Garden Of Beasts

Taggert now considered his quarry. Paul Schuma

Desperate, yes.

But, as he steered the white van south over the Stormtrooper-brown canal then east, he remained calm as stone. He parked on a busy street and climbed out. There was no doubt that Schuma

Continuing quickly through the streets, feeling the comforting bump of the pistol against his hip, he turned the corner and proceeded into Magdeburger Alley. He paused and examined the short street carefully. It seemed deserted, dusty in the afternoon heat. He casually walked past Käthe Richter’s boardinghouse and then, sensing no threat, returned quickly and descended to the basement entrance. He shouldered open the door then slipped into the dank cellar.

Taggert climbed the wooden stairs, keeping to the sides of the steps to minimize the creaks. He came to the top, eased the doorway open and, pulling the pistol from his pocket, stepped out into the ground-floor hallway. Empty. No sounds, no movement other than the frantic buzzing of a huge fly trapped between two panes of glass.

He walked the length of the corridor, listening at each door, hearing nothing. Finally he returned to the door on which hung a crudely painted sign that read, Landlady.

He knocked. “Miss Richter?” He wondered what she looked like. It had been the real Reginald Morgan who’d arranged for these rooms for Schuma

Another rap on the door. “I’ve come about a room. The front door was open.”

No response.

He tried the door. It was not locked. He slipped inside and noted a suitcase resting open on the bed, clothes and books around it. This reassured him; it meant Schuma

Taggert noticed next to the door a rack containing keys for all the rooms. He found the set to Schuma

The living room was empty. He locked the door then stepped silently into the bedroom. Schuma

Taggert decided to lie in wait. He settled on the only realistic option: the closet. He’d leave the door open an inch or two so he could hear Schuma

Taggert stepped inside the large closet, swung the door nearly shut and undid his top several shirt buttons to alleviate the terrible heat. He breathed deeply, sucking air into his aching lungs. Sweat dotted his forehead and prickled the skin in the pits of his arms. But that mattered not one iota. Robert Taggert was wholly sustained, no, intoxicated, by an element far better than damp oxygen: the euphoria of power. The boy from low, gray Hartford, the boy beaten simply because he was a sharper thinker but a slower ru

Ambassador to England, to Spain. Yes, even here eventually, the country he loved. He could go anywhere he wished.

Wiping his face again, he wondered how long he would have to wait for Schuma

The answer to that question came just a moment later. Taggert heard the front door of the boardinghouse open and heavy footsteps in the hall. They continued past this room. There was a knocking.

“Käthe?” came the distant voice.

It was Paul Schuma

Would he go inside her apartment to wait?

No… The footsteps returned in this direction.

Taggert heard the jangle of the key, the squeak of old hinges and then a click as the door closed. Paul Schuma

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Heart pounding like any hunter close to his prey, Robert Taggert listened carefully.

“Käthe?” Schuma

Morgan heard the creak of boards, the sound of water ru

Taggert lifted his pistol. It would be better to shoot him in the chest, front on, as if he’d been attacking. The SS would want him alive, of course, to interrogate him and wouldn’t be happy if Taggert shot the man in the back. Still, he could take no chances. Schuma

He heard the man walk to the bedroom. And a moment later, the sounds of rummaging through drawers as he filled his suitcase.

Now, he thought.

Taggert pushed one of the two closet doors open further. This gave him a view of the bedroom. He raised the pistol.

But Schuma

Oh, no…

Taggert realized that Schuma

The huge fist crashed through the closet door as if it were spun sugar. The knuckles struck Taggert in the neck and jaw and he saw searing red in his vision as he staggered into the living room. He dropped the pistol and grabbed his throat, pressing the agonized flesh.

Schuma