The Eighth Dwarf

33

Leah Oppenheimer still didn’t want to believe that the dwarf who stood on the chair behind the lectern in the Godesberg Hotel conference room was Nicolae Ploscaru. He’s an impostor, she had told herself. Nicolae Ploscaru was no dwarf — he was tall and fair and cruelly handsome. The dwarf had to be an impostor.

She had had to force herself to accept the fact that the dwarf was who he claimed to be. The voice had done it, of course — that low, almost musical baritone with its undercurrent of sexual invitation. It was the same voice that she had heard over the telephone many times. There could be no mistake. It was Nicolae Ploscaru’s voice.

“I regret, my dear,” the dwarf had said after introducing himself, “that things did not work out quite as we had planned.”

Leah Oppenheimer had been able only to nod dumbly and manage one question. “Where is my brother?”

“With Mr. Jackson,” the dwarf had said, smiled, and turned away to nod gravely at Robert Henry Orr and Lieutenant Meyer.

Ten chairs had been set out in the room in two rows of five each. Orr and Meyer sat together, as did Leah Oppenheimer and Eva Scheel. The dwarf, behind the lectern, smiled and looked at his watch.

“We’ll begin, ladies and gentlemen, as soon as our last guest arrives.”

The last guest was Major Baker-Bates, who entered the conference room two minutes later. He nodded sourly at the dwarf and then spotted Eva Scheel sitting next to Leah Oppenheimer. He smiled for the first time that day. Well, Gilbert, he told himself, the morning’s not going to be a total waste after all.

Baker-Bates took the seat next to Eva Scheel’s and smiled at her pleasantly. “The printer coming?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t understand your question.”

“You understand,” Baker-Bates said. “When this charade is done, you and I will have a chat. A long one.”

The dwarf rapped for order with a water glass. “I think we’ll keep this quite informal, ladies and gentlemen. We are here to auction off a rather interesting item with which all of you are familiar. The terms will be cash, of course, in either American dollars or British pounds. Swiss francs are also quite acceptable. I might add that the item that’s being auctioned off is in excellent condition and will be available one hour after the final bid is made. Are there any questions?”

Orr raised his hand. “How can we be sure that you have the item in question?”

“Faith, my dear sir, faith. In all commerce a certain amount of good faith must be exercised by both parties. I have certain goods for sale which you and others wish to buy. I scarcely would have gone to such elaborate arrangements if I did not intend to deliver. Upon delivery, if you are not entirely satisfied, then you have certain methods of recourse, which I would rather not mention.”

“I’m relieved that you’re aware of them,” Orr said.

“Quite aware.”

Eva Sheel had not been listening to Orr and the dwarf. Instead, her mind raced furiously as she tried to decide her next move. Something must have happened to the printer, she realized. He might even be dead — killed by either the dwarf or Jackson. So the plan must be abandoned. She had Berlin’s $25,000 in her purse. The British Major had somehow connected her with the printer. That meant he knew who and what she was — really was. If she bid on the goods, there was no way that they would let her leave Bonn with them, if hers was the high bid. But still, if she bid, and it was high, then it might be a bargaining chip in her talk with the British Major. She was going to need all the bargaining power that she could muster. She bit her lower lip and decided to bid.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” the dwarf was saying, “I will entertain the first bid. Do I hear five thousand dollars?”

Ploscaru looked around the room. Orr nodded.

The dwarf smiled. “We have five thousand. Do I hear six?”

“Six,” Baker-Bates said.

“Ten thousand dollars,” Orr said.

“The gentleman from the United States bids ten thousand dollars. Do I hear eleven?”

“Eleven thousand,” Leah Oppenheimer said.

The dwarf smiled knowingly. “Eleven thousand from — shall we say — the soon-to-be state of Israel. Do I hear twelve?”

“Twelve,” Baker-Bates said.

“Fourteen,” Orr said promptly.

Baker-Bates did his multiplication. With the pound at $4.03, he decided to bid his limit and get it over with. “Sixteen thousand,” he said. To himself he added, And you can bloody well take it or leave it.

“Eighteen,” Leah Oppenheimer said.

“Twenty thousand,” Orr said.

There was a silence. Ploscaru nodded genially and said, “We have twenty thousand dollars bid, ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear twenty-five?”

The silence continued. “Come, now, ladies and gentlemen, we’re not going to let this valuable item go for a mere twenty thousand, are we? Do I hear twenty-five?”

Eva Scheel drew in her breath, held it, let it out, and said in a low, almost defiant tone, “Twenty-five thousand.”

Leah Oppenheimer turned and stared at her. Eva Scheel refused to meet her gaze. Four chairs away, Lieutenant Meyer looked ill. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

“We have twenty-five thousand from the lady in the fur coat,” Ploscaru said. “You’re representing whom, my dear?”

Eva Scheel said nothing but instead stared straight ahead.

“My word,” the dwarf said, looking with feigned horror at Orr. “Do you think she might be representing our comrades to the east?”

“Thirty thousand,” Orr said quickly.

“We have thirty thousand from Uncle Sam,” Ploscaru said with a delighted smile. “Do I hear thirty-five?”

“Thirty-five,” Leah Oppenheimer said. She was still staring at Eva Scheel. “You could have told me, Eva,” she said sadly. “I would have understood. Whatever it is you’re doing, I know I would have understood.”

Eva Scheel said nothing.

“We have thirty-five thousand bid,” Ploscaru said. “Thirty-five. Do I hear forty?”

“Forty,” Orr said.

“Forty thousand is bid, ladies and gentlemen. Forty thousand dollars. Do I hear forty-five?”

There was another silence.

“Do I hear forty-five thousand?” Ploscaru said again.

There were no bids.

“Forty thousand once,” Ploscaru said, and paused. “Forty thousand twice.” He paused again, then rapped with the water glass, smiled broadly, and said, “Sold, American,” just as Minor Jackson entered the room leading Kurt Oppenheimer by the hand.

Oppenheimer, dressed only in Jackson’s topcoat, smiled foolishly, chuckled wisely, and began urinating on the floor.