The Eighth Dwarf

18

The butler wasn’t a very good driver. Or perhaps it was just that he wasn’t too familiar with his employer’s official UNRRA car, an Army-surplus 1941 Ford sedan with a lot of hard miles on it. He stalled frequently, grated the gears, and drove in second most of the time as though unaware of or indifferent to the third gear.

“This afternoon, Herr Doktor,” the butler said over his shoulder to Jackson, “we’ll go to inspect a proper car.”

“Fine,” Jackson said from the back seat of the Ford into which he had been ushered by an imperious gesture from the butler. Jackson wasn’t at all sure why he was being addressed as Herr Doktor, but assumed that it was some fairy tale that the dwarf had spun for the butler’s benefit. He wondered idly whether he was supposed to be a doctor of medicine or or philosophy.

“I described the car yesterday to Herr Direktor.”

“Herr Direktor?”

“The little gentleman.”

“Ah, yes,” Jackson said. “Herr Direktor Ploscaru.”

“It is a rare name for a Swiss.”

“Very rare.”

“But I think it is wonderful for a person with such a handicap as the Herr Direktor’s to achieve so important a position.”

“The best things sometimes come in small packages,” Jackson said, wincing at his own banality.

“How true,” the butler said gravely. “How very, very true.”

There was no more conversation for several blocks. Then the butler said, “I was not always a butler, you understand, Herr Doktor.”

“No?”

“No. Before the war and even during it I was a caterer in Berlin. I had my own firm. We specialized in weddings and... and certain civic affairs.” He sped over the last a bit hastily, Jackson thought.

“Then after the war, when the Americans arrived, I went to work for them in a position that entailed many grave responsibilities.”

“I’m sure.”

“It did not last.”

“What happened?”

“My brother-in-law, whom I had taken into my catering firm and taught the business, denounced me to the Americans for having been a member of the Party. I was discharged and the Americans gave my brother-in-law my job, which was what he had in mind all along.”

“Were you?”

“Please?”

“A member of the Party.”

The butler shrugged. “Naturally. As I said, my firm catered many civic affairs — receptions mostly. To be awarded such affairs, one had to be a member of the Party. It was simply a business proposition. I did not, of course, participate in its activities. I am without politics, and I thought the Party mostly foolishness. But my brother-in-law, on the other hand...” The butler’s voice trailed off.

“What about him?”

“He was very much interested in politics. He tried to join the Party six separate times and was rejected each time — on the ground of emotional instability.” The butler took one hand off the wheel and tapped his right temple significantly. “Ein sonderbarer Kanz.” A queer customer.

“Not quite right, was he?” Jackson said.

“Not quite. I told the Americans this, naturally. It was my duty.”

“Just as it was your brother-in-law’s duty to inform them about you.”

“Exactly. Regulations must be observed, or where would any of us be?”

“Where indeed?”

“Unfortunately, two months later my brother-in-law went berserk and killed the American who had hired him. Strangled him to death. A captain and a very fine fellow, I thought, even though he did dismiss me.”

“You bore the captain no grudge?”

“Certainly not. He was only abiding by the regulations.”

“Maybe if he hadn’t, he’d still be alive.”

The butler turned the idea over in his mind, then shook his head negatively. “It is probably better not to think about such things.”

“Probably,” Jackson said.

Ten minutes later they were at the address that Leah Oppenheimer had given him in Ensenada at a time that now seemed months ago. The butler hastily got out from behind the wheel and hurried around to Jackson’s door as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast because he was at least sixty and seemed to suffer from an arthritic right leg.

“What are you called?” Jackson said as he climbed out.

“Heinrich, Herr Doktor.”

“That’s a pretty bad limp you’ve got, Heinrich.”

“I know. It is arthritis. I was hoping that the Herr Doktor perhaps could give me some advice.”

“Take two aspirin twice a day and keep it warm and dry.”

“Thank you very much, Herr Doktor.”

“You’re welcome,” Jackson said, and started for the building in which Leah Oppenheimer. was staying. He noticed that the address was in a block of apartment houses that had suffered only minor damage from the bombing. The stone used to construct them was the dull red Rhenish sandstone that had been used to build much of Frankfurt. Across the street the same stone composed a heap of rubble, which might at one time have formed the twin of the building that he was now entering. Jackson found it strange that bombs could have leveled one block and left the one directly across the street virtually unscathed. He wondered what percentage of Frankfurt had been destroyed: sixty percent, seventy? The ruined sections all looked depressingly the same. Before the war Frankfurt had not been a handsome town. Now it was ugly. Curiously enough, it still looked old, though. Old and ruined and ugly.

The address said that the apartment number was 8. According to the directory in the small foyer, number 8 was occupied by E. Scheel. Jackson started up the stairs and found number 8 on the third floor. He knocked, and the door was opened by a young woman wearing a fur coat. Jackson thought the coat looked expensive.

“Fräulein Scheel?”

“Yes. You must be Mr. Jackson. Please come in.”

“Thank you.”

After entering the apartment, Jackson found himself in a small reception area. Three doors led off it. There was no furniture in the reception area other than a small, very thin Oriental rug. Jackson thought that the rug looked expensive too.

“You will excuse me if I do not offer to take your coat,” Eva Scheel said. “There is no heat today, and I think you will be more comfortable with it on. Leah is just through here.”

She opened a door, and Jackson followed her into a sitting room. By the window facing the street sat Leah Oppenheimer. She wore a belted camel’s-hair coat turned up around her throat. When she saw Jackson, she smiled and held out her hand. Jackson took it, bowing slightly just the way they had taught him to bow all those years ago at that school in Switzerland. You may be almost broke, he told himself, but your manners are still expensive.

With her smile still in place, Leah Oppenheimer said, “So we meet again in yet another country, Mr. Jackson.”

“So it would seem,” he said, wondering whether she had planned the slightly stagey remark beforehand or whether it had just come naturally. He couldn’t quite decide which he preferred. Either way it reminded him of her wretched prose style.

“You have already met my friend, Fräulein Scheel.”

“Yes.”

“Do sit down, Mr. Jackson. Once more, you are just in time for tea,”

Jackson chose a spindly-looking chair upholstered in maroon velvet whose legs ended in serpent’s heads. Each serpent’s mouth was wide open and in it was clutched a glass ball. He noticed that the rest of the furniture in the room was just as awful. Eva Scheel chose a similar chair closer to the tea table.

The Oppenheimer woman made her usual ritual out of serving the tea. “Although we have no heat,” she said, “the electricity was on for two hours just before you came, so we managed to boil some water for tea.”

Because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, Jackson said that that was nice.

“Remember those delicious little cakes that we had in the hotel in Mexico, Mr. Jackson?”

Jackson said he remembered.

“Well, I’m afraid we’ll have none of those or anything like them this time because of my stupidity. It would have been so easy for me to bring some things from Mexico City. But fortunately, Fräulein Scheel has come up with a solution.”

Jackson couldn’t bring himself to ask what the solution was, so he merely smiled in what he hoped was a polite and interested way.

“The solution,” Eva Scheel said in a dry tone, “consists of some delicately sliced sweets called Milky Ways, courtesy of the American Army.”

“Eva has an American friend, a young officer,” Leah said, handing Jackson his cup of tea. “He seems like a very nice young man. I met him last night. His name is Meyer. Lieutenant Meyer.”

Over the rim of his cup, Jackson eyed Eva Scheel with new interest. Well, what have we here? he wondered. A nice little German girl dying to get to America, or something else? Something else, he decided after trying to visualize Eva Scheel in bed with Lieutenant Meyer, which was a game he often played. For some reason, the Scheel-Meyer combination just didn’t work. He also had to decide quickly whether to mention that he had already met Lieutenant Meyer. If you don’t, it’ll be a silent lie that could complicate things. One of Jackson’s few personal rules was never to lie if the truth would do.

“Would that be Lieutenant LaFollette Meyer from Milwaukee?” he said, and hoped that the smile on his face was a winning one.

“Do you know him?” Leah said.

“We met yesterday at the airport. Lieutenant Meyer is very much interested in your brother — in an official sort of way.”

Leah Oppenheimer nodded sadly. “Yes, I know. He had many questions for me last night, most of which I could not answer. Isn’t it terrible — all those people?”

“You mean the dead ones?”

“Yes.”

“That your brother’s killed?”

“I did not know. During the war I knew that he had to do awful things. But now...” She shook her head. “He must be terribly ill. That’s why we must find him, Mr. Jackson: so that we can get him proper medical treatment.”

She was lying, Jackson realized, about not having known that her brother was something more than a harmless scamp, but he decided to let it pass because, again, it was simpler that way.

“You think they’ll let you do that?” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“There are three governments looking for your brother — the Americans, the British, and the Russians — or so I’ve been told: about the Russians, I mean. What I’m saying is do you think that they’ll simply let you spirit your brother away to some nice quiet sanitarium and then forget about all those people he’s killed?”

Eva Scheel rose, picked up a plate, and offered it to Jackson. “Have some Milky Ways, Mr. Jackson; they really go quite nicely with tea.”

The candy bars had been sliced into quarter-inch-thick pieces and arranged with a great deal of care on the plate. Although Jackson wasn’t overly fond of candy, he took one, smiled his thanks, and popped it into his mouth. She’s giving her friend time to think, he thought as he watched Eva Scheel put the plate back on the table, resume her seat, and start stroking the collar of her fur coat as though she found it comforting.

“The Russians,” Leah said in almost a whisper. “I did not know about the Russians.” She looked at Jackson and then at Eva Scheel. “Why would the Russians...?” She didn’t finish her question.

Eva Scheel shrugged and looked at Jackson. “Perhaps Mr. Jackson would know.”

“I can only guess,” he said.

Leah nodded. “Please.”

“Oil.”

“Oil?”

“And politics. In the Middle East or Near East or whatever you want to call it, they’re all mixed up. The United States doesn’t have any Middle East policy — at least, none that’s discernible. The Russian policy is quite obvious. They want to move the British out so they can move in. Right now they’re tilting toward the Arabs, because they’re smart enough to realize that you can’t be at odds with the Arabs in Palestine without its reverberating throughout the rest of the Moslem world — and that means Saudi Arabia and Bengal and Malaya and North Africa and the Dardanelles; not to mention those sections of Russia which are also Islamic. Your brother, ill or not, is a very good killer. The Russians could drop him in almost any place where things are in a state of flux — Iran, for example, or Iraq — and if your brother took out just the right person or persons, then the resulting mess could be all the excuse that the Russians would need to move in.”

“What an interesting theory,” Eva Scheel said with a smile that was almost polite. “A bit farfetched, but interesting.”

“Then there’s Palestine,” Jackson said.

“What about Palestine?” Eva Scheel said.

Jackson looked at Leah Oppenheimer. “Your brother’s politics are a bit strange. Do you think he’s still a Communist?”

She shook her head. “I have no way of knowing.”

“Let’s say that he is. Let’s even say, for the sake of argument, that he’s the fervent kind. Now suppose the Russians were able to hand the Palestinians a top-notch killer who was also a renegade Jew who could pass as an American or an Englishman — or a German refugee. Don’t you think the Palestinians might make good use of him — perhaps even infiltrate him into the Irgun or the Stern Group?”

Leah Oppenheimer shook her head vigorously. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“My brother could never be anyone’s paid assassin.”

“Nobody really knows what your brother is — or what he could be, given sufficient incentive. Right now he’s killing bad Germans, or thinks he is. I don’t really think that bothers the Americans or the British or the Russians too much, not as long as he just keeps on killing those who’re really rotten. But there’s no percentage in it — at least, not for the Russians or the Americans or the British. Right now his talents, such as they are, are being wasted. Any one of the three could use him somewhere else — and right now the Middle East seems the most likely spot.”

“I’m surprised that you included the Americans, Mr. Jackson,” Eva Scheel said.

“Why?”

“I thought they would be too... well, pure.”

“We lost our purity during the war. Like virginity, once you lose it, you never get it back.”

“Do many people find your flippancy as offensive as I do?”

Jackson stared at Eva Scheel for several moments. Finally he said, “I wasn’t trying to be flippant; I was just trying to state the problem, and believe me, there are problems. For example, you. You might be just one hell of a problem.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You’re a friend of Lieutenant Meyer’s. Lieutenant Meyer is looking for Kurt Oppenheimer. He wants to find him and lock him up someplace. Kurt Oppenheimer’s sister and I are engaged in a conspiracy to prevent this. So the problem is to prevent what we conspire about here today from getting back to Lieutenant Meyer. I don’t think I can make it any clearer than that.”

“I have known Leah and Kurt Oppenheimer for longer than I have known Lieutenant Meyer, Mr. Jackson.”

“Sure.”

“You sound unconvinced.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gazed at him steadily for a long time without blinking. “I assure you,” she said in a low, almost passionate voice, “I would never betray two of my oldest friends to someone like Lieutenant Meyer.”

Jackson wanted to ask what was so wrong with Lieutenant Meyer, but before he could, Leah Oppenheimer said, “We can trust Eva, Mr. Jackson. We must.”

Jackson shrugged. “It’s up to you, of course. I’m sorry, but whenever anyone says, ‘Trust me,’ I tend to run very fast in the opposite direction.”

“You are very cynical for an American, Mr. Jackson,” Eva Scheel said.

“I’m very cynical for anyone, Fraülein Scheel. It keeps me from being disappointed.”

“How terribly amusing,” Eva Scheel said with a little smile. “It makes you sound so very, very young.”

“Please,” Leah said before Jackson could fire back. “Somehow I don’t think this is a time for bickering.” She looked at Jackson solemnly. “Can I take it from what you’ve said thus far that you are still going to help us, Mr. Jackson — you and Mr. Ploscaru?”

“We’ve still got a deal.”

“I understand that these new complications — my brother’s being so terribly ill — might make it more difficult for you than we had thought. My father and I discussed such a contingency before I left, and he had authorized me to increase your fee from fifteen to twenty-five thousand dollars. Is that satisfactory?”

Jackson nodded. “How is your father? I apologize for not asking sooner.”

Leah gave her head a small shake. “The operation was not a success. I’m afraid that he is permanently blind.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. It would appear that things are not going too well for the Oppenheimer family just now.” She paused and then said, “We must find my brother, Mr. Jackson. I can’t bring myself to agree with your terrible theories about the Americans and the British and the Russians. Frankly, I don’t think that any of them are interested in taking Kurt alive. They would be just as happy if he were dead. I don’t know if you remember, but when we first met I spoke of getting help for my brother. There is such a place in Switzerland, a sanitarium, a very fine one. Of course, it will be expensive. Extremely expensive.”

“I imagine.”

“Then when he is better, perhaps he could...” She stopped. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about that just yet.”

“Don’t, dear,” Eva Scheel said, leaning over and placing a hand on Leah’s arm. “There’s no need to think about it now.”

“Okay,” Jackson said, and rose. “When we find him we’ll get him to Switzerland. That’s not as easy as it sounds, of course.”

“Of course not,” Leah said.

“I’ll talk to Ploscaru. He’ll probably have some ideas. He usually does.”

“How is Mr. Ploscaru?” Leah said. “I’m so sorry that we still haven’t been able to meet”

“Ploscaru,” Eva Scheel said. “Is that a Balkan name?”

“Romanian,” Leah said. “We have talked on the phone and corresponded, but we still have not met. I do look forward to it”

“I’ll tell him that,” Jackson said.

“I don’t mean to be overly inquisitive,” Leah said, “but could you tell me what he was doing that was so important that it would have kept him from our meeting today?”

“Sure,” Jackson said. “He was out looking for your brother.”

Eva Scheel accompanied Jackson to the foyer, opened the door for him, and held out her hand. When he took it, she said, “I really hesitate to say this again, Mr. Jackson, but you can rest assured that nothing that was said here today will get back to Lieutenant Meyer.”

Jackson nodded thoughtfully. “There’s not really just a hell of a lot to tell him, is there?”

“No,” she said slowly, the half smile back on her face. “As you say, not a hell of a lot.”

They said goodbye then, and Eva Scheel watched as Jackson made his way down the dimly lit stairs. So there goes the opposition, she thought. Very quick, very intelligent, and doubtless very competent, but lacking, perhaps, in a certain amount of animal cunning. It could be that the dwarf supplies that. Well, printer, she thought as she turned and closed the door, we must meet again, and soon, because now I have something to tell you. She found herself quite surprised at how much she was looking forward to it.