Peter Rabe - A Shroud for Jesso

There had been no sign from Kator, but a big Mercedes Benz rolled up and Kator’s flunkies had the doors open before the car had quite stopped at the curb. They all got in. Jesso had some plans of his own, and there was a short hassle with Bean Pole about the seats, but when the car purred off Jesso was in front with the driver. The chauffeur pulled the big car in a U turn and took off into the traffic toward town.

It looked like every other harbor town. Low dives, some cheap holes, and a dozen showy stores with tinsel gifts and the kind of novelties that sell at the county fair in Iowa as easily as in Singapore.

“Stop the car,” Jesso said.

The chauffeur didn’t even budge. He lifted his eyes to see Kator in the rear-view mirror. Kator barely shook his head and the chauffeur looked at the street again.

“Stop means Halt, Krauthead,” Jesso said, and he made a swift move with his hand.

By the time he had the car keys in his pocket, the big engine had puffed, bucked, and died. Bean Pole tried to reach one arm around Jesso’s neck but only got a nasty cut across his knuckles where Jesso clipped him with the gun sight of the Luger.

“Jesso.”

“It’s Joseph Snell to you, Kator.” Jesso dropped the gun back in his pocket while the car came to a sudden stop. Then he turned around and leaned his arms over the backrest. Kator was looking at him, and the guns that had come out of the trench coats were looking at him.

“Tell your SS to put the rods away,” Jesso said.

Kator hadn’t figured it out yet. His face stayed blank and waiting.

“In a minute they’ll shoot your million-dollar deal, Kator. Tell them!”

He sounded rough. He didn’t feel like arguing and didn’t give a damn just how he sounded. Kator was meeting a new Jesso; no longer rushed, impatient, as he had been in New York; no longer wary, anxious, as he had been on shipboard. Jesso was starting to tear the net and spreading one of his own.

The guns came down.

“Now I’m going across the street. I want Bean Pole along, to make with the language. Wait here.” He had the door open already. “I’ll only be a minute.”

So they waited, because they had to, and Bean Pole came along, because he had to.

There was a little place across the narrow street that had a pair of glasses hanging over the door. There were also cameras in the window and a sign that said, “5 Minuten.” The sign said more, but that’s all Jesso could read. They went inside and came out five minutes later. Jesso had a little bag that held three passport pictures. Then they drove off again.

“You got a guy that’ll fix that passport for me?” He held the pictures out so Kator could take them.

Kator took them but looked annoyed.

“You didn’t think you were going to palm that Joe Snell thing off on me without my picture in it, did you?”

It wasn’t a question the way Jesso said it.

Kator gave the pictures to Bean Pole and sat back.

“When we get to the hotel, Jesso, Karl will of course rework your papers.”

“Good old Karl,” Jesso said. “How’s he going to do it, with his fingernails?”

“We have the equipment,” Kator said, and his irritation started to show.

The car turned into the Kirchenalle, a stately street with ornate old hotels on either side. Without a word from the back the chauffeur pulled up to the marquee of a place called Kronprinzen and the doorman that shot out from the hotel looked as if he were the crown prince himself. When he had the door open he made a bow as if he wanted to kiss somebody’s foot, and he said, “Herr Kator,” reverently.

They filed into the plush foyer, with Kator nodding at bell captain, room clerk, and elevator man. Like a general surrounded by his well-oiled staff.

“We’ll try the other one,” Jesso said, and without waiting for anybody to get it straight he turned on his heel and left.

The two trench coats kept on either side of Jesso but Kator almost had to run to follow. Jesso stopped a few houses down and walked into the First Bismarck. The hotel was just as plush, but nobody called Kator by name. This time he had to go to the desk and register.

There was a writing room off to the left and Jesso went there. One of the desks had a typewriter where a kid in a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit was pecking x’s and dashes.

“Beat it, kid.” Jesso lifted the boy out of the chair. Then he fixed himself two sheets with carbon. For a moment it looked as if the high-heeled woman with the gold pince-nez was going to do something about her screaming Lord Fauntleroy, but then there was Jesso looking at her, his sailor clothes rumpled and two mean lines running down through the stubble around his mouth. The two trench coats stood by just in case, and they didn’t look friendly either.

When Jesso had typed his piece he sealed it in an envelope and stuck the copy in his pocket. Kator was waiting at the front desk.

“If you are ready,” he said, but Jesso looked right past him.

“I’m not.” He stepped up to the desk. “You understand English?” he asked the clerk.

“Certainly, sir. All our-”

“Very neat. Now listen close. Here’s a letter. Hold it for the next thirty minutes. If I haven’t picked it up by then, open the letter, read it, call the police, and give it to them. Understand?”

Kator had stepped up, clearing his throat, and the clerk looked puzzled.

“If you won’t,” Jesso said, “I’ll call the police right now.”

Jesso hadn’t been wrong. There was nothing the clerk wanted less than having a policeman come across the lobby. Jesso looked at Kator and Kator didn’t like the idea either. The clerk took the letter.

“Let’s go, Kator. You got thirty minutes to get my papers ready.”

They went up in the elevator, looking normal enough, but when they were in the room Kator had rented and the bellhop had bowed himself out of the room the atmosphere changed. One trench coat sat down by the phone, the other stood by the door. He locked it, bolted it, then faced the room. Kator had sat down by the night stand because there was no table in the room. Jesso figured that Kator didn’t mean to stay here very long and there was no reason to waste any money on a proper suite. Good enough to have four bare walls, a washstand, and a bed. Good enough for a short talk and maybe a quick death.

“I thought you’d like to know what’s in that letter,” Jesso said, pulling out the carbon.

Kator took the sheet. It was addressed to the police and asked them to notify the American consul of the violent death of one Jack Jesso, abducted by force by one Johannes Kator, who was described in full and whose activities for the past two weeks were listed in great detail. The whole thing made quite an impression.

Kator’s words were hardly audible. “Would you mind if I burned this?” he asked.

“Go right ahead,” Jesso said, “and you got twenty-three more minutes.”

Kator lit the sheet with his lighter and watched it blacken and curl in the chamber pot he had found in the night stand. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. When he opened them they looked at the man by the phone. He got up with a rush and Jesso’s arms were pinned back. Then Kator leaned forward, pulled the Luger out of Jesso’s pocket, and tossed it to Karl, the Bean Pole.

Jesso hadn’t tried to move. When the guy behind him let go, Jesso straightened his jacket, folded his arms, and said, “You got eighteen minutes, Kator.” He knew there was a reason for that quick trick, but for the moment it didn’t seem to matter. “So tell Charlie to get busy with my passport.”

“Karl is very adept, you will see. There is plenty of time.” Kator took a leather-bound notebook from his pocket and a small silver pencil. He handed them to Jesso.