Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

The dwarf knelt on the passenger seat, his lips peeled back by both the wind and a grin that was almost manic. “Faster!” he yelled above the supercharger’s howl. “Faster!”

Jackson kept his foot down, and the speedometer quickly reached 160 kilometers per hour. He kept it there for a few moments, then took his foot from the accelerator, and the big car slowed. He let its speed drop back down to a sensible 60 kilometers per hour.

“How fast did we go?” Ploscaru asked.

“About a hundred miles per hour.”

“I like to go fast. It’s something to do with sex, I think. I get quite aroused.”

“This is some car you found, Nick.”

“How does it handle?”

“Better than I would’ve thought. Very smooth, very quick. Even a kid could handle it. I’m not sure that they remembered to put the springs in, though. Run over a marble and you feel it clear up your spine. Not to be picky, but don’t you think maybe it’s just a bit flashy for our line of work?”

“Flashy?”

“Yeah, flashy. We’re supposed to be a trifle clandestine, aren’t we? You know, sly and sneaky. This thing’s about as sneaky as a parade.”

“But fast.”

“Very fast.”

“We might need it, then.”

“For what?”

“To get from here to there very quickly.”

When they got back to the big house near the Frankfurt zoo, one of the young maids was waiting for them with an envelope and the important air of someone who gets to deliver the bad news.

“He said to give it to either of you,” she said after making her curtsy.

“Who?”

“The man who brought it. He came on a bicycle. He said it was of the gravest importance. A matter of life or death, he said.”

Ploscaru’s eyebrows went up. “He said that?”

“I am almost positive, Herr Direktor.”

Jackson took the envelope and followed Ploscaru into the sitting room, where a coal fire burned in the grate.

“Open it while I make us a drink,” Ploscaru said.

Jackson examined the envelope, which was made of thick, cream-colored paper. There was nothing written on its front or back, so he smelled it. There was a slight scent that he decided was lavender. He opened the envelope with his finger and took out a single sheet of paper.

He recognized the handwriting immediately. But even if it had been typed, he felt that he would automatically have identified its sender from the florid prose. There was no salutation, and the note began abruptly: “A terrible thing has happened. I am in despair and must see you at once. Please do not fail me in this hour of grave need.” It was signed with Leah Oppenheimer’s initials, L.O.

He traded the letter to Ploscaru for a drink. “A maiden in distress,” Jackson said.

Ploscaru read the note quickly, looked up, and said, “She does like a bit of melodrama, doesn’t she? I suppose you’d better go see her.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

The dwarf shook his head. “I think not. You seem to be handling her quite well, and there is the chance that I may have an important appointment tonight.”

“She keeps asking about you.”

“Make my excuses.”

“I think she’s getting tired of excuses.”

“Then take her to dinner. There’s quite a good black-market restaurant that I’ve heard about. Here, I’ll give you the address.” He wrote the address with a gold pencil on the back of the letter and handed it to Jackson. “You can even give her a ride in the car. She might like that.”

“I think I’ll run her past the gas station just to see what the fellas think.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

When Leah Oppenheimer opened the door of the apartment on the third floor, Jackson lied and said, “I came as soon as I got your note.” Actually, he’d had another drink first.

“You are so very kind,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper. “Do come in.”

As she led him into the room where she had served tea and sliced Milky Ways, Jackson had the feeling that he was being led into a funeral parlor by the most bereaved relative of the deceased. It was still cold in the room, and Leah Oppenheimer had her camel’s-hair coat on.

“I am sorry, but there is no electricity,” she said, indicating two candles that burned near the table where tea had been served. “No heat either, I’m afraid, but do sit down.”

“What’s happened?” Jackson said, choosing the same chair that he had sat in before.

“It’s horrible. It’s so horrible that I can’t believe it.” Her voice almost broke, and now that she was under the candle light Jackson could see that she had been crying.

“Tell me.”

“My brother, he... he...” Then the tears started, as did the sobs. Jackson rose and patted her on the shoulder. He felt clumsy. She reached for his hand and held it pressed against her cheek. She cries the same way she writes, Jackson thought, found his handkerchief with his other hand, and gave it to her.

“Here,” he said, “blow your nose.”

“Thank you.” She blew her nose, wiped away the tears, and looked up at him. “You’re always so very kind. I feel I can trust you. I... I’ve always felt that from the first moment we met.”

Jackson tried not to gimace. She’s reading it, he decided. She has this mental script that some idiot has written for her and she reads from it.

“Better?” he said, freeing his hand and using it to give her shoulder another pat.

She nodded.

Jackson resumed his seat and said, “Tell me about it. Tell me about what’s so horrible.”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked away, as though it would make the telling easier. “My brother.”

Jackson waited. When she said nothing after several moments, he said, “What about him?”

Still looking away, she said, “They say he has killed somebody else.”

Jackson sighed. “Who’re they?”

“Lieutenant Meyer. He was here earlier. He said my brother shot and killed a man at the Opel plant. What could he have been doing at the Opel plant? It’s at Russelsheim, you know.”

“Who did he kill?”

“A man. He held a trial, found him guilty, and then killed him.”

Jackson took out his cigarettes, thought about offering Leah Oppenheimer one, decided against it, lit one for himself, and said, “I want you to do something for me.”

She looked at him then. “Of course. Anything.”

“Tell me exactly what Lieutenant Meyer said.”

It took her a while, nearly half an hour, what with her asides, rhetorical questions, and the several long periods during which she said absolutely nothing, but instead gazed silently down at her hands.

When Jackson felt that she was through, he said, “That’s it? You’ve told me everything he said?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“Where is your friend?”

“Eva? She and Lieutenant Meyer went out. It will be their last night together for perhaps some time. They will probably be out quite late. She wanted to stay with me, but I told her no, that it wasn’t necessary, that it might be better if I were alone with my thoughts.”

She’s reading again, Jackson thought.

“So I was alone for a time, and when I could no longer bear it, I sent you that silly note. You were so very kind to come.”

“Why isn’t Lieutenant Meyer going to be around for a while?” Jackson said.

“Why? Because he feels he had to go to Bonn, of course.”

“Of course. But why Bonn exactly?”

“Because that’s where my brother’s going. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No. You didn’t.”

“It’s important, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “It’s important.”

It took Jackson a while to convince her that she should accept his invitation to dinner. Several times he almost gave up, but instead persisted, and when at long last she accepted, she suddenly found she couldn’t go the way she was dressed.