Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

Stracey opened the passport, glanced at it, and said, “Yeah, I remember. Why?”

Orr laced his hands across his belly, tipped his chair back, and stared up at the ceiling. “I hear you’ve run into a snag up on the Hill.”

A bill was wending its way through Congress, which, if everything went just right, would create the first national intelligence-gathering organization. Recognizing Stracey’s popularity with Congress, the War Department, with no little apprehension, had made him one of its chief lobbyists to make sure that the military didn’t get left out when Congress finally got around to dividing up the intelligence pie. The quid pro quo had been succinctly spelled out to Stracey by a four-star general. “You get us our piece,” the General had said, “and we’ll take care of you. Maybe the number five or number six spot in the new outfit”

Stracey’s reply had been equally succinct. “Number five, and I want it in writing.” The General, after failing to stare Stracey down, had agreed.

To Orr’s observation Stracey replied, “Snag? I don’t know of any snag.”

“No?”

“No.”

“By my troth, Milo, you really are the most obdurate person I’ve ever known.”

“You mean thick.”

“No, not thick, although that will do.”

“Okay. We’ve got a little problem up on the Hill. But nothing that’s going to make us shit our pants. What’s that got to do with him?” Again he tapped Minor Jackson’s passport.

“I’m not sure, really. He wants to go to Germany.”

“Let him.”

“He was in Mexico recently. Guess whom he ran into down there?”

“I never guess.”

“No, you don’t, do you? Well, he ran into Baker-Bates. You were never very keen on him, as I recall, but what ever would Baker-Bates be doing strayed so far from home?”

A mask descended over the mask that was Milo Stracey’s face. His blue eyes seemed to Orr to grow a shade lighter, which made them almost the shade of ice when the light was just right. He had a curiously colorless face — not gray, not pink, but sort of a strangely smudged white. It went with his hair, which was neither gray nor blond but gray trying to be blond, or blond trying to be gray. Orr wasn’t sure. Although he knew that Stracey’s age was forty, he didn’t look it. Nor did he look fifty or thirty, although he could have passed for either. The monochrome man, Orr thought, and became fascinated with how little the lips that formed the line that was Stracey’s mouth moved when they said, “Where in Mexico?”

“Oh, no. Oh, my, no. I never, never give anything away. Of all people, Milo, you should know that by now.”

“Okay, if there’s anything to it, you’re in.”

“All the way, of course.”

Stracey stared at Orr. It was a stare that could shrivel most men, but Orr returned it with the smiling certitude of the Christian holding four aces whom Mark Twain had once observed.

“Sure, Nanny,” Stracey finally said. “All the way.”

“Good. Baker-Bates was in Ensenada. Now, what tinkly bell does that ring?”

“When?”

“Two weeks ago. About that”

Stracey picked up Minor Jackson’s passport, looked inside it again, put it back down on the desk, and said, “The Oppenheimers.”

“Oh, my.”

Stracey tapped Jackson’s passport once more with a shining fingernail, and Orr realized for the first time, with a small, pleasant shock, that the fingernail had been manicured. He filed the information away for future possible use. Still tapping Jackson’s passport, Stracey said, “He’s not that good; he never was.”

“I always thought he was rather good — in a charming, lackadaisical way, of course.”

“Not up against Kurt Oppenheimer.”

“Perhaps he only wants to find him. Perhaps the father and the sister will pay him a little money to do only that.”

“He’s not that good either.”

“He’ll have some help, I believe.”

“Who?”

Now it’s going to become truly delicious, Orr thought. Now he’ll crack, maybe even breathe in and out once or twice. “Who? Why, the dwarf, of course. You remember the dwarf. You should.”

“Ploscaru,” Stracey said, and something might have twitched in his face up near the right eye — or was it the left? Orr had to remember which hand was which before he could be certain. But there was only that one twitch, if that, and afterward the frost came back and covered things up.

“Ploscaru’s dead,” Stracey said.

“Little Nick? You must be thinking of a different Ploscaru.”

“The dwarf. He’s dead. He died outside of Prague in July last year. The Russians got him.”

“You sent him to Prague, didn’t you?”

“I sent him.”

“After using him in Bucharest to find that Iron Guard type and the German, the one who did such a wonderful job with the ack-ack at Ploesti. He found them when nobody else could, and as a reward you sent him to Prague. He didn’t go, you know. Instead, he kept the money — all that gold, you remember — and got one of his Air Corps buddies to smuggle him back to the States — to New York. He was there for about two months and then went to Los Angeles, of all places.”

“You held out on me, Nanny.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll remember.”

“I very much hope so; otherwise, what would be the point? But back to business. Suppose Jackson and the dwarf were able to turn up the Oppenheimer lad. It would be quite a plum for you — or rather, for us; something you could whisper about Congress, make them feel important, in the know, the very kind of stuff they dote on. It would all leak, of course, and the press would run with it. More accolades, thoughtful editorials about how perhaps after all the country really does need a well-run intelligence outfit. We could have all that — unless, of course, we might find some other use for Oppenheimer’s rather peculiar talents.”

“Such as?”

Orr closed his eyes sleepily, opened them, and stared up at the ceiling. “How many Jewish votes are there in Congress? By that I mean how many hard-core pro-Zionist votes — the kind who devoutly believe every word that Ben Hecht writes?”

Stracey didn’t have to pause to add them up. “Thirteen,” he said. “Three for us, eight against, and two still up for grabs.”

Still staring up at the ceiling, Orr said, “Suppose we found young Oppenheimer, managed to sneak him into Palestine, and then turned him loose to do what he does best.”

“Killing people.”

“Yes, killing people. The right people — at least, as far as the more fervent Zionists are concerned.”

“British types.”

“Yes, I suppose they would have to be British, wouldn’t they?”

Stracey smiled — a chilling, almost terrible smile. “It could swing a few votes — provided we can figure out a way to claim the credit.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Milo.”

Stracey did some rapid mental calculation. “Those hard-core Zionist votes could just put us in business.”

“How nice.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Stracey again tapped Minor Jackson’s passport. “We’ll run him — both him and the dwarf.”

“He doesn’t want to be run.”

“Helms is in Germany; we’ll put him onto it.”

Orr sighed. “Not Helms. Jackson and Helms went to school together in Switzerland — at Rolle, I believe. They despise each other.”

“We’re going to have to have our man in on it.”

“Come up with a nobody,” Orr suggested. “A smart nobody, more shepherd than chaperon.”

It was an intelligent suggestion, and Stracey accepted it immediately. It was one of the reasons he had come as far as he had. And it was the primary reason that he would go as far as he did. Although Stracey’s expression didn’t change, Orr was almost positive that he could hear a circular file filled with names ticking over inside the other man’s head.