The Eighth Dwarf (35 page)

He looked down the stairs. The bottom seemed far away—an impossible distance. Then he heard the chuckle again. It sounded warmer this time. It sounded warm and friendly and uncommonly wise. You need help, printer, he told himself. You'll have to go down those steps. Down there at the bottom of them is someone who can help you.

He started down the stairs, using the hoe, taking one step at a time. The bleeding became worse, and so did the pain. He almost decided to sit down and rest, but then he heard the chuckle again, even warmer and wiser than before, and it helped him continue down the steps, slowly, until he reached the bottom.

There were several doors, and Bodden opened the first one he came to. The sight of the girl's disemboweled body almost made him faint. He knew he was going to be sick. He closed the door and vomited. When it was over, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he heard the chuckle again.

You always did trust people too readily, he thought. That happy chuckler might be the one who carved up the girl in there. He took the Walther from his pocket and moved toward the door where the chuckle seemed to have come from. Bodden noticed the key in the door's lock. He turned it and swung the door open. The first thing he saw was Minor Jackson sitting in one corner. Then he saw Oppenheimer.

Bodden nodded at Oppenheimer. “Why doesn't he have his clothes on?”

“I'm not really sure,” Jackson said. “You're bleeding, but I suppose you know that.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“That little dwarf,” Bodden said, “He's very good with a knife, isn't he?”

“Very.”

Bodden made his way over to one of the walls and leaned against it. The pistol was aimed at nothing in particular. Oppenheimer played with his toes and chuckled again.

“What happened to him?” Bodden said, staring at Oppenheimer.

“I don't know,” Jackson said. “I suppose he decided that he just didn't much care for reality.”

“Is he completely mad?”

“I don't know about completely, but he's pretty crazy. Harmless, though, I think.”

Bodden let the pistol drop to his side. He smiled—a wry, sardonic smile. “We were going to take him from you.”

“Who?”

“The woman and I—the Scheel woman. You didn't know that, did you?”

“No.”

“That was our plan. We were going to let you and the dwarf catch him and then we were going to take him from you. Some plan.”

“And send him East, huh?”

“East? No, we weren't going to send him East. We were supposed to, but that wasn't our plan. Her plan, I mean. No, we were going to take him from you and then sell him to the Americans. Not a bad plan, was it?”

“Better than average.”

“You know what I was going to do with the money?”

“What?” Jackson said as he reached over and took the Walther. Bodden seemed neither to notice nor to care.

“I was going to buy a printing shop somewhere. I'm really a damned fine printer.”

He started sliding down the wall. His feet slipped out from under him and he sat down hard, although it didn't seem to bother him. “The dwarf—he crossed you, didn't he?”

Jackson nodded.

“I knew he would. Well, things didn't work out too well for either of us, did they?”

“No,” Jackson said. “They didn't.”

“Tough shit,” Bodden said in English, and grinned weakly. “I am told that they say that frequently in Cleveland, Ohio. Is it true?”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, “I think they probably say that in Cleveland a lot.”

“A Pole told me that they did.” Bodden's head dropped until his chin rested on his chest. After a moment, he raised it and looked at Jackson. “The Pole. He was a very funny fellow.”

His chin dropped back down to his chest, his eyes closed, and after a moment or two, he stopped breathing.

33

Leah Oppenheimer still didn't want to believe that the dwarf who stood on the chair behind the lectern in the Godesberg Hotel conference room was Nicolae Ploscaru. He's an impostor, she had told herself. Nicolae Ploscaru was no dwarf—he was tall and fair and cruelly handsome. The dwarf had to be an impostor.

She had had to force herself to accept the fact that the dwarf was who he claimed to be. The voice had done it, of course—that low, almost musical baritone with its undercurrent of sexual invitation. It was the same voice that she had heard over the telephone many times. There could be no mistake. It was Nicolae Ploscaru's voice.

“I regret, my dear,” the dwarf had said after introducing himself, “that things did not work out quite as we had planned.”

Leah Oppenheimer had been able only to nod dumbly and manage one question. “Where is my brother?”

“With Mr. Jackson,” the dwarf had said, smiled, and turned away to nod gravely at Robert Henry Orr and Lieutenant Meyer.

Ten chairs had been set out in the room in two rows of five each. Orr and Meyer sat together, as did Leah Oppenheimer and Eva Scheel. The dwarf, behind the lectern, smiled and looked at his watch.

“We'll begin, ladies and gentlemen, as soon as our last guest arrives.”

The last guest was Major Baker-Bates, who entered the conference room two minutes later. He nodded sourly at the dwarf and then spotted Eva Scheel sitting next to Leah Oppenheimer. He smiled for the first time that day. Well, Gilbert, he told himself, the morning's not going to be a total waste after all.

Baker-Bates took the seat next to Eva Scheel's and smiled at her pleasantly. “The printer coming?” he said.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't understand your question.”

“You understand,” Baker-Bates said. “When this charade is done, you and I will have a chat. A long one.”

The dwarf rapped for order with a water glass. “I think we'll keep this quite informal, ladies and gentlemen. We are here to auction off a rather interesting item with which all of you are familiar. The terms will be cash, of course, in either American dollars or British pounds. Swiss francs are also quite acceptable. I might add that the item that's being auctioned off is in excellent condition and will be available one hour after the final bid is made. Are there any questions?”

Orr raised his hand. “How can we be sure that you have the item in question?”

“Faith, my dear sir, faith. In all commerce a certain amount of good faith must be exercised by both parties. I have certain goods for sale which you and others wish to buy. I scarcely would have gone to such elaborate arrangements if I did not intend to deliver. Upon delivery, if you are not entirely satisfied, then you have certain methods of recourse, which I would rather not mention.”

“I'm relieved that you're aware of them,” Orr said.

“Quite aware.”

Eva Sheel had not been listening to Orr and the dwarf. Instead, her mind raced furiously as she tried to decide her next move. Something must have happened to the printer, she realized. He might even be dead—killed by either the dwarf or Jackson. So the plan must be abandoned. She had Berlin's $25,000 in her purse. The British Major had somehow connected her with the printer. That meant he knew who and what she was—really was. If she bid on the goods, there was no way that they would let her leave Bonn with them, if hers was the high bid. But still, if she bid, and it was high, then it might be a bargaining chip in her talk with the British Major. She was going to need all the bargaining power that she could muster. She bit her lower lip and decided to bid.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” the dwarf was saying, “I will entertain the first bid. Do I hear five thousand dollars?”

Ploscaru looked around the room. Orr nodded.

The dwarf smiled. “We have five thousand. Do I hear six?”

“Six,” Baker-Bates said.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Orr said.

“The gentleman from the United States bids ten thousand dollars. Do I hear eleven?”

“Eleven thousand,” Leah Oppenheimer said.

The dwarf smiled knowingly. “Eleven thousand from—shall we say—the soon-to-be state of Israel. Do I hear twelve?”

“Twelve,” Baker-Bates said.

“Fourteen,” Orr said promptly.

Baker-Bates did his multiplication. With the pound at $4.03, he decided to bid his limit and get it over with. “Sixteen thousand,” he said. To himself he added, And you can bloody well take it or leave it.

“Eighteen,” Leah Oppenheimer said.

“Twenty thousand,” Orr said.

There was a silence. Ploscaru nodded genially and said, “We have twenty thousand dollars bid, ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear twenty-five?”

The silence continued. “Come, now, ladies and gentlemen, we're not going to let this valuable item go for a mere twenty thousand, are we? Do I hear twenty-five?”

Eva Scheel drew in her breath, held it, let it out, and said in a low, almost defiant tone, “Twenty-five thousand.”

Leah Oppenheimer turned and stared at her. Eva Scheel refused to meet her gaze. Four chairs away, Lieutenant Meyer looked ill. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

“We have twenty-five thousand from the lady in the fur coat,” Ploscaru said. “You're representing whom, my dear?”

Eva Scheel said nothing but instead stared straight ahead.

“My word,” the dwarf said, looking with feigned horror at Orr. “Do you think she might be representing our comrades to the east?”

“Thirty thousand,” Orr said quickly.

“We have thirty thousand from Uncle Sam,” Ploscaru said with a delighted smile. “Do I hear thirty-five?”

“Thirty-five,” Leah Oppenheimer said. She was still staring at Eva Scheel. “You could have told me, Eva,” she said sadly. “I would have understood. Whatever it is you're doing, I know I would have understood.”

Eva Scheel said nothing.

“We have thirty-five thousand bid,” Ploscaru said. “Thirty-five. Do I hear forty?”

“Forty,” Orr said.

“Forty thousand is bid, ladies and gentlemen. Forty thousand dollars. Do I hear forty-five?”

There was another silence.

“Do I hear forty-five thousand?” Ploscaru said again.

There were no bids.

“Forty thousand once,” Ploscaru said, and paused. “Forty thousand twice.” He paused again, then rapped with the water glass, smiled broadly, and said, “Sold, American,” just as Minor Jackson entered the room leading Kurt Oppenheimer by the hand.

Oppenheimer, dressed only in Jackson's topcoat, smiled foolishly, chuckled wisely, and began urinating on the floor.

34

By noon that day in Bonn, the following events had taken place:

The British Army had locked Kurt Oppenheimer away in a quiet, dim room.

Maj. Gilbert Baker-Bates had almost succeeded in persuading Eva Scheel to turn double agent and was confident of turning her all the way around right after the splendid lunch that he had ordered for both of them.

Lt. LaFollette Meyer had decided not to kill himself after all, but to get drunk instead, up in his room alone, which he was now doing.

Leah Oppenheimer had caught a train for Frankfurt without saying goodbye to anybody, her destination Marseille, where she would board a ship that ultimately would land her in Palestine.

And Nicolae Ploscaru had drunk three glasses of gin alone in the hotel bar and was contemplating a fourth when Robert Henry Orr, still wearing his raccoon coat, dropped heavily into the chair across the table from him.

“Well, Nick, getting quietly drunk, I see.”

“Quietly,” Ploscaru agreed.

“On what?”

“Some kind of gin. It's all they have.”

“Then that's what we'll drink,” Orr said cheerfully, and signaled the bartender for another round.

After the drinks came, Orr shrugged out of his raccoon coat “You know,” he said, “the whole thing was really quite clever, almost brilliant. Too bad the poor bastard was mad.”

“Yes,” Ploscaru said, sipping his gin. “Too bad.”

“What're your plans?”

“At this particular moment? None.”

“Things are moving in Washington, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Not this year, but next, we should have our own new shop open for business. Interested?”

“In what?”

“Piecework between now and then. We'd pay you a fair price. Afterward, when the new shop opens up, we could arrange something more permanent—and profitable.”

“What're they going to call it—your new shop?”

“The National Intelligence Agency, I think—although that's not firm yet. Some don't feel that National's quite right. Makes it sound too much like a bank.”

“I'll think about it,” Ploscaru said.

“Do that, Nick,” Orr said, draining his drink. “I'll be around for a few days.”

When Minor Jackson came down from his room with his bag an hour later to check out of the hotel, the dwarf was standing in the lobby. Jackson could Ploscaru was rather drunk.

The dwarf bowed gravely. “I am here to offer my apologies.”

“Get the fuck out of my way, Nick, or I'll step on you.”

Ploscaru sighed. “And rightly so, too.” He spread his hands. “What more can I say?”

“Nothing.”

“You're off, then?”

“That's right.”

“May I ask your destination?”

“Amsterdam.”

The dwarf looked puzzled. “Amsterdam. Why Amsterdam?”

“It's where they buy diamonds.”

The dwarf brightened at the scent of profit, but only for a moment. “I don't suppose—”

“No,” Jackson said, turned, and started for the desk.

“Minor.”

Jackson turned back. The dwarf was standing alone is the center of the lobby. He looked very small. He licked his lips as if trying to think of what he wanted and needed to say. But no words came. Instead, he unconsciously began to brush some imaginary crumbs from his palms. He's begging, Jackson thought. He's standing there alone and as naked as he'll ever be and begging, except that he doesn't really know how to do it.