The Eighth Dwarf

22

Some twenty kilometers east of the Opel plant, the UNRRA Ford sedan turned in to the dairy farm. At the wheel was Heinrich, the butler-chauffeur and former caterer of Nazi social affairs in Berlin. His two passengers were Jackson and the dwarf. In the trunk of the car were fifty cartons of American cigarettes.

The farmhouse was built of reddish stone with a slate roof, as was the dairy barn, which was attached to it at a right angle. In the middle of the barnyard — and in Jackson’s opinion, far too close to the house — was a huge, steaming pile of manure.

“Let me guess,” Jackson said, nodding at the manure pile. “He’s got it hidden under that.”

The dwarf wrinkled his nose. “It’s a sign of prosperity, you know.”

“He must be a very rich man.”

“I will bring him,” Heinrich said, and got out of the car. Skirting carefully around the manure pile, he went up to the farmhouse and banged on its door with a fist. The door was opened a suspicious inch or two. Heinrich said something, the door opened wider, and the farmer came out.

He was a stocky, thick-waisted man of about fifty dressed in rubber boots and stained, dirty green coveralls. On his head was a shapeless black felt hat, and under it his face wore the wary, careful expression of a peasant who’s convinced that he’s about to be cheated. His eyes were small, blue, and cunning, the eyes of a skilled bargainer. Jackson decided that he would let the dwarf do all the dickering. The dwarf was good at it.

Jackson and Ploscaru got out of the car, but no introductions were made. The farmer stared at them a moment, especially at Ploscaru; grunted; and jerked his head in the direction in which he intended to lead them. He moved off, and the three men fell in behind.

“Why all the mystery, Nick?” Jackson said as they followed the fanner around toward the back of the barn.

“It’s not a mystery, it’s a surprise,” Ploscaru said. “Everybody likes surprise.”

“I don’t.”

“You’ll like this one.”

In back of the barn, the farmer stopped at a crude shed without walls that apparently had been erected to afford some protection to a four-foot-high stack of hay. All there was to the shed was its plank roof and the four poles that supported it.

The farmer picked up a rake and started pulling the hay down and to one side. The hay was only a few inches deep on top. Underneath it was a stained, patched canvas that covered something. When most of the hay was gone, the farmer peeled away the canvas, and Jackson said, “Sweet Jesus!”

It was red, and it had two bullet holes through its windshield. A leather strap was buckled around its immense hood. The radiator cap was adorned with a three-pointed star.

Jackson looked at the dwarf, who was beaming. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Ploscaru said.

“It’s a monster,” Jackson said.

“Are you familiar with this particular model, Herr Doktor?” asked Heinrich, obviously anxious to serve as docent.

“It’s a Mercedes,” Jackson said.

“Ach, but what a Mercedes. It’s the SKK 38-slash-250, designed, as you know, by Dr. Porsche. It has the 7.069-liter engine and is supercharged, as you can see. Horse-power, I would say, around 200. It’s supercharged by the Roots-type double-vane blower, and—”

“Tell me about the bullet holes,” Jackson said.

“Ach, those. Well, perhaps we should let its proprietor tell you about those.” He turned to the farmer. “He wants to know about the bullet holes in the windshield.”

The farmer spat into some hay and shrugged. “What is there to know? It was your planes that did it.”

“My planes?” Jackson said.

“Well, your plane, then. There was only one. An American fighter. He came in low and got him through the head.”

“Who?”

“The Colonel.”

“What kind of colonel?”

“An SS colonel, except that he was no longer in uniform then. It was right after Frankfurt fell to the Americans. The Colonel was trying to get to Switzerland, or so he said before he died. I buried him over there.” He pointed with his chin to a grassy mound of earth under a plane tree.

“And kept his car,” Jackson said.

The farmer shrugged again. “Who’s to say it was his car? He was a deserter. He probably stole it.”

“But you want to sell it now?” Ploscaru said.

The farmer looked up at the sky. “I might.”

“You have the papers, of course.”

The farmer quit looking up at the sky and frowned. “No papers.”

“Well, that does present certain kinds of problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Obviously, for a car with paper there is one price. But for a car with no papers — well, naturally, there must be another price.”

“Especially for one owned by an SS colonel who only drove it to the gas chamber on Saturday nights,” Jackson said in English.

The farmer glared. “What did he say?”

“I said that it probably uses a lot of gasoline. Probably two kilometers to the liter. Maybe three.”

“It has a big tank. Besides,” the fanner continued with another shrug, “you’re an American. Gasoline is no problem for you.”

“So how much are you asking for this twelve-year-old contraption?” Ploscaru said.

“I will not take marks.”

“All right, no marks.”

“Either cigarettes or dollar.”

“How much in dollars, then?”

The farmer couldn’t keep the craftiness and greed from spreading across his face. “Five hundred dollars.”

Ploscaru nodded several times as though he found the price perfectly reasonable. “That’s with the papers, of course.”

“I told you. No papers.”

“Oh, I see. Then your price without papers must be around two hundred dollars, right?”

“Wrong,” the farmer said. “It is an unusual car, a rare model. Anyone would pay at least four hundred dollars for it.”

“True, true,” Ploscaru said. “They might pay that much if there were papers to go with it and if there weren’t two bullet holes in its windshield. Think of the questions that will be asked when one goes to get the glass replaced.”

“Perhaps three-fifty,” the farmer said.

“Three hundred, and we’re taking a terrible risk.”

“Done,” the farmer said, and held out his hand. Ploscaru shook it, then turned to Heinrich. “How much are cigarettes bringing on the black market today, Heinrich?”

“Ten dollars a carton, Herr Direktor,” he said automatically.

“Thirty cartons?” Ploscaru said to the farmer.

He nodded. “Thirty cartons.”

“You forgot to ask him one thing,” Jackson said.

Ploscaru looked up. “What?”

“Does it run?”

“It runs,” the farmer said. “It runs very fast.”

The narrow road was long, straight, and free of traffic. When the speedometer reached 70 kilometers per hour, Jackson jammed the accelerator to the floor, the supercharger cut in with a howl, and the big open roadster leaped forward as though shot from some immense rubber band.

The dwarf knelt on the passenger seat, his lips peeled back by both the wind and a grin that was almost manic. “Faster!” he yelled above the supercharger’s howl. “Faster!”

Jackson kept his foot down, and the speedometer quickly reached 160 kilometers per hour. He kept it there for a few moments, then took his foot from the accelerator, and the big car slowed. He let its speed drop back down to a sensible 60 kilometers per hour.

“How fast did we go?” Ploscaru asked.

“About a hundred miles per hour.”

“I like to go fast. It’s something to do with sex, I think. I get quite aroused.”

“This is some car you found, Nick.”

“How does it handle?”

“Better than I would’ve thought. Very smooth, very quick. Even a kid could handle it. I’m not sure that they remembered to put the springs in, though. Run over a marble and you feel it clear up your spine. Not to be picky, but don’t you think maybe it’s just a bit flashy for our line of work?”

“Flashy?”

“Yeah, flashy. We’re supposed to be a trifle clandestine, aren’t we? You know, sly and sneaky. This thing’s about as sneaky as a parade.”

“But fast.”

“Very fast.”

“We might need it, then.”

“For what?”

“To get from here to there very quickly.”

When they got back to the big house near the Frankfurt zoo, one of the young maids was waiting for them with an envelope and the important air of someone who gets to deliver the bad news.

“He said to give it to either of you,” she said after making her curtsy.

“Who?”

“The man who brought it. He came on a bicycle. He said it was of the gravest importance. A matter of life or death, he said.”

Ploscaru’s eyebrows went up. “He said that?”

“I am almost positive, Herr Direktor.”

Jackson took the envelope and followed Ploscaru into the sitting room, where a coal fire burned in the grate.

“Open it while I make us a drink,” Ploscaru said.

Jackson examined the envelope, which was made of thick, cream-colored paper. There was nothing written on its front or back, so he smelled it. There was a slight scent that he decided was lavender. He opened the envelope with his finger and took out a single sheet of paper.

He recognized the handwriting immediately. But even if it had been typed, he felt that he would automatically have identified its sender from the florid prose. There was no salutation, and the note began abruptly: “A terrible thing has happened. I am in despair and must see you at once. Please do not fail me in this hour of grave need.” It was signed with Leah Oppenheimer’s initials, L.O.

He traded the letter to Ploscaru for a drink. “A maiden in distress,” Jackson said.

Ploscaru read the note quickly, looked up, and said, “She does like a bit of melodrama, doesn’t she? I suppose you’d better go see her.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

The dwarf shook his head. “I think not. You seem to be handling her quite well, and there is the chance that I may have an important appointment tonight.”

“She keeps asking about you.”

“Make my excuses.”

“I think she’s getting tired of excuses.”

“Then take her to dinner. There’s quite a good black-market restaurant that I’ve heard about. Here, I’ll give you the address.” He wrote the address with a gold pencil on the back of the letter and handed it to Jackson. “You can even give her a ride in the car. She might like that.”

“I think I’ll run her past the gas station just to see what the fellas think.”

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

When Leah Oppenheimer opened the door of the apartment on the third floor, Jackson lied and said, “I came as soon as I got your note.” Actually, he’d had another drink first.

“You are so very kind,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper. “Do come in.”

As she led him into the room where she had served tea and sliced Milky Ways, Jackson had the feeling that he was being led into a funeral parlor by the most bereaved relative of the deceased. It was still cold in the room, and Leah Oppenheimer had her camel’s-hair coat on.

“I am sorry, but there is no electricity,” she said, indicating two candles that burned near the table where tea had been served. “No heat either, I’m afraid, but do sit down.”

“What’s happened?” Jackson said, choosing the same chair that he had sat in before.

“It’s horrible. It’s so horrible that I can’t believe it.” Her voice almost broke, and now that she was under the candle light Jackson could see that she had been crying.

“Tell me.”

“My brother, he... he...” Then the tears started, as did the sobs. Jackson rose and patted her on the shoulder. He felt clumsy. She reached for his hand and held it pressed against her cheek. She cries the same way she writes, Jackson thought, found his handkerchief with his other hand, and gave it to her.

“Here,” he said, “blow your nose.”

“Thank you.” She blew her nose, wiped away the tears, and looked up at him. “You’re always so very kind. I feel I can trust you. I... I’ve always felt that from the first moment we met.”

Jackson tried not to gimace. She’s reading it, he decided. She has this mental script that some idiot has written for her and she reads from it.

“Better?” he said, freeing his hand and using it to give her shoulder another pat.

She nodded.

Jackson resumed his seat and said, “Tell me about it. Tell me about what’s so horrible.”

She folded her hands in her lap and looked away, as though it would make the telling easier. “My brother.”

Jackson waited. When she said nothing after several moments, he said, “What about him?”

Still looking away, she said, “They say he has killed somebody else.”

Jackson sighed. “Who’re they?”

“Lieutenant Meyer. He was here earlier. He said my brother shot and killed a man at the Opel plant. What could he have been doing at the Opel plant? It’s at Russelsheim, you know.”

“Who did he kill?”

“A man. He held a trial, found him guilty, and then killed him.”

Jackson took out his cigarettes, thought about offering Leah Oppenheimer one, decided against it, lit one for himself, and said, “I want you to do something for me.”

She looked at him then. “Of course. Anything.”

“Tell me exactly what Lieutenant Meyer said.”

It took her a while, nearly half an hour, what with her asides, rhetorical questions, and the several long periods during which she said absolutely nothing, but instead gazed silently down at her hands.

When Jackson felt that she was through, he said, “That’s it? You’ve told me everything he said?”

“Yes. Everything.”

“Where is your friend?”

“Eva? She and Lieutenant Meyer went out. It will be their last night together for perhaps some time. They will probably be out quite late. She wanted to stay with me, but I told her no, that it wasn’t necessary, that it might be better if I were alone with my thoughts.”

She’s reading again, Jackson thought.

“So I was alone for a time, and when I could no longer bear it, I sent you that silly note. You were so very kind to come.”

“Why isn’t Lieutenant Meyer going to be around for a while?” Jackson said.

“Why? Because he feels he had to go to Bonn, of course.”

“Of course. But why Bonn exactly?”

“Because that’s where my brother’s going. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No. You didn’t.”

“It’s important, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “It’s important.”

It took Jackson a while to convince her that she should accept his invitation to dinner. Several times he almost gave up, but instead persisted, and when at long last she accepted, she suddenly found she couldn’t go the way she was dressed.

“It will only take a minute to change,” she said.

It took her twenty minutes, but when she came out of the bedroom she looked far different from the way she had looked when she went in. She looked, in fact, Jackson thought, almost beautiful.

She had done something to her hair, although he was not quite sure what except that it was no longer worn in her usual maiden-lady fashion. Instead, it fell in soft waves almost to her shoulders. She also had done something to erase the evidence of her tears — perhaps a skillful application of makeup, Jackson thought, but wasn’t sure, because there was no evidence of makeup except for the faint touch of lipstick that she had added.

The dress helped, too. It was a plain black dress. Your simple, basic black, Jackson decided, which probably cost a hundred dollars. It was cut low and close enough to show off her breasts to good advantage, and for the first time he wondered how it would be to go to bed with her. He was faintly surprised that he hadn’t wondered about that before, because, like most men, he usually speculated about it shortly after meeting a woman. Any woman.

She stood there in the center of the room, almost shyly, as if she were not at all sure that he still wanted her to go.

“You look very nice,” he said. “Very pretty.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes.”

“What do they call this in the States?”

“Call what?”

“What we are doing.”

“I think they call it going to dinner.”

She shook her head. “No there is another word that I’ve read. They call it a — a date, don’t they?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is this like a real date?”

“Absolutely,” Jackson said, praying that she wouldn’t simper.

Instead, she smiled shyly and said, “It will be my first one, you know.”

“Your first one ever?” Somehow, he managed to keep the shock out of his voice, if not the surprise.

She nodded gravely. “My first one ever. Do you still want me to go?”

“Sure,” Jackson said, and smiled as though he really meant it and was rather amazed to realize that he did.