“I have not forgotten the old techniques. One does not forget those so easily, Nicolae.”
The dwarf nodded. “You mean the judicious bribe, the suborned witness.”
The big man shrugged again. “Those and others.”
“I was in Frankfurt for only an hour or so before I learned that any documentation that I might need for my stay here could be most readily obtained at the DP camp.”
“Ah, so that’s what you were doing there. You must have been to see Kubista the Czech. He is our best forger.”
“I believe that was his name. Are there a number of forgers in the DP camp?”
“Several, but Kubista is the best.”
“This American officer whom I spoke of. He might have use for the services of a forger. Do you think you might look into that for me, old friend? Find out whether an American officer, possibly a major, has bought himself some documents recently? There would be a little something in it for you, of course.”
“I hesitate because of friendship to ask how much is a little, Nicolae.”
“Shall we say a hundred dollars?”
“Greenbacks?”
“Of course.”
“In advance?”
“Naturally,” the dwarf said, and took out his wallet.
18
The butler wasn’t a very good driver. Or perhaps it was just that he wasn’t too familiar with his employer’s official UNRRA car, an Army-surplus 1941 Ford sedan with a lot of hard miles on it. He stalled frequently, grated the gears, and drove in second most of the time as though unaware of or indifferent to the third gear.
“This afternoon, Herr Doktor,” the butler said over his shoulder to Jackson, “we’ll go to inspect a proper car.”
“Fine,” Jackson said from the back seat of the Ford into which he had been ushered by an imperious gesture from the butler. Jackson wasn’t at all sure why he was being addressed as Herr Doktor, but assumed that it was some fairy tale that the dwarf had spun for the butler’s benefit. He wondered idly whether he was supposed to be a doctor of medicine or or philosophy.
“I described the car yesterday to Herr Direktor.”
“Herr Direktor?”
“The little gentleman.”
“Ah, yes,” Jackson said. “Herr Direktor Ploscaru.”
“It is a rare name for a Swiss.”
“Very rare.”
“But I think it is wonderful for a person with such a handicap as the Herr Direktor’s to achieve so important a position.”
“The best things sometimes come in small packages,” Jackson said, wincing at his own banality.
“How true,” the butler said gravely. “How very, very true.”
There was no more conversation for several blocks. Then the butler said, “I was not always a butler, you understand, Herr Doktor.”
“No?”
“No. Before the war and even during it I was a caterer in Berlin. I had my own firm. We specialized in weddings and... and certain civic affairs.” He sped over the last a bit hastily, Jackson thought.
“Then after the war, when the Americans arrived, I went to work for them in a position that entailed many grave responsibilities.”
“I’m sure.”
“It did not last.”
“What happened?”
“My brother-in-law, whom I had taken into my catering firm and taught the business, denounced me to the Americans for having been a member of the Party. I was discharged and the Americans gave my brother-in-law my job, which was what he had in mind all along.”
“Were you?”
“Please?”
“A member of the Party.”
The butler shrugged. “Naturally. As I said, my firm catered many civic affairs — receptions mostly. To be awarded such affairs, one had to be a member of the Party. It was simply a business proposition. I did not, of course, participate in its activities. I am without politics, and I thought the Party mostly foolishness. But my brother-in-law, on the other hand...” The butler’s voice trailed off.
“What about him?”
“He was very much interested in politics. He tried to join the Party six separate times and was rejected each time — on the ground of emotional instability.” The butler took one hand off the wheel and tapped his right temple significantly. “Ein sonderbarer Kanz.” A queer customer.
“Not quite right, was he?” Jackson said.
“Not quite. I told the Americans this, naturally. It was my duty.”
“Just as it was your brother-in-law’s duty to inform them about you.”
“Exactly. Regulations must be observed, or where would any of us be?”
“Where indeed?”
“Unfortunately, two months later my brother-in-law went berserk and killed the American who had hired him. Strangled him to death. A captain and a very fine fellow, I thought, even though he did dismiss me.”
“You bore the captain no grudge?”
“Certainly not. He was only abiding by the regulations.”
“Maybe if he hadn’t, he’d still be alive.”
The butler turned the idea over in his mind, then shook his head negatively. “It is probably better not to think about such things.”
“Probably,” Jackson said.
Ten minutes later they were at the address that Leah Oppenheimer had given him in Ensenada at a time that now seemed months ago. The butler hastily got out from behind the wheel and hurried around to Jackson’s door as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast because he was at least sixty and seemed to suffer from an arthritic right leg.
“What are you called?” Jackson said as he climbed out.
“Heinrich, Herr Doktor.”
“That’s a pretty bad limp you’ve got, Heinrich.”
“I know. It is arthritis. I was hoping that the Herr Doktor perhaps could give me some advice.”
“Take two aspirin twice a day and keep it warm and dry.”
“Thank you very much, Herr Doktor.”
“You’re welcome,” Jackson said, and started for the building in which Leah Oppenheimer. was staying. He noticed that the address was in a block of apartment houses that had suffered only minor damage from the bombing. The stone used to construct them was the dull red Rhenish sandstone that had been used to build much of Frankfurt. Across the street the same stone composed a heap of rubble, which might at one time have formed the twin of the building that he was now entering. Jackson found it strange that bombs could have leveled one block and left the one directly across the street virtually unscathed. He wondered what percentage of Frankfurt had been destroyed: sixty percent, seventy? The ruined sections all looked depressingly the same. Before the war Frankfurt had not been a handsome town. Now it was ugly. Curiously enough, it still looked old, though. Old and ruined and ugly.
The address said that the apartment number was 8. According to the directory in the small foyer, number 8 was occupied by E. Scheel. Jackson started up the stairs and found number 8 on the third floor. He knocked, and the door was opened by a young woman wearing a fur coat. Jackson thought the coat looked expensive.
“Fräulein Scheel?”
“Yes. You must be Mr. Jackson. Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
After entering the apartment, Jackson found himself in a small reception area. Three doors led off it. There was no furniture in the reception area other than a small, very thin Oriental rug. Jackson thought that the rug looked expensive too.
“You will excuse me if I do not offer to take your coat,” Eva Scheel said. “There is no heat today, and I think you will be more comfortable with it on. Leah is just through here.”
She opened a door, and Jackson followed her into a sitting room. By the window facing the street sat Leah Oppenheimer. She wore a belted camel’s-hair coat turned up around her throat. When she saw Jackson, she smiled and held out her hand. Jackson took it, bowing slightly just the way they had taught him to bow all those years ago at that school in Switzerland. You may be almost broke, he told himself, but your manners are still expensive.