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Updated: June 12, 2025
"You are your sly mother's own darling imp," growled Braun, bringing out his pocketbook. "She was the devil's own, too, before she got old and lost her good looks," he sighed. "Tell me," said he, selecting a note with grave deliberation, "how much did Clayton deposit to-day?" "Only thirty-eight thousand," contemptuously answered the boy, as he clutched the note now held out to him.
He was the nimblest crosser of the busy corner, and then gazed anxiously up and down the street, in front of the Restaurant Bavaria. Wasting but a moment he smartly entered the café and then, with an air of proprietorship, entered a curtain-shaded alcove. The waiter silently placed the carte du jour before him, and merely shook his head when Braun sharply demanded, "Any one here for me?"
"Are you hungry?" asked Franz. "Yes, hungry as a wolf," replied Paul, "but don't let us speak of it again, or Aunt Steiner will think that we are Odenwald wolves and all we came to see her for is what we get to eat. You know what Uncle Braun said of those three young men and I don't wish to be like them." Upon returning to the supper room Fritz said, "Let us set the table for Aunt Fanny."
He began to weep. The professor's countenance changed to a devilish expression when he heard this lament. He despised the lamenting Hebrew. "You are going back?" he thundered. "But you won't go back! Don't shame yourself!" The Hebrew gazed at him stupidly. "I live in Rottenbiller Street," he stammered. "My name is Joseph Braun." He bit his nails in his nervous agitation. Tears filled his eyes.
"And I shall live once more a bond slave no longer!" It was two weeks after their arrival when Braun felt safe to leave his dangerous charge with the peasant spies whom he had gathered as servants. His money was safe, hidden in the old manor house; and he felt the skies were clear when he entered the money-changers at Breslau, where he cautiously sold some of his smaller bills.
Sergeant Breyman had already knotted a handkerchief around the prisoner's bleeding arm, when Dennis McNerney, in a ringing voice, cried, "August Meyer, alias Fritz Braun, I arrest you for the murder of Randall Clayton!" With one shuddering sigh, Irma Gluyas fell prostrate upon the grassy sward.
"If your friend Braun is caught," said the Major, "he will be punished. Severely. Officially. But privately, someone will ah mention this tip and say 'thanks. And he'll be told that he will be released from prison just as soon as he thinks it's safe. And he will be. That's all." He turned to his papers. Joe went out. On the way to meet the pilot who'd check on his tip, he thought things over.
Just then he remembered that he knew a German doctor, one Erich Braun, who lived in the town, and had written to him the year before, after one of his successes, to remind him of their old acquaintance.
Braun had been given a relatively small container of the deadliest available radioactive material on Earth. Milligrams of it, shipped from Oak Ridge for scientific use, were encased in thick lead chests. He'd carried two hundred and fifty grams in a container he could put in his pocket. He was not only dead as he walked, under such circumstances. He was also death to those who walked near him.
Braun battered, and bleeding from the corner of his mouth motioned urgently for him to come to the door of the bus. Joe went. Braun stared up at him in a new fashion. Now he was neither dogged nor fierce nor desperate to look at. Despite the beating he'd taken, he seemed completely and somehow frighteningly tranquil.
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