Mr Warren, it would all be very simple. A sick man, a little drink. Our chief would sign the papers. Everybody goes home. Except, of course, for you. A foreigner. At the death scene. Now it’s not so simple.” He took one of the chairs and sat down, facing Nick. “What are you doing here, Mr Warren? Why did you come to Prague?”

Nick looked away. “To see it.”

“A tourist. Who drives in and takes the train out. Who meets a stranger, and the next morning he’s dead. Mr Warren, this is a charade. I’m not like our good chief. I like to know the truth. It’s a habit. So.”

Why not? Hadn’t he been telling Nick all along that he knew it was someone else? The wrong time. The blood. Then why press at all? Simple curiosity? Or a final trick question before he’d have to let him go? There was no one to trust here. Nick said nothing.

Zimmerman looked down, opened the folder, and shuffled through papers. Newsclippings, yellow. Of course they’d gone through the apartment. Now he was fingering the hockey picture.

“A remarkable resemblance,” Zimmerman said quietly, still shuffling, indifferent for Novotny‘s benefit. He didn’t want him to know. “A relative?”

Nick said nothing.

“It’s unusual, Mr Warren, to hold the head of a dead man you didn’t know.” He paused. Tell me, please.“

“Why? You already know.”

“I would rather you told me. It’s better. For the report.” He continued looking down, as if they were talking about something else.

“He was my father,” Nick said.

“And yet you have different names.” Zimmerman looked up. “A detail.”

“My mother remarried. I took my stepfather’s name.”

“I see. Thank you. And now will you tell me why you didn’t say this before? What are you doing here, Mr Warren?”

“I came to see him. I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Why?”

“It would hurt them, if they knew. My family.”

“No, why did you come?”

“I wanted to see him.”

“After so many years?”

“Before it was too late.”

“You knew he was dying?”

“No. Old.”

Zimmerman closed the folder. “You got here just in time. I’m sorry. This must be difficult for you. May I offer you a piece of advice? Do not create more difficulties.”

“He didn’t kill himself.”

“How can we know that, Mr Warren? From a few scrape marks?”

“Somebody killed him.”

“Why?”

Nick looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Then let us confine ourselves to what we do know. For the moment. I understand that Pan Kotlar was much affected by the death of his friend Milos Brokov. There was a discussion about suicide. You were there, I believe.”

“That’s not-” Nick stopped. “How do you know that?”

A flicker of embarrassment. “Pan Kotlar’s wife returned this morning from visiting relatives.” He looked up. “She was, by the way-visiting relatives.” Had his father suggested it, knowing? Or had he just wanted to make it easier to get on the train? Had he said goodbye? “Chief Novotny was busy, so I took the opportunity to interview her. Separately. Our usual procedure.”

“She told you about me.”

Zimmerman nodded and touched the folder. “I confess I am not so clever, even with the resemblance.” He paused. “Was there any reason for her not to mention this?”

“No.” She hadn’t known any of it.

“So you remember this discussion? She said Pan Kotlar was depressed. Is that so?” Building another case, away from the truth.

“No, he was drunk.”

Zimmerman started, surprised by the bluntness.

“An emotional time,” he said calmly. “A friend’s death. And of course seeing you. Your presence-”

“Is that what she said?”

“She said he was not himself.” The denunciations, already begun. The way his father said it would be, the standard procedure. “Was that your impression also?”

“I don’t know what he’s usually like.”

“But he was upset by his friend’s news?”

“Yes.” A pinprick of disloyalty; so easy. “Anybody would be.”

“Your visit, it was a pleasant one?”

“Yes.”

“No quarrels? Sometimes, I know, these things don’t always go smoothly. So many years. And of course the events of his life.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yes, but often there are feelings-you think it’s over and then they come up.”

“He was happy to see me.”

“And you, were you happy to see him?”

Had he been? “Yes, very.”

“Yet you were leaving today. A short visit.”

“This time.”

“A kind of trial run?” Zimmerman said, pleased with himself for knowing the idiom.

“Yes.”

“Your father knew you were planning to return?”

“Yes.”

“But would you say he was distraught? At your leaving? With his health-”

“No, I would not say that. You would. What are you trying to prove?”

“I’m trying to understand, Mr Warren. How it was.”

“No. You just want me to say he killed himself. I don’t want any part of this. You don’t need me-you already know. Can we go now?”

Zimmerman looked at him carefully. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the situation. Miss Chisholm may go if she likes,” he said, turning toward her. “Though I must ask you to cancel your business in Vienna. It would not be advisable for you to leave Prague just now. You, Mr Warren, are another matter. It is not, of course, my decision-I’m only assisting Chief Novotny. But I suspect he would wish you to stay here.”