A Dandy in Aspic

by Derek Marlowe

  “Herr Dancer,” the man was saying, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’m so glad I finally caught you.”

  And he exhibited a broad grin of immaculate teeth and such a flurry of relief that he could hardly contain himself. Eberlin didn’t stop but merely walked slower. Unconcerned, the Adonis fell into step with him, almost dancing, and then strutting backwards improvising his choreography, to face him.

  “My name is Uwe Greff and you don’t know how I’ve been looking for you. I almost gave up hope. Then I saw you just as you were–”

  “What do you want?”

  The question was snapped out and stunned Greff immediately. He emitted an embarrassed laugh, scratched a side-boarded cheek, and then adopted a confiding manner that troubled Eberlin.

  “Perhaps if we got in my car?”

  He put his hand out to touch Eberlin’s arm but stopped as Eberlin stepped back and moved to a wall.

  “What do you want?” he repeated.

  A gesture of childish dismay from Greff and a delicate replacing of tie into jacket. The clothes were in exquisite taste, as Eberlin noticed, and mostly of English cut, though slightly effeminate for his own preference. The shirt however was remarkably tailored in a pale, yet superb, shade of yellow. Greff, Eberlin decided, whoever he was, had ton and that, ridiculously, was in his favor. He waited.

  “Herr Dancer–perhaps I should explain. I saw you tonight at the office ask for Josef Greiser.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Well, it’s obvious that you have been out of touch. Josef, unfortunately, well–he was arrested.”

  “Arrested?” asked Eberlin surprised. “When? Where?”

  “Last year. By the Vopos.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “You knew him?”

  “We met.”

  “Well–let me say it was no accident. Someone informed on him,” said Greff quietly, lowering his eyes suitably, “and it wasn’t someone from Breysach.”

  “Gehlen?”

  Greff shrugged and said nothing.

  “I see,” murmured Eberlin after a moment.

  “Yes. Well, Oskar–that’s the present Herr Greiser, the one you saw tonight–very confusing–knows nothing about Josef’s”–and here he sought a word and attempted–“activities? It’s pure coincidence.”

  A long pause. Eberlin gazed at Greff’s face steadily, glanced at the Porsche, standing as conspicuous as a beacon against the dank backdrop, and then turned back to Greff.

  “But it still exists? Breysach I mean?”

  “Oh, most certainly.”

  “And you?”

  Greff gave his first genuine smile and braved a pat on Eberlin’s shoulder.

  “Shall we go to the car?”

  “One moment,” said Eberlin blandly, lighting a cigarette, “What about Kasperl? Does he still supervise the section?”

  Greff’s sudden burst of laughter startled him by its robustness. “Herr Dancer–we have now proved that neither of us are fools.

  Kasperl does not, never was and never will supervise the section. In fact it would be truly remarkable if he did, considering he is secondin-command of the HVA. Games, Herr Dancer, forget about games. Come on. I have some coffee in the car which I’m sure you will like. It’s Blue Mountain. And in a flask.”

  “I am unimpressed,” replied Eberlin with a smile, “but will drink it nevertheless.”

  He followed Greff, still wary but more relaxed, to the Porsche.

  * * *

  “What did you think of our whorehouse?” said Greff as he eased the car into Gneisenaustrasse. “Rather distasteful, didn’t you think?”

  “Aren’t they all?” asked Eberlin as he sat in the passenger seat sipping coffee from the flask.

  “Well I suppose so. Are they? I never go to them myself. Do you?”

  “What?”

  “Sleep with whores?”

  “No. I try to avoid off-the-peg goods.”

  “Oh, I suppose you go for virgins?”

  “No, I dislike virgins.”

  “Why?”

  “I always suspect someone has been there before.”

  Greff laughed at this and congratulated Eberlin on his German. “Where did you learn it?”

  “Oh, I picked it up here and there, you know,” said Eberlin deadpan, “Belsen, Auschwitz, Buchenwald …”

  Greff’s smile faded and he bit his lip and then said, “Well firsthand knowledge of a language is always the best.”

  He smiled self-consciously and was obviously relieved by Eberlin asking, “Where are we going?”

  “Oh. Oh, just driving around. Give us time to talk.”

  Greff gave him a quick smile, and then after a moment’s introspection, ventured rather self-consciously:

  “I wouldn’t have thought you were …”

  “I’m not,” replied Eberlin and opened his window slightly, conscious of the smell of vomit in the car. Greff, however, seemed unaware of it and switched on the car radio with his right hand as he drove. The soothing upsurge of Rodrigo’s Guitar Concerto filled the Porsche, cleared the air and silenced the two men.

  At Yorckstrasse, Greff turned right and right again into the slum quarter, and began humming the music to himself as if they were both suddenly on their way to a picnic or returning from a concert.

  “Look,” said Eberlin, irritated by Greff’s reluctance to talk, “I can’t drive around all–”

  “Sssh!” admonished the other, with a raised index finger and a gesture to the music.

  “Damn the music,” Eberlin said and switched it off. For a moment, Greff tensed and then he gave a brief smile and said quickly:

  “Forgive me, Herr Dancer. I was being selfish.” Eberlin grunted.

  “Why were you looking for me?” he asked. “You were inquiring about Josef, were you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “For some–reason I presume.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then perhaps I can help.”

  “Who is Oskar Greiser?”

  “Oh no one. Nothing to do with Breysach at least. He runs some small private … concern.”

  “In a brothel?”

  “Well … it’s rather … ‘undemocratic,’ shall we say.”

  “You mean he’s a Nazi?”

  “Herr Dancer–try not to jump to conclusions. The word ‘Nazi’ is a very broad term, and every foreigner who enters Germany has it on his lips, is itching to voice it.”

  “But you work for him?”

  “In a sense. Look, my private life should not concern you. I myself have not the slightest interest in your political sexual, or, God help us, religious bias. So let us forget about Oskar, shall we? He is of no use to you.”

  Eberlin was silent for a moment as he sipped at the coffee. “Well at least,” he said finally, “your office is close to Love and

  Kitheth. If you desire it.”

  There was a hearty laugh from Greff and he slapped Eberlin’s knee.

  “Oh, you noticed her? She’s really rather sweet. And with those enormous tits. I can’t bear to think of them released from their silk hammock.” He laughed again and said, “Her name’s Hedwig something or other. Comes from Bavaria. She told me she was an actress or wanted to be one. I can’t remember. Anyway she apparently took the part of a nun in some minor film.”

  “Who did she play? Mother Inferior?”

  “God–I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Greff, and he smiled to himself and scratched his nose.

  The Porsche was cruising continually in a circle of about a quarter-mile radius and Eberlin was relieved to notice that Greff kept to the quietest streets. He was offered a Kent cigarette and refused it.

  “Actually the one you should have met,” mused Greff after a moment, “is Malesuada Gage. Incredible creature. She must be six feet in height, blond with a magnificent body. Very popular of course and very expensive but I hear well worth it. Malesuada Gage. Remember the name. I prefer boys myself. You?”


  “No.”

  “Well, never mind. You’re British, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Eberlin replied automatically.

  “Yes…. I’ve been to London many times myself. Adore it. Do you know–No, of course you wouldn’t. Not your scene. I fly there to see my tailor.”

  “Jackson and Wavell.”

  Greff’s mouth opened in a gasp of astonishment and he almost lost control of the car.

  “Good heavens. How did you know that?”

  “I guessed,” Eberlin replied, “from the cut of your suit. Especially the lapels.”

  “But that’s fantastic. Do you go there yourself?”

  “No. Schwitzer and Davidson. Cork Street.”

  “Well, I would never–”

  Eberlin suddenly raised his voice.

  “Greff, I haven’t much time. Can we drop the pleasantries now?”

  With a pursed-mouth reply, Greff nodded. “There’s an alley up ahead. I’ll park there.”

  “No. Keep driving. But get out of this district. Your car is too conspicuous. Drive toward the center.”

  “As you wish.”

  The car accelerated back toward the Anhalter Banhof, skirted the Wall and headed north in the direction of the Tiergarten. It had just entered the dark lanes of the park, when Eberlin said suddenly:

  “Stop the car here.”

  “What?” asked Greff in surprise. “Why–”

  “Stop it. Park it just in that shadow.”

  With a frown, Greff slid the car into a deserted alcove of trees and switched off the lights. Opening both doors, Eberlin bade Greff get out. There was a moment’s hesitation, then Greff obeyed and watched in amused interest as Eberlin quickly searched the car–under the dashboard, behind the seats, even the flask–until he was content.

  “All right. Let us go,” he said and casually poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “The car isn’t bugged, Dancer,” Greff commented matter-offactly as he slid the car back into the road. “And the reason is that we are much more vulnerable than you. For all I know you could be a damned Vopo in mufti.”

  “I could be, yes,” replied Eberlin. “But you’re not.”

  “Now, how can you be so sure?” Greff smiled.

  “May I have a sip of coffee? No, it’s all right. I’ll use the same cup.”

  Eberlin handed over the coffee and studied the bronzed, straight-nosed profile of the man as he drank. The blond hair, grown long and curled over the nape of the neck and over the forehead, together with the deep, clear eyes reminded one of Michelangelo’s David, and Eberlin saw for a brief second, almost subliminally, the wretched little girl in Bayswater whose soul had miscarried before she could even walk. Greff, drinking and driving at the same time, glanced at Eberlin for a second, conscious of the scrutiny, and then looked away. There was no doubt in Eberlin’s mind that Greff was probably very successful as a queer, and even perhaps as a petty, Nazi, if his suspicions about Oskar Greiser were correct. But as an operator, he was unsure. He lit a cigarette.

  ‘Un ange se passe,” smiled Greff and handed the cup back. “What are you thinking?”

  “You were going to prove that I wasn’t a spy from the Vopos.”

  “Was I? Oh yes. Well, I’ll tell you who you are.”

  “Please do.” Eberlin attempted a passive interest like a party guest cornered by an amateur palmist.

  “Your name is indeed Dancer. George Dancer in fact. And you work in an oil company.”

  Eberlin sat up straight.

  “All right so far?” said Greff with a laugh, but didn’t wait for an affirmative. “You are a supervisor in the Accounts department and are thirty-six years old and live in London. This is your second visit to Berlin and you would like to get into the East but, for certain reasons, permission has been refused. As you discovered this morning.”

  Silence. Eberlin stared out at the dark streets passing by and the constellations of insects caught in the headlights. And then he nodded and said quietly:

  “I think we’re in business. Who tipped you off? Stein?”

  “No. Too high up for us. It was the private.”

  “Oh yes.” Eberlin nodded and added, “There was someone else watching me. A civilian.”

  “Him?”

  Greff handed over a photo of an unsmiling man with freakishly prominent teeth. Eberlin said “Yes” and put the photo in the glove compartment.

  “He’s a failure. Too conspicuous and too memorable. I’d keep him behind the counter,” he said.

  “You’re right,” replied Greff. “Do you think you can do it?”

  The Porsche cornered sharply into Beusselstrasse and Greff switched on the radio again, found a music program and turned it low.

  “When do you want to go over?”

  “Within the next twenty-four hours,” replied Eberlin, not looking at the other man.

  Greff hesitated for almost a decade, then said, “Tomorrow morning. I’m sure it can be fixed for then. It’ll mean more pressure but it can be arranged.”

  “I’m known. I can’t afford to be seen by anyone–East or West.”

  “That’ll be taken into account. We can perhaps take you right across the Eastern Sector to the edge of the city, but it will cost more.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Yes. We are very–let us say–influential. Don’t ask questions now on the mechanics of the operation because I won’t answer you. After all, you might still be a plant. It’s happened before.”

  Greff smiled with nauseating sweetness and ran the small finger of his right hand along one eyebrow.

  “Driving the car like this is incredibly monotonous, George. I may call you George, may I not?”

  “How much do you want?”

  “Well it’s a rushed job and your face is known. And as you well know we avoid all the pathetic kamikaze devices such as tunnels, coffins, after-dark dashes and other such trivia. One is likely to get killed that way. No, our methods are neat, open and safe.”

  “Not quite all the time. There was–”

  “Mere teething troubles. We’ve learnt from them.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “For a daylight crossing, with papers–”

  “How much?”

  Greff suddenly put on the brakes and brought the Porsche to a halt at the curb. Swiveling around toward Eberlin he took a notebook from a pocket and glanced at it. Three or four more pages were flickered over before he returned the book to his pocket.

  “Six thousand dollars or two thousand pounds sterling.” Eberlin gasped in unconscious reaction.

  “Half in advance,” added Greff toying with the radio.

  “Too much,” replied Eberlin. “I’ll give you three thousand.”

  “I’m not a fool, George,” said Greff, placing a peppermint in his mouth and resting the dial of the radio on Vaughan Williams’ Thomas Tallis. “Don’t you think this is divine?” he added. “So English. It must make you feel very nostalgic.”

  “I can give you fifteen hundred pounds in advance and that is the most I can raise.”

  Greff hesitated. “In cash?”

  “I’ll get it first thing in the morning.”

  “Make it five thousand dollars in cash and we’ve got a deal.”

  “All right. Half on this side of the Wall and half on the other.”

  “Agreed.”

  Two intakes of breath and Greff started the car. “Where shall I drop you?”

  “Better make it Steinplatz. I can walk from there.”

  “All right.”

  They drove in silence now till they reached Spandauerdamm, and then Greff said:

  “The main bank in Hardenbergstrasse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be there at eleven. When you leave, wait on the corner where I drop you tonight. A black Mercedes taxi number B 4485A, will appear on your side traveling south. Hail it and it will stop and leave it to us from there.”

  “I might be followed.”


  “Don’t worry. We can take care of that. Have you got the number?”

  “B 4485A?”

  “Good. Don’t bring any luggage of course, but bring your passport.”

  “Passport? Why?”

  “It will be exchanged for another one. We will use yours as a base for someone else. You’re not going to need it after tomorrow, are you?”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all for now–oh, there is something. What’s your collar size?”

  “My what?”

  “Collar size. You know–on your shirts.”

  “Fifteen,” Eberlin replied, puzzled.

  Greff wrote Fifteen down in the notebook as the car halted at some lights, then said:

  “I’m sorry I can’t make it more cloak-and-dagger for you, but it’s just routine for us. Skilled routine but routine nevertheless.” He grinned and added as an afterthought, “Oh, and don’t worry about being seen leaving this car. I only bought it this morning. I gather Willi Brandt has an identical model, so don’t be nervous.”

  “I’ll get off the next corner.”

  The car stopped in the small Steinplatz park. Eberlin was about to open his door when Greff leaned across and held his arm.

  “Don’t underestimate us, George. You have more to lose than us.” He patted the arm and said, “Well, it was nice meeting you. If I can suggest a way to spend your evening–find a nice, sensual tart and take her to bed as quick as possible. You’ll find the girls in the East are either catatonic beauties or rapacious monsters. Get it while you can. Malesuada Gage if you’re lucky–incredible name–but even thexy Hedwig would be profitable.”

  “No thank you,” snapped Eberlin and opened the door sharply.

  Outside it was cold.

  “Gute Nacht,” smiled Greff and shut the door. But not before mouthing silently “Till tomorrow” at the back of Eberlin’s head. Then the Porsche, with a violent roar, was into Hardenbergergstrasse and gone.

  Eberlin hurried away toward the Ku-Damm. Iacta alea est–or is it? He wondered how much he could trust Greff or even if at all. God, it was so absurd to have to sneak into one’s own country through the parlor window. If Rotopkin hadn’t been so eager to kill Pavel, all this wouldn’t have happened. Damn Kuzmich! Eberlin was well aware that his welcome in Moscow wouldn’t be favorable–if he got there–but at least it would be safer than the West. Three more days with Gatiss and his cover might as well be made out of polythene.