Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

Across the street, shielded by the dark and the trunks of the old trees, Von Staden felt his excitement mount. Despite the chill in the air, he was sweating slightly. Well, printer, he thought, where did you acquire the limp? And what have you and the little rabbit to talk about? That would be even more interesting.

The sight of Bodden when he came out of the Gasthaus with Eva Scheel had been almost a shock to Von Staden. He had to force himself to hang back. Only when the pair had reached the Rhine and turned right down a path did he allow himself to cross the dark street.

At the thick bushes, he hesitated. Then slowly he edged around them onto the path.

It was a rock that hit Von Staden in the temple, although he never knew it. Nor did he feel himself being dragged down the steep bank and shoved into the water. He drowned two minutes later. He didn’t feel that either.

After Bodden climbed back up the riverbank and rejoined Eva Scheel, he said, “A bad business.”

“He was the only one who could connect us.”

“You’re positive?”

“I’m positive.”

Eva Scheel was wrong about that, of course. Maj. Gilbert Baker-Bates could also connect her with the printer. But he wouldn’t do that for nearly ten hours, and by then it had all fallen apart.

When Jackson got back to his room on the third floor of the Bad Godesberg Hotel that night, it was 11:15 and thirteen persons had queued up outside the dwarf’s door. Seven were men; six were women. A few of them looked shamefaced. Several others seemed almost arrogant. All studiously ignored one another.

The dwarf’s door was unlocked. When he entered the room, Jackson discovered that the furniture had been rearranged. The table that Ploscaru had counted the marks on was now in the center of the room. On it was the money, neatly stacked. Next to the money was a student’s lamp, twisted so that its light would shine full into the face of whoever sat down in the single chair drawn up in front of the table. Behind the table were two straight chairs. Ploscaru was in one of them.

“Jesus, Nick, the only thing you’ve forgotten is the rubber hose.”

“Atmosphere, Minor. Atmosphere.”

“You’ve got it looking like the back room at Gestapo headquarters.”

“Do you think so? That was just the touch I tried for.”

Jackson nodded toward the door. “Are they all ...” He didn’t finish his sentence because the dwarf started nodding happily.

“All. Each one has someone to inform against. Isn’t it delightful?”

“We’re going to be up all night.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

Jackson ran the faces through his mind. “Two or three, I think.”

“How many places did you visit?”

“About twenty.”

“Good. I went to almost as many. Now, then, I think you should usher them in and out and sit here beside me and look grim and mysterious. I’ll do the interrogation — unless, of course, you’d like to.”

“No, I’ll just look grim and mysterious and frown a lot.”

“Shall we begin?”

“Sure.”

The first informer was a man of about forty-two. He had a pale, doughy face with eyes like wet raisins. The eyes lit upon the stacked money and never left it. Jackson waved the man into the chair with a silent gesture and then took his own chair behind the table, remembering to frown sternly.

“You have something to tell us, I believe,” the dwarf said.

“My name is—”

The dwarf interrupted. “We’re not interested in your name.”

The man blinked, but kept his eyes on the money and started again. “There is this man who should be arrested.”

“Why?” the dwarf asked.

“After the war he lied.”

“About what?”

“About me.”

“What lie did he tell about you?”

“He said I was a member of the Party.”

“Were you?”

“No.”

“The truth. We will not pay for lies.”

“Well, I was a member, but only for a short while.”

“How long?”

“Five years. I lost my job. This man informed on me and I lost my job. He got it. The British gave it to him.”

“What job was it?”

“It was with the bursar’s office at the university. I was an accountant. He got my job by lying.”

“He was a member of the Party?”

“No, but he was more of a Nazi than I ever was. He hated the Jews. He used to go to Cologne with his Nazi pals and beat them up. I know. He told me about it.”

“And now he has your job?”

“Yes.”

“You seem to know him well.”

“I should,” the man said. “He’s my cousin.”

The dwarf sighed and turned to Jackson. “One hundred marks.”

Jackson counted out one hundred marks and handed them to the man.

“One hundred? I heard it was one hundred thousand.”

“Only for the right information.”

“Wait — I can tell you some other things about him.”

Jackson was around the table now. He took the man by the elbow and steered him to the door. “You’re an American, aren’t you?” the man said.

“That’s right.”

“Tell the other Americans about my cousin. The British don’t care. Tell the other Americans about him. Maybe they’ll put him in jail. That’s where he belongs.”

“Fine,” Jackson said. “I’ll tell them.”

The next man to sit at the table before the money had a neighbor whom he despised. After that it was a woman whose brother-in-law had bilked her out of some property. Another man claimed that his wife was cheating on him with someone who, he charged, was a war criminal. Further questioning revealed that the wife’s lover was actually the husband’s boyhood friend. They both were trolley motormen and had been for years.

It went on much like that until the twelfth person entered the room. She was younger than the rest had been, not much more than twenty-two or twenty-three. She was not especially pretty — her protruding teeth kept her from being that — but her body was well fed, almost voluptuous. She loosened her thin black coat and breathed deeply, either out of nervousness or so that the two men could admire her large breasts. Neither Ploscura nor Jackson recognized her as anyone he had talked to as they made their rounds of cafes and bars earlier that evening.

“Who sent you, Fräulein?” Ploscaru asked.

“A friend,” she said. “He told me you would not need to know my name.”

“That’s right.”

“He said you are looking for a man.”

Ploscaru nodded.

“A bad man — an evil man.”

Again, Ploscaru nodded.

“There is this man I worked for.” She dropped her head and stared into her lap.

“What did you do for him?”

“I was a maid.”

“He has a house?”

“Yes. It’s a large house almost on the Rhine.”

“Tell us about him — this man.”

“He never goes out. Sometimes, though, people will come to see him, but only very late at night. They talk until morning.”

“What about?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. He had a cook for a while, but she quit and he made me do the cooking. After the cook left there was only me and the gardener, except the gardener came only three times a week.”

“You lived there with him — with the man?”

She nodded. “I had to take care of the whole house. Later, he made me cook and do the other things. ”

“What things?”

“The bad things.”

“What bad things?”

“He gave me money and made me go out and buy him dresses. Then he would make me watch him put them on. He would take off all his clothes and put on the dresses and make me watch. Then he would make me do other awful things. If I didn’t, he beat me. He liked to beat me.”