The Eighth Dwarf Read Online Free PDF

England.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd then went back into Germany.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe went underground?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWas he a member of any particular group?”
    â€œI don’t know. My son is a Communist. Or thought he was, anyway. He almost went to Spain in ’36, but I persuaded him not to, although I couldn’t persuade him to go to Britain with us.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you heard from him?”
    â€œDirectly?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThere were a few letters in 1940. Two in ’41 and then nothing. And then, about a year ago, we heard that somebody had heard that he had been seen in Berlin just before the end of the war. It was no more than that: just hearsay, rumor. But we started writing letters—to the Americans and the British.” He made a small gesture with his cigar. “Nothing. Finally, we heard about Ploscaru from someone who’d known someone in Cairo who’d used him for something similar to this during the war. We made inquiries and found that Ploscaru was in Los Angeles. So we came here from Mexico City and started negotiations—which brings us up to date. Ploscaru tells us that you were an American spy during the war.”
    â€œSomething like that,” Jackson said.
    â€œWith the Office of Secret Services.”
    â€œStrategic Services.”
    â€œOh, is that what they called it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, what do you think, Mr. Jackson: do you think you can find my son?”
    Jackson lit another cigarette, his second, before answering. “Maybe. If he’s alive and if he wants to be found and if he hasn’t gone East.”
    â€œYes, that’s a distinct possibility, I suppose.”
    â€œNo,” Leah said. “It’s not. He wouldn’t go East”
    Jackson looked at her. “Why?”
    â€œKurt didn’t trust the Russians,” she said. “He despised them.”
    â€œI thought you said he was a Communist.”
    â€œA most peculiar type of Communist, my son,” Oppenheimer said, and added dryly, “but then, my son is most peculiar in many matters. Some of his peculiarities we’ve written down in a kind of dossier that we’ve put together for you. There are some pictures—a bit old by now, I should think. Kurt must have changed considerably.”
    Oppenheimer nodded at his daughter, who crossed to the table where the cigar box lay, opened a drawer, and brought out a thick envelope, which she handed to Jackson.
    â€œDoes he have it yet?” Oppenheimer asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYour fee is in there too, Mr. Jackson: fifteen hundred dollars. Correct?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI must apologize for those rather silly code phrases that I insisted upon, but we’ve learned that there are a number of confidence tricksters about down here—Americans mostly. Wouldn’t want the money to fall into the wrong hands, would we?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œProbably made you feel a bit silly, though, all that lu, lu, lu-ing.”
    â€œA bit.”
    Jackson by now had discovered that the blind man spoke two kinds of English. One was an almost breezy form of chatter which had only a light accent. Oppenheimer employed it, perhaps unconsciously, when engaging in his rather heavy-handed persiflage, which was something like a salesman’s banter. But when the blind man wanted to make a point or find out something, the accent grew heavier as he hammered out his nouns and verbs into a more formal structure.
    His accent was quite heavy when he asked Jackson, “When do you think you might arrive in Germany?”
    â€œIn about a month,” Jackson said. “I’ll be going to Washington first. There’re some people there who might be helpful. After that, if I can’t get a seat on a plane, I’ll take the first boat I can get out of New York.”
    â€œMy daughter will be leaving for Frankfurt