The Eighth Dwarf (33 page)

Jackson started toward him. “No, Mr. Jackson,” Gloth snapped. “Move back and keep your hands just where they were.”

“He's hurt,” Jackson said, but did as he was told.

“He won't suffer long,” Gloth said, and came slowly down the steps.

He nudged Ploscaru with his foot. “Get up. You can get up.”

Ploscaru groaned again and got slowly to one knee.

“Now all the way up,” Gloth said.

With his hands still clutching his stomach, the dwarf began to rise slowly. He groaned once more, quite horribly this time, then whirled. The commando knife was in his right hand. He plunged it into Gloth just above the groin. Gloth screamed and dropped the machine pistol. He clutched at himself as Ploscaru pulled the knife out. Gloth doubled over, and the knife went back in with a hard, upward thrust. Ploscaru jumped away. Gloth stared down at the knife hilt that poked out of his chest, just below the rib cage. He screamed again—a shrill, frightened scream; tugged at the knife; fell to his knees; screamed yet again; and toppled over. He died then, or shortly thereafter.

Jackson found himself fumbling for his cigarettes. He lit one, dragged the smoke deep down into his lungs, and blew it out. He noticed that his hands were trembling.

“I liked the way you groaned.”

“Yes,” Ploscaru said. “I thought I sounded quite distressed.”

The dwarf reached down, grasped the hilt of the knife, and pulled it out. He stared at it for a moment with distaste, or perhaps revulsion, and then wiped its blade off carefully on the dead man's trouser leg. When satisfied that it was clean, Ploscaru tucked the knife back into the silk sheath that was sewn into his coat sleeve.

“You always keep it there?” Jackson said.

“Not always, Minor. Just upon occasion.”

Jackson bent down and picked up the machine pistol. He examined it carefully and then looked at Ploscaru. “The safety was on.”

“Didn't you notice?”

“No.”

“What
did
they teach you at OSS?”

“Not enough, I'd say.”

Ploscaru found his cigarettes and lit one. Jackson noticed that there was no tremor in the dwarf's hands as he stood smoking calmly and gazing thoughtfully around the cellar.

“I think this will do quite nicely, don't you?” the dwarf said.

“For what?”

“For Oppenheimer.”

Ploscaru stepped over to a heavy door and opened it He glanced inside the room, moved back quickly, and slammed the door. When he turned, his face was pale and stiff.

“What was it?” Jackson asked.

“The girl—his maid. No need to look. She's dead. It's rather nasty.”

Jackson shook his head and looked down at the dead Gloth. “I wonder who he really was.”

“You can ask Oppenheimer,” Ploscaru said, opening another door. “He'll know.”

The dwarf inspected another room whose door he had just opened. “This one will do,” he said. “Take a look.”

Jackson went over to look. It was a small, bare room with no windows. A weak bulb provided what light there was. Ploscaru examined the door, which had a small opening covered by iron mesh. The door was made of heavy, solid wood, with a large steel lock. Ploscaru turned the key back and forth, testing the lock. “This will serve quite nicely.”

“What do we do with him?” Jackson said, nodding at Gloth.

“Drag him under the stairs.”

“Let's do it, then.”

Afterward, they started up the stairs. Halfway up, the dwarf paused and turned. “You know,” he said slowly, “it really wasn't such a bad scheme.”

“Which one?”

“Gloth's. Perhaps we should see how it works on Oppenheimer.”

“You think he's as stupid as we are?”

“Possibly,” the dwarf said. “Many people are.”

31

Bodden was glad to get off the borrowed bicycle. The ride from the Gasthaus had done his knee no good. He stood across the street from 14 Mirbachstrasse and studied the large, dark house. There was nothing to see—only a big house surrounded by a high wall.

Bodden looked up at the moon and tried to guess the time. It had been about a quarter past three when the boy had brought the note from Eva Scheel. Bodden had then had to rouse the Gasthaus proprietor to borrow the bicycle. The ride had taken another quarter of an hour—possibly twenty minutes. That made it almost four—perhaps a quarter to. The burglar's favorite hour.

The first thing Bodden needed was a place to conceal the bicycle. There was a clump of shrubbery—evergreens of some sort. He wheeled the bicycle over and leaned it against the shrubs. And now you, printer, he thought; some place where you can get off your leg and sit down and watch. There was a large tree not far from the shrubbery. He could lie or sit behind it and still have a view of the gate that led to the house.

Bodden settled himself behind the tree. He wondered if he dared risk a cigarette. He wanted one very much. But no, that would have to wait. Bodden sat, half concealed by the large tree, his throbbing leg stretched straight out in front of him. As he waited and watched, he massaged the knee.

It had been a long walk from the whore's room in the center of Bonn, and Oppenheimer was sweating a little as he drew near the house where the man who called himself Gloth lived. Oppenheimer had not hurried. Whenever possible, he had kept to side streets, but once or twice it had been necessary to use Koblenzerstrasse. Once a British patrol had passed him in a jeep. The patrol had eyed him carefully, slowed, and then driven on.

During the long walk, Oppenheimer had talked to himself—or rather, to his ironic self. Once when he had sat down to rest and smoke a cigarette, his ironic self had commented on the weather.
A nice night for it, no?
For what?
For murder, of course.
An execution will take place, nothing more.
Not too long ago you used fancier words than that
—
words like justice and duty and obligation to the dead. Tell me, do you still think of yourself as an avenging angel?
I don't believe in angels.
Come, now, that's almost what you told the boy
—
that American Corporal. You can do better for me. Give me some high-flown sentences with something about the dead not having died in vain.
I only do what needs doing.
You are a fool, aren't you?

Oppenheimer stopped talking to himself when he reached the high wall. He walked along it until he reached the gate. He paused to study the house. He tried the gate, almost casually, knowing that it would be locked. After studying the house for a few more moments, Oppenheimer walked on.

This is foolish,
his ironic self said.
Totally foolish.
It has to be done.
I'll have no part of it.
Then go.
You know what will happen if I do?
“Let it,” Oppenheimer replied, surprised to find that he had said it aloud.

He threw his briefcase over the wall, then looked around carefully, marking the other streets and houses in his mind. He turned back to the wall.
I'm not going.
You'll go.
No, not this time.
Too bad, Oppenheimer said, or thought he did, and leaped up, just managing to catch the top of the wall with his hands. He hung there for a moment, gathering his strength.
All you have to do is let go, drop, and walk away.
No, I can't.
Give it up.
No, you don't understand. You never did. There's nothing else I can do.

Oppenheimer pulled himself slowly up until he could grab the top of the wall with an arm. After that it was easier. He got a leg over and lay on the wall for a moment, waiting to catch his breath. Then he lowered himself over the other side of the wall, hung for a second, and dropped. As he crouched by the wall, he asked, Where are you? He asked it silently, but there was no answer. He asked again, and when there was no reply, he realized that he was alone, really alone. And for the first time since they had dug him out of the rubble in Berlin, he also realized that he was terribly and totally afraid.

From across the street Bodden had watched Oppenheimer scale the wall. That one goes up and over like a monkey, he thought. Nothing quite so agile for you, printer. When you go, you'll need a stepladder. The bicycle might do. But there's no hurry. Wait and see what develops. If the one who went over the wall is who you think he is, then it might be better to wait and let him attend to his business first—whatever it may be. Give him a few minutes and then you can go. Smoke a cigarette first and then go crawl over your wall.

Oppenheimer crouched by the wall and checked his Walther pistol. He did it automatically, without thinking. Bent over in a low crouch, he now ran quickly from the wall to some shrubbery, pausing only to give the house a quick look. He would try the door first. It would be locked, but it was always worth a try. Once in—where was it—Stuttgart? No matter. A door had been left open. He tried to remember where it had been, but couldn't.

Still crouched low, he ran to the house. Then, with his back to its brick, he went slowly sideways toward the door. He moved up the steps and stopped breathing so that he could listen. He heard nothing and began breathing again, slowly and silently through his open mouth.

He put his left hand to the door handle and pressed. It moved. He turned it all the way and slowly shoved the door back. He stopped to listen. Again, there was no sound. He pushed the door open just wide enough for him to slip through. But he didn't move. Instead, he stopped breathing again so that he could listen, but there was no sound. None at all. He slowly slipped through the door and stopped. Moving sideways with his hand outstretched, he found a wall. He guided himself along the wall until he found a light switch. He didn't press it, but felt for the door that he knew would be near the switch. Just as he found it, the yellow light came on and the voice said in German, “Don't move or you're dead.”

Oppenheimer moved. He whirled and dropped at the same time, firing twice at the yellow light. Then something hard came down on his right wrist, almost smashing it. He could no longer hold the Walther. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Something cold and hard pressed up underneath his chin.

“Just one move,” the voice said, “just a twitch, and I pull the trigger.” Oppenheimer didn't move.

Someone shined the light in his eyes. He closed them.

Another voice said, “He's fast, isn't he?”

“I thought he got you.”

“No, I moved just after I switched on the flashlight. I moved very quickly.”

Oppenheimer dimly realized that the voices were speaking English. That wasn't right. Perhaps he had made a mistake. He wondered if this was the wrong house.

The voice that belonged to whoever was holding the gun underneath his chin said in German, “I want you to get up very slowly.”

Oppenheimer rose. “Now turn around.” Oppenheimer did so. He heard rather than saw some doors being slid open. “Put your hands on your head,” the voice said. After he had done this, the voice told him to walk five paces straight ahead. When he had walked the five paces, the voice told him to turn around. As he turned around, the lights came on. Two men, one of them very little, stood a few feet away from him with pistols aimed at his rib cage. Neither of them was the man who called himself Gloth.

Oppenheimer stared at the little man, the one who was really a dwarf. “You could not be the one who calls himself Gloth, could you?”

“Sorry,” Ploscaru said, shaking his head.

Oppenheimer smiled. “No matter,” he said, and kept on smiling. It was the last thing he would ever say.

“See what he's got on him,” Ploscaru said. “And don't forget to look for a knife.”

Jackson moved over to Oppenheimer and went through his pockets. He found some American money, some German marks, a half-smoked package of Lucky Strikes, some matches, a comb, a pencil, and several sheets of ruled paper. There was no knife. Jackson opened the papers and looked at them. They were the sheets that Oppenheimer had torn from Damm's ledger.

“It's his people-who-need-killing list,” Jackson said. “You want to know who Gloth really was?”

“Who?”

“Somebody called Dr. Klaus Spalcke—a medical doctor. It says here that his specialty was exploring the pain threshold. He conducted his experiments at several of the camps—there's a list of them here, if you want me to read it.”

“Not really,” Ploscaru said.

“It says here that his experiments caused the deaths of six thousand four hundred and seventy-one persons. How in hell could they be that exact?”

“I have no idea,” Ploscaru said. “Ask him.”

“Well?” Jackson said, looking at Oppenheimer.

The man with his hands on his head smiled at Jackson pleasantly, almost curiously, but said nothing.

“I don't think he's in the mood,” Jackson said.

“Maybe he doesn't understand English.”

“He understands it, all right. He can even talk Texan when he wants to—can't you, Brother Oppenheimer?”

Again, Oppenheimer smiled pleasantly and kept on smiling.

“I think we'd better take him down to the cellar before he decides to do something foolish,” Ploscaru said.

Jackson nodded. “I think you're right.” He took Oppenheimer by the arm and gestured with his pistol toward the door that led to the cellar. “We've got a nice, warm place all fixed up for you.”

Oppenheimer didn't move until Jackson gave his arm a tug. After that he went along docilely, but in a curiously shambling walk, as though he were an old man wearing slippers that he was afraid would come off.

When they reached the stairs, Jackson stopped. “Go on down, Nick,” he said. “If our friend here tries something clever like a fake fall, you can shoot him on the way down.”

The dwarf hurried down the stairs and then waited, with pistol ready, for Jackson and Oppenheimer to descend the steps. There was no trouble. Oppenheimer went quietly but slowly down the stairs, smiling all the way.