Peril Is My Pay

by Stephen Marlowe

  If you want to find a more wide-open city than Hamburg, Germany, go look for it on another planet.

  Dollar for dollar or Reichsmark for Reichsmark, you will get more for your money in Hamburg than anywhere else on the Continent and maybe in the world—if what you want are strippers who start in next to nothing and end in your lap, B-girls who are yours for the asking if you can still keep your eyelids unglued after the four A.M. curfew, pornographic movies in beer cellars, or the strong possibility of a mickey and a rolling in the side streets off the St. Pauli district’s Reeperbahn.

  What we wanted was Maria Mydlar. She was manager of two adjoining nightspots off the Reeperbahn, the Jung Mühle and the Hippodrome. All afternoon Koenig hadn’t been able to reach her at either the clubs or her home number. Talese and I had checked back with Lois, Kyle and Wolf, who were waiting at the Hotel Reichshof near the railroad station. We decided to whipsaw Maria Mydlar. Whipsawing is a police technique in which one interrogator plays it heavy and one plays it light. I would be the nice guy; Talese and Koenig would be the Star Chamber boys.

  I entered the Jung Mühle ten minutes before they did. It was nine-thirty, Friday night, and all up and down St. Pauli the North German burghers were beginning to unwind for the week end. I felt as relaxed as a cocked pistol with a filed-down firing pin. I’d been taking codeine to ease the pain in my head, but I was still tense. My head throbbed hotly. I had a fever. If Andros didn’t get in touch with Maria Mydlar and if the Mydlar woman didn’t lead us to him, we were all finished.

  I wanted Maria Mydlar and got a pair of lady wrestlers, undressed to kill in their bikini bottoms and bathing caps, mud and bare breasts flying as they grappled in a mud tank. I had a tankside table and was sipping a beer and watching the mayhem in a large mirror slanted over the tank for that purpose, when the phone on my table rang.

  It was an ivory-colored phone. All the tables had them, and if you were an unattached male, as I was, the caller would be one of the B-girls sitting at booths around the Jung Mühle or on a balcony girdling three sides of the nightclub.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Ah, then you are an American.” Her voice was calculatedly throaty and seductive and as professional as a B.B.D.&O. advertising campaign. “I was wondering.”

  “Yeah, I’m an American.”

  “Would you like company? Together we could try to forget what happened to your head.”

  I looked around. Several of the hostesses were talking on their ivory phones. No way of telling which one I had.

  Throaty laughter rattled my receiver. “The bandages,” she said. “I’m on the balcony just above you. Would you like company?” she asked again.

  “I want to see Frau Mydlar.”

  “Oh? Really? And are you a friend?”

  “An old friend of Pana Henlein’s in Prague.”

  “Yes? You don’t look that old.”

  “Thanks. I’ll put that in my diary. Can you get Maria Mydlar to the phone?”

  “Don’t go away.” She laughed again, and the line went dead. I hung up.

  In the mud tank, Blue Bathing Cap and White Bathing Cap went through a routine of flying mares and drop kicks and airplane spins and body scissors and headlocks. Their sturdy bodies were sleekly covered with mud, and more mud splattered the mirror. Blue Bathing Cap got her cap yanked off. She had long blond hair. White Bathing Cap pulled it and muddied it. Just as we intended whipsawing Maria Mydlar, her lady wrestlers were whipsawing their audience.

  Blue Bathing Cap, slimmer and pretty, was the Nice Kid forced to earn her bread in a mud tank; White Bathing Cap was Miss Nasty with legs like stovepipes and arms like a weightlifter’s. In real life she probably could have eaten Blue Bathing Cap and her five older brothers for breakfast. In the make-believe of the Jung Mühle mud tank, Blue Bathing Cap pinned her and sprang nimbly to her feet with a maiden’s smile.

  That was when my phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  An impersonal tenor voice that could have been male or female said: “You wish to see Frau Mydlar?”

  “Right.”

  “Next door, at the Hippodrome. You go through the passage. She is sitting at ringside.”

  I went through the passage.

  The Hippodrome was a nightclub where you went horseback riding. You can find anything in Hamburg without even trying.

  On a turf track the size and shape of a circus ring, two men in jeans and checked shirts and a woman in a cocktail dress were galloping round and round on big chestnut horses. Their flying hooves shot clods of turf at the ringside tables. A riding master in jackboots and whipcord jodhpurs was cracking a whip in the center of the ring.

  Maria Mydlar was a fat, jolly-looking woman with jet-black hair that had come out of a bottle. She wore a white evening gown that shimmered with sequins. She smiled at the riding master. He raised his whip in a salute before cracking it. She smiled expectantly at me and offered her hand to be kissed. “After all, if you are from Prague,” she said in English.

  I touched my lips to her hand and she laughed delightedly. “But of course you are an American. So awkward at the most gracious of salutes, yes?”

  “I told them in Jung Mühle I was an American.”

  “And that you knew Pana Henlein in Prague?” She looked me over. “But you are not old enough, unless you knew her as a child—or unless you visited Prague after the Reds took over and before she died.”

  “I was never in Prague in my life,” I said.

  The smile remained on her face. But her eyes got a little hard. “No?”

  “No. I’m looking for Pericles Andros.”

  That jarred her. To hide it she asked: “What happened to you? Your head. And who are you?”

  “My name is Chester Drum. Pericles Andros ook a shot at me yesterday and I came here to find him.”

  “None of what you say is possible. Andros died in Italy. I read about it.”

  “He’s alive. He’s coming to Hamburg, or he’s here already. With Hilda Henlein. His daughter.”

  “You know that? Who are you?”

  “A friend of Hilda’s. Did Andros get in touch with you?”

  “Of course not. He’s dead.”

  “I said he’s alive. He’ll contact you. I want you to lead me to him.”

  The riding master cleared the ring. Large double doors at one side of the Hippodrome opened, and a big black horse came galloping into the ring. It had no saddle. A sexy dish in a spangled bikini the color of blood leaped astraddle. She galloped for about twenty seconds, then unfastened the bikini bra and threw it in our direction. I caught it. She made two more breast-bouncing circuits of the turf and slid off the black horse. Her body was covered with a sheen of sweat. She grinned at me and came trippingly over. I held the bikini bra out to her. She took it and cradled her breasts with it and turned her back. I tied the knot. She led her horse off.

  “You could make a fortune with that act in Texas,” I told Maria Mydlar. “Texas is where Hilda Henlein’s husband comes from.”

  “She is married?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you with the police?” Maria Mydlar asked suddenly. “Perhaps Interpol?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “Then why come to me? Assuming Andros is alive, which I do not believe, why not simply have me watched? Or have me followed, if he sends for me?”

  I asked her: “You liked Hilda’s mother?”

  “My friend. She was my very best friend.”

  “And Andros?”

  “You already know. He was her lover.”

  “I mean, you liked him?”

  “He was a hard man to dislike, in those days. So charming, so civilized, so …”

  “Yeah. Charming and civilized enough to mastermind the biggest ring of dope smugglers Europe ever saw.”

  “Why come to me?” she asked again.

  “We have a job for you. I wanted to give you the picture before we move in on Andros.”

  “A job?�
��

  “Right. After all this is over you’re going to tell Hilda her mother realized Andros was an opportunist. You’re going to tell her Andros ruined her mother’s life.”

  “But that’s not true!”

  “You’ll tell her.”

  She looked at me coldly. “Pericles Andros gave Hilda’s mother the only happiness she ever knew.”

  “You’re still going to tell her. Listen,” I said. “Forget about Andros. We’re going to get him. He’s finished. Think about Hilda. She’s at the turning point in her life, Frau Mydlar. She’s fled the East, she just got married, but she believes—or Andros wants her to believe—Andros made the world go around for her mother.”

  “He did.”

  “Not any more he didn’t. He is, and was, a first-class rat. That’s what you’re going to tell Hilda. The man we’re going to catch is a louse who fouled up Pana Henlein’s life.”

  “I’ll never say that.”

  “Use your head. Pana Henlein is dead. Andros has a price on his head in every country in Europe. This is the end of the line for him, believe me. But it’s just the beginning for Hilda.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t want her to have Andros and her mother on her conscience?”

  “I mean you’re going to make her believe Andros will get what’s coming to him.”

  Maria Mydlar held her hands out in a theatrical gesture. “Then arrest me. I will do nothing for you.”

  Just then Talese and Koenig came into the Hippodrome. I jerked my head a fraction of an inch and they joined us.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Talese said.

  “The reports,” Koenig said, in English. “We had to get them.” He bowed and kissed Maria Mydlar’s hand.

  “Captain Koenig,” she said. “What brings you here?”

  “These,” he said, all at once ominous. He waved a sheaf of papers before her face.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “These. In July a hostess from the Jung Mühle, named—”

  I cut him off. “I don’t think you’ll need those, Koenig. She’ll play ball.”

  “What about a hostess from the Jung Mühle?” Maria Mydlar said.

  “One of several,” Koenig said. “The curfew, Frau Mydlar. In July and the beginning of August, fourteen times girls from the Jung Mühle broke the curfew, leaving the establishment with guests before four o’clock.”

  “Try any club on the Reeperbahn,” Maria Mydlar scoffed. “Or any in St. Pauli. The same. And we all pay for the right.”

  Koenig shrugged. “I of course do not know what you are talking about, Frau. For such violations, the Jung Mühle and the Hippodrome can be shut. And you, as Frau Direktor, would be out of a job.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Maria Mydlar said.

  Koenig made his bull neck disappear again. “I would just be doing my duty. The blame, of course, would be yours. If the Frau Direktor cannot get along with the police …”

  “I wish to hell you hadn’t popped in when you did,” I told Koenig. “She was almost ready to play ball with me. Give her a chance. She’s all right.”

  “Ach, so?” said Koenig.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Talese.

  Koenig shook his head, and the sheaf of papers. “No. Of course not.”

  “Give her a break,” I said. “She hasn’t said no yet.”

  Koenig raised his voice. “You Interpol people. You think I can spend hours compiling this information for you, only to have to drop it because—”

  “I agree with you, Captain,” Talese said. “In Rome we know how to deal with people who use a nightclub as a cover for—shall we say politely, a house of assignation?”

  Koenig stood up. “Good. Then it is settled. I will have both clubs closed.”

  Maria Mydlar didn’t say anything. Her eyes pleaded with me. I said: “What if she agrees to co-operate straight down the line?”

  Koenig and Talese looked at each other. The Italian shook his head slowly. “Und jetzt—” Koenig began in German.

  “Please wait!” Maria Mydlar cried. “Mr. Drum, tell them. Tell them, please. I will do whatever you want.”

  I argued with them. It was clear to Maria Mydlar that they didn’t like me, and clear that now I was on her side if she’d help me—the whipsaw. I have never seen it work better.

  Finally Koenig said: “Let it be as you say, Herr Drum. But next time you come to Hamburg seeking aid …”

  Pericles Andros called the Mydlar woman at 11:30.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WE GOT THERE BEFORE KOENIG and his cops were ready to blow the whistle.

  It was a street a single block long just off Hamburg’s main drag, fenced off with a high wood wall. A sign under a single shaded light bulb on the wall said:

  FORBIDDEN!

  Women—Children—Dogs

  FORBIDDEN!

  Talese and I had taxied back to the Reichshof to pick up Kyle, Lois and Wolf. Now we were all waiting in the taxi, a black Mercedes-Benz with cream trim, outside the wall. A gusty wind blew in off the Alster Canal and the Elbe. A moon waning off the full hung low over the rooftops.

  “This is the part that hurts,” I told Talese. “Now it’s out of our hands.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” The Italian shrugged philosophically. “It would be the same in Rome, signore. If a German policeman and an American private detective arrived in Rome on a manhunt they would be no more than spectators. My men would do the work.” He shrugged again. “Ècco-la, we are in Hamburg.”

  I got out of the front seat of the cab. Lois leaned out the window in back. “What is it? Where are you going?”

  “Here comes Koenig.”

  The stocky German cop was approaching the wall on foot with two plainclothesmen. He nodded at me. “Ten more minutes,” he said. He was calm and patient. He seemed very sure of himself. That made me feel a little better. “Ten minutes more,” he repeated. “We already have the walls covered, meine Herren. In ten minutes a cordon will have been closed around an area of four square blocks, one on each side of the Bordelstrasse. We have them.”

  Andros’ call to Maria Mydlar had been brief. He was alive, he was here in Hamburg, he wanted to see her tonight on an urgent matter, there would be money in it for her, he was waiting at a house called Fat Steak Willi’s on the Bordelstrasse. Looking at Koenig, Talese and me, Maria Mydlar said she would be there. Which put her out of the picture until we were ready for her talk with Hilda. Koenig had left a cop with her to make sure she didn’t call Fat Steak Willi’s and warn Andros, after we’d gone.

  Fat Steak Willi’s, Koenig had told us, was one of twenty-four whorehouses lined up on both sides of the single fenced-off block that was Bordelstrasse. “Despite the little game we played with Frau Mydlar,” he’d told Talese and me on the way out of the Hippodrome, “there is no prostitution problem in Hamburg. The bar-girls usually behave themselves until the curfew, and what they do after four A.M. is their own business, so long as they are circumspect. We have no street-walkers, meine Herren. Hamburg’s prostitutes are licensed by the police, and they all work in the houses on Bordelstrasse. You will see when we get there.”

  That Andros, after arriving in Hamburg, had holed up on Bordelstrasse came as no surprise. In the old days he’d had his finger in every illegal enterprise on the Continent. That would include the white-slavery racket. He would have contacts on Bordelstrasse. “But to prove white slavery,” Koenig had said. “That is different. I will want a word with Fat Steak Willi after we capture your Greek.”

  Now, outside Bordelstrasse’s high wooden wall, Koenig said: “You have seen the street?”

  I shook my head.

  “It is dark. And crowded. We can go in if you wish. And wait outside Fat Steak Willi’s when my men are ready to close in.”

  That was better than waiting, outside the wall while Koenig closed his net. I nodded. Talese got out of the taxi and joined us. He was wearing a soft white Borsolino hat. He gave it to me. “The bandages. You w
ill be less conspicuous.”

  From the taxi Kyle asked anxiously: “Is it time?”

  “Soon,” Koenig told him.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I would rather you didn’t. These men at least are professionals.” In a lower voice he said to Talese and me: “An anxious husband, that is all we’d need.”

  I put on Talese’s Borsolino hat. It was a tight fit. We went through the opening in the Bordelstrasse wall, Koenig nodding to one of his plainclothesmen stationed there.

  In a city as large as Hamburg, if you want to buy a fur coat you go to the pelzhaus district, where the furriers’ shops are lined up one after the other. If you’re after a camera you can find a street where the photography dealers ply their trade. For musical instruments, for rare books, for vintage wines, for guns and sporting goods, for pawnshops—it is the same.

  Bordelstrasse behind its wall was a street of shops with brightly lit display windows.

  The narrow cobbled street was crowded with window-shoppers prowling shoulder to shoulder, curious and matter-of-fact in their scrutiny but. somehow furtive, too, stopping at first one window, then another, examining the merchandise, comparing, debating in surprisingly soft voices for North Germany the comparative merits of the window displays.

  The merchandise in the windows of the shops lining both sides of Bordelstrasse was the women of the street.

  There were twenty-four shops, Koenig had said. Each shop had a display window and a dark doorway next to it, and in each window on hard chairs sat two women. Never three, never one, but always a pair; competition was regulated on Bordelstrasse. I saw a man slip quickly and self-consciously through one doorway, as if the slow, almost stylized window-shopping was approved on Bordelstrasse but the actual purchase of the street’s commodity was frowned on by its habitués. A woman left the window. Another took her place.

  Another man emerged from the adjacent doorway, adjusting his tie and ducking into the crowd swiftly.

  “Fat Steak Willi’s,” Koenig said.

  It was a shop like the others. Through the open doorway I could see a flight of stairs going up. One of the girls in the window wore a frilly white gown. She was blond and blue-eyed and didn’t look sixteen. She seemed demure. She wouldn’t meet the eyes of the window-shoppers. She had the appearance of a shy pre-deb going to her first cotillion.