Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

When he got back to the hotel, Ploscaru learned that Jackson had not yet returned. He went up to his room and stood in the center of it for a moment, brushing his hands together, quite unaware of the fact that he was doing so, and wondering which one would do the watching that night at 14 Mirbachstrasse — the woman in the fur coat or the man with the damaged knee. He grinned, not quite aware that he was doing that either. That one will have her sleep, he decided. She’ll have the man go, aching knee and all. It was the real reason he’d given her the address — to flush the man out. The man was dangerous and would have to be dealt with, but at a place of the dwarf’s own choosing.

Whistling “Blue Moon,” Ploscaru went to his bag and from its lining removed a thin British commando knife and slid it into the silk sheath that was sewn to the inside of his coat sleeve. After that he poured himself a small drink from the bottle of bourbon, hopped up into the room’s most comfortable chair, wriggled back, stopped whistling “Blue Moon,” and started singing its lyrics instead.

He was still singing when Minor Jackson knocked at his door.

They drove by the large, dark house at 14 Mirbachstrasse twice and then parked the Mercedes a block away and walked back. A brick wall almost eight feet high surrounded the house. A nearly full moon provided some light — enough, at least, for them to make out the outline of the house through the wrought-iron gate.

It was a stern-looking place, Jackson thought, three stories high and built of some kind of dark stone or brick. It had a mansard roof that seemed to be covered with slate shingles. Jackson tried the high gate without much hope. It was locked.

“Well, up and over, then,” Jackson said, and made a stirrup of his hands.

He lifted the dwarf up. He was heavier than Jackson had expected, much heavier.

“Any glass?”

“How thoughtful of you to ask,” Ploscaru said. “But no.”

“Are you set?”

“Yes.”

Jackson felt the dwarf’s hand wrap around his wrist. Then he felt himself being smoothly and easily lifted up until he could get his other arm over the top of the wall. The dwarf’s strength surprised him.

After he got a leg over the wall and was straddling it, Jackson said, “I’ll go first.”

He lowered himself carefully and then let go. The drop was less than a foot. The dwarf lowered himself until he was hanging from the top of the wall only by his hands. Jackson wrapped his arms around the dwarf’s legs and said, “Okay, I’ve got you.”

They knelt by the wall and peered through some shrubbery. “No dogs, apparently,” Jackson said.

“No.”

“Now what?”

“What did those lectures advise?”

“Boldness.”

“Let’s be bold, then.”

“I’ll knock,” Jackson said. “You cover me.” He took the .38 pistol from the pocket of his topcoat. Bent nearly double, he scuttled from shrub to shrub as he made his way toward the entrance of the house. The dwarf scuttled after him. Jackson noticed that Ploscaru now had the big Army Colt in his right hand.

“Well, let’s see what happens,” Jackson said.

He moved up to the door. Next to it, the dwarf flattened himself against the wall. It was a large door, made of heavy oak planking that was bound by decorative iron straps. Jackson knocked again, harder this time. Again they waited, and again nothing happened.

“Nobody home,” Jackson said.

“Try the door.”

Jackson tried the door handle. It turned easily. He pushed the door open, almost expecting to hear it creak. But it didn’t. Instead, it opened smoothly on hinges that might have been oiled. Beyond the door was blackness.

“Let’s go back to the hotel and have a drink,” Jackson said. “Find some women.”

The dwarf moved over to the open door and peered in. “Perhaps there really is nobody home.”

“I’ll be bold and ask.” Jackson stepped carefully through the doorway. The dwarf followed. “Anybody home?” Jackson called.

“You think he speaks English?”

Jackson didn’t reply. Instead, he took out his Zippo lighter and flicked its wheel. The lighter flared, providing just enough illumination for him to find a light switch. He pressed it, but no lights came on.

“No power.”

“Let’s see if we can find some candles.”

Jackson’s lighter was fading now. But there was still light enough for him to locate a door that led from the entry hall in which they found themselves. He started for the door, the dwarf close behind.

A light came on then. It was the bright, focused yellow of a powerful flashlight. Behind them a man’s voice said in German, “A machine pistol is aimed at you, gentlemen. I’m fully prepared to use it.”

“Well, shit,” Jackson said.

“You will both kneel very slowly,” the voice said. “Very, very slowly.”

Jackson and Ploscaru did as they were told.

“Now you, little man. You will lower your pistol to the floor and slide it very gently to your left.”

Ploscaru slid the Army .45 to his left.

“And you with the gray hair will slide your pistol to the right. Ever so gently.”

After Jackson did exactly that, the voice said, “Good. Now you will claps your hands on the tops of your heads and rise, but very slowly. Don’t turn around.”

Again they did as they were told. The light stopped dancing around then, as if its source had been laid to rest on a table. Jackson felt something cold press against the nape of his neck. He held his breath and even closed his eyes for a second. But when he felt the hand start moving over his body and patting his pockets, he opened his eyes.

The hand also moved over Ploscaru, but more quickly, almost carelessly, as though the dwarf were too small to conceal anything dangerous.

The flashlight’s yellow glow started dancing around again, finally settling on a pair of sliding doors.

“You, little man, will open the doors directly in front of you, but slowly, very slowly.”

The dwarf did as instructed. “Good,” the voice said. “Your hands back on your head, please.” Ploscaru put his hands back on his head.

“Now both of you will walk slowly through the door for exactly five paces and stop. You will not turn around.”

Ploscaru and Jackson stepped off the five paces, although the dwarf had to stretch his steps to keep up with the taller man.

There was a click, and lights came on from a pair of floor lamps. They were in a sitting room that contained too much ugly furniture, much of it upholstered in red and brown plush and most of it apparently dating back to the previous century.

“The power wasn’t shut off after all, was it?” the voice said. “Only in the entry hall. You see, gentlemen, I was expecting you.” The voice laughed then, although it was really more of a giggle than a laugh.

“Now I believe that I’ll have you turn around, but ever so slowly, and do keep your hands just where they are.”

Jackson and Ploscaru turned. The saw the machine pistol first and the slim, white manicured hands that aimed in unwaveringly at their midsections. The tall man who held the machine pistol was slim, too, almost elegantly so. He was dressed in a black sweater and black trousers, and on his feet he wore black patent-leather slippers. His face was white, the floury, unhealthy white of a face that has been locked away from the sun. On the high cheekbones, however, were two round spots of red that had been either painted or patted into place. Except for the eyebrows, the rest of the face was ordinary enough — a bony chin, thin red lips, a straight nose, and deep-sunk dark eyes. The eyebrows above the eyes were plucked.

“So, what have we here?” the man said. “A dwarf and a gray-haired American. You, little man — you are not American too, are you?”