“That’s nice,” I said. “The bath’s on the right and there are fresh towels in the linen closet. Breakfast is at ten, and if there’s anything special you want, just tell the maid.”
Maas sighed. “Your English is very fast, Herr McCorkle, but it seems you are making a joke. I think it is a joke,
“I guess so.”
Maas sighed again. “Shall we go in? You first, if you do not mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
We went in—me first. I walked over to the bar and poured myself a drink. Maas watched with a disapproving manner. Perhaps it was because I didn’t offer him one. To hell with him. It was my booze.
I drank the first one and then poured another. Then I sat down in an easy chair, put one leg over the arm, and lighted a cigarette. I thought I was putting on a very good show. Calm, nonchalant. The epitome of the sophisticated barkeep. Maas stood in the middle of the room, fat, middle-aged and tired. The briefcase was clutched in one hand, the Luger still dangled from the other. The brown suit was rumpled; his hat was gone. I said: “Oh, hell. Put the gun down and go fix yourself a drink.” He looked at the gun as if he had just grown a second thumb and tucked it away in his shoulder holster. He fixed himself a drink.
“Please, may I sit down?”
“Put your feet up. Make yourself at home.”
“You have a very nice apartment, Herr McCorkle.”
“Thank you. I chose it for its privacy.”
He sipped his drink. His gaze wandered around the room. “I suppose you’re wondering at my presence.”
That didn’t seem to call for an answer.
“The police are searching for me, you know?”
“I know.”
“That unfortunate occurrence of the afternoon.”
“It was especially unfortunate because it happened in my bar. Just for the sake of curiosity, who selected the rendezvous—you or your late friend?”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “This is excellent whiskey, Herr McCorkle.”
I noticed his glass was empty. “Help yourself.”
He walked over to the bar and turned his back on me as he poured. I looked at it and thought it would make a fine target for a knife, if I had a knife and could remember how to throw it. Or I could slug him with the poker. Or throw a hammer lock on him. There were a lot of things I could do, but I kept sitting in the chair, sipping the Scotch, smoking the cigarette, the perfect picture of inaction stemming from indecision. Maas turned; glass in hand, and walked wearily across the room to sink back into the easy chair. He took a sip of his drink and sighed his appreciation. He seemed to be full of sighs that evening.
“It has been such a long day,” he said.
“Now that you bring it up, I must agree. I’m also sorry to pull the ‘here’s your hat, what’s your hurry’ routine, but I’m tired. I’ve got a date downtown this morning with the police, who want to ask me some questions. Then there’s the question of running the saloon. That’s how I make my living. So if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it very much—you don’t know how much—if you would just kind of bug off.”
Maas smiled wanly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. At least for a few hours. I need a place to sleep, and your couch here will do nicely. I shall be gone by noon.”
“Fine. I’ll be with the cops by eleven hours. I’m not the silent type. I like to talk. I won’t mind telling them that you’re curled up on my couch in a tight little ball.”
Maas spread his hands in apology. “But I’m afraid that’s impossible. As I said, much as I wish to accommodate you I’m afraid that I must stay here until noon. My appointment is not until then. It is safe here.”
“It won’t be when I blow the whistle on you.”
“You won’t do that, Herr McCorkle,” Maas said softly. “You won’t do that at all.”
I stared at him. “You have a hole card, huh?”
“I have sources, Herr McCorkle. Within the police. These sources have access to certain conversations, certain files. In one of these files was a copy of the report the police lieutenant filed this evening. You told what happened quite faithfully and in detail with one exception. You neglected to mention that your partner—Herr Padillo, is it not?—was also present. That, Herr McCorkle, was a serious omission.”
“That won’t buy you bed and board here for two seconds. I’ll just tell them I forgot. I’ll even tell them I lied.”
Maas sighed again. “Let me put it another way—and may I have another drop of your excellent whiskey?”
I nodded. He got up and waddled across to the bar, again turning his back, and again I thought about the knife, the poker or the hammer lock. Or just a swift kick in the rear. And again I sat comfortably in my chair, watching the fat German drink my whiskey, the thought of violence heavy and distasteful, the guilt of inaction rationalized by a growing curiosity.
Maas turned from the bar and went back to the chair. “As I said, it seems that I must put it another way. You failed to report that your partner was present at the lamentable affair. I could report this to the police through a telephone call—not even a disguised voice—just a word or two. That, in chess terms, is check.” Maas leaned forward in his chair, his round red potato face shiny and a little flushed from the drink and fatigue. “But this I know, too, Herr McCorkle. I know where Herr Padillo is going and why. And that, I think you will agree, is checkmate.”
