The room was stale. Waiting to be wartorn. Pulaski stood in the center. The gray afternoon came through the dirty glass. It was enough.

  He walked to the desk. He tapped the wood. It was solid. Cheap.

  As an informer Frelinghuysen would have been keeping notes. His killer or killers would have stolen it. But where would he have kept it?

  -You didn’t keep it here, he muttered. Too easy. Even for a gendarme.

  He knelt. He looked at the floorboards. He looked for wear. He looked for scratches. He found them near the radiator. The wood was slightly higher there.

  He used his pocket knife. He pried. The board came up with a dry snap.

  Underneath was a hollow. It was stuffed with paper. Bundles of it. Tied with common kitchen twine.

  -Well.

  Pulaski sat on the floor. He pulled the bundles out. He spread them on the dusty rug. There were so many of them.

  -You were a factory, Berger, he said. A one-man census.

  He flipped through the pages. It wasn't a ledger. It was a diary of the building. Hand-written. Tight, crabbed script.

  Pulaski stopped. He looked at the names. Every door he had passed. Every face he had seen. Berger had them all in a column.

  -It’s a party after all, he muttered. Everyone was on the guest list

  He picked up a separate folder. It was different. This paper was thick. Official. It had the eagle at the top.

  He saw the mark at the bottom of the page. It was a heavy blue circle.

  GEPRüFT – SIPO-SD BRüSSEL.

  Pulaski looked at the circle. He thought about the morgue. He thought about the purple-gray bruise on Berger’s neck. The rectangular edges. The weight of the strike.

  -The stamp, he whispered.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He held the page up to the light. The blue ink was deep. The seal was made of heavy brass. A desk seal.

  -The neighbors would’ve tried to find the diary, right? The man in the gray suit. Maybe Louise Avenue paid you a visit. But they’d want this too, and find it. Some stamp-wielding clerk killed you.

  Pulaski rolled a cigarette and twirled it.

  He looked at the bundles spread across the floor. Thousands of words. Thousands of secrets.

  He thought about the man in the grey suit.

  Pulaski looked at the door. He thought about Kleer. He thought about the widow.

  -Maybe he wanted them to see it. To see that the rat was gone. To see that the Avenue knows everything anyway.

  He gathered the papers. He tucked them under his arm. Heavy.

  -It’s not a problem, Berger. I like heavy things. They stay where you put them.

  He stood up. His knees popped in the quiet.

  -Now I just have to see how far I can go. Hi Mr. Nazi, I’m looking for a murderer. Sure.

  The Palace of Justice was cold. Pulaski walked the long halls. His boots clicked on the stone. The sound went up into the high ceilings and stayed there.

  He went straight to the office of the Procureur.

  The old man was behind his desk. He was reading a file. He looked like one.

  -You have the Saint-Gilles report? the boss asked.

  -I have a mess, Pulaski said.

  Pulaski sat down. He took the blue-stamped page from his coat. He put it on the desk.

  -What is this?

  -It’s a receipt. Found it under the floor.

  The Procureur looked at the blue circle. He looked at the eagle. He didn't touch it.

  -Sipo-SD, the boss whispered. You shouldn't have this.

  -Berger had thousands of them. He was a rat, Monsieur. He was watching the whole street.

  Pulaski rolled a cigarette, then put it away.

  -He was killed with the stamp, Pulaski said. The bruise on the neck is probably a perfect match.

  The Procureur leaned back.

  -If a German killed him, they will handle it, the boss said. It is not our business.

  -Yet they haven’t come to ask about him, have they?

  -Then let them find out on their own. Throw the papers in the river, Pulaski. Go home.

  -I have his wallet. I have three thousand francs. I can say I’m returning property.

  -They will keep you, Pulaski. They don't like visitors who ask questions about their seals.

  -I’d think they want us to investigating murders. Otherwise we’d have been replaced by Gestapo by now.

  He sighed.

  -Think of Benoit, Pulaski muttered to himself.

  -Who?

  The Proceureur opened a drawer. He pulled out a small card with a red stripe. A liaison pass.

  -Twelve hours, the boss said. To return personal effects. If you are not back by morning, I will file a report that you were seen heading for the border.

  -That’s kind of you, Monsieur.

  -It’s insurance.

  Pulaski took the card and laughed.

  -One more thing, Pulaski.

  -Sure.

  -If you find that he was killed by a clerk... keep it quiet. If the SS finds out their own people are killing informants, they’ll purge the whole city. They will start with us.

  Pulaski stood up. He adjusted his hat.

  -I like quiet, he muttered. Quiet is easy.

  He walked out.

  -Now I just need to find the desk, he said to the empty hall. A desk with a heavy stamp and a man in a gray suit. Here’s your money.