The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

It makes no difference. I’m not interested in who you are. It’s what you do that interests me. Do you get my drift?” He took a puff on his cigar.

“Not exactly, no.” Frank had always assumed this man to be German through and through. So he was taken aback by the slight Austrian intonation he detected in Breitner’s accent.

“Then let me spell it out for you.” He took a deep puff on his cigar. “You’ve been muscling in. I don’t know why. And I don’t want to know. It’s enough that you do it. You see, I don’t like jerks who pretend to be something they’re not and then start interfering in my business and pestering my people.”

Frank stared blankly at his host. He had no idea what this man was talking about. Willi Breitner leaned forward, stubbed out the cigar and fixed Frank with an almost manic stare that looked disturbingly close to becoming unhinged.

“Mademoiselle Roche, for example,” he said almost in a whisper. “She’s one of my people, you see. No, she’s more than that. She’s almost like a daughter to me. Almost,” he added with his supercilious smile.

“Now, what’s this?” he continued, as he picked up Frank’s wallet and pulled out a carefully kept lock of blonde hair. “Do you keep a trophy of all your conquests?” Breitner asked, as he placed it back in the wallet, picked up the cigar box and offered Frank a cigar.

Frank declined, while his host stubbed out his cigar and took another for himself. He licked it, cut it and lit up with a relish that was just a little too studied to be convincing. But what he lacked in style he made up for in words.

“Herr Eigenmann, Mr Silverstone, or whoever you are, you need to understand there are limits. Boundaries you cross at your own risk. Now, I have many friends in very influential places. And they can make life very uncomfortable for people who cross those boundaries. Of course, I don’t like to bother them with trivialities and prefer to handle my problems without such assistance.”

“I had no idea until now that I was one of your problems,” Frank interjected.

“You interfere in my life. You’re a pest,” his host insisted. “Are you a Jew?”

It was a rhetorical question. Not looking for an answer. But it stirred signs of vexation on Breitner’s face. He visibly winced as he spoke the words. And grew increasingly agitated.

“Why is it so many of you congregate in this city ever since your Mr Herzl brought his Zionists here?” The grimace in his expression grew into a menacing sneer.

“Vermin like you need to be taught a lesson once in a while. But have no fear,” he added ominously. “You are already well acquainted with some of my humbler friends – and you will find they are excellent teachers.”

After a pause clearly intended to leave Frank enough time for those last words to be digested, Breitner rose from his chair.

“For the first part of the instruction, however, I intend to take personal responsibility. Come with me,” he continued. The twisted menace underlying his host’s surface magnanimity sent a chill through Frank that had his heart pounding as he obediently complied.

“I don’t know what you’ve been told about me,” Breitner said as he guided Frank out of the lounge. “Nor do I wish to know. Second-hand information is of no interest. It’s as worthless as it is no doubt false. So, for the first part of your instruction, allow me to give you the benefit of some first-hand information about me. It will serve as a sign of my generosity, which I hope will sustain you through the second part. If it does not, that would be a pity, because I do feel it’s important you know how generous I can be if you stay on the right side of me.”

With the barely concealed threat of these words, he ushered Frank into a dining room prepared for a sumptuous feast. The walls were hung with countless paintings and drawings of erotic scenes and orgies that matched the lavish bacchanalian flavour of the food and wine set out on the table.

“I trust you had no plans for lunch today,” he said, with a self-satisfied smile as he pulled out a chair for Frank, took a corkscrew in his hand and twisted it into a bottle of red wine. “Chateau Margaux 1926. An excellent year,” he said as he poured two glasses and slid one along the table to Frank. “I think you’ll find it quite agreeable.”

“This of course is only half the pleasure,” he added. “To get the best out of a good lunch, it is essential to have the right company.”

Breitner moved over to a door at the far end of the room and eased it slightly ajar.

“Helga. Maria. Lunch is about to be served. Would you care to join us?”

His invitation had the tone of a command. And the force of his words was plain from the instantaneous appearance in the doorway of two young women. They displayed an uncanny ingenuity for seeming both overdressed and underdressed at one and the same time.

“Girls,” Breitner announced, “I’d like you to meet Herr Eigenmann from Berlin or Mr Silverstone from Baltimore Maryland. We haven’t yet made up our minds. But I have no doubt a little lunch and your charming company will help the memory cells.”

The girls promptly seized on this chance to exhibit the other main feature of their collective personality and fell into a mildly hysterical giggle. Much to his own shame, Frank found it quite endearing. Maria – dark-haired, dark-eyed, the slightly more voluptuous of the two, with inviting curves and a provocative landscape of flesh rising over the low neck of her white satin dress – was the first to speak.

“Pleased to meet you,” was all she said, betraying a twinkle of amusement in her expression as they shook hands.

Helga – red-haired, green-eyed, less curvaceous and less garrulous by nature than her friend,