hotel management knew, how comp licit they might be.
"Mr. Simon," the manager said in a loud and authoritative basso prof undo "one of our chambermaids tells me that you threatened her, and moreover, there was an incident here last night involving gunfire, and the police wish you to return here immediately for questioning."
Ben pressed the End button.
It was not surprising that the manager would want to talk to him. Damage had been done to the hotel; the manager was duty-bound to call the police. But there was something about the man's voice, the suddenly bullying self-assurance of a man who is backed by the full weight of the authorities, that alarmed Ben.
And what did Hoffman, the private investigator, want so urgently?
The door to Sonnenfeld's office opened and a small, stoop-shouldered old man emerged and gestured feebly for Ben to enter. He gave Ben a tremorous handshake and sat behind a cluttered desk. Jakob Sonnenfeld had a bristly gray mustache, a jowly face, large ears, and red-rimmed, hooded, watery eyes. He wore an unfashionably wide, clumsily knotted tie, a moth-eaten brown sweater-vest under a checked jacket.
"Many people want to look at my archives," Sonnenfeld said abruptly. "Some for good reasons, some for not so good. Why you?"
Ben cleared his throat, but Sonnenfeld rumbled on. "You say your father is a Holocaust survivor. So? There are thousands of them alive. Why are you so interested in my work?"
Do I dare level with the man? he wondered. "You've been hunting Nazis for decades now," he began suddenly. "You must hate them with all your heart, as I do."
Sonnenfeld waved dismissively. "No. I'm not a hater. I couldn't work at this job for over fifty years fueled by hate. It would eat away at my insides."
Ben was at once skeptical and annoyed at Sonnenfeld's piety.
"Well, I happen to believe that war criminals should not go free."
"Ah, but they are not war criminals really, are they? A war criminal commits his crimes to further his war aims, yes? He murders and tortures in order to help win the war. But tell me: Did the Nazis need to massacre and gas to death millions of innocents in order to win? Of course not. They did it purely for ideological reasons. To cleanse the planet, they believed. It was wholly unnecessary. It was something they did on the side. It diverted precious wartime resources. I'd say their campaign of genocide hindered their war effort. No, these were most certainly not war criminals."
"What do you call them, then?" Ben asked, understanding at last.
Sonnenfeld smiled. Several gold teeth glinted. "Monsters."
Ben took in a long breath. He'd have to trust the old Nazi hunter; that was the only way, he realized, to secure his cooperation. Sonnenfeld was too smart. "Then let me be very direct with you, Mr. Sonnenfeld. My brother my twin brother, my closest friend in all the world was murdered by people I believe are in some way connected with some of these monsters."
Sonnenfeld leaned forward. "Now you have me very confused," he said very intently. "Surely you and your brother are much, much too young to have been through the war."
"This happened not much over a week ago," Ben said.
Sonnenfeld's brow furrowed, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What can you be saying? You are making no sense."
Quickly Ben explained about Peter's discovery. "This document drew my brother's attention because one of the board members was our own father." He paused. "Max Hartman."
Stunned silence. Then: "I know the name. He has given much money to good causes."
"In the year 1945, one of his causes was something called Sigma," Ben continued stonily. "The other incorporators included many Western industrialists, and a small handful of Nazi officials. Those included the treasurer, who is identified by the title Obersturmfrihrer, and by the name Max Hartman."
Sonnenfeld's rheumy eyes did not blink. "Extraordinary. You did say "Sigma," yes? Dear God in heaven."
"I'm afraid it's an old story," said the visitor in the black leather jacket.
"The wife," suggested the private detective, Hoffman, with a wink.
The man smiled sheepishly.
"She is young and very pretty, yes?"
A sigh. "Yes."
"They are the worst of all, the pretty young ones," Hoffman said, man to man. "I'd advise you to simply forget her. You'll never be able to trust her anyway."
The visitor's eye seemed to be caught by Hoffman's fancy new laptop computer. "Nice," the man said.
"I don't know how I ever used anything else," Hoffman said. "I am not so good with technical things, but this is easy. Who