Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

“When?”

“In Mexico. In the hotel. While we were sitting there with my father. Couldn’t you tell?”

“No.”

“I thought you could. I thought I was very obvious. If my father’s eyes had been all right, I’m sure he would have been able to tell. At least, he would have suspected.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Was I too clumsy?”

“You weren’t clumsy at all. You were very... inventive.”

That also pleased her. “You’re sure? You’re not just saying so?”

“I’m sure. That thing you did with the ribbon.”

“You didn’t like it.”

“No, it was fine. Quite a sensation. Somebody once told me it was the specialty of a Mexican whorehouse he’d once spent a little time in.”

“Was I like a whore? I tried so hard to be.”

“You were fine. I just wondered how you happened to think it up — the ribbon thing.”

“Oh, that. Well, that came out of the books too. Was it interesting?”

“Extremely. What books?”

“In the villa in Switzerland. My father rented this villa from a man, and it had a library. There was one glass case that was kept locked. I found the key. The books were all written in English, but they had been written a long time ago — in the 1890’s, I think, because everybody went about in hansome cabs. They were mostly stories about what men and women do to each other. I read them aloud to myself sometimes because I thought it would be good for my English. Some of them were very exciting. Occasionally, when they would do something really interesting to each other, I would make a note about it in my diary.”

“For future reference.”

She nodded solemnly. “I thought if I were ever to get married, it would please my husband. Of course, we did not do all that I read about.”

“We didn’t?”

“No, there are many other things. Some of them, I think, are very strange. Do you like strange things?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you want to do this with me again?”

“Very much.”

“I was not sure. You will be going to Bonn, of course — you and Mr. Ploscaru.”

“Tomorrow.”

She frowned — a puzzled, earnest sort of frown. “Do you think they have little whips in Bonn?”

“I have no idea,” Jackson said.

When he let himself into the big house near the zoo, Jackson could hear Ploscaru banging away at the piano as he sang “Deep Purple” in his rich, true baritone. Jackson went through the sliding doors into the large sitting room where the coal fire burned in the grate. The little parlormaid was standing near the piano. She tried to curtsy, but couldn’t very well because she had only her underwear on. Instead, she snatched up the rest of her clothing and ran wordlessly from the room, her face and much of the rest of her a deep crimson. The dwarf finished singing about sleepy garden walls and breathing names with sighs and grinned at Jackson.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said.

“Did I interrupt something or were you already finished?”

“Quite finished, thank you. How was your dinner?”

“Expensive. We’ll be going to Bonn tomorrow.”

“Oh? Why?”

After Jackson finished telling him why, Ploscaru nodded and took a swallow of the drink that Jackson had mixed. “Interesting. The poor man sounds quite mad. Do you think he is?”

“Probably.”

“But still in all, rather cunning. It will be interesting to see where he lived.”

“Where who lived?”

“Why, Oppenheimer. But I didn’t tell you, did I? Of course not. There hasn’t been time. It cost a pretty penny, but I purchased some information from a DP earlier this evening that could be useful. It’s Oppenheimer’s address. It seems that he’s been living in a ruined castle not far from Höchst. We’ll go there tomorrow first thing and then on up the Rhine to Bonn. It should be quite pretty this time of year. We’ll go along the west bank, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Jackson said. “The west bank.”

“I’m glad you agree. You get a much better view of them from the west bank.”

“View of what?”

“Why, of the castles, of course.”

“Of course,” Jackson said.

Bodden had just opened the footlocker that contained the Thompson submachine guns, the .45 automatics, and the M-l carbines when he heard the car drive up. It sounded as though it were a big car, possibly even a truck. The engine was cut off, and then a door was slammed shut with a thunk. A moment later there was another thunk. That means two of them, he thought At least two.

He examined the footlocker full of weapons in the cellar of the old castle and decided on a carbine. He picked one up, slapped a magazine into place, jacked a cartridge into the chamber, and swore mildly and silently at Kubista the Czech. Bodden had paid the Czech one hundred dollars that morning for the information about the old castle that had once been Kurt Oppenheimer’s home or lair or hideout, and he was upset with himself for not having suspected that Kubista would sell the information to someone else. You knew he’d do that, he thought. You just didn’t think he’d do it quite so soon.

After making sure that the safety catch was off, Bodden turned toward the stone steps that led down into the cellar. He held the rifle across his chest, the way a hunter might hold it. He heard the voices then and was a bit pleased to realize that he could understand them because they were speaking English. They were talking about the padlocks that he had smashed open with the big rock. He had really had to batter the locks before they popped open.

“What if he’s still there?” he heard one of the voices say. It was a man’s voice, an American’s.

“He won’t be,” the other voice said, not quite so deep, but almost. It was a man’s voice too, but it spoke English with an accent of some kind that Bodden couldn’t identify.

“But if he is?” the American said.

“Then we’ll talk.”

“Let’s hope that’s all he’ll do.”

Bodden could now hear the footsteps as they descended the stone staircase. He turned slightly so that the carbine pointed in the general direction of the steps. His finger was on the trigger, but when he saw the dwarf, he took his finger from the trigger and held the rifle down at his side.

When the dwarf caught sight of Bodden, his eyebrows went up slightly. Then he nodded and said, “Good morning.” He seemed to ignore the rifle.

“Good morning,” Bodden said. So that’s the dwarf, he told himself. And the one behind him with the gray hair is the one called Jackson — the one without ambition.

“Are you the landlord?” Ploscaru said.

“You interested in a nice, dry cellar?”

The dwarf started brushing his hands off. “I noticed that the locks were broken. Vandals?”

“There’s a lot of them about. DP’s mostly.”

Jackson, after looking around the cellar, nodded toward the cases of cigarettes. “Your former tenant apparently liked a cigarette now and then.”

Bodden nodded. “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it?”

“The broken locks. Does that mean he was behind in his rent?”

“Something like that,” Bodden said.

The dwarf walked over and fingered the sleeve of one of the American officer uniforms that were hung as though awaiting inspection. “Very neat, your tenant. Pity that he got behind in his rent.”

“Yes,” Bodden said, “a pity.”

“Any idea where he might have gone?” Jackson said, nudging one of the jerry cans of gasoline to see whether it was full.

“No idea. He owe you money?”

“Something like that,” the dwarf said.

They heard the engine then. This time there was no doubt that it was a truck — a diesel-powered one by the sound of it. A door slammed, then another, and voices began jabbering at each other — Polish voices.