been thinking it over and I don’t see why we have to lie about Mike.”
“What do you mean ‘we’?” I asked. “Have you been gassing with the help again?”
“I took Hilde home last night and she was upset and started asking questions.”
“Was that before or after you laid her? I told you to keep away from the help. You’re part of management.” That made him feel good. “If she says anything again, just tell her Padillo’s got woman trouble.”
“That’s no lie,” Karl said.
“Tell her he’s out of town because of a jealous husband. Tell her anything, but keep her quiet. And keep out of her pants.”
“Ah, Christ. I told her already, but she’s still worried.”
“Tell her some more. Look, I’ll tell you what. In Berlin I met this guy who knows where you can pick up a 1940 Lincoln Continental. It’s in Copenhagen. It was shipped over just before the war and the owner hid it from the Krauts. You get Hilde off my back, and I’ll finance it for you.”
Karl was an old-car nut. He subscribed to all the magazines. He was driving a 1936 three-window Ford coupe that he had bought from an American GI for fifteen hundred DM. I think he was applying its eleventh coat of hand- rubbed lacquer. It had an Oldsmobile engine and could easily outdrag my Porsche. If I had offered him a gold mine, he wouldn’t have been more pleased.
“You’re kidding,” he said.
“No. I’m not kidding. I ran into an Air Force captain who told me about it. The guy wants a thousand bucks or it. When this thing cools down I’ll give you a thousand bucks and you can run over and bring it back by ferry. It runs O.K., he said.”
“You’ll loan me the dough, huh?”
“If you keep Hilde quiet.”
“Sure, sure. What color is it?”
“Mix the Manhattans.”
Karl wandered off in a happy daze and I sat down at one of the tables and lighted a cigarette. I thought about having a drink but decided against it. The time was a little after noon, too early for customers. I began to count the cigarette burns in a four-foot square on the left side of my chair. Then I counted them on the right side. There were sixteen in all. I thought about how much a new carpet would cost and decided it wasn’t worth it. There was a firm in town that patched carpets, putting in little plugs of almost matching fiber over the burns. The drinks spilled would make the patches blend quickly enough. I decided to give them a ring.
I heard the door open from the street and saw the flash of sunlight as two men came in. One was vaguely attached to the U.S. Government. I didn’t know the other. They didn’t see me sitting there at the table, off to their left. They made the usual remarks about the catacombs as they made their way to the bar.
They ordered beer. When Karl served it, the one I had met asked, “Is Mr. McCorkle here?”
“He’s sitting right over there, sir,” Karl said.
I turned around in my chair. “May I help you?”
They picked up their drinks and came over. “Hell, McCorkle. I’m Stan Burmser. We met at General Hartsell’s.”
“I recall,” I said, and shook hands.
“This is Jim Hatcher.”
We shook hands.
I asked them to sit down and called to Karl to bring me coffee.
Nice place you have here, Mr. McCorkle,” Hatcher said. He had a clipped, brisk voice that sounded like upper Michigan. I was probably wrong.
“Thanks.”
“Mr. Hatcher and I would like to have a talk with you,” Burmser said. He sounded like St. Louis. He looked around the room as if a dozen people were trying to catch his words.
“Sure,” I said. “We have an office in back. Just bring your drinks with you.”
We got up and paraded single file back to the office, which was a small room containing a desk, three filing cabinets, a typewriter, and three chairs. There was also a calendar of more than usual interest supplied by a Dortmund brewer.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” I said, lowering myself into the chair behind the desk. “Cigarette?” Burmser took one. Hatcher shook his head. Then we all sat back sipping our drinks with Burmser and me blowing clouds of smoke toward Hatcher. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Haven’t seen much of you around the embassy circuit,” Burmser said.
“A saloon makes a hermit out of you.”
Hatcher was apparently convinced that we had observed enough of the social amenities. “The reason we’re here, Mr. McCorkle, is to discuss with you what happened here yesterday.”
“I see.”
“Perhaps our identification would help.” They both produced little black identification books, and I read them one at a time. It wasn’t the CIA. It was better—or worse—depending upon your point of view. I passed them back.
“How can I help you?” I said pleasantly.
