They both looked pained.
“If you hear from either, let us know, please,” Hatcher said.
“I’ll call you at the Embassy.”
They not only looked pained but they seemed embarrassed.
Hatcher said, “Not at the Embassy Mr. McCorkle. We’re not with the Embassy. Call us at this number.” He wrote it down on a leaf from a notebook and handed it to me.
“I’ll burn it later,” I said.
Burmser smiled faintly. Hatcher almost did. They got up and left.
I finished my coffee, lighted a cigarette to get rid of its cold taste, and tried to determine why two of the town’s top agents so suddenly had revealed their identities to me. In the years I had been operating the bar, none had given me the time of day. Now I was an insider, almost a fellow conspirator in their efforts to unravel the mystery of the vanished American agent. McCorkle, the seemingly innocuous barkeep, whose espionage tentacles reached from Antwerp to Istanbul.
There was also the equally discomforting knowledge that I was a prime patsy. To Maas I was the lazy, easygoing lout to be used as chauffeur and innkeeper. To Burmser and Hatcher I was a sometime convenience, useful in the past in a minor sort of way, an expatriate American who had to be fed just enough line to keep him on the hook. Give the story the ring of intrigue. Throw in the mysterious disappearance of his partner, who should have been bound for Berlin, a cyanide capsule tacked onto his back molar, a flexible stainless-steel throwing knife sewn into his fly.
I opened the desk and pulled out last month’s bank statement. There was a zero or two missing, so I put the statement back. Not enough to go back to the States, not enough to retire on. Enough, maybe, for a couple of years in Paris or New York or Miami, living in a good hotel, eating well, enough for the right clothes and too much liquor. Enough for that, but not enough for anything else that would count. I ground out my cigarette and went back into the bar before I started fondling my collection of pressed flowers.
CHAPTER 7
The luncheon crowd had drifted in. The press was monopolizing the bar, killing the morning’s hangover with beer, whiskey and pink gins. Most were British, with a sprinkling of Americans and Germans and French. For lunch they usually gathered at the American Embassy Club, where the prices were low, but occasionally they descended upon us. There were no certain dates that they dropped in, but by some sense of radar they all flocked together at noon, and if someone was missing, then he was tagged as the dirty kind of a son-of-a-bitch who was out digging up a story on his own.
None of them worked too hard. In the first place they were blanketed by the wire services. Secondly, an interesting trunk murder in Chicago—or Manchester, for that matter—could reduce a careful analysis of the SPD’s chances in the forthcoming election to three paragraphs in the “News Around the World” column. They were a knowledgeable lot, however, usually writing a bit more than they knew, and never tipping a story until it was safely filed.
I signaled Karl to let the house buy a round of drinks. I said hello to a few of them, answered some questions about yesterday’s shooting, and told them I didn’t know whether or not it was a political assassination. They asked about Padillo and I told them he was out of town on business.
I wandered away and checked on reservations with Horst, who served as the maitre d’ and ran the waiters and the kitchen with rigid Teutonic discipline. The press crowd was good for another hour at the bar before they ate. Some of them would forget to. I continued to circulate, shook a few hands, counted the house, and moved back to the bar.
I spotted Fredl as she came through the door and walked over to meet her.
“Hello, Mac. Sorry I’m late.”
“You want to join your friends at the bar?”
She glanced over and shook her head. “Not today. Thanks.”
“I have a table for us in the corner.”
When we were seated and drinks and lunch were ordered, Fredl looked at me with a flat, cold stare.
“What have you been up to?” she demanded.
“Why?”
“Mike had someone call me this morning. From Berlin. A man named Weatherby.”
I took a sip of my drink and looked at the tip of my cigarette. “And?”
“He asked me to tell you that the deal has gone sour. That’s one. Secondly, he said that Mike needs some Christmas help and soon. And, thirdly, he told me to ask you to check into the Berlin Hilton. He’ll get in touch with you there. He also told me that you didn’t have to stay in your room. He’d try the bar.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all. He sounded as it he were in a hurry. Oh, yes, one more thing. He told me to tell you that you had better get this place swept. Also your apartment. He said Cook Baker would know whom you should call.”
I nodded. “I’ll get around to it after lunch. How about a brandy?” I signaled Horst for two. One thing about owning your own restaurant: the service is excellent.
“What’s it all about, damn you?” she said.
I shrugged. “It’s no secret, I suppose. Padillo and I have been thinking about opening up another place in Berlin. Good tourist town. Lot of military. When I was up there I made a tentative deal. It looks as if it might have fallen through. So Mike wants me to come up.”
