Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

“I was there,” Baker-Bates said.

“Where?”

“In Palestine during the troubles. I went out with Orde Wingate in ’36 in the Fifth Division. In ’38 I helped him organize the Jews into special night squads. He spoke it — you know, Arabic. But he turned into a bloody Zionist. He also proved that Jews make damn fine soldiers. Or terrorists. You were in Burma; you ever know him there?”

“Wingate?” Jackson said, not bothering to ask how Baker-Bates knew about Burma.

“Mmm.”

“He was before my time.”

Baker-Bates nodded — rather gloomily, Jackson thought. “Some of those chaps that Wingate and I trained are probably in the Irgun now — or the Stern Gang,” Baker-Bates said, his tone as gloomy as his nod.

“Group,” Jackson said automatically.

“What?”

“Stern Group. They don’t like to be called gang.”

“Now, that’s too bloody bad, isn’t it? You know what they’re doing, don’t you — your precious Irgun Svai Leumi and your Stern Gang?”

“They’re blowing up your hotels and killing your soldiers.”

“Last July, the King David Hotel. Ninety-one killed; forty-five wounded.”

“So I read.”

“But that’s not all. There’s a rumor.”

“What kind of rumor?”

“That the Irgun’s recruiting in Europe. That they’re looking for killers, good ones. That they don’t even have to be Jewish — if they’re good enough.” Baker-Bates paused and then went on. “As I said, that’s rumor. But this isn’t. This is fact; they’re looking for Oppenheimer.”

Jackson finished his beer. “Do his father and sister know?”

“I might have mentioned it to them.”

“What did they say?”

“We only had our one little chat. That was earlier this month, and then they turned mysterious on me. It took only a few quids’ worth of pesos to find out why. A certain telephone operator on the hotel switchboard is frightfully underpaid. But that’s how I got on to you and that rotten little dwarf. I ran a check on you. You’re rather harmless. But he’s bad company, you know — very bad.”

“Probably.”

“Not to be trusted.”

“No.”

“Actually, the little bastard’s a menace.”

“But he’s good at it, isn’t he?”

“At what?” Baker-Bates said.

“At finding people. If you weren’t afraid that he might turn up Oppenheimer before you do, then you wouldn’t be romancing me.”

Baker-Bates sighed. “And I thought I was just being rather nice.”

“You are. You’re paying for the beer.”

Again, Baker-Bates nodded slowly as he stared at Jackson. “You haven’t been in Germany since the war, have you?”

“No.”

“It’s a little murky there now. A bit unsettled. You might even say it’s a bit like Palestine. No one’s sure what’s going to happen, what with the Russians and all. Some feel it could go one way, some another. But if the Oppenheimer heir decides to take out the wrong chap, it could send up the balloon. So that’s why we’re looking for him — that and the fact that we damned well don’t want him in Palestine either. But we and the Irgun aren’t the only ones looking for him, of course. So are your people. But even more interesting, so are the Bolshies.”

“Why’s that so interesting?”

This time when Baker-Bates smiled, he showed some teeth. They were slightly gray.

“Why? Because, dear boy, they probably want to hire him.”

With that he rose, started toward the door, paused, and turned back. “You might tell the rotten little dwarf that. It just might scare him off.”

“It won’t scare him,” Jackson said.

“No, but tell him anyway.”

“All right,” Jackson said. “I will.”

Leah Oppenheimer entered the dark hotel sitting room and switched on a lamp. Her father, still seated in the same chair, smiled. “It’s grown quite dark, hasn’t it?”

“Perhaps another cigar.”

She again went over to the box, took one out, and lit it for him. He took several puffs and smiled again in what he thought was his daughter’s direction. He was only slightly off.

“I’ve been sitting here thinking,” he said.

“About Kurt?”

“Yes, about him. But mostly about being German. I’m rather an anachronism, you know, although our Zionist friends think I’m worse than that. They think I’m somewhere between a fool and a traitor.”

“We’ve been over all this before, Father.”

“Yes, we have, haven’t we? But young Mr. Jackson started me thinking again. I will always be a Jew, of course. And I will always be a German. I’m too old to change, even if I wished to. One does not shed one’s nationality like a suit of old clothes. But you and Kurt are young. There is no reason why either of you should follow my example.”

“You know my feelings.”

“Do I really?” he asked, and puffed on his cigar again. “Well, I suppose I do. But we don’t know Kurt’s, do we?”

“He was never a Zionist.”

Oppenheimer’s mouth twisted itself into a wry smile. “No; his peculiar politics precluded that. But no matter. Our responsibility is to find him before the authorities do. Do you really think he’s quite mad?”

Leah Oppenheimer replied with a shrug, but then realized that her father couldn’t see it. “I don’t know,” she said. “We’ve been over it so many times, I no longer know what to think.”

“If the British or American authorities find him before Jackson and Ploscaru do, they will simply lock him away. If they don’t hang him.”

Concern seemed almost to ripple over Leah Oppenheimer’s face. “They couldn’t,” she said. “He’s... well, he’s ill.”

“Is he?”

“He must be.”

“Nevertheless, we have to consider it as a possibility. Therefore, we must have a contingent plan should Ploscaru and Jackson fail. And that is what I’ve been thinking about. If you will bring me my wallet, I will give you the address of those you must reach.”

Leah Oppenheimer rose. “The ones in Cologne?”

“Yes,” her father said. “The ones in Cologne.”

It was shortly before midnight when Jackson arrived back in San Diego at the El Cortez Hotel, where the dwarf had booked them adjoining rooms. He got his key from the desk, learned that the bar was still open, and went in for a nightcap.

The bar was called the Shore Leave Room, and it was deserted save for the bartender and two Navy lieutenants who were with a pair of coy blondes who didn’t seem to be their wives. Jackson ordered a bourbon and water and carried it to a far table. After sampling his drink, he took from his inside breast pocket the envelope that Leah Oppenheimer had given him. The envelope was sealed, and Jackson slit it open raggedly with a pencil.

He took the money out first and counted it on his knee beneath the table. It was all there. He counted out ten $100 bills, folded them once, and stuffed them into his pants pocket. He put the remaining $500 back into the envelope, after removing four photographs and two folded sheets of paper.

The photographs seemed to have been taken with a box camera. One of them showed a young man, possibly twenty-two, seated astride a bicycle. From the height of the bicycle, Jackson judged him to be about six feet tall. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, his shirt was open at the throat, and he wore shorts that might have been leather. On his feet were heavy shoes with thick white socks. The young man looked fit and lean and possibly tanned. His mouth was open as though he were saying something jocular, and there was a half-humorous expression on his face. Jackson turned the photograph over. On the back was written, “Kurt, Darmstadt, 1936.”

The other photographs seemed to have been taken later, although there were no dates. In all of them Kurt Oppenheimer wore a white shirt, a tie, and a coat. In only one of them was he smiling, and Jackson thought that the smile seemed forced. Jackson also thought that Kurt Oppenheimer looked very much like his sister, although he had his father’s thin, wide mouth. Jackson studied the photographs carefully, but made no attempt to memorize them. He tried to detect signs of brutality, or animal cunning, or even dedication, but all that the photographs revealed was a pleasant-faced young man, almost handsome, with light-colored, not quite blond hair, who looked quick and clever, but not especially happy.