A Shroud for Jesso

Chapter Eight

They stayed off the port approach for fourteen hours while the fog kept everything blank gray but brought the harbor noises close. When the fog lifted, rain stayed in the air.

Jesso leaned across the railing and watched the harbor drift close. A tug was making a lot of noise hauling the ship through the channel. Jesso watched the white water churning. He felt impatient, edgy. The wet air made his cigarette hard to draw on and he tossed it overboard. Fifteen more minutes and they would dock. He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched the muscles so they wouldn’t ache. Jesso hadn’t had much sleep. A sleeping man wasn’t much good, even with a gun in his hand.

By the time the ship was sidling up to the mooring they were all on deck, ready to leave. There was Kator, his man Bean Pole, and two other guys who stood around in trench coats and berets, like something from the underground. Kator was in black.

“Jesso,” he called.

Jesso came over, buttoning the pea jacket they had given him.

“As we pass through customs, follow with my men. I will handle the formalities.”

“What about that passport and visa you owe me?”

“I have them here.” Kator patted his chest. “So far, Jesso, I owe you nothing.”

Jesso kept still and pushed one hand into his pocket. The Luger was there and he pulled it out. First he yanked the slide to make sure there was a shell in the chamber. There was, and while a new one slid into place the old one flew out in a short flat arc. That was one shell wasted, but Jesso didn’t care. They all watched the shell drop into the water and then they watched Jesso again. He ejected the clip, pushed a new shell into the top, and slapped the clip back into the stock. Now they all knew how many shots he had and he dropped the gun back into his pocket. He kept his hand there too.

Once they were off the ship, the formalities were simple. Kator showed papers, nodded to officials, and exchanged some words. Everybody knew Johannes Kator. Then they stood on the cobbled street that ran past the long dock building. Kator was putting the papers back in his pocket.

“According to these, Jesso, your name is Joseph Snell,” he said. “It makes your papers almost legitimate.”

“I don’t look like Snell. That passport-”

“It got you through, didn’t it?”

Just how Kator had done it wasn’t clear to Jesso, but it showed how well they thought of Kator here. It hadn’t struck Jesso until then. He wasn’t in the States any more. This wasn’t a city where he knew his way around, where even his name alone could-He caught himself up in the lie. Who was he kidding? He had forgotten what he had left behind, what he had lost there. The years of his work were gone, and the big time. Jesso was a cold and tired bum, wearing a borrowed pea jacket and clamping his hand around a stolen gun. Jesso, the bum, standing on a foreign street with three punks around him, three punks posing like trained seals, and Kator there, back in home territory. The bastard was really going to move now He was going to move with all the ease of a general surrounded by a familiar staff. And shivery stumble-bum Jesso, he was going to move along too, down the chute like a bundle of dirty laundry.

He turned his head and looked at Kator; Kator, back in home territory, silent, smug, and ready with his net of plans to catch just what he wanted and to kill what was left and of no use to him. Jesso knew that every move from now on was part of Kator’s calculated trap-or Jesso’s try to beat him to it. He was going to kick some holes in that net.

There had been no sign from Kator, but a big Mercedes Benz rolled up and Kator’s flunkies had the doors open before the car had quite stopped at the curb. They all got in. Jesso had some plans of his own, and there was a short hassle with Bean Pole about the seats, but when the car purred off Jesso was in front with the driver. The chauffeur pulled the big car in a U turn and took off into the traffic toward town.

It looked like every other harbor town. Low dives, some cheap holes, and a dozen showy stores with tinsel gifts and the kind of novelties that sell at the county fair in Iowa as easily as in Singapore.

“Stop the car,” Jesso said.

The chauffeur didn’t even budge. He lifted his eyes to see Kator in the rear-view mirror. Kator barely shook his head and the chauffeur looked at the street again.

“Stop means Halt, Krauthead,” Jesso said, and he made a swift move with his hand.

By the time he had the car keys in his pocket, the big engine had puffed, bucked, and died. Bean Pole tried to reach one arm around Jesso’s neck but only got a nasty cut across his knuckles where Jesso clipped him with the gun sight of the Luger.

“Jesso.”

“It’s Joseph Snell to you, Kator.” Jesso dropped the gun back in his pocket while the car came to a sudden stop. Then he turned around and leaned his arms over the backrest. Kator was looking at him, and the guns that had come out of the trench coats were looking at him.

“Tell your SS to put the rods away,” Jesso said.

Kator hadn’t figured it out yet. His face stayed blank and waiting.

“In a minute they’ll shoot your million-dollar deal, Kator. Tell them!”

He sounded rough. He didn’t feel like arguing and didn’t give a damn just how he sounded. Kator was meeting a new Jesso; no longer rushed, impatient, as he had been in New York; no longer wary, anxious, as he had been on shipboard. Jesso was starting to tear the net and spreading one of his own.

The guns came down.

“Now I’m going across the street. I want Bean Pole along, to make with the language. Wait here.” He had the door open already. “I’ll only be a minute.”

So they waited, because they had to, and Bean Pole came along, because he had to.

There was a little place across the narrow street that had a pair of glasses hanging over the door. There were also cameras in the window and a sign that said, “5 Minuten.” The sign said more, but that’s all Jesso could read. They went inside and came out five minutes later. Jesso had a little bag that held three passport pictures. Then they drove off again.

“You got a guy that’ll fix that passport for me?” He held the pictures out so Kator could take them.

Kator took them but looked annoyed.

“You didn’t think you were going to palm that Joe Snell thing off on me without my picture in it, did you?”

It wasn’t a question the way Jesso said it.

Kator gave the pictures to Bean Pole and sat back.

“When we get to the hotel, Jesso, Karl will of course rework your papers.”

“Good old Karl,” Jesso said. “How’s he going to do it, with his fingernails?”

“We have the equipment,” Kator said, and his irritation started to show.

The car turned into the Kirchenalle, a stately street with ornate old hotels on either side. Without a word from the back the chauffeur pulled up to the marquee of a place called Kronprinzen and the doorman that shot out from the hotel looked as if he were the crown prince himself. When he had the door open he made a bow as if he wanted to kiss somebody’s foot, and he said, “Herr Kator,” reverently.

They filed into the plush foyer, with Kator nodding at bell captain, room clerk, and elevator man. Like a general surrounded by his well-oiled staff.

“We’ll try the other one,” Jesso said, and without waiting for anybody to get it straight he turned on his heel and left.

The two trench coats kept on either side of Jesso but Kator almost had to run to follow. Jesso stopped a few houses down and walked into the First Bismarck. The hotel was just as plush, but nobody called Kator by name. This time he had to go to the desk and register.

There was a writing room off to the left and Jesso went there. One of the desks had a typewriter where a kid in a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit was pecking x’s and dashes.

“Beat it, kid.” Jesso lifted the boy out of the chair. Then he fixed himself two sheets with carbon. For a moment it looked as if the high-heeled woman with the gold pince-nez was going to do something about her screaming Lord Fauntleroy, but then there was Jesso looking at her, his sailor clothes rumpled and two mean lines running down through the stubble around his mouth. The two trench coats stood by just in case, and they didn’t look friendly either.

When Jesso had typed his piece he sealed it in an envelope and stuck the copy in his pocket. Kator was waiting at the front desk.

“If you are ready,” he said, but Jesso looked right past him.

“I’m not.” He stepped up to the desk. “You understand English?” he asked the clerk.

“Certainly, sir. All our-”

“Very neat. Now listen close. Here’s a letter. Hold it for the next thirty minutes. If I haven’t picked it up by then, open the letter, read it, call the police, and give it to them. Understand?”

Kator had stepped up, clearing his throat, and the clerk looked puzzled.

“If you won’t,” Jesso said, “I’ll call the police right now.”

Jesso hadn’t been wrong. There was nothing the clerk wanted less than having a policeman come across the lobby. Jesso looked at Kator and Kator didn’t like the idea either. The clerk took the letter.

“Let’s go, Kator. You got thirty minutes to get my papers ready.”

They went up in the elevator, looking normal enough, but when they were in the room Kator had rented and the bellhop had bowed himself out of the room the atmosphere changed. One trench coat sat down by the phone, the other stood by the door. He locked it, bolted it, then faced the room. Kator had sat down by the night stand because there was no table in the room. Jesso figured that Kator didn’t mean to stay here very long and there was no reason to waste any money on a proper suite. Good enough to have four bare walls, a washstand, and a bed. Good enough for a short talk and maybe a quick death.

“I thought you’d like to know what’s in that letter,” Jesso said, pulling out the carbon.

Kator took the sheet. It was addressed to the police and asked them to notify the American consul of the violent death of one Jack Jesso, abducted by force by one Johannes Kator, who was described in full and whose activities for the past two weeks were listed in great detail. The whole thing made quite an impression.

Kator’s words were hardly audible. “Would you mind if I burned this?” he asked.

“Go right ahead,” Jesso said, “and you got twenty-three more minutes.”

Kator lit the sheet with his lighter and watched it blacken and curl in the chamber pot he had found in the night stand. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. When he opened them they looked at the man by the phone. He got up with a rush and Jesso’s arms were pinned back. Then Kator leaned forward, pulled the Luger out of Jesso’s pocket, and tossed it to Karl, the Bean Pole.

Jesso hadn’t tried to move. When the guy behind him let go, Jesso straightened his jacket, folded his arms, and said, “You got eighteen minutes, Kator.” He knew there was a reason for that quick trick, but for the moment it didn’t seem to matter. “So tell Charlie to get busy with my passport.”

“Karl is very adept, you will see. There is plenty of time.” Kator took a leather-bound notebook from his pocket and a small silver pencil. He handed them to Jesso.

“You will write Snell’s instructions down, please. It is best if my associates in this room are not burdened by any unnecessary information.”

Jesso took the notebook and pencil. He flipped the pages but didn’t write.

“You got fourteen minutes.”

“You will write, please!” It was a voice that could have chilled an Army pro.

“Screw yourself,” Jesso said.

Kator looked for one long silent moment as if he were going to burst out of his collar. Then he exhaled. Only his eyes moved when he looked at Karl, but Bean Pole scrambled to his suitcase, opened it up, and sat on the bed with the open case on his knees. Kator handed the passport to Karl, who opened it to the page with the picture.

“Where’s the visa?” Jesso asked.

“Your visa is an entry on a page in your passport, and I am close to the end of my patience. Will you-“

“Why don’t you shut up?”

They looked at each other like stalking cats and then there was no sound except a gentle scraping as Karl removed Snell’s picture from the passport. He had a delicate touch as he worked a small scalpel under the glue of the photo.

Jesso started to write, “The upper half of the left column…”

Karl had the picture off. He picked a stamp from his suitcase, the kind notary publics use, and clamped it over the photo. A round, embossed emblem appeared on the paper.

“… and the lower half of the right column…”

Karl smeared glue on the back of the picture and pressed it to the page. While Jesso watched, Karl wrote “Joseph Snell” across the top of the picture, just the way Snell had done it.

“… combine to give the production figures at…”

There was one more job to be done. Karl had to duplicate the State Department stamp that ran across page and picture, serrating both with tiny holes. He had the stamp. It was a wide steel contraption, built like the jaws of a pair of pliers, and the job was to keep the holes on the page intact while serrating new ones into the photo.

It was a delicate job of positioning and Karl did it by touch.

“You got eight minutes,” Jesso said.

Nobody answered. Karl felt the underside of the page, eyes closed, and Kator had got up to bend over Jesso’s shoulder. He saw the incomplete sentence there. Jesso could hear the breath next to his ear, and he smelled the faint dry-cleaning odor from Kator’s clothes.

“You got five minutes.”

Karl grabbed the handles of the stamp, pressed, and held on. When he let go slowly the serrations across the picture looked neat. It read, as it should, “PHOTOGRAPH ATTACHED DEPARTMENT OF STATE WASHINGTON.” Karl was an expert.

“Continue, Jesso.” Kator’s breath was moist on Jesso’s ear.

He wrote, “Honeywell,” then closed the notebook. “You got four minutes,” he said, and handed the notebook to Kator.

Then they gave him the passport, unlocked the door, and walked to the elevators.

“You got half a minute,” Jesso said when he leaned across the desk in the lobby The room clerk handed the letter across as if it were soiled, and Jesso slipped it into his pocket.

“And now one final word with you, my dear Jesso.” Kator noticed the look on Jesso’s face and smiled. He had a smile like winter coming. “We will stay in the lobby, dear Jesso, in plain sight of everyone.”

They walked to the large windows that looked out to the Kirchenalle and sat down on a wide couch, like travel companions, or like men who had time to kill.

“You realize, Jesso, there are ways of checking the accuracy of your information.”

“So?”

“Simply this. The risk in accepting your information is mine, and while I have been patient, even docile with you, I warn you that I am a different man when I run a risk. Should the information you gave me prove to be incorrect, should you have lied to me, Jesso, I promise you an unpleasant end. No matter where you may be, Jesso, an unpleasant end.” Kator paused and studied his frail-looking hands. “Would you care to correct the information you gave me?”

“You got the right dope, Kator.”

“I am glad to hear this. And now, the matter of your payment.” Kator gave Jesso an envelope. It wasn’t sealed. When Jesso reached for it, the envelope dropped out of Kator’s hand. So that’s why Jesso doubled over, reaching for the envelope, but then he stayed that way and didn’t come back up. Right in the lobby, on the couch, facing the window.

Kator had been very good. The hard edge of his hand made the slightest arch and then snapped fast against the base of Jesso’s skull. It was the kind of punch that makes the victim feel he knows everything that’s going on. He knows the impact, the fact that he can’t move, but any minute now he will. Except no air. There was no air. But that passed too, because without transition Jesso blacked out.