The Eighth Dwarf (34 page)

Ploscaru hurried to open the door with the steel-mesh window and the heavy lock. Jackson steered the unprotesting Oppenheimer toward the small room. “It's not much,” Jackson said, “but you won't be here long.” He guided Oppenheimer into the room. As Jackson started to turn, Ploscaru jammed the Army .45 into his back.

“I won't kill you, Minor, but I won't hesitate to shoot you in the leg.”

“Well, shit, Nick.”

Ploscaru reached around and took Jackson's pistol. “The trouble with you, Minor, is that you mistrust people, but not nearly enough. Now, if you'll just go over and lean against the wall on your hands.”

Jackson propped himself against the wall with his hands. Ploscaru backed quickly out of the small room, closed the door, and locked it. Inside the room, Oppenheimer smiled pleasantly at Jackson.

“I'll leave the light on,” Ploscaru said, calling up through the iron-mesh window. “Perhaps you can get him to talk.”

“Thanks.”

“It won't be long.”

“You're going to peddle him, Nick, aren't you?”

“To the highest bidder,” Ploscaru said, and started up the stairs.

Bodden lay gasping on top of the wall. You're too old for this, printer, he told himself. Much too old. He let his legs go over the side first, then lowered himself until he was hanging only by his hands. Watch the knee he thought. Land wrong and you'll be a cripple. He landed wrong, and his right leg buckled under him. Bodden swore and clasped the knee with both hands, probing it tenderly. The pain was far sharper than before. Gingerly, he tried to rise, but couldn't. The pain was too intense. You need a stick, he thought, something to support yourself with. He dragged himself along the wall, feeling in the grass for a stick or a pole. His hand found something. A hoe, by God! Just the thing.

Using the hoe as a kind of support, he started for the doorway. As he went slowly up the steps, he noticed for the first time that the door was open. Take your gun out, cripple, he told himself. A hoe's a fine thing, but it's not a potato you'll find inside. He was reaching for the Walther pistol when Ploscaru came through the door.

Bodden tried to decide whether to hit the dwarf with the hoe or try for his pistol. The dwarf had no such decision to make. The knife came out of his sleeve in a blurred motion. He ducked low, very low, under the now-raised hoe. He struck once with the knife and then jumped back. The hoe came down, missing him by inches. Then the pain hit Bodden. He dropped the hoe and went down clumsily until he fell sprawling on the steps.

The dwarf approached him cautiously. “You're not dead, are you?”

Bodden stared up at him. “No.”

“I knew I should have killed you in Frankfurt. But you'll die quickly enough now.”

“You talk too much, little man. Far too much.”

Ploscaru nodded. “Probably,” he said. He stared down at Bodden, as though trying to decide something. Then he turned and ran lightly toward the iron gate. Bodden watched as the dwarf shinnied up the gate and down the other side. For a moment Ploscaru stared back through the gate at the man who lay sprawled on the steps of the large house. He nodded to himself, smiled a little and then turned and walked quickly down the street. As he walked, he dusted his hands together in either satisfaction or anticipation. It was hard to tell.

32

Jackson had been trying for fifteen minutes to get Oppenheimer to talk, but without success. They sat in diagonally opposite corners of the small room as Jackson conducted his one-sided conversation. To everything Jackson said, Oppenheimer smiled in a pleasant but rather loose-lipped way. His greenish-blue eyes were still bright and interested, but they moved constantly, as though everything demanded equal attention.

“I know your sister rather well,” Jackson said.

Oppenheimer smiled and inspected a shoe. His right one. He pulled at the shoelace, and when the loop moved a little he smiled even more.

Jackson stared at him with facination. At first he had thought that Oppenheimer was simply refusing to speak. This was followed by the suspicion that the silent, smiling man was faking it to throw Jackson off guard. But then came the almost-certain realization that Oppenheimer wasn't faking at all.

“As I said, I know your sister rather well now. She thinks you're crazy.”

Oppenheimer gave his shoelace another small tug and smiled delightedly at its movement.

“Or that's what she said at first. She also said she wanted to get you to a sanitarium in Switzerland where they specialize in nuts like you. But it turns out that she was probably lying.”

The shoelace received another small, careful tug and another happy smile.

“What she really wants to do is get you to Palestine, where they'll turn you loose on some carefully selected British types and maybe the odd Arab. If you killed enough of them, you might even become a national hero if the Jews ever get independence. You might even become a martyr. That'd be nice, wouldn't it?”

Oppenheimer kept on smiling and playing with his shoelace.

“I fucked your sister, you know,” Jackson said.

Oppenheimer laughed, except that it was more of a chuckle than a laugh. It was a deep, throaty, pleased, wise chuckle that sounded full of cosmic secrets. His shoelace had come completely untied.

“You really are gone, aren't you, friend?” Jackson said. “You're out of it”

Oppenheimer took his shoe off and offered it to Jackson. When Jackson took it, Oppenheimer chuckled with delight and began taking off the rest of his clothes. He handed all the items to Jackson, who accepted each one with a small, commiserative shake of his head as he piled them neatly on the floor.

When all of his clothes were off, Oppenheimer discovered the small leather bag that hung around his neck. He took that off and opened it and ate one of the diamonds before Jackson could get them away from him. Jackson counted the diamonds. There were twenty-one of them, none less than a carat in size.

“If you're real good,” Jackson said to the smiling naked Oppenheimer, “I might give you one later for dessert.”

When Ploscaru got back to the hotel, he went immediately up to his room, took four thick sheets of ivory-colored paper with matching envelopes from his suitcase, sat down at the desk, and began to write the invitations. He wrote with an old, broad-nibbed fountain pen and every once in a while would lean back to admire his penmanship. The dwarf had always prided himself on being able to write a beautiful hand.

When the invitations were done, he addressed the four envelopes to Frl. Leah Oppenheimer, Frl. Eva Scheel, Maj. Gilbert Baker-Bates, and Lt. LaFollette Meyer.

Then he went downstairs, shook the sleeping boy awake, and gave him an enormous bribe to deliver the invitations immediately. Once the boy was safely dispatched, Ploscaru roused the desk clerk and reserved a conference room for 8
A.M.
When that was done, the dwarf looked at his watch. It was 5:14.

The Sergeant-Major awoke Baker-Bates at 5:33
A.M.

“They found him, sir,” the Sergeant-Major announced in the grimly mournful voice of one trained in the art of bearing bad news.

Baker-Bates groggily sat up in bed. “Who? Found who?”

“Von Staden, sir. Old Yellow-Hair. Found him floating in the river over near Beuel. Drowned, he was, with a nasty bump on his head right about here.” The Sergeant-Major tapped his right temple.

“Christ,” Baker-Bates said.

“Then there's this, too, sir, just in from London patched through Hamburg. It had Top Priority on it, so I thought I'd better rush it right over after Decode got done.”

Baker-Bates took the envelope, ripped it open, and took out the single, typed flimsy, which read: “Your last report circulated at highest, repeat, highest level. You are hereby instructed, repeat, instructed to offer up to, but not more than, four thousand pounds for undamaged goods if they become available.” It was signed with the last name of the chief of Baker-Bates's organization.

Baker-Bates swore long and bitterly. The Sergeant-Major looked appropriately sympathetic. “Bad news, sir?”

“I told them not to, damn it. I told them not to try to buy him. But they wouldn't listen. So now they're going to try to do it on the cheap. On the bloody, goddamned cheap.”

“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant-Major said. “Then there's this, too, sir. It's for that young American Lieutenant. It's got Top Priority too, sir, but I thought you'd better have a peek at it first.” The Sergeant-Major handed Baker-Bates another typed flimsy.

“You didn't happen to bring a cup of tea along with all this other bumf, did you, Sergeant?”

“Right here, sir, nice and hot.”

Baker-Bates accepted the tea, took a sip, and began to read the flimsy: “Lt. LaFollette Meyer, c/o Maj. Gilbert Baker-Bates.” After that there was the usual technical gibberish from the sending and receiving units. The message itself read: “R. H. Orr arriving Bonn-Cologne airport from Washington via London 0615 this date ATC flight 359. You will be both briefing and conducting officer.” The message was signed by a four-star American general.

Baker-Bates looked up thoughtfully. “So they're sending Nanny. That's interesting.”

“A friend of yours, sir?” the Sergeant asked politely.

Baker-Bates shook his head. “When I knew him, during the war, they called him that—Nanny.”

“Yes, sir. And this is the last bit, sir; it came by messenger. Caught me on my way up.” He handed Baker-Bates the ivory-colored envelope with the fancy handwriting. Baker-Bates ripped it open and began to read. Then he began to swear. He was still swearing when the Sergeant-Major left to find the young American Lieutenant.

Robert Henry Orr was the first and only passenger off the DC-3 at 6:15 that morning. Swaddled in a huge old raccoon coat, his beard bristling, Orr approached Lieutenant Meyer with both hands outstretched.

“So this is the author of all those absolutely brilliant reports we've been getting,” Orr said, grabbing Meyer's right hand in both of his.

“Well, I don't know how brilliant they've been, sir.”

“First-rate, my boy; absolutely first-rate. Is this our car?”

“Yes, sir.”

Orr climbed into the back seat of the Ford sedan, followed by Meyer. The Corporal closed the door, trotted around to the driver's seat, got in, and drove off.

“From that last report of yours, it seemed that things might be coming to a head,” Orr said.

“Something's happening.”

“Jackson hasn't been taking you into his confidence, has he?”

“Not exactly, sir.”

“Well, we didn't expect that he would. That's one of the reasons I decided to pop over. What about Baker-Bates? Has he been giving you any trouble?”

“None at all, sir. In fact, he's been most cooperative.”

“Good. So what's Jackson up to?”

“I'm not sure, sir. But this came this morning.” He handed Orr the ivory-colored envelope.

“From Jackson?” Orr said.

“No, sir. From the dwarf.”

“Ploscaru?” Orr read the letter enclosed in the envelope and started to chuckle. He looked at Meyer. “Have you read this?”

Meyer nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You think he's really going to do it?” he said, still chuckling.

“Nowadays, sir,” Lieutenant Meyer said, “I'll believe almost anything.”

It was seven o'clock in the morning by the time Leah Oppenheimer returned from her hurried trip to Cologne. The envelope from Ploscaru was waiting for her. After she read it, she immediately went to the hotel room next to hers and knocked. After a few moments the door was opened by Eva Scheel.

“What time is it?”

“A little after seven,” Leah said as she went in.

“You're already dressed.”

“I have been for hours.”

“Is there anything the matter?”

“There's this,” Leah said, and gave Eva Scheel the ivory-colored envelope.

Although Eva Scheel already knew what was in the envelope, she pretended to read it “You don't think it's some kind of terrible joke?”

Leah Oppenheimer shook her head. “No, I don't think it's a joke. Mr. Jackson warned me that something might happen—but I didn't expect anything like this.”

“You're going, I suppose.”

Leah Oppenheimer nodded. “Will you go with me?”

“Yes, I'll go with you,” Eva Scheel said. “Of course I will.”

It was still dark when Bodden awoke, surprised to learn that he wasn't yet dead. He lay on the steps of the large house quietly for a moment, trying to remember the last thing he had done. The handkerchief. He had fastened the handkerchief over the place where the dwarf had stabbed him. He gingerly moved his hand inside his shirt and touched the handkerchief. It was soaked. It had not stopped the bleeding, but it had helped.

Well, printer, either you can lie here and die, or you can get up. Maybe you can find something inside the house—some bandages. Even a sheet would do, if you've got the strength to tear it. He pushed himself slowly up to a sitting position. The pain hit, and he had to gasp. If he hadn't gasped, he would have screamed. Then the bleeding started again. He could feel the warm wetness as it trickled and flowed down his side.

He found the hoe where he had dropped it and used it to pull himself up. The pain from his knee combined with the pain from the knife's wound, and he gasped again. It's only pain, he told himself. You can get over it. Printers can get over anything.

With the aid of the hoe, he shuffled slowly through the still-open door and into the house. He turned right and made his way through the sliding doors into the room with the brown and red plush furniture. The kitchen, he thought. What you should do is find the kitchen. As he turned to leave the room, he heard the warm, deep, throaty chuckle. It seemed to come from far away. He looked around and saw the open door that led down into the cellar. He made himself go over to the door. The blood was running down his leg now and into his shoe.