by John Holt
A short distance down the street he stopped, and turned around. He looked back toward number 42, perhaps hoping that in that brief interval, those few seconds, Hartman might have actually returned. It was then that he suddenly thought of the children. There they were with their wretched football, and that flea bitten mutt running around, yelping, terrorising the neighbourhood. The germ of an idea was beginning to form. “Perhaps those boys aren’t a complete waste of time and space, after all,” he thought. “It’s just possible that they could be of service to me, a very great service indeed.”
He continued to watch the boys for a little while longer. Then he called to them, beckoning them to come over to him.
They were reticent, and shook their heads. “Don’t want to,” one boy yelled back.
“Come on,” Scott called out. “It’s okay.”
Reluctantly, hesitantly, they slowly walked over to his side of the street, and to where he was standing.
“That’s better, isn’t it,” Scott said. “Now we can talk properly, and I don’t have to yell, do I?”
“All right, so we’re here,” growled a sandy haired youth, pushing his way to the front. Now what do you want? We’ve things to do, haven’t we gang?”
From behind him came a loud yell in confirmation. He stood quite still, staring directly at Scott. “What do you want?” The rest of the boys made no move, except to make way for him. They said nothing.
Obviously this is the leader of the group, Scott thought. He’s quite the little tough guy. I’ll need to handle him carefully. “Well, it’s quite possible that you could be of help to me,” he replied. “What’s your name? Mine is ….”
“No names,” the gang leader retorted, holding his hand up. “Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies. It’s safer that way. You can just call me The Leader.”
“Okay, Leader, no names,” Scott said, slightly amused. “I’m looking for someone. Mr. Weiss. Mr. Peter Weiss. Do you know him? He lives here, just across the street at number 42.” He waved his left hand in the direction of the house. The Leader’s gaze never left Scott for a second.
Nobody said anything. The leader stood impassively, staring at Scott, suspicious, wary, trying to weigh him up. “Who wants to know?” he suddenly asked. “Are you from the Police, or something?”
Scott wasn’t prepared for that comment. He started to laugh. “No, I’m certainly not from the Police, or something,” he said. In fact if the Police knew anything about this conversation, and where it could be leading, I’d be in prison right now. “I’m not from any of the authorities. I’m just looking for Mr. Weiss, that’s all.”
The leader was apprehensive, unsure. He had learnt not to trust anyone. He was suspicious of the man standing in front of him. He was certain that he was from the Authorities. “Is he wanted by the police?” he asked.
Scott laughed once again. If only you knew how close to the truth you are, Mr. Gang Leader. The Police would certainly love to get hold of him that was for sure, if they had known. “No, of course he isn’t,” said Scott. “What a ridiculous idea. I told you that I’m not a policeman. I just want to see him, that’s all. Come on now, do you know him?”
“Yes we know him,” a young boy at the back of the group called out. The others spun round and looked at him.
The gang leader glared at him. “Keep quiet, Johan,” he said. “Don’t say anything.” Then he turned back to face Scott. “All right, so now you know. Yes, we know him, so what about it? What do you want him for?”
This was hard going, and Scott was becoming impatient. “That’s for me to know, and not you,” he said trying to remain calm. “He is just an old friend, that’s all. Somebody I knew a long while ago, before the war.”
It was clear that the gang leader was not convinced. “You’re a Yank aren’t you?” he said. “What would an American want with a German?”
Scott was beginning to get a little edgy. He hadn’t expected so much difficulty, and so many questions. “I told you. I knew Mr. Weiss before the war. He is an old friend of mine.”
“All right, so he’s an old friend. That’s great, it’s good to have friends,” the Leader said. “I’ve got friends.” He looked around at the other boys. A loud cheer went up from the others, then abruptly stopped as the leader signalled them to cease. “If he really is your friend, why don’t you just go across the street, walk right up to his door and knock?”
Scott was beginning to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. “Well, that’s the whole point really, that’s why I need your help,” said Scott, trying to control his temper, which he was in great danger of losing. “He isn’t there. He is out somewhere. I don’t know where.”
The gang leader looked across at number 42, as though trying to check what Scott had just said. “So, he’s gone out. That’s tough. Ain’t that tough?” he asked the other boys. All agreed, boisterously, that it was definitely tough. Once again the noise stopped at the Leaders signal. He then turned back to face Scott. “Exactly what do you expect me to do about it?”
At last, we are now beginning to get somewhere. “It’s nothing too difficult, and shouldn’t cause you too much trouble. All I want is for you to keep an eye open and let me know when he comes back,” he said. “That’s all there is to it. Just let me know when he returns. And there’s fifty cents for you, for your trouble. What do you say?”
The gang leader thought for a short time. “Make it a dollar,” he said eventually. “Then we’ll see.”
“All right,” said Scott. “One dollar, agreed.”
“That’s one dollar, each,” the Leader retorted.
This guy is hard going, Scott thought. He had not expected such a tough negotiator. Nonetheless there was no going back on his plan, not now. He was too committed to back off now. He looked at the group standing in front of him. There were six boys. Six dollars, that’s not too bad. Six or sixty, he thought, it was still a small price to pay for what he wanted. Well worth the investment, he decided. “Okay,” he said. “One dollar, each, that’s it, that’s the deal. No more.”
The gang leader stood silent for a while, thinking. He was still not entirely satisfied, and wondered how far he could push things. He looked around at the others. He turned back to face Scott, a decision made. He would push for more. “One dollar each, in advance and another dollar, each, when we see him,” he said.
Scott started to think bad thoughts about this Leader, planning all kinds of things he would like to do to him. He should not be allowed to roam the streets, he’s dangerous. He should be locked up. I’d like to break his wretched neck, but I have to admit, I need him. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. “But that’s fine, okay.” It was still only twelve dollars. He was prepared to pay a lot more if necessary. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.
The gang leader stared at Scott, and thought for a while longer. Scott wondered if there would be any further requests, and stared back. “No that’ll be fine,” the leader eventually announced. He spat on to his palm, and offered his hand to Scott. Scott looked at him. At last, he thought, as he took the hand and shook it, squeezing hard as he did so. The deal was done.
“Where can we find you?” asked the Leader.
Scott stopped and thought for a moment or two. There was no point going back to his hotel, across town, and then returning here the next day. He could feel that his search was now almost over. His quest would soon draw to a close. It made more sense to find somewhere close by, for the final phase. It would have been hard going anyway, bearing in mind his injured leg. He decided that he would check in to a local hotel. It would just be for the one night, after all. This time tomorrow his task would be completed. He would be leaving Hamburg, leaving Germany, and heading back home.
Now the question was where would he stay? He was sure that he had seen a suitable hotel close by. “I’ll be at the hotel just around the corner,” Scott replied eventually. “Do you know the one I mean?”
The gan
g leader knew the one. “You mean the Bremner?” he said. “Yeah, we know it.” He continued to stare at Scott, constantly clenching and unclenching his hands, and shuffling his feet from side to side.
“Good,” said Scott. “That’s settled then. I’ll see you at the hotel then.”
The boy moved closer to Scott. “Right, but, haven’t you forgotten something?” Scott knew what he was referring to, but said nothing. “Where’s our money?” the leader continued nervously. “Six dollars, in advance, was the sum agreed.”
Despite his earlier thoughts, Scott had a sneaky regard for this character. He was tough, and had obviously seen some bad times in the last few years. But he was resourceful. He was a survivor in a very difficult world. “Sure, you’re absolutely right, whatever your name is.” The boy glared at Scott. Scott knew that he had riled the boy, but took no notice. “Six George Washington’s, as agreed,” he responded. He took his wallet out of his jacket pocket, and counted out six dollars into the outstretched hand in front of him. “Now get out of here.”
“Okay, we’re going. We’ll see you later,” said the leader, quickly stuffing the notes into his pocket. He then turned to face the rest of the boys. “Come on guys, let’s go.”
With that they quickly ran off, back in the direction of the park. Their mangy dog running behind, barking at everyone he passed.
Scott watched the group run away. No doubt off to spend their money, he guessed.
There was nothing to do now but to wait. He decided to check in at the hotel, and rest up a while. His leg was beginning to hurt once again, and he knew that it needed some attention, and soon. A rest wouldn’t be a bad idea anyway. Perhaps Hartman not being there today was for the best after all. It would, at least, give his leg a chance to heal a little. On his way to the hotel he would buy some antiseptic cream, and bandages, and bind up the wound to his leg. Then he would just rest until the boys came to him.
He stood for a minute or two, watching until the boys had completely disappeared. He turned away, wondering if he would ever see them again, now that they had been paid. “Perhaps I should have made them wait for their money.”
He knew that he never really had a choice did he? If he wanted their help he had to pay them there and then. There was nothing he could about it, not now. He looked back in the direction the boys had gone.
That gang leader was something wasn’t he. “He will probably make an excellent conman, or criminal in the years to come,” Scott said jokingly. And yet, somehow he knew that he could trust him. He turned back in the opposite direction, and made his way, around the corner, to the hotel.
* * *
One hour later Scott was settled in his hotel room. Lying on the small side table was a box of medicated cream, and some bandages. He was lying on the bed, his right trouser leg pulled up, exposing his injured knee. The leg was badly bruised, and there was a large wound just below the knee, and spreading down the lower leg. Fortunately the bleeding had stopped, but the wound was beginning to turn septic.
He got up from the bed, and walked over to the corner of the room, to a small china wash basin, and jug containing some tepid water. He washed the wound as best as he could, and then returned to the bed. He then applied some of the medicated cream, and finally he wrapped the bandage tightly around the leg. At least it felt more comfortable. He stood up, and applied some weight on to the leg. Not too bad.
He slowly walked around the room. Yes, not too bad at all. He went to the window. It looked like rain. Large rain clouds were forming, and it was beginning to get quite dark. He checked his watch. It was just after 6.0 in the evening. Those kids must have gone home by now. Obviously, Hartman never showed up. Hopefully he’ll be around tomorrow. There was nothing more to be done today. He walked back over to the bed and lay down. He closed his eyes, and shortly after fell asleep.
* * *
He was woken by the sound of loud knocking at his door. He got up, and slowly walked toward the door. As he did so, he checked the time; it was just after nine thirty. He walked over to the window, and looked out. He saw nothing unusual. Then the knocking started again, louder this time.
“All right, all right,” he called out. “I’m coming.”
The knocking stopped. He picked up his revolver, and walked back to the door. “Who is it?” he asked, trying to sound casual. There was no reply.
He unlocked the door, and cautiously opened it. Standing on the landing was the gang leader, and two of the older boys.
“We’ve just seen him,” he said excitedly. “He is in the house right now.”
“Good work,” said Scott. “Just a second and I’ll get the rest of your money.”
He walked over to the wardrobe, and took out his jacket. He took out his wallet, and counted out six dollars, and handed them to the boy. He started to close his wallet and then suddenly took out another five dollars.
“Here,” he said handing the money over. “Here’s a little bonus. You’ve earned it. Now go home.”
The gang leader grasped the money, and without a word, the three ran off down the corridor.
Scott watched them go, closed the door, and locked it. At last, he thought, I have him. Tomorrow would definitely be Hartman’s last day on this earth.
* * *
The following morning Scott was waiting at the corner of Potsdammer Platz. From his vantage point he could see the house quite clearly. The street appeared to be deserted. As far as he could see, there was no activity anywhere. He was sure Hartman must be there. He couldn’t be out, not yet, surely. Scott looked up at the chimney. There was still no smoke showing. He must be out, thought Scott angrily, or maybe he’s still asleep.
It started to rain, once again. Now what, he wondered. He knew that he couldn’t just wait around. Unsure of his next move he turned and slowly walked away. He heard somebody running behind him. Then he felt somebody tugging on his sleeve. Scott turned slowly, his hand forming into a fist ready to strike. It was the gang leader.
“He’s gone, mister. We saw him drive off this morning,” he said. “He took a cab to the station.”
Scott was stunned. Not again. “How long this time?” he wondered. Perhaps I’ll never get him. Perhaps I should just forget the whole thing. He looked up at the sky. It was black, as black as his mood. The sky had darkened suddenly, and the rain began to fall heavier. He turned his jacket collar up, and started to walk away.
The gang leader followed a short distance behind. “He told the lady at number 37 that he would be back here tomorrow afternoon,” he said softly. “At about six.”
Scott stopped abruptly, and turned to face the boy. “What did you just say?” he asked sharply.
The boy repeated what he had just said. Scott went up to the boy, and clasped him by the shoulders. He then took out a five-dollar bill. He gave it to the boy, and walked away.
There nothing more I can do now. I’ll just have to wait, again. “At least I can rest that knee a bit longer, and see what I can do to make it better.” The cream that he had used the previous evening had proved useless. He decided to find a pharmacy, and see if he could get some help from a chemist. Later on he could get something to eat. Then, he would make plans for the following day.
* * *
“That knee is badly damaged,” said the chemist as he finished removing the dressing. “You can see that the wound is turning septic. Gangrene could set in, and that could be very serious. You need to get to a hospital quick.”
“It’s not that bad,” Scott said dismissively. “Just give me some ointment, or something.”
The chemist became quite alarmed. “Ointment isn’t going to help much,” he said. “The more you walk on that leg, the more damage you are going to do. If gangrene does set in, you could lose the leg.” He stopped for a moment, and looked at Scott. “You could lose more than the leg,” he continued. “You could lose your life.”
Scott was visibly shaken. Then he shook his head. It really wasn’t that bad. It was just a b
ad cut that was all. “Okay, you’ve made your point. I’ll see a doctor when I can,” he said offhand. “Now, in the meantime, just give me something will you? Some medicated cream, or something, and some painkillers. Come on.”
The chemist looked at him, pleading. “You must see a doctor,” he said. “I can’t stress that too much.”
“I just need to patch it up,” Scott said impatiently. “Sure I’ll see a doctor, I said I would didn’t I? Now give me the cream, quick.”
The chemist looked at him helplessly. He could do no more. He had tried his best, but to no avail. He shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the shelf behind him. He took down a small box and placed it on the counter in front of Scott. He then picked up a small bottle of tablets. He turned to face Scott, and handed him the two items. “This is the best I can offer, without a prescription,” he said, quietly. “They might help a little, but you need to see a doctor.”
Scott put the items into his pocket, thanked the chemist, and quickly left the shop.
* * *
Back at the hotel, Scott lay on the bed and stared at his knee. It was looking a little bit better than it did last night. It was, however, still extremely red, and septic. “Gangrene? Stupid chemist what does he know about it anyway?”
He looked back at the wound. It’ll be fine. Another day or two, it’ll be as good as new. He then gently washed the knee, removing as much of the infection as he could. It didn’t look too bad. He was pleased with his efforts. He then applied a generous amount of the new ointment, and put on a clean bandage. He strapped the dressing quite tightly, to provide some kind of support. He stood up, and started to pace the room.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Revenge Is Sweet
The next day it was still raining. This is the day Scott thought. This is the day when all of his planning would finally pay off. He shivered involuntarily, whether it was due to the cold, or the thought of what he intended doing, was not certain. He had planned to wait close to the corner with Potsdammer Platz. From there he would be able to see Hartman return. Scott looked skywards. The rain seemed to be getting heavier. Hopefully it will stop before Hartman gets back.