LESLIE EPSTEIN
127
ture. There are a lot of pictures these days about spies and adventurers and
refugees. [ made one myself.
Mr.
Molo~,
Last Warning.
It's set in Egypt.
There's a spy for Germany there, it's George Sanders, and he wants to
launch a sneak attack on the French
neet
and blame it on England. An
antique dealer discovers the plot; only it isn't an antique dealer, it's Mr.
Moto. At the last minute, five fathoms down, he foils the Germans by set–
ting off the charges prematurely. Only we couldn't say Germany. Not the
actual word. We said,
YOllr employer
and
IlzeIoreign power
and things like that.
[ don't suppose you saw it? No, no - they wouldn't allow it in Berlin.
"You won't speak? Not to your old friend? Your lamb? Listen, love, if
you come with me Granite will release me from the Moto contract.
Those pictures are killing me' The glasses, the bri[lianteen, the cemented
teeth!
Air,
so!
Ah,
so!
All,
so!
Magda, I have a question. In Berlin, in
Munich, I think it's the same throughout Europe: Where are the Jews?"
We had reached the ground noor. Magda sighed. I stood upright and
pulled on the inner door. [t did not open. I looked round at my compan–
ion. Her back was still turned. She seemed
to
be shuddering. "Aren't we
going to go out?" I asked her. Apparently not. With a groan she threw
herself upon the lever and once again, inexplicably, we started to rise.
"Magda, [ don't understand this. Are we going to go up and down all
night? There's no air here. We'll suffocate. After the last Moto film I
thought I wouldn't have to do another. They actually lent me out to
Warners. Oh, what joy! [ was a man out of prison' Light! Air! The songs
of the birds! But now I've got to go back to Granite. I've been on my
knees praying there would be a war with Japan. That will be the end of
my bondage. Goodbye to the gumshoe. Under water! With my hands tied!
Inside a sack! Can you imagine it? Like a Japanese Houdini. And mean–
while the French
neet
with al l those French sailors on board was nearing
the harbor. [ was the only person in the world who could save them.
Moto!
Malo! Do something! A miracle, Mr. Moto!"
Still no answer. No response of any kind. Was she deaf? A horrible
thought: she'd been tortured! She'd lost her mind! "Magda, if you want me
to, if it's your wish, I will also fJll on my knees. I'll pray to you. These
German people! Why are they smiling? Why so happy? Is it the war?
Winning the war? No, no, no, no.
Excuse, please: Mr. Mota discover easy
answer!
They have the Jews' apartments . They have the Jews' jobs. Don't
you see? They've got the whole city to themselves! It's like a German ho[–
iday'"
I broke off, but only to gulp, from the stagnant interior, a breath of air.
[ felt now that I dare not stop, as if the string of my words was, together
with the strands in the cable, the only thing that kept us aloft.
"That photograph. Do you know what it is? It's the evidence of a
