"Neither will I," said Garnot.
I went on arguing with them for a while, but I couldn't shake them. So I got my typewriter out of the car, typed the releases, and they signed. Kubitzky's hand was shaking so hard he could scarcely write his name.
That had been a quarter of an hour ago. Now, in the car, I told Irina, "The release... yes. You can refuse. Up there I was bluffing, but now I'm being honest. If you refuse to sign, I can't do a thing. On the other hand, the press won't leave you in peace if this thing develops into anything big, which I'm afraid it will—and in that case not as my exclusive story. But you can give me exclusive rights."
"Of course I will," she said, to my immense relief. "Write it all! Write the whole story! I'll give you the release."
"Good. And I'll give you the money. Five thousand marks."
"But I don't want any money either," she said.
"Why not? It's not my money. Blitz is paying you, and it won't hurt them."
She shook her head.
"Well," I said. "I'll type the form and I'll put in five thousand marks. If you don't want it now, you may later."
She didn't say anything. I moved my seat back as far as possible and brought my flat little portable and my attache case to the front. I took out carbon and paper and put the case on my knees, the typewriter on top of it, turned on the light in the car, and began to type.
Irina was watching me. I could feel it. My cigarette hung out
of the corner of my mouth, the heater was humming, and I typec the text Dr. Rotaug had given me, and put in 5,000 DM as the fee. My flask was lying on the leather-upholstered dashboard. "May I?" asked Irina.
"Yes," I said. "As much as you like. There's plenty more in the trunk.'
She raised the flask to her lips, leaned her head back and drank, and I stopped typing and looked at her. I saw her white throat and her profile and I thought how pretty she was. How alone and abandoned. And with me now. Probably for quite a i while. If I.
I stopped thinking, crushed my cigarette in the ashtray, and finished typing the release. I gave her the original and the copy and my pen. She signed slowly, as if in a trance.
"The money is yours, anytime," I said. "You can have it now if you like."
"No, I don't want it," she said, while I signed.
"Maybe later."
"Maybe," she said, and began to cry again, quietly, motionlessly.
I put the attache case and typewriter in the back of the car again, then I turned to Irina, put an arm across her shoulders, and 1 tried to comfort her. But there really was no comfort for what: had happened to her. I felt sorry for her, truly sorry, and I was; very glad I had her release.
Somebody knocked on the window. Irina cried out softly. "It's not going to happen again," I said, and before I let down the window I took the Colt out of my pocket. A fat little man in a plaid coat was standing beside my car. He wore a plaid hat and was wearing a loud tie. He was grinning sheepishly. He could have been forty-five or fifty. I held the Colt concealed in my right hand and with my left hand opened the window.
"Hello," said the little fat man.
"Hello," I said.
"Sorry to disturb," he said. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes," I said. "What's the matter?"
"My name is McCormick. Richard McCormick." He spoke German with a strong accent. "Pharmacist from Los Angeles."
"Pleased to meet you," I said in English.
"Speak German, please. I like speak German. Want to learn more. Here on Europe tour, you understand?"
"Yes." 184
"Joe and I."
"Joe?"
"My friend. Joe Rizzaro. He pharmacist, too. We lost. Take wrong street. You understand?"
"Where's your friend?" I asked, grasping the Colt firmly.
"In car." He pointed behind mine. I turned around. A big olive-green Buick was parked in back of us. A man was sitting behind the wheel, smiling and waving to me. I had been so busy typing, I hadn't even noticed the car pulling up. Also because of the wind. And the light was on in the Lamborghini, which was why I hadn't seen the Buick's headlights. Now they were out.
"We want Reeperbahn, Sankt Pauli—you understand?" said Mr. McCormick.
"Yes."
"Well, where is?"
"You've driven too far," I said. "Much too far."
McCormick said, "We want Sankt Pauli. We want see beautiful Frauleins. You understand what I mean?" He bowed. "Excuse me, lady."
Irina's eyes were wide, her face expressionless.
"Reeperbahn good for beautiful Fr&uleins, eh?"
"Very good," I said, my finger on the trigger.
"So, how we get there?"
"You turn your car around and—" I said.
"Speak German," said McCormick. "I like speak German. So... turn car around." He laid a plan of the city on the window ledge, one of those folded plans, and handed me a pencil. "Please, you draw way back, mister."
"Now, listen—"
"Please. We want to see beautiful Frauleins—you know why," and he leered at me.
I took the pencil in my left hand and said, "This is where we are. You turn around, go all the way back, as far as you can—" and got no farther. With his free hand McCormick, or whatever his name was, pressed a damp cloth against my mouth and nose. I lifted the Colt. He dropped the map and twisted my hand so that I had to drop the gun. He was very strong. I could see Irina open the door on her side and jump out. The cloth had been soaked in a repulsive, sharply pungent liqujd and was very cold. I struggled for breath, but all I could breathe was the goddamned stench. The last thing I heard before everything went black were Irina's screams and after that footsteps hurrying across the pavement.
GOD GAVE ME MY MONEY. JOHN DAVISON ROCKEFELLER 1839-1937
The words were engraved on a gold plaque which was approximately the size of a copy of Blitz, and had been inserted into a wall of bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling. The walls were covered with books, colorful new editions, rare old books, leather-bound books. The shelves—all mahogany—were indirectly lighted. I knew this inner sanctum of our publisher, I had been here frequently, and every time I could have sworn that he hadn't read a dozen of the thousands of books that lined the walls. I was the last to enter; Hem, Lester and Bertie walked in ahead of me. Poor old cortisone-Zschenderlein had brewed some strong black coffee for me during my altercation with her boss, and before going upstairs I had managed to down some—hot as hell and strongly laced with lemon juice. After the second cup I had gone to the washroom and vomited, then drunk another cup on my now empty stomach. I can't say I was sober—far from it—but I wasn't dead drunk anymore. Frau Zschenderlein had said she would send up more coffee so that I could go on drinking here.
"God gave me my money"—the motto of our publisher, Thomas Herford. Like Rockefeller, Herford was a multimillionaire. And like his Titanic prototype, he was religious. A Bible, bound in pigskin, always lay open on an antique lectern, a huge volume with parchment pages and illuminated lettering.
Herford's office was enormous—six meters high, approximately a hundred and twenty square meters. King-size rugs covered the wall-to-wall carpeting. A seemingly endless table and a lot of carved chairs with hard seats and narrow carved arms, for conferences. Three corners with easy chairs, low tables in front of them. Opposite the entrance stood Herford's antique desk—papers, books, newspapers, magazines piled high on it. Four telephones—one silver, another supposed to be pure gold. 186
A silver intercom. To the left of the desk, a television set and a monitor that went with the computer. The monitor was turned on. The glass flickered black. But now, in green computer type, a row of letters paraded across the screen:
Thomas Herf ord's office, like that of his manager and head of the research department, was on the top floor, the eleventh. The window behind his desk was divided into three parts and looked like a gigantic mock-up of an airplane cockpit: one pane slanted front, the two others, slanting a little to the side,
were slightly smaller. The view of the city was spectacular.
Thomas Herf ord rose. In the seating area beside the desk two men got up, too. I recognized turtle-necked Dr. Rotaug and Manager Oswald Seerose and, sitting between them, Grete Herf ord, the publisher's wife—"Mama," as he called her and as she was called by practically everyone in the house—a highly important person, because his wife's taste meant more to Herf ord than his own. He asked her to be present at all important meetings.
"There you are, gentlemen/' said Herf ord, coming forward to greet us. "Terribly sorry to have to tear you away from your work, but Herf ord has something important to tell you." He shook hands with us, one after the other. I was the last one, and until he got around to me I took a quick look at the monitor. The green lettering had this to say:
SOUTH-GERMAN SMALL TOWN. THOSE QUESTIONED: CATHOLIC. AGE: 35-40. MARRIED. OWN THEIR HOME. 1-2 CHILDREN. INCOME: 1850. MIDDLE CLASS, CIVIL SERVANTS AND EMPLOYEES. NO SELF-EMPLOYED. ALL WITH HIGH-SCHOOL DIPLOMAS, COLLEGE OR BUSINESS SCHOOL EDUCATION. RESULT: 72$ FOR BLOND, 15S FOR BRUNETTE, 3.8$ FOR RED, 9.2S UNDECIDED...THOSE QUESTIONED: FEMALE. ...
"What's the matter with you, Roland?" Herford's voice. I looked away from the monitor. I had almost fallen asleep standing. Sober? No. Publisher Herford was holding out his hand. "Got up with a slight hangover, eh?" he said jovially, taking my hand in his heavy paw and -shaking it until it hurt. "Go on,
Roland, admit it! I'm not going to have your scalp for it. Had a shot or two while you were waiting?"
"Herr Herford, I—"
"At the Kniefall Market, as usual?"
"I have—how do you know?"
"Herford knows everything. Has his people everywhere. Ha-ha-ha! Just had a hell of a fight with Lester. Herford knows all about that, too; He has his informers, ha-ha-ha!"
He called everybody by their last names except for his Du friends, and he liked to refer to himself in the third person. Lester's cough sounded embarrassed. He hadn't uttered a word since the scene on the third floor. "Well, now the fight's over, right? We've got something important to discuss. Herford needs his team. Every one of them. And no shenanigans. So shake hands, the two of you, and tell each other you bear no grudges."
"No grudges? Herr Herford, it was an unqualified attack by this drunkard, and I must demand—" Lester began indignantly, but Herford interrupted him. "Be quiet, Lester!" His voice was sharp. "Don't say another word! I'm sure you're not all that innocent yourself. I know you. A good man. A very good man. Just don't know how to handle people. No feeling for it. Always have to play the superior officer. But with a creative person, that won't do." He said it without a trace of irony. "Roland is my best writer, a nervous, sensitive person. That's why he drinks. Doesn't matter as long as he writes. He's a phenomenon, our Roland!"
Lester was a coward. After Herford said this about me, he evidently decided the best thing to do would be to control his resentment. I looked at him. His face was gray. I knew he'd shut up now, but he'd have his sweet revenge in his good time.
I wasn't one iota better. I was just as yellow as Lester. I had decided to give notice or let them fire me. I had felt determined to call it quits. But I had no character, or let's say I hadn't had any for years. Nor did I have the guts to do it, since I wasn't all that stoned any longer. My brief period of rebellion was over.
"So are you going to shake hands or not?" Herford shouted.
Lester promptly stretched out his hand; I took it in mine. His felt like rubber. I said, "I do not hold a grudge against you, Herr Lester." It's the truth—that's what I said. And he said, "And I don't bear you a grudge, Herr Roland."
The words almost cost him his life. He choked on every one of them. Hem grinned at me. Bertie was grinning, too. He still had on the crumpled clothes he'd traveled in, but he'd changed his 188
bandage. Hem had on his jacket and tie now, and he had left his pipe downstairs. And all I could think of was: Lester's revenge will come, no doubt about it. Like the amen at the end of a prayer. And I knew Lester was thinking the same thing.
"That's better!" Herford at his heartiest. He gestured in the direction of the two men and his wife. "You know them. Herford doesn't have to introduce you."
We bowed. Lester hurried over to Frau Herford and kissed her hand. Mama's makeup was pale, she looked like a corpse, and she was hideously dressed, as usual. She was wearing a sand-colored, crocheted shawl over a white woolen dress, gray stockings, and stout, flat walking shoes. A black mink coat that must have cost a small fortune was draped over the back of her chair. Her gray hair was tinted to garish violet, and she had on a brown hunter's hat with a long, curly feather. Mama's face was friendly and she had the dumb, soulful eyes of a cow.
"Coffee for our star writer?" said Dr. Rotaug. He was wearing a black suit, a silver tie, a white shirt with the obligatory high, starched Hjalmar Schacht collar, and he stared at me with his small, expressionless eyes.
"It's on the way," Lester said maliciously. "It's being sent up so that Herr Roland doesn't pass out on us."
Manager Oswald Seerose said amiably, "Head buzzing, is it? I know. The day before yesterday I was at a party. Drank everything handed to me. Mixed my drinks and regretted it."
"But you should never mix drinks," said Mama. She had a Hessian accent; and the way she looked, she could have been the mama in any television series, but not the wife of a prominent publisher!
"I'll never do it again, gnUdige Frau" said Seerose. He was wearing a checked suit, was tall and thickset, and looked like a British aristocrat. He was by far the most impressive looking person in the house.
"Before we start—unfortunately, photo-editor Ziller is still on the plane, on his way back from the States, so Herford couldn't ask him to join us—but before we begin, let me read something to you from the Book of Books."
"Book of Books." That's what he said.
This wasn't new to me; it was accepted procedure. No meeting, no conference took place without the reading of some uplifting passages from the Bible at the beginning and end of every session. Mama rose to her feet and folded her hands, in the
course of which her hunter's hat slipped a little to one side. She wore no jewelry. The others folded their hands, too; only Hem, Bertie, and I didn't. I stood where I could see the monitor. The green words moved across the screen:
RESULTS OF ALL POLLS: 79. 6% PREFER BLONDS .. . 17. 2% BRUNETTES . . .3.22 RED... CONCLUSION: THE COVER GIRLS MUST BE BLOND. REPEAT: BLOND...
Herford walked over to the lectern with the Bible on it. He was a big, stocky man; behind him Mama looked like a child. He had a square head with thick, curly gray hair, a square jaw, and bushy black brows. His wife may have been dressed in poor taste, but Herford wore clothes that were almost ostentatiously elegant—a light, shiny, silver-gray suit (custom made by the best tailor in Frankfurt), a blue shirt with rounded edges on the collar, a black tie, and black shoes. A platinum clip in his tie, a platinum watch on his wrist, and a big diamond ring on the little finger of his right hand. The solitaire glittered in blazing color as Herford raised his hairy hand. With emotion he read: 'From the First Epistle of Paul the Aposde to the Corinthians, Chapter Thirteen. On charity "
As he read, I watched the monitor to see what the green computer words were saying:
PROGRAM 24A—11: BREASTS . . . RESULTS . . . BREASTS BARE: YES— 84.6$ . . BREASTS BARE TO THE NIPPLES ONLY: YES—62.3%... NIPPLES COVERED BY DRESS: YES-32S . . . COVERED BY BATHING SUIT (BIKINI BRA): YES—69 .5%. ...
"Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not charity," Herford was reading ceremoniously, "I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal "
BY A BRASSIERE: YES—68.3?... COVERED BY THE HANDS: YES-85.4S . . . BY PLANTS (LEAVES, FLOWERS, ETC.): YES — 87. 1% ... DETAIL A: NIPPLE VISIBLE THROUGH COVERING: YES—92.3$.... 190
"And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains..."
...RECOGNIZABLE UNDER MATERIAL, NOT SHOWING THROUGH: YES—52.3$ . . . TRANSPARENT MATERIAL: YES—68.5$ . . . CRASSLY VISIBLE BEHIND FIRM MATERIAL: YES—71.5$... VISIBLE UNDER A WET MAN'S SHIRT: YES-93.7$... DETAIL B: SHAPE OF NIPPLE: POINTED AND SMALL WITH SMALL AREOLA: YES—42.4$ .. .POINTED WITH LARGE AREOLA: YES— 58.4%... LARGE AND THICK WITH SMALL AREOLA: YES—67.1$....
"... and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor...."
...LARGE WITH LARGE AREOLA: YES— 89.9$ . . . DETAIL C: COLOR OF NIPPLE: . . . PINK: YES-49.3$ . . . LIGHT BROWN: YES— 55.6$ . . . DARK BROWN: YES—91.3$ . . . WITH A LITTLE HAIR: YES—11.3$....
"... and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long and is kind..."
...DETAIL D: SHAPE OF THE BREASTS... VIRGINAL, SMALL: YES— 45.6$ ... WOMANLY, MATURE AND TAUT: YES—60.3$ . .. TAUT AND VERY LARGE: YES—95.4$....
"... charity envieth not," Herford read fervently. "Charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up..."
... PEARSHAPED: YES—39.6$...
"... doth not behave itself unseemly..."
...LIKE BUDS: YES— 9.1$...
"... seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked ..."
... LIKE APPLES: YES—93.4$...
"... thinketh no evil..."
DETAIL QUESTION: COLOR OF BREASTS
. . . PINK: YES—87.7$ . . . SUNTANNED:
YES—67.8$....
"... rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth. Amen," said Herford. "Amen," said Mama, Seerose, and Rotaug.
One of the telephones rang. "Goddamn it!" shouted our publisher angrily. "They know Herford doesn't want to be disturbed now!" He rushed over to his desk and lifted one of the innumerable receivers, the right one; he knew which phone had rung. "What is it?" he bellowed. "Didn't I say—what? Well, all right. Where? In his office? Very well." He put down the receiver and pressed a button on the silver intercom. "Herford!" He let go of the button. A humble voice in the speaker said, "I'm terribly sorry to have to disturb you, Tommy, but it's really important."
"So where's the fire, Harold?" asked Herford, leaning over the instrument and pressing a button again. Harold... that was Harold Viebrock, head of personnel, another big shot. And all of us listened silently to the following conversation:
The Traitor Blitz Page 21
