The Eighth Dwarf (32 page)

“Now, then,” Ploscaru said, wriggling back into his chair, “what shall we talk about?”

“Kurt Oppenheimer.”

“An interesting man in many ways. I'm quite looking forward to meeting him.”

“You expect that to be soon?”

“Oh, yes, quite soon.”

“He needs help, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I represent certain persons who would like to help him.”

“For a man in such tragic circumstances, he seems to suffer from no lack of friends. No lack at all.”

“The persons whom I represent would consider it a privilege to help him.”

“Yes, I'm sure,” the dwarf said, and sipped his drink.

“They would expect to pay for the privilege.”

“Did they mention a sum?”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

Ploscaru turned his mouth down at the corners. “There are almost any number of dear friends who would pay far more for such a rare privilege.”

“We could bargain all night, Herr Ploscaru, and still arrive at the same price.”

“Which is?”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes.”

“An interesting price,” Ploscaru said. “Not a fair one, but still an interesting one.”

“How interesting?”

“Interesting enough for me to consult with my colleague.”

“When will you reach a decision?”

“There are still many unknown factors to be resolved, but I would say we would reach our decision by ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Where can I reach you—the hotel?”

“No, I think not. I will give you an address. If things work out as I anticipate, we can make our arrangements there. The address is Fourteen Mirbachstrasse here in Bad Godesberg. Would you like to write it down on something?”

“No, I can remember it,” she said. “Fourteen Mirbachstrasse, ten o'clock tomorrow.”

Ploscaru smiled and eased himself down from the chair. “I'm sorry to rush off like this, but there are still quite a few details to attend to. It's been a most interesting discussion, Fräulein Scheel. I like the way you think. Perhaps another time we might talk about something—well, less commercial.”

“Perhaps.”

He took her hand, bowed over it, and then looked up at her with an expression that would have been concerned except for the sly look in his eyes. “By the way,” he said “do give my best wishes to your friend.”

“Which friend might that be, Herr Ploscaru?”

“Why, the one with the sore knee, of course.”

She watched him move through the tables to the door. So much cunning in such a small body, she thought. And sex too, of course. Even though he's gone, he left his spoor behind—like an open invitation. If there were time, it might prove interesting—very interesting. A large, capable brain might indicate a large, capable something else. She smiled slightly, looked up, caught the proprietor's eye, and signaled for another brandy. After he nodded his understanding, she took paper and an envelope from her purse and began to write. The sleepy boy at the hotel will take it to the printer, she thought. The printer can keep sleep another time. What happens at Fourteen Mirbachstrasse tonight could be more important than his sleep. Far more important.

When he got back to the hotel, Ploscaru learned that Jackson had not yet returned. He went up to his room and stood in the center of it for a moment, brushing his hands together, quite unaware of the fact that he was doing so, and wondering which one would do the watching that night at 14 Mirbachstrasse—the woman in the fur coat or the man with the damaged knee. He grinned, not quite aware that he was doing that either. That one will have her sleep, he decided. She'll have the man go, aching knee and all. It was the real reason he'd given her the address—to flush the man out. The man was dangerous and would have to be dealt with, but at a place of the dwarf's own choosing.

Whistling “Blue Moon,” Ploscaru went to his bag and from its lining removed a thin British commando knife and slid it into the silk sheath that was sewn to the inside of his coat sleeve. After that he poured himself a small drink from the bottle of bourbon, hopped up into the room's most comfortable chair, wriggled back, stopped whistling “Blue Moon,” and started singing its lyrics instead.

He was still singing when Minor Jackson knocked at his door.

30

They drove by the large, dark house at 14 Mirbachstrasse twice and then parked the Mercedes a block away and walked back. A brick wall almost eight feet high surrounded the house. A nearly full moon provided some light—enough, at least, for them to make out the outline of the house through the wrought-iron gate.

It was a stern-looking place, Jackson thought, three stories high and built of some kind of dark stone or brick. It had a mansard roof that seemed to be covered with slate shingles. Jackson tried the high gate without much hope. It was locked.

“Well, up and over, then,” Jackson said, and made a stirrup of his hands.

He lifted the dwarf up. He was heavier than Jackson had expected, much heavier.

“Any glass?”

“How thoughtful of you to ask,” Ploscaru said. “But no.”

“Are you set?”

“Yes.”

Jackson felt the dwarf's hand wrap around his wrist. Then he felt himself being smoothly and easily lifted up until he could get his other arm over the top of the wall. The dwarf's strength surprised him.

After he got a leg over the wall and was straddling it, Jackson said, “I'll go first.”

He lowered himself carefully and then let go. The drop was less than a foot. The dwarf lowered himself until he was hanging from the top of the wall only by his hands. Jackson wrapped his arms around the dwarf's legs and said, “Okay, I've got you.”

They knelt by the wall and peered through some shrubbery. “No dogs, apparently,” Jackson said.

“No.”

“Now what?”

“What did those lectures advise?”

“Boldness.”

“Let's be bold, then.”

“I'll knock,” Jackson said. “You cover me.” He took the .38 pistol from the pocket of his topcoat. Bent nearly double, he scuttled from shrub to shrub as he made his way toward the entrance of the house. The dwarf scuttled after him. Jackson noticed that Ploscaru now had the big Army Colt in his right hand.

“Well, let's see what happens,” Jackson said.

He moved up to the door. Next to it, the dwarf flattened himself against the wall. It was a large door, made of heavy oak planking that was bound by decorative iron straps. Jackson knocked again, harder this time. Again they waited, and again nothing happened.

“Nobody home,” Jackson said.

“Try the door.”

Jackson tried the door handle. It turned easily. He pushed the door open, almost expecting to hear it creak. But it didn't. Instead, it opened smoothly on hinges that might have been oiled. Beyond the door was blackness.

“Let's go back to the hotel and have a drink,” Jackson said. “Find some women.”

The dwarf moved over to the open door and peered in. “Perhaps there really is nobody home.”

“I'll be bold and ask.” Jackson stepped carefully through the doorway. The dwarf followed. “Anybody home?” Jackson called.

“You think he speaks English?”

Jackson didn't reply. Instead, he took out his Zippo lighter and flicked its wheel. The lighter flared, providing just enough illumination for him to find a light switch. He pressed it, but no lights came on.

“No power.”

“Let's see if we can find some candles.”

Jackson's lighter was fading now. But there was still light enough for him to locate a door that led from the entry hall in which they found themselves. He started for the door, the dwarf close behind.

A light came on then. It was the bright, focused yellow of a powerful flashlight. Behind them a man's voice said in German, “A machine pistol is aimed at you, gentlemen. I'm fully prepared to use it.”

“Well, shit,” Jackson said.

“You will both kneel very slowly,” the voice said. “Very, very slowly.”

Jackson and Ploscaru did as they were told.

“Now you, little man. You will lower your pistol to the floor and slide it very gently to your left.”

Ploscaru slid the Army .45 to his left.

“And you with the gray hair will slide your pistol to the right. Ever so gently.”

After Jackson did exactly that, the voice said, “Good. Now you will claps your hands on the tops of your heads and rise, but very slowly. Don't turn around.”

Again they did as they were told. The light stopped dancing around then, as if its source had been laid to rest on a table. Jackson felt something cold press against the nape of his neck. He held his breath and even closed his eyes for a second. But when he felt the hand start moving over his body and patting his pockets, he opened his eyes.

The hand also moved over Ploscaru, but more quickly, almost carelessly, as though the dwarf were too small to conceal anything dangerous.

The flashlight's yellow glow started dancing around again, finally settling on a pair of sliding doors.

“You, little man, will open the doors directly in front of you, but slowly, very slowly.”

The dwarf did as instructed. “Good,” the voice said. “Your hands back on your head, please.” Ploscaru put his hands back on his head.

“Now both of you will walk slowly through the door for exactly five paces and stop. You will not turn around.”

Ploscaru and Jackson stepped off the five paces, although the dwarf had to stretch his steps to keep up with the taller man.

There was a click, and lights came on from a pair of floor lamps. They were in a sitting room that contained too much ugly furniture, much of it upholstered in red and brown plush and most of it apparently dating back to the previous century.

“The power wasn't shut off after all, was it?” the voice said. “Only in the entry hall. You see, gentlemen, I was expecting you.” The voice laughed then, although it was really more of a giggle than a laugh.

“Now I believe that I'll have you turn around, but ever so slowly, and do keep your hands just where they are.”

Jackson and Ploscaru turned. The saw the machine pistol first and the slim, white manicured hands that aimed in unwaveringly at their midsections. The tall man who held the machine pistol was slim, too, almost elegantly so. He was dressed in a black sweater and black trousers, and on his feet he wore black patent-leather slippers. His face was white, the floury, unhealthy white of a face that has been locked away from the sun. On the high cheekbones, however, were two round spots of red that had been either painted or patted into place. Except for the eyebrows, the rest of the face was ordinary enough—a bony chin, thin red lips, a straight nose, and deep-sunk dark eyes. The eyebrows above the eyes were plucked.

“So, what have we here?” the man said. “A dwarf and a gray-haired American. You, little man—you are not American too, are you?”

“No,” Ploscaru said.

“Say something else—in German.”

“What would you like me to say?”

The man studied Ploscaru for a moment and then smiled. “Of course. Romanian. Am I right?”

“You're right.”

“From Bucharest, I'd say. Your vowels give you away. I'm ever so proud of myself. I thought I might have lost the touch.” He smiled again with teeth that were too regular and too white. Jackson decided they were false. He tried to guess the man's age and settled on forty, although he felt he could be off ten years either way.

“Do you have names?” the man said, still smiling.

“Mine's Jackson; his is Ploscaru.”

“Jackson and Ploscaru. Well. I am Gloth, but you know that, don't you? My little treasure told you, the one who took your money. But then remorse set in—and guilt She really quite adores me, you know. So she sped back here as quickly as she could and told me all. Naturally, I forgave her, and we wept together and embraced and did other most interesting things and then I waited for you to arrive. Are you always so clumsy?”

“Almost always,” Jackson said.

“Really? How interesting. Now I have to decide what to do with you.”

“Why not just let us go?” Ploscaru said. “We'll pay you, of course, and then forget we ever met.”

“You have money?”

“Some.”

“Then I will take it from you after I kill you. You realize that's what I'm going to have to do.”

“We didn't,” Jackson said.

“Oh, yes. I really have no choice. That's what I told my little treasure just before—but no matter. I would like to continue our chat, gentlemen, but it has been such a long evening. I think we'll go down to the cellar now and do what must be done. If you'll keep your hands on your heads and turn right, you'll see another door. We will go through that. You, Herr Ploscaru, will open the door and switch on the light—it will be just to your left. Then you will put your hands back on your head. Shall we go?”

Gloth waved the machine pistol at them. Jackson and Ploscaru moved over to the door. Ploscaru opened it, found the light, and switched it on.

“Hands back on your head, please,” Gloth said.

Ploscaru put them back.

“Now slowly, gentlemen, ever so slowly. I suppose I should tell you that I'm an extremely good shot.”

“We believe you,” Jackson said.

“Down the stairs now—you first, Herr Jackson.”

Jackson started down the concrete stairs. Light came from a single bulb that hung from an insulated wire. Jackson thought about jumping for it and smashing the light with his hands. But it was too high, he decided—almost four feet too high.

When they reached the beginning of the last four steps, Ploscaru stumbled and took his hands from his head to try to catch the banister. He missed and fell headlong down the steps, landing in a crumpled heap. He groaned and twisted around, his hands clutching his stomach.