times a year. I tell them I'm an old man and to leave me alone, for I am no longer involved. I must be in their computers or whatever the new technical machines order them to do. They keep track of me; they never let go, never stop threatening me."
"There are no names?"
"Yes, one. The last caller a month ago was nearly hysterical, shouting at me that a Herr Traupman might order my execution.
"What for?" I asked.
"I'll be dead soon anyway and your secret will die with me."
Claude Moreau was driven down the Leopoldstrasse by his man in Munich who had reconnoitered the apartment house where Elke Mueller, the former Frau Traupman, lived. To save Moreau's time, the secret Deuxi&me office in the K6niginstrasse had telephoned Madame Mueller, explaining that a high-ranking member of the French government wished to discuss a confidential matter with her which could be to her financial advantage-.. .. No, the caller had no idea what the confidential matter was, except that it would in no way compromise the eminent lady.
The apartment house was grand, the apartment itself grander still, a fulsome mixture of baroque and art deco.
Elke Mueller matched her surroundings, a tall, imperious woman in her seventies, her coiffed dark hair streaked with whitish-gray, her face angular, her features aquiline. She was obviously a woman not to be trifled with; it was in her eyes, wide and bright and bordering on the hostile or suspicious, or both.
"My name is Claude Moreau, madame, and I'm with the Quaid'Orsay in Paris," said the chief of the Deuxieme Bureau in German, having been ushered into a sitting room by the uniformed maid.
"It's not necessary to speak die Deutsche, monsieur. My French is fluent."
"You greatly relieve me," lied Moreau, "for my German is barely adequate." .
"I suspect it's more than that. Sit down across from me and explain this confidential matter if you will. I can't imagine why the government of France has the slightest interest in me."
"Forgive me, madame, but I suspect that you might."
"You're impertinent, monsieur."
"I apologize. I only wish to be clear and speak the truth as I perceive it."
"Now you're admirable. It's'Traupman, isn't it?"
"Then my gentle suspicion was correct, no?"
"It was, of course. There could be no other possible reason."
"You were married to him-"
"Not for long, as marriages go," interrupted Elke Mueller swiftly, firmly, "but far too long for me. So his filthy little chickens are coming home to roost, is that it? .. Don't look so surprised, Moreau. I read the papers and watch television. I see what's happening."
"About those 'filthy chickens'? May I inquire about them?"
"Why not? I left the incubator coop over thirty years ago."
"Would it be impertinent of me to ask you to amplify only what's comfortable for you, naturally."
"Now you're a liar, monsieur. You'd prefer that I be terribly uncomfortable, even bitterly hysterical, and tell you what a horrible man he was. Well, I can't do that, whether it's true or not. However, I can tell you that when I think of Traupman, which is rarely, I'm filled with disgust."
-Oh .. . r
"Oh, yes, your amplification. Very well, you shall have it.. .. I married Hans Traupman rather late. I was thirty-one, he thirty-three, and a very successful surgeon even at that age. I was struck by his medical brilliance and believed there was a good man beneath his rather cold exterior. There were flashes of warmth that excited me, until I soon realized it was all an act. Why he was attracted to me became evident quite rapidly. I was a Mueller from Baden-Baden, the richest landowners in the area, also socially prominent, and gave him access to the circles he so desperately wanted to be a part of. You see, his parents were both doctors, but not really attractive people, and certainly not very successful, their practices relegated to clinics serving the lower economic classes-"
"If I may," Moreau broke in, "did he use his position as your husband to further his social ambitions?"
"I just told you that."
"Then why did he risk a divorce?"
"He didn't have much to say about it. Besides, after five years he had made the inroads he needed, and his skills accomplished the rest. In deference to the Mueller family, I agreed to a so-called amicable divorce-simple incompatibility, neither party charged with anything. It was the biggest mistake I made, and my father, before he died, soundly criticized me for it."
"May I ask why?"
"You don't know my family, monsieur, and Mueller is a common