* * * *
Later, as I sat alone in my rented room and finished off the bottle of Scotch, I made the decision that I needed to find another way to earn my money. I had become too hard, too uncaring. But now I had gone too soft to be of use to the clients who sought me out. I would, of course, tell the Major that I had scoured Munich for his flutist without luck—that he must have been given bad information, or that the young man had already moved on. I would tell him that I certainly was willing to follow up any other lead he might have, but that it probably wasn’t worth the money he was paying.
Of all my regrets, the deepest one was not asking the young flutist where he would flee to next—so that there was always a chance I might meet, and have, him again. But if I knew the Major as well as I thought I did, it was probably best I really didn’t know—in the likely event that the Major didn’t believe me.