The Odessa File

‘No, it was last month.’

For several more minutes there was silence as Miller stared at the old man, and Marx stared out to the water.

‘Last month?’ repeated Miller at length. ‘Did he say how he saw him?’

Marx sighed, then turned to Miller.

‘Yes. He was walking late at night as he often used to do when he could not sleep. He was walking back home past the State Opera House just as a crowd of people started to come out. He stopped as they came to the pavement. He said they were wealthy people, the men in dinner-jackets, the women in furs and jewels. There were three taxis lined up at the kerb waiting for them. The commissionaire held the passers-by back so they could climb in. And then he saw Roschmann.’

‘In the crowd of opera-goers?’

‘Yes. He climbed into a taxi with two others and they drove off.’

‘Now listen, Herr Marx, this is very important. Was he absolutely sure it was Roschmann?’

‘Yes, he said he was.’

‘But it was nineteen years since he last saw him. He must have changed a lot. How could he be so sure?’

‘He said he smiled.’

‘He what?’

‘He smiled. Roschmann smiled.’

‘That is significant?’

Marx nodded several times.

‘He said once you had seen Roschmann smile that way you never forgot it. He could not describe the smile, but just said he would recognise it among a million others, anywhere in the world.’

‘I see. Do you believe him?’

‘Yes. Yes, I believe he saw Roschmann.’

‘All right. Let’s accept that I do too. Did he get the number of the taxi?’

‘No. He said his mind was so stunned he just watched it drive away.’

‘Damn,’ said Miller. ‘It probably drove to a hotel. If I had the number I could ask the driver where he took that party. When did Herr Tauber tell you all this?’

‘Last month, when we picked up our pensions. Here, on this bench.’

Miller stood up and sighed.

‘You must realise that nobody would ever believe his story?’

Marx shifted his gaze off the river and looked up at the reporter.

‘Oh yes,’ he said softly, ‘he knew that. You see, that was why he killed himself.’

That evening Peter Miller paid his usual weekend visit to his mother, and as usual she fussed over whether he was eating enough, the number of cigarettes he smoked in a day and the state of his laundry.

She was a short, plump, matronly person in her early fifties who had never quite resigned herself to the idea that all her only son wanted to be was a reporter.

During the course of the evening she asked him what he was doing at the moment. Briefly he told her, mentioning his intention to try to track down the missing Eduard Roschmann. She was aghast.

Peter ate away stolidly, letting the tide of reproach and recrimination flow over his head.