“Please, may I sit down?”
“Put your feet up. Make yourself at home.”
“You have a very nice apartment, Herr McCorkle.”
“Thank you. I chose it for its privacy.”
He sipped his drink. His gaze wandered around the room. “I suppose you’re wondering at my presence.”
That didn’t seem to call for an answer.
“The police are searching for me, you know?”
“I know.”
“That unfortunate occurrence of the afternoon.”
“It was especially unfortunate because it happened in my bar. Just for the sake of curiosity, who selected the rendezvous — you or your late friend?”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “This is excellent whiskey, Herr McCorkle.”
I noticed his glass was empty. “Help yourself.”
He walked over to the bar and turned his back on me as he poured. I looked at it and thought it would make a fine target for a knife, if I had a knife and could remember how to throw it. Or I could slug him with the poker. Or throw a hammer lock on him. There were a lot of things I could do, but I kept sitting in the chair, sipping the Scotch, smoking the cigarette, the perfect picture of inaction stemming from indecision. Maas turned; glass in hand, and walked wearily across the room to sink back into the easy chair. He took a sip of his drink and sighed his appreciation. He seemed to be full of sighs that evening.
“It has been such a long day,” he said.
“Now that you bring it up, I must agree. I’m also sorry to pull the ‘here’s your hat, what’s your hurry’ routine, but I’m tired. I’ve got a date downtown this morning with the police, who want to ask me some questions. Then there’s the question of running the saloon. That’s how I make my living. So if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it very much — you don’t know how much — if you would just kind of bug off.”
Maas smiled wanly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. At least for a few hours. I need a place to sleep, and your couch here will do nicely. I shall be gone by noon.”
“Fine. I’ll be with the cops by eleven hours. I’m not the silent type. I like to talk. I won’t mind telling them that you’re curled up on my couch in a tight little ball.”
Maas spread his hands in apology. “But I’m afraid that’s impossible. As I said, much as I wish to accommodate you I’m afraid that I must stay here until noon. My appointment is not until then. It is safe here.”
“It won’t be when I blow the whistle on you.”
“You won’t do that, Herr McCorkle,” Maas said softly. “You won’t do that at all.”
I stared at him. “You have a hole card, huh?”
“I have sources, Herr McCorkle. Within the police. These sources have access to certain conversations, certain files. In one of these files was a copy of the report the police lieutenant filed this evening. You told what happened quite faithfully and in detail with one exception. You neglected to mention that your partner — Herr Padillo, is it not? — was also present. That, Herr McCorkle, was a serious omission.”
“That won’t buy you bed and board here for two seconds. I’ll just tell them I forgot. I’ll even tell them I lied.”
Maas sighed again. “Let me put it another way — and may I have another drop of your excellent whiskey?”
I nodded. He got up and waddled across to the bar, again turning his back, and again I thought about the knife, the poker or the hammer lock. Or just a swift kick in the rear. And again I sat comfortably in my chair, watching the fat German drink my whiskey, the thought of violence heavy and distasteful, the guilt of inaction rationalized by a growing curiosity.
Maas turned from the bar and went back to the chair. “As I said, it seems that I must put it another way. You failed to report that your partner was present at the lamentable affair. I could report this to the police through a telephone call — not even a disguised voice — just a word or two. That, in chess terms, is check.” Maas leaned forward in his chair, his round red potato face shiny and a little flushed from the drink and fatigue. “But this I know, too, Herr McCorkle. I know where Herr Padillo is going and why. And that, I think you will agree, is checkmate.”
Chapter 6
If it was a bluff, I decided not to call. I gave Maas a blanket, told him to go to hell, and went to bed. It wasn’t the most restful night I’ve ever had.
Next morning I met Lieutenant Wentzel in his office. He seemed much the same. He sat behind a yellow oak desk that was decorated with a telephone, a blotter, and an in-and-out file that had nothing in either tray. He was wearing the same clothes except for a fresh white-on-white shirt and an apple-green tie. His fingernails were still clean and he had shaved again.
He indicated the chair in front of his desk. Another man, whom I did not meet, sat in a chair by the window. He didn’t look at me. He looked out of the window. The view was the brick wall of some kind of factory or warehouse. He may have been counting the bricks.
I made a statement to a stenographer Wentzel called in. I kept it short and as brief as possible. Wentzel excused himself, and I sat there in the chair smoking cigarettes and putting them out on the floor. There was no ash tray. The room was painted the same green that map makers use. The floor was of oiled dark-brown wood. The ceiling was dirty white. It was a room where a government’s work is done by the people it hires. It also had that sense of impermanency that most lower-echelon government offices have, probably because their occupants are on the way either up or down or out and they know that this job, this project, is only temporary. So there are no pictures of the wife and kids in the folding leather case, no personal items to make the office assume an air of permanency.
Wentzel came back with the secretary as I was finishing a cigarette. He read my statement to me. I had made it in German, and it seemed longer, more detailed, pedantic and methodical than I had thought. It had the peculiar sound of your own voice coming out of another’s mouth.
“So does that seem correct to you, Herr McCorkle?”
“Yes.”
“Your employees, the bartender and the waitress, have already been with us and have made similar statements. Would you like to read them?”
“Not unless they vary a great deal from mine.”
“They do not.” I took the pen he offered and signed three copies. The pen scratched a little. I handed it back to Wentzel.
“I assume you have not heard from the man Maas.”
“No.”
Wentzel nodded. He seemed neither surprised nor disappointed. “Your colleague, Herr Padillo. Was he overly concerned about yesterday’s incident?”
There was no sense in being trapped. “I haven’t talked to him yet. I imagine he will be concerned.”
“I see.” Wentzel stood up. I stood up. The man in the chair by the window remained seated, absorbed in the brick wall.
“If further developments occur that concern you, Herr McCorkle, we’ll be in touch.”
“Of course,” I said.
“And should the man Maas make any attempt to reach you, I am sure you will let us know.”
“Yes. I will.”
“So. I believe that is all we need. Thank you.” We shook hands. “Auf wiedersehen.”
“Auf wiedersehen,” I said.
“Auf wiedersehen,” said the man in the chair by the window.