“It’s a monster,” Jackson said.
“Are you familiar with this particular model, Herr Doktor?” asked Heinrich, obviously anxious to serve as docent.
“It’s a Mercedes,” Jackson said.
“Ach, but what a Mercedes. It’s the SKK 38-slash-250, designed, as you know, by Dr. Porsche. It has the 7.069-liter engine and is supercharged, as you can see. Horse-power, I would say, around 200. It’s supercharged by the Roots-type double-vane blower, and—”
“Tell me about the bullet holes,” Jackson said.
“Ach, those. Well, perhaps we should let its proprietor tell you about those.” He turned to the farmer. “He wants to know about the bullet holes in the windshield.”
The farmer spat into some hay and shrugged. “What is there to know? It was your planes that did it.”
“My planes?” Jackson said.
“Well, your plane, then. There was only one. An American fighter. He came in low and got him through the head.”
“Who?”
“The Colonel.”
“What kind of colonel?”
“An SS colonel, except that he was no longer in uniform then. It was right after Frankfurt fell to the Americans. The Colonel was trying to get to Switzerland, or so he said before he died. I buried him over there.” He pointed with his chin to a grassy mound of earth under a plane tree.
“And kept his car,” Jackson said.
The farmer shrugged again. “Who’s to say it was his car? He was a deserter. He probably stole it.”
“But you want to sell it now?” Ploscaru said.
The farmer looked up at the sky. “I might.”
“You have the papers, of course.”
The farmer quit looking up at the sky and frowned. “No papers.”
“Well, that does present certain kinds of problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Obviously, for a car with paper there is one price. But for a car with no papers — well, naturally, there must be another price.”
“Especially for one owned by an SS colonel who only drove it to the gas chamber on Saturday nights,” Jackson said in English.
The farmer glared. “What did he say?”
“I said that it probably uses a lot of gasoline. Probably two kilometers to the liter. Maybe three.”
“It has a big tank. Besides,” the fanner continued with another shrug, “you’re an American. Gasoline is no problem for you.”
“So how much are you asking for this twelve-year-old contraption?” Ploscaru said.
“I will not take marks.”
“All right, no marks.”
“Either cigarettes or dollar.”
“How much in dollars, then?”
The farmer couldn’t keep the craftiness and greed from spreading across his face. “Five hundred dollars.”
Ploscaru nodded several times as though he found the price perfectly reasonable. “That’s with the papers, of course.”
“I told you. No papers.”
“Oh, I see. Then your price without papers must be around two hundred dollars, right?”
“Wrong,” the farmer said. “It is an unusual car, a rare model. Anyone would pay at least four hundred dollars for it.”
“True, true,” Ploscaru said. “They might pay that much if there were papers to go with it and if there weren’t two bullet holes in its windshield. Think of the questions that will be asked when one goes to get the glass replaced.”
“Perhaps three-fifty,” the farmer said.
“Three hundred, and we’re taking a terrible risk.”
“Done,” the farmer said, and held out his hand. Ploscaru shook it, then turned to Heinrich. “How much are cigarettes bringing on the black market today, Heinrich?”
“Ten dollars a carton, Herr Direktor,” he said automatically.
“Thirty cartons?” Ploscaru said to the farmer.
He nodded. “Thirty cartons.”
“You forgot to ask him one thing,” Jackson said.
Ploscaru looked up. “What?”
“Does it run?”
“It runs,” the farmer said. “It runs very fast.”
The narrow road was long, straight, and free of traffic. When the speedometer reached 70 kilometers per hour, Jackson jammed the accelerator to the floor, the supercharger cut in with a howl, and the big open roadster leaped forward as though shot from some immense rubber band.
The dwarf knelt on the passenger seat, his lips peeled back by both the wind and a grin that was almost manic. “Faster!” he yelled above the supercharger’s howl. “Faster!”
Jackson kept his foot down, and the speedometer quickly reached 160 kilometers per hour. He kept it there for a few moments, then took his foot from the accelerator, and the big car slowed. He let its speed drop back down to a sensible 60 kilometers per hour.
“How fast did we go?” Ploscaru asked.
“About a hundred miles per hour.”
“I like to go fast. It’s something to do with sex, I think. I get quite aroused.”
“This is some car you found, Nick.”
“How does it handle?”
“Better than I would’ve thought. Very smooth, very quick. Even a kid could handle it. I’m not sure that they remembered to put the springs in, though. Run over a marble and you feel it clear up your spine. Not to be picky, but don’t you think maybe it’s just a bit flashy for our line of work?”
“Flashy?”
“Yeah, flashy. We’re supposed to be a trifle clandestine, aren’t we? You know, sly and sneaky. This thing’s about as sneaky as a parade.”
“But fast.”
“Very fast.”
“We might need it, then.”
“For what?”
“To get from here to there very quickly.”
When they got back to the big house near the Frankfurt zoo, one of the young maids was waiting for them with an envelope and the important air of someone who gets to deliver the bad news.
“He said to give it to either of you,” she said after making her curtsy.
“Who?”
“The man who brought it. He came on a bicycle. He said it was of the gravest importance. A matter of life or death, he said.”
Ploscaru’s eyebrows went up. “He said that?”
“I am almost positive, Herr Direktor.”
Jackson took the envelope and followed Ploscaru into the sitting room, where a coal fire burned in the grate.
“Open it while I make us a drink,” Ploscaru said.
Jackson examined the envelope, which was made of thick, cream-colored paper. There was nothing written on its front or back, so he smelled it. There was a slight scent that he decided was lavender. He opened the envelope with his finger and took out a single sheet of paper.
He recognized the handwriting immediately. But even if it had been typed, he felt that he would automatically have identified its sender from the florid prose. There was no salutation, and the note began abruptly: “A terrible thing has happened. I am in despair and must see you at once. Please do not fail me in this hour of grave need.” It was signed with Leah Oppenheimer’s initials, L.O.
He traded the letter to Ploscaru for a drink. “A maiden in distress,” Jackson said.
Ploscaru read the note quickly, looked up, and said, “She does like a bit of melodrama, doesn’t she? I suppose you’d better go see her.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
The dwarf shook his head. “I think not. You seem to be handling her quite well, and there is the chance that I may have an important appointment tonight.”
“She keeps asking about you.”
“Make my excuses.”
“I think she’s getting tired of excuses.”
“Then take her to dinner. There’s quite a good black-market restaurant that I’ve heard about. Here, I’ll give you the address.” He wrote the address with a gold pencil on the back of the letter and handed it to Jackson. “You can even give her a ride in the car. She might like that.”