The Eighth Dwarf

by Ross Thomas

  “For Christ’s sake, Nick,” Jackson said.

  “He’ll walk in an hour or two. Over the years, through necessity, I’ve become quite an expert on kneecaps.” Ploscaru turned to the tall man. “Now, Mircea,” he said in Romanian, “you can load your truck.”

  Mircea Ulescu, the ex-policeman turned thief, grinned broadly, and his soft gray eyes shone. “Ah, Nicolae, it is like old times, no?” He turned quickly and snapped orders at the other five men in Polish. They hurried over to the cases of cigarettes and started carrying them up the cellar steps.

  “So, Mircea, you are speaking Polish now,” Ploscaru said.

  The big man shrugged. “What could I do, Nicolae? They would not learn German. They are such a stubborn race, the Poles.”

  Jackson looked at the submachine gun that he was still holding in his hands, frowned at it with something like mild distaste, put it down on the stone floor, and moved over to Bodden. Jackson stared down for a moment at the man, whose lips were still stretched back in a grimace of pain. Then he knelt down beside him and brought out a package of cigarettes and some matches.

  “Do you smoke?” he asked.

  “I—also—drink,” Bodden said with an effort. He managed to accept a cigarette and a light.

  “Let’s see if the tenant left anything behind,” Jackson rose, opened the footlocker in which Oppenheimer had kept his tea things, found a bottle of bourbon and two teacups. He moved back over to Bodden and poured both teacups nearly full.

  “Here” he said, “some American painkiller.”

  Bodden took a swallow. “An acquired taste, I’d say.”

  “Quickly acquired,” Jackson said, raising his own cup. “Who are you, friend?”

  Bodden turned his grimace into a smile of sorts. “Nobody.”

  Jackson nodded, almost sympathetically. “But not the landlord.”

  “No. Not the landlord.”

  “A friend of the tenant’s—or rather, the former tenant?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And maybe not.”

  “And maybe not,” Bodden agreed. He took another swallow of the bourbon, sighed, and said, “Your little friend—he’s a bit treacherous, isn’t he?”

  “A bit.”

  “The next time—well, the next time I’ll not be quite so trusting.”

  “When’s this next time going to happen?”

  Bodden studied Jackson for a moment. “Soon. I’d say quite soon, wouldn’t you, Mr. Jackson?”

  Jackson didn’t bother to try to hide his surprise at the mention of his name. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage there, friend.”

  “A small one, but still the only one I seem to have. However, if you need a name to go with my face, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Good. I won’t.”

  “Let me guess something,” Jackson said.

  “Of course—but first, perhaps, another drop of your American Schnapps. As you say, it’s a taste quickly acquired.”

  Jackson filled Bodden’s teacup again. “If you happen to find the former tenant, where will you encourage him to go—East?”

  “Why East?”

  “As I said, it’s only a guess.”

  “We’ll let it remain that. But I’ll give you some advice, Mr. Jackson. Not free advice, which is usually worthless, but advice in exchange for the painkiller, which is already beginning to work a little. My advice is this: when you begin to believe that you can trust your little colleague over there—don’t.”

  Jackson grinned. “You hand out good advice, friend.”

  “I try, Mr. Jackson, I try.”

  They both looked over at Ploscaru, into whose outstretched palm the big Romanian was counting some bills. There were a lot of them, German marks, and every once in a while the big Romanian would wet his finger to aid the accuracy of his count.

  The huge cellar was stripped by now. Nothing remained except for the footlocker of weapons. Even the neatly made cot had been removed by the five Poles. Two of them now came back down into the cellar to make the final check. They seemed to be arguing with each other about something. One of them addressed a question in Polish to the big Romanian.

  Ulescu silenced them with a quick frown and went on with his counting. When he was through, he smiled and said, “Well, Nicolae, a profitable morning for us both.” Ploscaru nodded and tucked the bills away into a coat pocket. Ulescu turned toward the two Poles and said something to them in their own language. He listened to their reply and then turned back to the dwarf.

  “There is a bicycle outside,” he said. “Is it yours?”

  “No.”

  “They wish to take it.”

  Ploscaru shrugged. “Let them.”

  Jackson rose. “The bicycle stays,” he said.

  Ulescu looked first at Jackson and then at Ploscaru. The dwarf examined Jackson for a moment, then smiled slightly, shrugged again, and said, “As he says, the bicycle stays.”

  Ulescu gave the Poles the news and, before they could argue, waved them away with a big hand.

  Jackson turned back to Bodden. He took the cigarettes from his pocket and tossed them down to the injured man, who nodded his thanks.

  “Your compassion might get you into trouble someday, Mr. Jackson.”

  Jackson grinned. “Don’t count on it, friend.”

  “No,” Bodden said, “I won’t.”

  Ploscaru walked over to the remaining footlocker, opened its lid again, and looked inside as though studying the contents. Finally, he reached in and brought out the .38 pistol. He checked to see that it was loaded and walked over to where Jackson stood. In his right hand he still held the .45 automatic. The dwarf stared for several moments at Bodden, then handed the .38 pistol to Jackson.

  “If we don’t kill him,” Ploscaru said, “we’ll be making a mistake.”

  “We don’t kill him,” Jackson said.

  “All right,” the dwarf said, turned, and walked away.

  So, printer, you live a while longer, Bodden thought, and looked up at the American. “Auf Wiedersehen, Mr. Jackson.”

  Jackson nodded. “Auf Wiedersehen, friend.”

  26

  The 1946 Ford sedan that was parked in front of the big house near the Frankfurt zoo was olive drab in color and had a white star and U.S. Army markings. It also had wooden bumpers, because there had still been a shortage of chrome steel when it was manufactured in January of that year. Behind the sedan’s wheel was a bored Army corporal. Next to him was Lt. LaFollette Meyer.

  The Corporal, a car lover, perked up a little when the big Mercedes roadster turned into the driveway. Lieutenant Meyer got out of the sedan and leaned against its front fender. He stared curiously at the dwarf who followed Jackson down the drive.

  “We have to talk,” Lieutenant Meyer said when Jackson drew near.

  Jackson nodded. “I don’t think you’ve met—”

  Lieutenant Meyer interrupted. “I talk to you; not to him.”

  Ploscaru stared up at Meyer for a moment, smiled slightly, shrugged, and turned away, heading for the big house.

  “Let’s walk,” Meyer said.

  “All right,” Jackson said, and fell in beside him.

  “I’m trying to make up my mind about something,” Lieutenant Meyer said.

  “What?”

  “About whether I’m a Zionist or not”

  “Which way are you leaning?”

  Meyer seemed to think about it for a few moments. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “In a way, if the Zionists have their way it will mean he won.”

  “Who?”

  “Hitler.”

  “Oh.”

  “At one time, you know, he was thinking of shipping all the Jews to Madagascar. And at one time the British offered them Kenya. Kenya, from what I hear wouldn’t have been at all bad. Good land, good climate. But it wasn’t Palestine. Or Israel. You know what I think Palestine could wind up being?”

  “What?”


  “The world’s largest ghetto.”

  “The Jews will have to get rid of the British first,” Jackson said. “Then they will have to get rid of the Palestinians. If they keep the pressure on, the British will probably pull out. They’re broke. They’re going to be pulling out of a lot of places in the next few years. But the Palestinians haven’t got anyplace to pull out to. The Jews are going to have to fight them.”

  “And the Syrians and the Egyptians and the Lebanese and probably the Transjordanians.”

  “Probably,” Jackson said.

  “I wonder if they could win.”

  “The Jews?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jackson thought about it. “It probably depends upon which way Russia leans. The Zionist lobby is pretty strong in the States, so Washington will probably tilt that way. Which way Russia will go is anybody’s guess.”

  Lieutenant Meyer nodded, and they walked on in silence for a moment. Then Meyer said, “Remember that buck general I told you about?”

  Jackson nodded. “The one you said wasn’t very bright?”

  “Yeah. General Grubbs. Knocker Grubbs. Well, the Knocker’s out and an old friend of yours is in.”

  “Who?”

  “They brought him up from Munich. They say he’s brilliant. I don’t know, maybe he is. I’ve only talked to him once, and that was this morning. He speaks German, though, and that’s a change. He went to Heidelberg before the war. The Army sent him.”

  “Has he got a name, this old friend of mine?”

  “Sorry, I thought I’d already mentioned it. Bookbinder. Samuel Bookbinder. He’s Jew, like me. Maybe that’s why he’s still only a colonel.”

  “He’s no old friend of mine.”

  “You know him, though.”

  “We met a couple of times in Italy during the war. That doesn’t make us old friends.”

  “Well, maybe he’s an old friend of some of your old friends—those ex-OSS wheels in Washington who think you need special handling. Anyway, the cables have been shooting back and forth between them and Bookbinder. You heard the latest about Oppenheimer?”

  Jackson nodded. “I heard.”

  “I thought you would. From his sister. Well, it’s a British show now.”

  “In Bonn.”

  “That’s right, in Bonn. They’re sending me up as liaison. You’re going, I suppose.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. First of all, there’s this.” Lieutenant Meyer took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Jackson.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a kind of laissez-passer,” Lieutenant Meyer said—not doing too badly with the French phrase, Jackson thought. “It’s got a four-star general’s name signed to it. It should keep the British off your back unless you fuck up all over the place.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Jackson said, and put the letter away without reading it.

  “Okay, that’s one. Now here’s two, and two is the one I don’t much like, although the Army doesn’t care a hell of a lot what its first lieutenants like or don’t like. Except I don’t think this is the Army so much as it is your ex-OSS buddies in Washington.”

  “Uh-huh,” Jackson said, because Meyer had paused as though expecting some comment.

  “Bookbinder pretty much ran his own show down in Munich. He had to, because the Knocker was so fucking stupid. Well, Bookbinder has all sorts of lines out—to Berlin, to here, and even up to Hamburg where the British are. I don’t know where he got this; maybe it was from the British. But maybe not. Anyway, he’s learned that the Russians have sent someone in.”

  “After Oppenheimer?”

  “That’s right. He crossed over up north at a place called Lübeck. The British had a tag on him but it fell off, which didn’t make them too happy because they thought he might lead them to Oppenheimer.”

  “Has he got a name?”

  “No name. All that Bookbinder knows about him is that sometimes he’s called the Printer.”

  “When’re you going to get to the part that you don’t like?”

  “Now,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “The British don’t want Oppenheimer in Palestine. That means somebody else does, but I’m beginning to wonder who.” He looked searchingly at Jackson, but Jackson only shrugged.

  “You got any ideas?” Meyer said.

  “The Irgun is almost a sure bet.”

  “Besides them?”

  “The Russians.”

  “What about us?”

  Jackson stopped walking, turned, and stared at Meyer. After a long moment he said, “If the war were still going on, I’d say yes. It might be something tricky that the OSS would try to pull. Now, I don’t know. It’s a possibility, I suppose.”

  “Bookbinder tells me that the Russians want Oppenheimer real bad. If they can’t track him down themselves, they’re even willing to buy him.”

  “From whom?”

  “From whoever’s got him for sale.” They had started walking again, but Meyer stopped so that he could stare at Jackson without any liking. “I suppose that means you—and that creepy little pal of yours.”

  “I’m working for Leah Oppenheimer.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “I don’t know what to believe about you, buddy, except that I don’t trust you. Or that dwarf. Neither does Bookbinder. Up in Bonn he wants me to ride your ass, and if you start to go sour, I’ve got orders to stop you—even if it means bringing the British in. You understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Now we get to the part that I really don’t like. It’s a personal message to you straight from Washington. It’s supposed to be funny, I guess, but I don’t think it’s very funny at all.”

  “Go to it.”

  “Okay. This is it, and it’s an exact quote: ‘Don’t sell until you hear our final offer.’ You got it?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “You understand it?”

  “Maybe.”

  Lieutenant Meyer nodded coldly. “Yeah, I thought you would.” Then he turned and walked back to the Ford sedan.

  Because of bad roads and worse bridges it took them nearly three hours to reach Remagen. The dwarf had sung most of the way, more loudly than usual in order to make himself heard over the old car’s big engine. For the last hour he had been singing German drinking songs. When he hadn’t been singing, the dwarf had recounted the histories of the castles they passed. He seemed to know stories about all of them.

  They stopped at Remagen for a glass of wine and because Jackson wanted to see what was left of the bridge that the U.S. Army had used to first cross the Rhine.

  “You’ve been along here before, of course,” Ploscaru said as they got back into the car and started off again.

  “A long time ago. Before the war.”

  “You remember the stories about this region?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Roland built his castle here in Remagen, you know. He had been courting the fair Hildegunde, who was the daughter of the Count of Drachenfels. But then Roland went off to fight the Moors in Spain, and when he returned he found Hildegunde had become a nun. So he built his castle and sat moping in it until she died and then went off to fight the Moors some more. There it is—over there on your left—the Rolandsbogen. Roland’s Arch.”

  “So it is,” Jackson said, not slowing down.

  “Now a little farther up we’ll catch our first really good view of the Siebengebirge, the seven mountains.”

  “Where Siegfried hung out.”

  “Right. After he killed the dragon he bathed in its blood, you remember, which made him immune to any wound—except for a very small spot between his shoulder blades.” Ploscaru sighed. “It’s not a very original myth—almost a direct steal from Achilles and his heel; but then, the Germans never were the most original of people, not even in their mythmaking.”

  “As I remember, there were some other folks who’re supposed to be running around up th
ere in the Siebengebirge.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

  Ploscaru smiled slightly, even a little sadly. “And now there’ll be eight, won’t there?”

  They encountered the British roadlbock on highway B 9 just as it reached the Bonn suburb of Bad Godesberg. A British sergeant accompanied by two privates approached the car and asked Jackson and Ploscaru for their passports.

  “You might also want to look at this, Sergeant,” Jackson said, handing over the laissez-passer. The Sergeant examined the passports first. He took his time, glancing several times back and forth between the passport photos and the occupants of the Mercedes. He then leisurely opened the envelope and read the letter that it contained. If the four-star General’s signature was supposed to impress him, his face didn’t show it. He might have been reading the trolley schedule. He slowly refolded the letter, tucked it carefully back into its envelope, and handed it back along with the passports.

  “You’ll be staying in Bonn?” he said.

  “Bad Godesberg,” the dwarf said.

  “Where?”

  “The Godesberg Hotel.”

  The Sergeant nodded thoughtfully. “All right, gentlemen. You can go.”

  The Sergeant watched as the old Mercedes rolled away. Then he turned to one of the privates and said, “Get on the blower to the Major, Charlie, and tell him that the Yank and the midget will be staying at the Godesberg.”

  The Godesberg Hotel was not the best hotel in either Bonn or Bad Godesberg. The best hotel was probably the Dreesen, where Hitler and Neville Chamberlain had met in 1938 just prior to Munich. However, Bonn had never been known for its hotels, but rather for its university and for being the birthplace of Beethoven, who had left as soon as he could for Vienna and the company of Mozart and Haydn, never to return. The war had nearly bypassed Bonn, although allied bombing and artillery had managed to destroy what some claimed was 30 percent of the city, although others charged that this estimate was far too high.