The Eighth Dwarf Read Online Free PDF Page B

immediately after my operation, which will be two weeks from now. That means that she’ll arrive in Germany at about the same time that you do. The address where she’ll be staying is in the envelope we gave you. I suggest that you get in touch with her. I’m sure that she can be most helpful.”
    Jackson stared at the remote, solemn-faced woman who sat motionless in the straight-backed chair with her eyes lowered.
    â€œYes,” he said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, “I’m sure that she can be.”

4
    It had grown dark by the time that Jackson tipped the Mexican attendant a quarter for bringing the Plymouth around. He got in behind the wheel and fooled with the radio, trying to find something besides the strident, slightly off-key mariachi band that the attendant had tuned in. Jackson had just about settled for a San Diego station when the man came out of the shadows, got quickly into the car, slammed the door shut, and said, “Let’s take a little spin.”
    The man’s accent came from somewhere in England; probably London, Jackson thought. As he turned to look at him, Jackson let his left hand slide from his lap down between the seat and the door to where the tire iron was. After he found it, he said, “Where to?”
    â€œAnywhere,” the man said, and motioned a little with something that poked at the cloth of his jacket’s right pocket.
    â€œYou know what I’ve got in my left hand?” Jackson said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGot me a tire iron. So if that isn’t a gun in your pocket, you’d better watch your kneecap.”
    The man smiled and took his hand from his pocket. It was empty. “No gun,” he said. “Let’s take a spin and talk about that rotten little dwarf.”
    â€œAll right,” Jackson said. He released the tire iron, making sure that it clattered against something, and started the engine. He drove to the end of the drive and turned right into the street. When he came to the first street lamp, he pulled over and parked under it.
    â€œThe spin ends here,” Jackson said. “Now tell me about him, the rotten little dwarf.”
    The man looked up at the street lamp and then at Jackson. He was about Jackson’s age, perhaps four or even five years older. He wore a jacket that was a salt-and-pepper tweed, wrinkled flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a dark tie. He had a thin face that just escaped being gaunt. His brown hair could have used a trim, but the mustache that he wore under his sharp nose seemed well cared for. There was too much bone to his chin.
    â€œWe found him in Cairo,” the man said.
    â€œPloscaru.”
    The man nodded and smiled again. “Old Nick.”
    â€œDuring the war.”
    â€œThat’s right. We signed him on.”
    â€œWho signed him on?”
    â€œMy old firm.”
    â€œAnd who are you?”
    â€œBaker-Bates. Gilbert Baker-Bates.”
    â€œHyphenated.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Baker-Bates said, and slipped his left hand into his jacket pocket. It came out with a package of cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. He offered them to Jackson, who refused with a shake of his head. Baker-Bates lit one for himself with a wartime Zippo lighter that was olive drab in color.
    â€œIt must be a burden, that hyphen,” Jackson said.
    â€œI don’t notice it much anymore.”
    â€œWhat was the old firm in Cairo—SOE?”
    â€œNot bloody likely.”
    â€œThe other one?”
    Baker-Bates nodded and blew some smoke out.
    â€œWhat’d you want with the dwarf?”
    Baker-Bates waited until a car went by. The car was a 1938 Ford standard coupe with a blown muffler. Two men were in it, Mexicans. Baker-Bates stared at them as they drew abreast of the Plymouth, slowed, and then sped off.
    â€œHe did some odd jobs for us once in Bucharest. When I found him in Cairo he was starving, living off some Gyppo bint that