Peter Rabe - A Shroud for Jesso

“My dear Jesso.” The cigar waved back and forth gently while Kator sniffed. “You’ve done well so far. You’ve changed within mere hours from a corpse in the Atlantic into a forceful executor of very expensive decisions. You have done all of the talking and now you even presume me stupid. Eh?”

“What in hell you talking about?”

“I should tell you what is so important in my mission? I should hand you information for which nations, continents might wish to go to war? Eh?”

“Eh, yes,” said Jesso. And he left it there.

In a short moment Kator stopped smiling. His face became a mask and the cigar held still, forgotten and pleasureless. It didn’t take Kator long to see he was licked. Without the clues he asked for, Jesso might never give him the vital information. The cigar snapped in half, making a papery sound. It had to be Jesso’s way. For now, at any event. Later, there were other ways; there were certainly other ways.

Kator decided fast, and he played the new role well.

“While I take another cigar, Jesso, you may begin your questions.”

“Who was Snell?”

“You mean, I’m sure, what was he to me?”

“Any way you want to put it, Baron.”

“Snell had worked with me for many years. But he was an American. And like you and all your countrymen, he was an opportunist. He tried to cheat me.”

“How?”

“Snell was in the States to transmit information. He was my courier. He had picked up the information as arranged and then decided not to deliver. Instead he meant to sell it himself.”

“That’s why he was scared to death?”

Kator shrugged. “He was, like many of his countrymen, a coward. I am not including you, dear Jesso,” and Kator gave a pleasant nod.

“So now we’re buddies.”

They exchanged smiles like two actors on a stage. “What was this hot news, Baron?”

“Jesso, that man Snell had been with me for twenty years. Not even Snell knew the meaning of the message.”

“Good for you.”

“What else would you like to know?”

“What’s your business, Baron?”

“Very simple. I deal in information.”

“Espionage?”

“Sometimes, Jesso.”

“This time, Kator?”

“This time, espionage.”

Kator had made a smoke ring, blue and lazy, and they both watched it float. It disappeared after a while.

“Have you found your clue yet, Jesso?”

“I don’t know. I’m getting there, it’s starting to make sense. Snell kept telling me of dates, dates. He meant data. He must have meant that he had data on him.”

“Brilliant, Jesso.”

“Now don’t get snippish, Baron. I’m trying my best. Now that I know what you’ve told me, data makes sense. And something else makes sense. Dates in the head, he kept saying, dates in the head.” Jesso looked up, making his face intent. “You got there when he was dead?”

“Yes.”

“But you got his data-dates in the head. He must have carried something near his head, on his head, so that-I got it! Snell had typed information and carried the paper under a toupe!”

It sounded real hot. Kator looked impressed. But then he tapped ashes into the tray and looked bored again. “Of course, I knew this without your help.”

“Sure. But I didn’t. Not until you went along with me and gave out with information.”

“Go on, Jesso.” Kator was smoking again.

“What was it, the stuff Snell carried?”

“I told you, Jesso, my courier didn’t even know that, my agent for twenty years. And I don’t know you.” Kator hesitated, smiled. “Or rather, I do know you.”

“You’re only stalling yourself, Kator.”

Kator was rolling the cigar in his mouth and his lips looked like an inner tube. “You have convinced me, Jesso.” He sat up with a theatrical sigh. “I’ll say this once, hoping you will forget it quickly. I’ll say it now so that we can come to a conclusion.”

Jesso sat up too. This was the time when Kator would hand out the death certificate with the name of Jackie Jesso. Or, perhaps, the gilt-edged thing that spelled Jack’s billion-dollar jackpot.

Kator got up and smoothed his jacket. His suit was dark and simple, but on Kator it looked like a uniform. He walked to the desk where the bottle had landed against the wall, and brushed some splinters to the floor. There was a locked compartment in the back, and inside it was a small green box, the kind that cashiers use.

When Kator started to unlock it, he did it in a funny way. He lifted the handle up, making it awkward to get the key in right. Then the box sprang open.

Besides the oilskin packet inside, there was a compact battery, a small thing like a stick in brown wrapping paper, and a mess of wire. The wires were attached behind the handle.

“Suspicious, aren’t you?” said Jesso.

“Yes.”

Kator flipped a wire off and took the packet out of the box. It seemed thick, but there was nothing in it except a sheet of onionskin. There were two columns of figures on the sheet. An ordinary typewriter had done the printing.

“You don’t seem impressed, Jesso.” Kator turned the sheet so Jesso could see the figures. “Do these mean anything to you?”

Jesso didn’t hesitate. “No, Baron. Do they to you?”

“No.” Kator turned the sheet around again and started to tap on the figures with one small finger. The gesture looked idle and indifferent. “These are production figures, Jesso. They constitute the weekly output of two integral parts belonging to a certain bomb. The bomb is being made in the United States. A most important new bomb.”

“Important to whom?”

“To the highest bidder, Jesso.”

“I thought the figures didn’t mean a thing to you.”

“I haven’t finished. I said two parts are mentioned here. One is the trigger mechanism of the warhead; the other is the warhead housing.”

“You’re over my head, Kator. What about the bomb?”

“Yes. What about the bomb?” Kator poured himself a cup of coffee. It was barely lukewarm. “Let’s say I told you how many warhead housings were being produced, a lot of five hundred, and one bomb requires one such housing. Can you tell me how many bombs are being readied?”

“Five hundred.”

“No, Jesso, because the same housing is being used for a much more ordinary bomb. Five hundred housings could mean five hundred bombs of either kind, or none of one, or none of the other, or half and half. The figures for the housing mean nothing, Jesso. They leave a margin of guessing for which I cannot expect to collect a cent.”

“So it’s the trigger mechanism you got to know about.”

“Precisely. Five hundred trigger mechanisms mean five hundred bombs, plus or minus ten per cent. In other words, dear Jesso, a salable guess with half a dozen eager takers.”

The flimsy piece of onionskin started to look gilt-edged. Jesso chewed his dry lips and waited, but Kator wasn’t saying any more. Perhaps he thought that Jesso knew enough, should know enough to say the next thing, whatever that might be. The onionskin looked just like paper again, and Jesso racked his brain, trying to spot the next right move.

“Shall I go on?” Kator asked.

“With what? If you know all that, Baron, what do you want from me?” It sounded brash, ignorant, and maybe Kator would think that Jesso was just hedging.

Kator started tapping the paper again and didn’t raise his eyes. “One column on production of the housing, one column on production of the trigger part. Which is which, Jesso? Or which parts of the two columns go together?”

This time neither of them spoke for minutes. Only the idle tapping of the finger, a gentle, padded sound. After a while Kator began to crook his finger until he struck the paper with his nail. It sounded hard, nervous.