Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

Damm looked at his watch, saw that it was nearly 5, and set out some glasses, water, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Scotch. Because of his diet he permitted himself only one drink a day, and the Scotch was mostly to impress his new business associate, the American Captain who called himself Bill Schmidt. Damm didn’t for one second believe that that was the Captain’s real name, but the Schmidt served to explain why the American spoke such fluent German. Schmidt’s German had an American accent, but it was detectable only to a good ear, which Damm prided himself on having.

At a minute or two after 5, Damm heard the jeep drive up. He looked out the window and watched Captain Bill Schmidt lift its hood and remove the distributor cap Damm was mildly displeased to discover that the Captain thought that his jeep might be stolen in Damm’s neighborhood.

When the Captain came in, they shook hands and the Captain said in German, “How goes it, K.H.?” Damm had long since resigned himself to being called by his forenames’ initials, which he assumed was one of those weird American customs.

“Very well, Captain, and you?” Although less than an hour after they had first met, the Captain had started addressing Damm with the familiar du, Damm still clung to the formal mode of address. The Captain didn’t seem to notice.

Captain Schmidt took off his hat and sailed it onto a couch. He then spied the Johnnie Walker and said, “My God, Scotch.”

Damm smiled, quite pleased. “I have my several sources,” he said, not seeing much use in being modest.

Damm moved over to the bottle and mixed two drinks, handing one to Schmidt. After they had toasted each other. Schmidt sprawled into an easy chair, stuck his long legs out in front of him, and said, “What have you got for me, K.H.? What have you got that’s worth twelve cases of cigarettes?”

Damm waved an admonishing forefinger. “No more Kools, though, Captain. I have a very difficult time disposing of that last case. People think they are being cheated when you trade them Kools.”

Schmidt shrugged. “They’re not supposed to smoke them. They’re currency. Smoking one is like smoking a dollar bill. Who cares what they taste like?”

“Nevertheless, no more Kools.”

“All right. No more Kools. Now what have you got?”

Damm raised his eyebrows. It gave him an arch look. “Diamonds?” he said. “What would you say to diamonds?”

“I’d say that I’d have to see them first.”

Damm reached into the pocket of his tweed suit and brought out a small drawstring bag made of leather. He handed it to Schmidt. The Captain put his drink down on a table and dumped the bag’s contents into the palm of his hand. There were twenty-four cut diamonds, none less than a carat in size.

While Schmidt inspected each diamond carefully, Damm picked up the Captain’s drink and slid a small porcelain tray under it.

“How much are you really asking, K.H.?” Schmidt said, dumping the diamonds back into the bag. Damm watched carefully to make sure that none was palmed.

“Twenty-four cases.”

“You’re crazy.”

Damm shrugged. “I must have them.”

“You know how many cigarettes there are in one case?”

“Sixty cartons to a case, two hundred cigarettes to a carton. Twelve thousand cigarettes.”

“At a dollar a cigarette.”

“That’s retail. You and I, my dear Captain, are wholesalers.”

“I’ll give you ten cases.”

“Twenty.”

“My last offer is thirteen cases.”

“And mine is seventeen,” Damm said.

“All right. Fifteen.”

“All Camels.”

“Half Camels,” the Captain said. “Half Luckies.”

“Done.”

“That’s a hell of a bargain you just made, K.H.”

“And you, my friend, have not done badly either. Currency is no longer of any use to you. You can’t send it home anymore. But diamonds. Well, diamonds are probably the most portable form of wealth. You can conceal a fortune of them in a packet of cigarettes. What else could be more valuable?”

Schmidt leaned forward in his chair. In his left hand he held the bag of diamonds. He tossed them up a few inches and caught them as his right hand moved slowly back to his hip pocket.

“Well, one thing I could think of, K.H., would be a new identity.”

Damm grew very still. For a few moments he didn’t breathe. He felt suddenly cold, and then the flush started. He could feel it spreading over his face. He knew the American could see it. There was a harsh sound, and he realized with some surprise that it had come from him. It had been a sigh — a long, sad, bitter one. Damm forced his mind to work. It was a quick mind, a facile one. He. had used it often enough before to extricate himself from more difficult positions than this. This was nothing. He made himself smile, although he knew the smile must look ghastly.

“But not for yourself, of course.”

“No, of course not,” Schmidt said. “I’m quite content with being who I am.”

He doesn’t talk the same, Damm thought. There’s no more American accent, none at all. He licked his lips. “For a friend, then?” he said. “Perhaps a relative?”

The Captain took the Walther out and pointed it at Damm. “I want the records. All of them.”

“We could share, of course,” Damm said quickly. “There is enough for all, and besides, I’ve been thinking of taking in a partner. An American partner would be perfect.”

“You don’t understand.”

“No?”

“I want the records that you keep yourself. I want the real names and current addresses of those to whom you’ve furnished new identities. And their new names too, of course.”

The first thing Damm thought was blackmail. It wouldn’t be the first time it had occurred to him, but until now he had been content to wait until his prospective victims could attain a level of prosperity that would make it worthwhile. But perhaps the American was right. Perhaps the time for blackmail had already arrived.

“It would be perfect,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I furnish the records and you make the approach. It could be quite profitable.”

“I want the records now,” Schmidt said. “All of them.” He waved the gun — a careless yet curiously threatening motion.

“Yes, of course,” Damm said and rose slowly. “I keep them in the safe in the bedroom.”

Schmidt watched while the kneeling man opened the small safe. Damm took out a ledgerlike book and started to close the safe. “Leave it open,” Schmidt said.

“Yes, yes, I’ll leave it open.”

Damm handed Schmidt the ledger. They returned to the living room, where the Captain used the pistol to wave Damm into a chair. Damm watched as Schmidt went through the ledger. Schmidt looked up once and smiled. “You keep excellent records.”

“I think you’ll find everything in order.”

“Very thorough,” Schmidt said, and placed the ledger on the table by his drink.

He stared at Damm for a moment and said, “I’m not an American. You must have realized that by now.”

Damm nodded vigorously. “Your accent — you don’t have it anymore. I have a good ear for accents. Very good.”

“My name,” the Captain said, “is Kurt Oppenheimer.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Damm said, and felt foolish.

“I’m a German and also a Jew. A German Jew. At one time I was a Communist, although I no longer think that I am.”

“Look, we can still do business.”

“I simply thought you would like to know,” Kurt Oppenheimer said, and shot Damm twice in the heart. The force of the bullets slammed Damm deep into his chair. He felt the pain and the shock, but neither kept his mind from working. The problem now was how to get himself out of this mess. He was still working on it forty-five seconds later when he died.