“I’m serious,” Kevin said, “these people work for the German Reich.”

“How’d you find out about the invisible ink?” Honey waited, watching him. “I won’t tell anybody, Kevin, I swear.”

He said, “We’ve got somebody on the inside. And that’s all I’m saying.”

“If I guess who it is, how about, just nod your head.”

“Come on-I’m not playing with you.”

“Is it Vera’s housekeeper? What’s his name . . . ?”

“Bohdan Kravchenko. He’s a lightweight, but there’s something shifty about him.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Blond hair like Buster Brown’s, we think is dyed.”

“He’s queer?”

“Possibly.”

“You turned him around,” Honey said, “didn’t you? Brought him in for questioning and used a sap on him, got him to talk. Does he give you good stuff?”

“We don’t hit people,” Kevin said, “when we’re asking them questions. What I’d like to know, was Walter close to Fritz Kuhn.”

“Walter would talk about Fritz and his eyes would shine. We got home from the rally in New York, I was ready to leave him. But once he found out Fritz had swung with about fifteen thousand from the rally proceeds, Walter changed his tune. He was quiet for a while, I think confused.”

“Did Walter know Max Stephan?”

Honey said, “Jesus, Max Stephan. That whole time he was in the paper - it seemed like every day for months - I wondered if Walter knew about the German flier. What was his name, Krug?”

“Hans Peter Krug,” Kevin said, “twenty-two, a bomber pilot.” He opened his notebook. “Shot down over the Thames estuary. Sent to a POW camp in Canada, Bowmanville, Ontario. Escaped and reached Detroit eighteen April 1942. Found a skiff and paddled across the Detroit River with a board.”

“Walter’s name was never in the paper,” Honey said. “So I assumed he wasn’t involved. You understand this was three years after I’d left Walter.”