Chapter 15

Langeman’s garage was a twenty-by-forty-five-foot building with a grease pit; a couple of chain pulleys to hoist cars up; an oil-smeared, cluttered workbench that ran most of the length of the right-hand wall; and a small partitioned-off cubicle in the left rear that served as his office. He waddled toward us from the cubicle, counting a sheaf of Deutsch Marks and wetting his thumb every third or fourth bill. His once-white coveralls seemed to have picked up some more dirt and grease in the few moments he had been gone. He had also acquired a yellow-brown smudge on his wide flat nose, which somebody had broken for him at one time and nobody had yet got around to setting. His breath whistled through it with a bubbling sound that indicated he might do well to blow it once in a while.

“I gave them some food and some schnapps, Herr Padillo.”

“How about cigarettes?”

“Cigarettes, too. Yes.” Langeman nodded his head vigorously and his three chins danced and lapped around his collar.

“How do we get down to your cellar?”

“Through my office: there is a trap in the floor and a ladder. It’s not much, but, as I said, it’s dry. There is also light. The telephone is in the office.”

“We won’t be using it until around eleven.”

Langeman bounced his chins around again in a nod. “Any time. I am leaving now and will return at eight hours tomorrow. I have two helpers who will arrive at that time. If you go out, I must send them on errands. The noise of the work here will prevent them from hearing you if you speak normally. For a toilet there’s a bucket.” He tucked the sheaf of bills into his coveralls and gave a slight shrug. “Not luxurious, but it’s clean.”

“And expensive,” Padillo said.

“There is the risk to consider.”

“We’re acquainted with the risk. Suppose we have to go out tonight. How do we manage it?”

“There is a door at the rear leading from my office. It will lock automatically as you close it. But to get back in is another problem. You can have someone — Max, perhaps — posted by the door. But you must be back before eight hours tomorrow. My two helpers will be here.” Langeman paused and then asked carefully: “Would it not be dangerous for you to go out tonight?”

Padillo let the question wander for a while in search of an answer before he said, “You weren’t paid to worry about us, Langeman.”

The fat man shrugged. “As you wish. I am leaving now. The light in my office burns all night; the rest I turn off.”

Without saying good night Padillo and I walked back to the cubicle. It contained a bill-strewn fourth- or fifth-hand oak desk, a swivel chair with a greasy-looking rubber pad, a wooden filing cabinet, and some automobile-repair catalogues. A light with a green shade hung from the ceiling. The telephone sat on the desk. The office had no window — only a door with a spring lock. A trap door that was in the corner not occupied by furniture was fastened against the wall with a hook and eye. A ladder led straight down. Padillo went first and I followed.

It was a twelve-by-twelve room with a seven-foot ceiling. A forty-watt bulb provided the illumination. Burchwood and Symmes sat on a gray blanket against one wall, chewing on some bread and meat. Max sat on another blanket opposite them, a bottle of some kind of liquor in his hand.

“There’s a blanket and there’s the food and cigarettes,” he said. A foot or so of sausage and a part of a loaf of bread sat on a newspaper on the floor. Four packages of cigarettes, an East German brand I had never heard of, were stacked next to them.

I sat down on the blanket and accepted the bottle from Max. It was unlabeled. “What is it?”

“Cheap potato gin,” he said. “But it’s alcohol.”

I took a swallow. The liquor burned all the way down, clawed at my stomach, bounced a couple of times, and started to move around warmly. “Christ!” I said, and passed it to Padillo. He took a swallow, coughed, and handed it back to Max.

Max set the bottle down on the newspaper. “There’s food.” I looked at it without interest, trying to make up my mind whether to risk another swallow of the potato gin. I decided against it and opened one of the packages of cigarettes, lighted one, and passed the pack to Padillo. We coughed over the tobacco for a while.

“What do you brilliant people plan to do now?” Burchwood asked. “Drag us through another mess like this evening?”

“Something like that,” Padillo said.

“And I suppose we’ll be shot at again,” Symmes said, “and you’ll get mad and take it out on us.” He seemed to assume that he wouldn’t get hit.

“If it doesn’t work this time, you won’t have to worry about another try,” Padillo said. “In fact, you won’t have to worry about much of anything. None of us will.”

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got a couple of hours before you call, Mac. You and Max might as well get some sleep. I’ll stay up.”

Max grunted, wrapped himself in his blanket, and rested his head on his arms, which he laid across his raised knees. Padillo and I sat on the blanket and leaned against the wall and smoked. Burchwood and Symmes followed Max’s example.

It was slow time. I went through a what-in-hell-am-l-doing-here cross-examination, then shifted into a small orgy of self-pity, and finally just sat there and planned the saloon’s menus, day by day, for the next five years.

“It’s eleven,” Padillo said.

“Let’s go.”

We climbed up the ladder and I dialed the number that Maas had given me. It answered on the first ring. “Herr Maas, please,” I said.

“Ah!” the familiar voice said. “Herr McCorkle. I must say that I have been anticipating your call — especially since the accident this evening. That was you, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“No one was hurt?”

“No.”

“Very good. Herr Padillo is with you?”

“Yes.”

“Now, then, I assume that you wish to conclude the business arrangement that we discussed day before yesterday?”

“We’d like to talk about it.”

“Yes, yes, negotiations would be in order, especially since there are five now that Herr Baker has joined you. Of course, this makes my original proposal subject to review. You understand that the first cost estimate—”

“I don’t need a sales talk,” I cut in. “Suppose we meet so we can get down to cases.”

“Of course, of course. Where are you now?”

My hand tightened on the telephone. “That’s a stupid question, coming from you.”

Maas chuckled over the telephone. “I understand, my dear friend. Let me propose this: I would assume that you are within a mile of where this evening’s... uh... accident — yes, accident — occurred?”

“All right.”

“I suggest a café — where I am known. It has a private room in the back. It should be within walking distance of where you are now.”

“Hold on,” I said. I put my hand over the mouthpiece and told Padillo.

He nodded and said, “Get the address.”

“What’s the address?”

Maas told me, I repeated it, and Padillo wrote it down on a scrap of paper on Langeman’s cluttered desk.

“What time?” I asked.

“Would midnight be convenient?”

“It’s all right.”

“There will be three of you?”

“No, just Herr Padillo and myself.”

“Of course, of course; Herr Baker must stay with your two American guests.”

“We’ll see you at midnight,” I said, and hung up.

“He knows Cooky was with us, and he thinks he still is,” I told Padillo.

“Let’s let him think it for a while. Wait here and I’ll get some directions from Max.” Padillo climbed down the ladder and was back in a few minutes. Max followed him.

“It’s about nine blocks from here, Max says. He’ll stay on the door until we get back. Our two friends are sleeping.”

The café was ordinary-looking. We had made the nine blocks from Langeman’s garage in fifteen minutes, passing down dark streets, encountering only a stray pedestrian or two. We stood across the street from the café in the doorway of an office building of some kind.

Maas arrived on foot at fifteen minutes until midnight. Three men had come out of the café separately since we had begun our watch. Maas had been the only one to go in. Nobody else came or went during the remaining quarter-hour.

“Let’s go,” Padillo said.

We crossed the street and entered the café. The bar was immediately in front of the door. To the left of the door were three booths. The rest of the café was taken up with chairs and tables. A couple sat at one. Three solitary drinkers brooded into their beer and a coffee drinker read a newspaper. The barkeep nodded at us and said good evening.

“We are expecting a friend to meet us,” Padillo said. “Herr Maas.”

“He is already in the back — through that curtain,” the barkeep said. “Would you like to order now?”

“Two vodkas,” Padillo said.

I led the way through the main room and pushed aside the curtain. Maas, still clad in his heavy brown suit, sat facing us at a round table. A goblet of white wine rested in front of him, next to a new brown hat. He rose when he saw us.

“Ah! Herr McCorkle,” he gurgled.

“Herr Maas, Herr Padillo.”

Maas gave Padillo’s hand the standard shake and bustled around, pulling out two chairs for us to sit on. “It is a real pleasure to meet you, Herr Padillo. You are a man of considerable reputation.”

Padillo sat down at the table and said nothing. “Have you ordered drinks?” Maas asked. “I have told the bartender to give you the best. It is my treat.”

“We ordered,” I said.

“Well, it has been a busy, busy day for you, I would say,” Maas said.

We said nothing and the bartender came in through the curtain and deposited our drinks on the table. “See that we’re not disturbed,” Maas ordered.

The bartender shrugged and said, “We close in an hour.”

He left and Maas picked up his wineglass. “Shall we drink to a successful venture, my friends?”

We drank.

Padillo lighted a cigarette and blew some smoke up into the air. “I think we can get down to business now, Herr Maas. What’s your proposition?”

“You have seen the map I gave Herr McCorkle?”

“I saw it: it could be anywhere. Or it couldn’t be at all.”

Maas smiled blandly. “It exists, Herr Padillo. It does indeed. Let me tell you something of its history.” He paused to take a sip of his wine.

“It has romance, treachery and death. It is quite a fascinating melodrama.” Maas sipped at his wine again, produced three cigars, offered us each one, smiled understandingly when we refused, put two of them back into his pocket, and lighted his own. We waited.

“Back in September of 1949, a sixty-two-year-old widow whom I shall call Frau Schmidt died of cancer. Frau Schmidt left her single valuable possession, a somewhat-bombed-scarred three-story house, to her favorite son — Franz, I think I shall call him — a mechanical engineer who worked at that time for the American Army in West Berlin. Housing was at a premium in both East and West Berlin, so Franz moved his family, consisting of himself, his wife, and a four-year-old son, to his late mother’s house. It was old, but it had been well built back in 1910 or 1911.

“There was virtually free passage between the East and West Sectors in those days and Franz Schmidt continued to work for the Americans. On the weekends he renovated the house. He received a small subsidy for his efforts from an agency of the East Berlin government. By 1955, Herr Schmidt was working for a private consulting engineering firm in West Berlin. Without much difficulty he managed to remodel his house completely, from basement to roof, installing new plumbing and even electrical-heating apparatus. It became his only hobby. Sometimes, I understand, Herr Schmidt considered moving to West Berlin, but he would have suffered a tremendous loss on his house and as long as he could travel freely from the East to the West Sector he saw no real reason to move.

“The Schmidt family made friends in their new neighborhood. Among them was the family of Leo Boehmler, who had been a Feldwebel on the eastern front during the war until he was captured by the Russians. He reappeared in East Berlin in 1947 as a lieutenant in the Volkspolizei. By the time that the Boehmler family had become friends with the Schmidt family, it was no longer Lieutenant Boehmler but Captain Boehmler. But even a captain’s pay could not match that of a mechanical engineer employed by a prosperous firm in the West Sector, so I have good reason to suspect that Captain Boehmler was a trifle envious of the Schmidt’s fine house, their small car, and the general prosperity that surrounded the household, where the captain, his wife, and their pretty young daughter were often guests for real coffee and cakes.

“Schmidt was proud of his work on his house and insisted on showing it in detail to the captain, who, while devoutly of the Communist persuasion, could not prevent his mouth from watering at the modern trappings and innovations that Franz Schmidt had installed. The Boehmlers lived in a small apartment in one of the hastily built piles of flats that were thrown up in 1948. While it was much better than what most citizens of East Berlin had, it was a slum compared with the Schmidts’ fine residence.

“By 1960 or thereabouts, Franz Schmidt’s son Horst was a young man in his middle teens, and he was becoming interested in young girls — or, to be more specific, in one girl, the daughter of Captain Boehmler. Her name was Liese and she was six months younger than Horst. The parents of both children looked on the romance as — let me think of the American phrase — puppy love, but by 1961 Liese and Horst were spending most of their time together. Captain Boehmler had no objections to his daughter’s making a good match with the son of a prosperous engineer, even though the engineer remained steadfastly disinterested in politics. And while Franz Schmidt was avowedly without politics, he was something of a realist, and when the time came he saw no reason why it could not prove useful to have a daughter-in-law whose father was an ambitious officer in the Volkspolizei. So little family jokes were made about the romance and Liese blushed prettily and young Horst stammered and did all the things adolescents do when they are the butt of an adult joke.

“Then one fine August day in 1961 the wall went up and Herr Schmidt found himself without a job. He talked the matter over with his good friend, Captain Boehmler, who suggested that it would be easy for him to obtain suitable employment in the East Sector. Engineer Schmidt found employment readily enough, but he also found that he was making only a fourth of what he had made in the West. And things that he liked — such as good coffee, chocolates, American cigarettes and what have you — were impossible to come by.

“It is now time to point out that Herr Schmidt’s house was fortunately situated. It was on a corner which faced the apex of a small triangular park in the Kreuzberg area of West Berlin. When the wall went up it almost touched the tip of the park’s apex. The park itself was no more than fifty meters from the Schmidt doorstep, and it was a pleasant spot of greenery in the midst of the city’s dreariness.”

Maas stopped his story to sip his wine. He seemed to enjoy the role of storyteller.

“After a few months of working at his low-paying position, Herr Schmidt took to standing in a third-story bedroom and staring out at the small triangle of greenery which lay over the wall. Then he began to spend much time in his cellar, tapping here and there with a hammer. And sometimes he would work late into the night, figuring with a pencil on a tablet of paper and drawing diagrams. In June 1962 he summoned a family conference around the dining table. He told his wife and son that he had decided to take them to the West, where he would regain his former position. As for the house — they would leave it. Neither his wife nor his son argued with him. But, later, young Horst drew his father aside and confessed that Liese was pregnant, that they must get married, and that, if he were to go west, Liese must go with him.

“The elder Schmidt examined this new information in his typically methodical manner. He asked his son how far along the girl was and young Horst said only two months. Schmidt then counseled his son that it would be wise not to marry Liese at once but to take her with them to the West Sector. He told Horst of his plans to tunnel under the wall and to come out in the small triangular park. He estimated that the job of tunneling would require two months of work, both of them digging and shoring four hours at night and eight hours on Saturday and Sunday. He told his son that if he were to marry now the Boehmlers would be in and out of the house constantly. Horst asked if he could tell Liese about the plans for the tunnel so that she would be able to plan for the future and not worry about his intentions. The elder Schmidt gave his consent reluctantly.

“The next night Schmidt and son began the tunnel. It was not too difficult a job except for disposing of the sandy dirt. This was done by loading up their small automobile on weekends and driving to various isolated points in the city, where the dirt was dumped from sacks made by Frau Schmidt from bedsheets.

“The mouth of the tunnel in the basement was concealed behind Herr Schmidt’s hand-built tool case, which he mounted on cleverly concealed hinges to swing out from the wall. He illuminated the tunnel with electric lights as it progressed. It was shored with timber that he had accumulated before the wall went up, and he even laid down a rough floor of linoleum. By early August the tunnel was nearly finished. And if Herr Schmidt had been less of a craftsman I would not be telling you this story tonight.

“Schmidt had designed the tunnel to come up in a clump of arborvitae in the small park. It was a thick growth, and he had carefully arranged the exit so that a hard shove would work the earth loose above a circular metal cover. The earth could then be replaced. All of this care, of course, took longer than his original estimate. And Liese, nearing her fourth month, began to fret and to question young Horst about his intentions. Finally he brought her to the house and showed her the entrance to the tunnel. It may have been her pregnancy, it may have been her fear of leaving her parents, but the young lovers quarreled. It was the night before Herr Schmidt planned his escape.

“At any rate, Liese went home and confessed all to her father. Thinking quickly, the good captain told her to patch up her quarrel with young Horst the next day and said that, after all, they were in love and perhaps it would be better for her to have her baby in the West, where she could be with her husband.

“The next night, having smoothed over her quarrel with Horst, Liese packed a small bag, said good-bye to her parents, and walked to the Schmidt house. She arrived an hour before the Schmidts were to depart.

“They had a final cup of coffee at the pleasant dining table. Then, taking only a few possessions, they made their way down to the cellar. As Herr Schmidt opened the tool-case entrance Captain Boehmler appeared at the doorway of the cellar holding a revolver in his hand. He said he regretted that he had to do this to his good friends and neighbors but he was, after all, a servant of the people. He told his daughter to go upstairs and go home. Terrified, she left. Captain Boehmler then told the Schmidt family to turn their backs to him. When they did, he shot them.

“He then dragged them one by one up to the living room. Next he went in search of the Vopos guarding the wall in that particular section and sent them on a mythical errand, saying that he would patrol in their absence. He waited until the Vopos were gone and then dragged the three bodies out of the house and to the wall. He carried out their few possessions and dumped them beside the bodies. He then fired three shots into the air, reloaded his revolver and fired two more. The Vopos came hurrying back, and the captain said he had shot the Schmidt family as they had attempted to escape. He ordered that the house be locked and sealed until he had the opportunity to search it the next day.

“The bodies of the Schmidt family were carted away. Captain Boehlmer himself took charge of the investigation of the Schmidt house the following morning, giving his personal attention to the cellar. In his report he pointed out that the house was dangerously close to the wall and should be either sealed up or occupied by a family whose loyalty to the government was above reproach. His superior pulled a few wires and Captain Boehlmer became the new tenant of the house he had long admired, complete with escape hatch to the West.

Maas stopped talking and finished his wine. “And that is the story of the tunnel.”

“What happened to the girl?” I asked.

“A pity,” Maas said. “She died in childbirth five months later.”

He called for the waiter, who entered a few moments later bearing a new round of drinks.

When he had gone, Maas continued: “And it is a pity about Captain Boehlmer, too. He has been passed over for promotion. Not only that, but the government plans to raze the entire block in which his fine home is located. They are going to build a warehouse, I believe. One with no windows. Captain Boehlmer has decided that he might turn the tunnel — still in good repair, he assures me — to a profit. Just once. Fortunately, his discreet inquiries reached me before anyone else.”

“You want five thousand dollars?” Padillo asked.

Maas knocked an inch of Havana ash from his cigar. “I am afraid, Herr Padillo, that the price is somewhat higher than that which I previously quoted my good friend, Herr McCorkle. It has risen, I assure you, only in proportion to the intensity with which you are being sought by your friends here in the East — and, I might add, in the West.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars.” He held up his hand like a traffic cop signaling stop. “Before you object, let me say that I will not haggle, but I will extend credit. The ten thousand can be paid to me in cash in Bonn upon your return.”

“You’re getting awfully generous, Maas. The last time I talked to you, it was all cash and carry.”

“Things have changed since then, good friend. I have learned that my popularity here in the East Sector — which is really my home, by the way — has diminished. In fact, you may say that I, too, am the subject of a search, though not as intensive as the one that is being conducted for you.”

“How much are they offering for us?” Padillo asked. “Not the public offer — the private one.”

“It is a considerable sum, Herr Padillo. One hundred thousand East German Marks. That’s about twenty-five thousand DM or seven thousand, five hundred of your dollars. You see I am not being overly greedy.”

I took a sip of my vodka and then demanded: “How do we know you won’t cross us, Maas? How do we know that we won’t waltz straight into the arms of Captain Boehmler and sixteen of his finest?”

Maas nodded rapidly in apparent agreement and approval. “I not only do not blame you for your caution, Herr McCorkle, but I admire it. There are two ways that I will demonstrate my good faith. First of all, I must get out of East Berlin, and it is not easy right now — especially right now. So I plan to go with you. Thus, I gain free egress from the East and, at the same time, I will be able to keep a close eye on my investment.

“Now my second method of showing good faith must be unpleasant news for you, but I am sure that you will bear it with your usual fortitude.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“It is with deep regret,” Maas said in his formal, almost pontifical manner, “that I must inform you that your friend Mr. Cook Baker is not to be trusted.”

Padillo played it straight. He even let his mouth drop open slightly and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Maas shook his head sadly. “I must confess that it is partly of my doing. If you recall, Herr McCorkle, you were good enough to allow me to sleep on your couch until my appointment the following day in Bonn. My appointment was with Herr Baker. It’s true. I must tell it all. After I failed to make a proper connection with Herr Padillo here, I acted like the businessman I am. I sold my information to Herr Baker.”

“How much?” Padillo asked.

“Three thousand dollars, Herr Padillo.”

“I was in a good mood that day. I might have paid five for it.”

“It was cheap, but the market was limited. Herr Baker was the only other customer.”

“Why would he buy?” clever McCorkle asked.

“He was told to. You see, gentlemen, Herr Baker is an agent for your opposition.” He let that sink in. “Of course, he has not been active until recently. Apparently he committed some indiscretion of a particularly unsavory nature some few years back. Pictures were taken. The pictures fell into certain hands. Herr Baker has his firm in New York, his financial interests to consider. So when friends obtained his current job for him in Bonn the KGB approached him quietly. He is acting not out of conviction but out of fear. Blackmail, its attendant embarrassment and disgrace — a man of Herr Baker’s temperament could not stand it.”

Maas sighed. “I may as well tell the entire story. It was Herr Baker’s idea for me to approach Herr McCorkle and to devise a story that would necessitate my friend to summon Herr Baker to Berlin. Fortunately, I thought of the tunnel, and since I am a businessman I made a legitimate proposition. The five-thousand-dollar price was worked out by me with Herr Baker. He thought the tunnel was a myth. I saw no reason to enlighten him. But now he poses a problem.”

“We’ll worry about that,” Padillo said. “Just when is your tunnel available?”

Maas looked at his watch. “It is twelve forty-five now. I can make arrangements for five o’clock this morning. Is that satisfactory?”

Padillo looked at me. I shrugged. “As soon as possible.”

“I have to make certain arrangements with the captain.”

“You mean pay him,” Padillo said.

“To be sure. Then I must arrange for a car. It would be better if I picked you up. It is too far to walk, especially at that hour of the morning. You must give me your address.”

Padillo took out a piece of paper and wrote the address of Langeman’s garage and handed it to Maas. “The back door, in the alley.”

Maas tucked it away. “I will be there at four forty-five this morning. In the meantime, Herr Padillo, although I realize you are a man of considerable experience in these affairs, I must urge you to make some arrangements about Herr Baker. He is a danger to us all, and he is also very accurate with a pistol.”

Padillo stood up. “He’s not any more, Herr Maas.”

“Bitte?”

“He’s dead. I shot him this afternoon.”

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