“Money, probably,” Jackson said, and looked at the slip of paper she handed him, reading the name awkwardly. “Shmuel Ben-Zvi?” His look was questioning. “What kind of name is that — Hebrew?”
The look on Leah Oppenheimer’s face was defiant. “Israeli,” she said.
“Well, now,” Jackson said.
“You have any objections?”
Jackson shrugged. “He’s your brother, not mine. You can hand him over to anyone you wish.”
“You said that money will solve whatever problems might arise. How much money?”
“As much as you have or can raise from your Israeli friends in the next few hours.”
“I will have to go to Cologne. That will take at least two or three hours. Will I have enough time?”
“I should think so,” Jackson said.
She nodded thoughtfully as she gazed at Jackson. “What does Mr. Ploscaru advise?”
“Well, you see,” Jackson said, “I haven’t really asked, because Mr. Ploscaru may be both the complication and the problem.”
When the sleepy fourteen-year-old boy brought the note up to Ploscaru’s room, the dwarf read it, gave the boy a tip, and said, “Tell her to meet me at the corner in five minutes.”
“Which corner?”
“By the bank.”
After the boy had gone, Ploscaru took the big Army .45 from its case and shoved it into the waistband of his trousers. He buttoned his jacket over it and then climbed up on a chair to inspect himself in the mirror. Satisfied that the bulge wasn’t too noticeable, he climbed down from the chair and stood for a moment looking thoughtfully about the room. As he thought, he automatically brushed some imaginary crumbs from his palms.
Eva Scheel watched the dwarf approach. When he drew near enough, she said, “I am Eva Scheel, Herr Ploscaru.”
The dwarf bowed. “You are, I understand, a friend of Fräulein Oppenheimer’s.”
“And of her brother’s.”
“Ah.”
“I think we should talk.”
“Perhaps a bar would be more comfortable. Someone at my hotel told me that there is one close by that remains open quite late. Shall we go there?”
There was no one in the bar except the proprietor and three solitary drinkers who sat hunched over their glasses.
After seating Eva Scheel, Ploscaru moved to the bar, paid extra, and brought back two glasses of what the proprietor had said was his best brandy.
“Now, then,” Ploscaru said, wriggling back into his chair, “what shall we talk about?”
“Kurt Oppenheimer.”
“An interesting man in many ways. I’m quite looking forward to meeting him.”
“You expect that to be soon?”
“Oh, yes, quite soon.”
“He needs help, of course.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I represent certain persons who would like to help him.”
“For a man in such tragic circumstances, he seems to suffer from no lack of friends. No lack at all.”
“The persons whom I represent would consider it a privilege to help him.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” the dwarf said, and sipped his drink.
“They would expect to pay for the privilege.”
“Did they mention a sum?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars.”
Ploscaru turned his mouth down at the corners. “There are almost any number of dear friends who would pay far more for such a rare privilege.”
“We could bargain all night, Herr Ploscaru, and still arrive at the same price.”
“Which is?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“Dollars?”
“Yes.”
“An interesting price,” Ploscaru said. “Not a fair one, but still an interesting one.”
“How interesting?”
“Interesting enough for me to consult with my colleague.”
“When will you reach a decision?”
“There are still many unknown factors to be resolved, but I would say we would reach our decision by ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Where can I reach you — the hotel?”
“No, I think not. I will give you an address. If things work out as I anticipate, we can make our arrangements there. The address is Fourteen Mirbachstrasse here in Bad Godesberg. Would you like to write it down on something?”
“No, I can remember it,” she said. “Fourteen Mirbachstrasse, ten o’clock tomorrow.”
Ploscaru smiled and eased himself down from the chair. “I’m sorry to rush off like this, but there are still quite a few details to attend to. It’s been a most interesting discussion, Fräulein Scheel. I like the way you think. Perhaps another time we might talk about something — well, less commercial.”
“Perhaps.”
He took her hand, bowed over it, and then looked up at her with an expression that would have been concerned except for the sly look in his eyes. “By the way,” he said “do give my best wishes to your friend.”
“Which friend might that be, Herr Ploscaru?”
“Why, the one with the sore knee, of course.”
She watched him move through the tables to the door. So much cunning in such a small body, she thought. And sex too, of course. Even though he’s gone, he left his spoor behind — like an open invitation. If there were time, it might prove interesting — very interesting. A large, capable brain might indicate a large, capable something else. She smiled slightly, looked up, caught the proprietor’s eye, and signaled for another brandy. After he nodded his understanding, she took paper and an envelope from her purse and began to write. The sleepy boy at the hotel will take it to the printer, she thought. The printer can keep sleep another time. What happens at Fourteen Mirbachstrasse tonight could be more important than his sleep. Far more important.
When he got back to the hotel, Ploscaru learned that Jackson had not yet returned. He went up to his room and stood in the center of it for a moment, brushing his hands together, quite unaware of the fact that he was doing so, and wondering which one would do the watching that night at 14 Mirbachstrasse — the woman in the fur coat or the man with the damaged knee. He grinned, not quite aware that he was doing that either. That one will have her sleep, he decided. She’ll have the man go, aching knee and all. It was the real reason he’d given her the address — to flush the man out. The man was dangerous and would have to be dealt with, but at a place of the dwarf’s own choosing.
Whistling “Blue Moon,” Ploscaru went to his bag and from its lining removed a thin British commando knife and slid it into the silk sheath that was sewn to the inside of his coat sleeve. After that he poured himself a small drink from the bottle of bourbon, hopped up into the room’s most comfortable chair, wriggled back, stopped whistling “Blue Moon,” and started singing its lyrics instead.
He was still singing when Minor Jackson knocked at his door.
30
They drove by the large, dark house at 14 Mirbachstrasse twice and then parked the Mercedes a block away and walked back. A brick wall almost eight feet high surrounded the house. A nearly full moon provided some light — enough, at least, for them to make out the outline of the house through the wrought-iron gate.
It was a stern-looking place, Jackson thought, three stories high and built of some kind of dark stone or brick. It had a mansard roof that seemed to be covered with slate shingles. Jackson tried the high gate without much hope. It was locked.
“Well, up and over, then,” Jackson said, and made a stirrup of his hands.
He lifted the dwarf up. He was heavier than Jackson had expected, much heavier.
“Any glass?”
“How thoughtful of you to ask,” Ploscaru said. “But no.”