Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

“Yes,” he said, “I know.”

The whore awoke when Kurt Oppenheimer rose from the chair, causing its legs to scrape slightly.

“You did not sleep,” she said.

“A little, here in the chair.”

“You could have used the bed.”

“I know.”

He opened his briefcase and took out a carton of Chesterfields. “Your cigarettes.”

“Do you want to—”

He shook his head and smiled. “No, not tonight. Perhaps another time.”

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“A little past one.”

“You are leaving now?”

“I have a long walk to make.”

“At this time of night?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t it wait till morning?”

“No,” he said. “It can’t.”

Jackson watched as Leah Oppenheimer pulled on her stockings. She wet her finger and ran it along the seams, twisting her head around, looking back and down to make sure that they were straight.

“Why do women always do that?”

“What?”

“Wet their finger and then run it along the seams.”

“It keeps them straight.”

“The seams?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. It just does.”

She slipped the dark blue dress over her head, glanced at herself in the mirror, gave the dress a few tugs, and then turned to Jackson.

“All right. Now I am dressed. Where do we go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Then why—”

Jackson interrupted. “Sometime within the next few hours we may find your brother.”

She didn’t seem surprised at the announcement. Instead she nodded solemnly, waiting for Jackson to continue.

“If we do find him, we may have to leave Bonn in a hurry. The question is — where do we go? We need a place that’s safe and relatively close.”

“Cologne,” she said almost automatically.

“That’s not much better than Bonn.”

“I have certain friends there who are well organized. If you can get my brother to them, then your job will be done.” She moved over to her purse and took out pencil and paper. “Here — I will write their name and address.”

While she was writing, he said, “There may be complications.”

She looked up. “What kind of complications?”

“I don’t know. If I did know, they wouldn’t be complications — only problems.”

She went back to writing the name and address. “And if they do turn into problems, what will solve them?”

“Money, probably,” Jackson said, and looked at the slip of paper she handed him, reading the name awkwardly. “Shmuel Ben-Zvi?” His look was questioning. “What kind of name is that — Hebrew?”

The look on Leah Oppenheimer’s face was defiant. “Israeli,” she said.

“Well, now,” Jackson said.

“You have any objections?”

Jackson shrugged. “He’s your brother, not mine. You can hand him over to anyone you wish.”

“You said that money will solve whatever problems might arise. How much money?”

“As much as you have or can raise from your Israeli friends in the next few hours.”

“I will have to go to Cologne. That will take at least two or three hours. Will I have enough time?”

“I should think so,” Jackson said.

She nodded thoughtfully as she gazed at Jackson. “What does Mr. Ploscaru advise?”

“Well, you see,” Jackson said, “I haven’t really asked, because Mr. Ploscaru may be both the complication and the problem.”

When the sleepy fourteen-year-old boy brought the note up to Ploscaru’s room, the dwarf read it, gave the boy a tip, and said, “Tell her to meet me at the corner in five minutes.”

“Which corner?”

“By the bank.”

After the boy had gone, Ploscaru took the big Army .45 from its case and shoved it into the waistband of his trousers. He buttoned his jacket over it and then climbed up on a chair to inspect himself in the mirror. Satisfied that the bulge wasn’t too noticeable, he climbed down from the chair and stood for a moment looking thoughtfully about the room. As he thought, he automatically brushed some imaginary crumbs from his palms.

Eva Scheel watched the dwarf approach. When he drew near enough, she said, “I am Eva Scheel, Herr Ploscaru.”

The dwarf bowed. “You are, I understand, a friend of Fräulein Oppenheimer’s.”

“And of her brother’s.”

“Ah.”

“I think we should talk.”

“Perhaps a bar would be more comfortable. Someone at my hotel told me that there is one close by that remains open quite late. Shall we go there?”

There was no one in the bar except the proprietor and three solitary drinkers who sat hunched over their glasses.

After seating Eva Scheel, Ploscaru moved to the bar, paid extra, and brought back two glasses of what the proprietor had said was his best brandy.

“Now, then,” Ploscaru said, wriggling back into his chair, “what shall we talk about?”

“Kurt Oppenheimer.”

“An interesting man in many ways. I’m quite looking forward to meeting him.”

“You expect that to be soon?”

“Oh, yes, quite soon.”

“He needs help, of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I represent certain persons who would like to help him.”

“For a man in such tragic circumstances, he seems to suffer from no lack of friends. No lack at all.”

“The persons whom I represent would consider it a privilege to help him.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the dwarf said, and sipped his drink.

“They would expect to pay for the privilege.”

“Did they mention a sum?”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

Ploscaru turned his mouth down at the corners. “There are almost any number of dear friends who would pay far more for such a rare privilege.”

“We could bargain all night, Herr Ploscaru, and still arrive at the same price.”

“Which is?”

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes.”

“An interesting price,” Ploscaru said. “Not a fair one, but still an interesting one.”

“How interesting?”

“Interesting enough for me to consult with my colleague.”

“When will you reach a decision?”

“There are still many unknown factors to be resolved, but I would say we would reach our decision by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Where can I reach you — the hotel?”

“No, I think not. I will give you an address. If things work out as I anticipate, we can make our arrangements there. The address is Fourteen Mirbachstrasse here in Bad Godesberg. Would you like to write it down on something?”

“No, I can remember it,” she said. “Fourteen Mirbachstrasse, ten o’clock tomorrow.”

Ploscaru smiled and eased himself down from the chair. “I’m sorry to rush off like this, but there are still quite a few details to attend to. It’s been a most interesting discussion, Fräulein Scheel. I like the way you think. Perhaps another time we might talk about something — well, less commercial.”

“Perhaps.”

He took her hand, bowed over it, and then looked up at her with an expression that would have been concerned except for the sly look in his eyes. “By the way,” he said “do give my best wishes to your friend.”

“Which friend might that be, Herr Ploscaru?”

“Why, the one with the sore knee, of course.”

She watched him move through the tables to the door. So much cunning in such a small body, she thought. And sex too, of course. Even though he’s gone, he left his spoor behind — like an open invitation. If there were time, it might prove interesting — very interesting. A large, capable brain might indicate a large, capable something else. She smiled slightly, looked up, caught the proprietor’s eye, and signaled for another brandy. After he nodded his understanding, she took paper and an envelope from her purse and began to write. The sleepy boy at the hotel will take it to the printer, she thought. The printer can keep sleep another time. What happens at Fourteen Mirbachstrasse tonight could be more important than his sleep. Far more important.