by Ross Thomas
“Well, Mary Lee and I became friendly. Very friendly. And one night, after X-number of Martinis, right here in this place, Mary Lee started to talk. She talked about the nice man, Mr. Padillo. I gave her some more Martinis. She didn’t remember talking the next morning. I assured her she hadn’t. But Mary Lee’s back in Nashville now. She left quite suddenly.”
“So you know.”
“As much as I want to. I told Mike I knew, and I also told him that if he needed anything …” Cooky let it trail off. “I guess he decided he did.”
“What’s Burmser besides what it says in his little black cardcase?” Cooky looked thoughtfully into his drink. “A tough number. He’d sell his own kid if he thought the market was right. Ambitious, you might say. And ambition in his line of work can be tricky.”
Cooky sighed and got up. “Since I’ve been here, Mac, the little pigeons have told me a number of things. You can add them up and it comes out shit. There was this pigeon from the Gehlen organization who talked and talked and talked one night. She—never mind.” He walked into the kitchen and returned with another glass of milk and another half-tumbler of Scotch. “If you see Mike—you are, aren’t you?” I nodded. “If you see him, tell him to play it cozy. I’ve heard a couple of things in the last few days. They don’t add up and I don’t want to be cryptic. Just tell Mike that it sounds messy.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“More coffee?”
“No. Thanks for getting the guy to check us out. Here’s a key to my apartment. I’ll tell Horst to send you a thousand.”
Cooky smiled. “No hurry. You can give it to me when you get back.”
“Thanks.”
“Take it easy,” Cooky said at the door, the faint smile threatening to turn into a grin.
I drove home. Nobody with a Luger was in the apartment. There were no fat little men with shabby brief cases and brown trusting eyes or cold-faced policemen with starched shirts and overly clean fingernails. Just me. I picked up my suitcase, opened it on the bed and packed, leaving room for two bottles of Scotch. I started to close it, then walked over to the dresser and took a Colt .38 revolver from its clever hiding place under my shirts. It was a belly-gun. I put it in the suitcase, closed the hasps, went out to my car, and drove off to Düsseldorf feeling like a complete idiot.
By nine that night I was sitting in my room in the Berlin Hilton waiting for the phone to ring or a knock on the door or somebody to come through the transom if there had been one. I switched on the radio and listened to RIAS knock hell out of the Russians for a while. After fifteen minutes of that, and another drink, I decided it was time to get out of the room before I started leafing through the Gideon Bible’s handy guide to chapter and verse for times of stress. I wondered if it had one for fools.
I took a cab over to the Kurfürstendamm and sat in one of the cafés watching the Berliners go by. It was an interesting parade. When he sat down at my table, all I said was a polite “Guten Abend.” He was a bit of a dude, if the phrase doesn’t date me: middling tall with long black hair brushed straight back into not quite a ducktail. He wore a blue pin-striped suit that pinched a bit too much at the waist. His polka-dot bow tie had been knotted by a machine. The waitress came over and he ordered a bottle of Pils. After it came he sipped it slowly, his black eyes restlessly scanning the strollers.
“You left Bonn in a hurry, Mr. McCorkle.” The voice was pure Wisconsin. Madison, I thought.
“Did I forget to stop the milk?”
He grinned, a flicker of shiny white.
“We could talk here, but the book says we shouldn’t. We’d better go by the book.”
“I haven’t finished my beer. Does the book say anything about that?”
The flicker of white again. He had the best looking set of teeth I had seen in a long time. I thought he must be hell with the girls.
“You don’t have to ride me, Mr. McCorkle. I’ve got instructions from Bonn. They think it’s important. Maybe you will too when you hear what I’ve got to say.”
“Have you got a name?”
“You can call me Bill. Most of the time it’s Wilhelm.”
“What do you want to talk about, Bill? About how things are in the East and perhaps how they would have been better if the wheat crop had shown its early promise?”
The whiter-than-white teeth again. “About Mr. Padillo, Mr. McCorkle.” He shoved over one of the round paper coasters that are supplied by German beer firms. It had an address on it, and it wasn’t a very good address.
“High-class place,” I said.
“Safe. I’ll meet you there in half an hour. That’ll give you time to finish your beer.” He rose and lost himself in the sidewalk traffic.
The address on the coaster was for a café called Der Purzelbaum—The Somersault. It was a hangout for prostitutes and homosexuals of both sexes. I had gone there once in a party of people who had thought it was funny.
I waited fifteen minutes and then caught a cab. The driver shrugged eloquently when I gave him the address. Der Purzelbaum was no better or worse than similar establishments in Hamburg or London or Paris or New York. It was a basement joint, and I had to walk down eight steps and through a yellow door to reach a long low-ceilinged room with soft pink lights and cuddly-looking little alcoves. There was also a lot of fish net hung here and there. It was dyed different colors. Bill of the shiny teeth was sitting at the long bar that ran two-thirds of the length of the left side of the room. He was talking to the barkeep, who had long blond wavy hair and sad violet eyes. There were two or three girls at the bar whose appraising stares counted the change in my pocket. From the alcoves came the murmur of conversation and an occasional giggle. A jukebox in the rear played softly.
I walked over to the bar. The young man who said his name was Bill asked in German if I would like a drink. I said a beer, and the sad-eyed bartender served it silently. I let my host pay for it. He picked up his glass and bottle and nodded toward the rear of the place. I followed, sheeplike. We sat at a table next to the jukebox, which was loud enough to keep anyone from overhearing us but not so loud that we had to shout.
“I understand the book says that these things can be bugged,” I said, indicating the jukebox.
He looked startled for only a second. Then he relaxed and smiled that wonderful smile. “You’re quite a kidder, Mr. McCorkle.”
“What else is on your mind?”
“I’ve been told I should keep an eye on you while you’re in Berlin.”
“Who told you?”
“Mr. Burmser.”
“Where did you meet me?”
“At the Hilton. You weren’t trying to hide.”
I made some patterns on the table with my wet beer glass. “Not to be rude or anything, but how do I know you’re who you say you are? Just curious—but do you happen to have one of those little black folding cardcases that kind of outlines your bona fides?”
The smile exploded again. “If I have one it’s in Bonn or Washington or Munich. Burmser told me to repeat a telephone number to you.” He did. It was the same one Burmser had written on a slip of paper that morning.
“It’ll have to do.”
“How do you like it?”
“Like what?”
“The uniform. The suit, the hair—the image.” He actually said image.
“Very jazzy. Even nifty.”
“It’s supposed to be. I’m what our English friends would call a spiv. Part-time stoolie, pimp—even a little marijuana.”
“Where’d you learn German?”
“Leipzig. I was born there. Brought up in Oshkosh.”
I had been close.
“How long have you been doing this—whatever it is you’re doing?” I felt like the sophomore asking the whore how she’d fallen.
“Since I was eighteen. Over ten years.”
“Like it?”
“Sure. It’s for a good cause.” He said that, too.
“So what’s the story on me? A
nd Padillo?”
“Mr. Padillo had an assignment in East Berlin. He was supposed to have been here yesterday, but he hasn’t shown. Now you arrive in Berlin, so we figured that you’ve been in touch with Mr. Padillo. Simple?”
“Not quite.”
“There’s really not much more I can say, Mr. McCorkle. Mr. Padillo’s actions don’t make much sense and don’t follow a pattern. Walking off from the two tourists in the Savigny yesterday and leaving his lighter and cigarette case behind: that evasive maneuver puzzled us. Mr. Burmser doesn’t understand why you’re in Berlin, unless it’s to meet Mr. Padillo. You seem to hold the key, and that’s why we want to tag along.”
“You think Padillo’s playing games? Double agent or something like that?”
He shrugged. “He’s being too obvious. Mr. Burmser had only a few minutes to brief me. From what I gathered, he simply doesn’t understand Padillo’s actions. Maybe he has good cause and maybe he doesn’t. I’m to keep an eye on you. We don’t want anything to happen to you until we find Mr. Padillo.”
I got up and leaned over the table. I stared at him for a long moment. Then I said: “The next time you talk to Mr. Burmser tell him this. Tell him I’m in Berlin on personal business and that I don’t like being followed. Tell him I don’t like his condescension and I don’t like him. And tell him that if any of his help gets in my way I just might step on them.”
I turned and walked out past the bartender with the violet eyes. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the Hilton. I looked back twice. I didn’t think I was being followed.
CHAPTER 8
It was raining the next morning when I awakened. It was the dull, flat, gray German rain, the kind that makes lonely people lonelier and sends the suicide rate up. I looked out over Berlin through my window, and it was no longer a tough, cheerful, wise-cracking town. It was just a city in the rain. I picked up the phone and ordered breakfast. After my third cup of coffee and a glance at the Herald Tribune I got dressed.
Then I sat in an easy chair, smoked my seventh cigarette of the day, and waited for something to happen. I waited all morning. The maid came in and made up the bed, emptied the ash trays, and told me to raise my feet while she used the vacuum cleaner. At eleven I decided it was time for a drink. That killed another twenty minutes, and another drink brought me up to noon. It had been a dull morning.
At twelve-fifteen the phone rang.
“Mr. McCorkle?” It was a man’s voice.
“Speaking.”
“Mr. McCorkle, this is John Weatherby. I’m calling for Mr. Padillo.” The voice was English and sounded public-school. He fairly clipped his consonants and savored his vowels.
I see.
“I was wondering if you’d be free during the next half hour, say. I’d like to pop over and have a chat.”
“Pop away,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
“Thanks awfully. Good-bye.”
I said good-bye and hung up.
Weatherby was knocking at the door twenty minutes later. I asked him in and indicated a chair. He said he wouldn’t mind a whiskey and soda when I asked if he would like a drink. I told him I didn’t have any soda and he said water would be fine. I mixed the drinks and sat down in the chair opposite him. We said cheers and took a drink. He produced a package of Senior Service and offered me one. I accepted it and a light.
“Nice place, the Hilton,” he said.
I agreed.
“You know, Mr. McCorkle, one sometimes finds oneself in rather peculiar positions. This go-between business may seem a bit far-fetched to you, but—” He shrugged and let the sentence lie down and die. His clothes were English and he wore them well. A brown tweed jacket with dark flannel slacks, not baggy. Old but carefully cared for Scotch-grain brogues that looked comfortable. A black knitted-silk tie. I had draped his mackintosh raincoat over a chair. He was about my age, possibly a few years older. He had a long narrow face with a strong red nose and a chin that jutted and just escaped having a dimple. He wore an RAF-type mustache, and his hair was long and a little damp from the rain. It was ginger-colored, as was his mustache.
“You know where Padillo is?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. That is to say I know where he was last night. He’s been moving about a bit, you know.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know.”
He looked at me steadily for a moment. “No, I suppose you didn’t. Perhaps I’d better explain. I formerly was with the government here in Berlin. I came to know Padillo rather well: we were more or less in the same line of work and there were a couple of mutual projects, you know. I still have contacts in the East—quite a few good friends, in fact. Padillo has been in touch with me, and I put him in touch with my friends. He’s been staying with them—moving about a bit, as I said. I believe you received a message from him through a Miss Arndt?”
“Yes.”
“Quite. Well, my further instructions were to meet you here at the Hilton today, and tonight at ten we’re to go to the Café Budapest.”
“That’s in East Berlin.”
“Right. There’s no problem. I’ll lay on the transport and we’ll drive over. You have your passport, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Then what?”
“Then, I suppose, we wait for Padillo.”
I got up and reached for Weatherby’s glass. He finished the last swallow quickly and handed the glass to me. I mixed two more drinks.
“Thanks very much,” he said as I handed his drink to him.
“To be frank with you, Mr. Weatherby, I don’t much care for any of this. Probably because I don’t understand it. Do you have any idea why Padillo is in East Berlin or why he just doesn’t come back through Checkpoint Charlie? He’s got his passport.”
Weatherby set his glass down carefully and lighted another cigarette. “All I know, Mr. McCorkle, is that I’m being paid in dollars by Mr. Padillo—presumably by him—to do what I’m doing and what I’ve done. I haven’t questioned his motives, his objective or his modus operandi. My curiosity is no longer as … shall we say intense as it once was. I’m simply doing a job of work—one that I’m particularly suited for.”
“What happens at this café tonight?”
“As I said, presumably we meet Padillo and he tells you what he needs. If anything.” He rose. “I’ll call for you at nine tonight. Thanks awfully for the drinks.”
“My pleasure,” I said.
Weatherby slung his raincoat over his arm and left. I went back to the chair and sat there trying to decide whether or not I was hungry. I decided I was, so I took my raincoat out of the closet and went in search of the elevators. I caught a cab to a restaurant I knew. The proprietor and I were old friends, but he was ill and the food reflected his absence. After lunch I took a walk—something I seldom do; but the long afternoon that lay ahead seemed a dull infinity. I was walking down an unfamiliar street, pricing the luxury goods in the small shops, when I spotted him. It was just a peripheral glimpse, but it was enough. I increased my pace, turned the corner, and waited. A few seconds later he turned it, almost at a trot.
“Got the time?” I asked.
It was Maas: still short and squatty, wearing the same brown suit, although it looked as if it might have been pressed. He carried the same shabby briefcase.
“Ah!” he said. “Herr McCorkle. I was trying to catch up with you.”
“Ah!” I said. “Herr Maas. I bet you were.”
He looked hurt. His spaniel eyes seemed on the verge of manufacturing a few tears.
“My friend, we have many, many things to talk about. There is a café not far from here where I am well known. Perhaps you will be my guest for a nice cup of coffee.”
“Let’s make it a nice glass of brandy. I just had coffee.”
“Of course, of course.”
We walked around another corner to a café. It was empty except for the proprietor, who served us in silence. He didn’t seem to know
Maas.
“Police ever catch up with you?” I asked pleasantly.
“Oh, that. They will soon forget. It was—how would you say?—a misunderstanding.” He brushed it away with a flick of his hand.
“What brings you back to Berlin?”
He took a noisy sip of his coffee. “Business, always business.”
I drank my brandy and signaled for another. “You know, Herr Maas, you’ve caused me a great deal of embarrassment and trouble.”
“I know, I know, and I sincerely regret it. It was most unfortunate, and I apologize. I really apologize. But tell me, how is your colleague, Herr Padillo?”
“I thought you might know. I get the word that you have all the information sources.”
Maas looked thoughtfully into his empty cup. “I have heard that he is in East Berlin.”
“Everybody’s heard that.”
Maas smiled faintly. “I have also heard that he is—or shall we say has had a misunderstanding with his—uh—employers.”
“What else have you heard?”
Maas looked at me, and his spaniel eyes turned hard as agate. “You think me a simple man, do you not, Herr McCorkle? Perhaps a buffoon? A fat German who has eaten too many potatoes and drunk too much beer?”
I grinned. “If I think of you at all, Herr Maas, I think of you as a man who has caused me a great deal of trouble from the moment you picked me up on that plane. You poked your nose into my life because of my business partner’s extracurricular activities. As a result, a man got killed in my saloon. When I think about that I think about you, Herr Maas. You’ve got trouble written all over you, and trouble is something I try to avoid.”
Maas called for more coffee. “I am in the business of trouble, Herr McCorkle. It is how I make my living. You Americans are still very insular people. You have your violence, to be sure, and your thieves, your criminals, even your traitors. You wander the world trying to be—how does the slang go?—the good guys and you are despised for your bungling, hated for your wealth, and ridiculed and mocked for your posturing. Your CIA would be a laughing-stock, except that it controls enough funds to corrupt a government, finance a revolution, subvert a political party. You are not a stupid or stubborn people, Herr McCorkle, but you are an ignorant people, a disinterested people. And I pity you.”
