“It’ll have to do.”
“How do you like it?”
“Like what?”
“The uniform. The suit, the hair—the image.” He actually said image.
“Very jazzy. Even nifty.”
“It’s supposed to be. I’m what our English friends would call a spiv. Part-time stoolie, pimp—even a little marijuana.”
“Where’d you learn German?”
“Leipzig. I was born there. Brought up in Oshkosh.”
I had been close.
“How long have you been doing this—whatever it is you’re doing?” I felt like the sophomore asking the whore how she’d fallen.
“Since I was eighteen. Over ten years.”
“Like it?”
“Sure. It’s for a good cause.” He said that, too.
“So what’s the story on me? And Padillo?”
“Mr. Padillo had an assignment in East Berlin. He was supposed to have been here yesterday, but he hasn’t shown. Now you arrive in Berlin, so we figured that you’ve been in touch with Mr. Padillo. Simple?”
“Not quite.”
“There’s really not much more I can say, Mr. McCorkle. Mr. Padillo’s actions don’t make much sense and don’t follow a pattern. Walking off from the two tourists in the Savigny yesterday and leaving his lighter and cigarette case behind: that evasive maneuver puzzled us. Mr. Burmser doesn’t understand why you’re in Berlin, unless it’s to meet Mr. Padillo. You seem to hold the key, and that’s why we want to tag along.”
“You think Padillo’s playing games? Double agent or something like that?”
He shrugged. “He’s being too obvious. Mr. Burmser had only a few minutes to brief me. From what I gathered, he simply doesn’t understand Padillo’s actions. Maybe he has good cause and maybe he doesn’t. I’m to keep an eye on you. We don’t want anything to happen to you until we find Mr. Padillo.”
I got up and leaned over the table. I stared at him for a long moment. Then I said: “The next time you talk to Mr. Burmser tell him this. Tell him I’m in Berlin on personal business and that I don’t like being followed. Tell him I don’t like his condescension and I don’t like him. And tell him that if any of his help gets in my way I just might step on them.”
I turned and walked out past the bartender with the violet eyes. I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me to the Hilton. I looked back twice. I didn’t think I was being followed.
CHAPTER 8
It was raining the next morning when I awakened. It was the dull, flat, gray German rain, the kind that makes lonely people lonelier and sends the suicide rate up. I looked out over Berlin through my window, and it was no longer a tough, cheerful, wise-cracking town. It was just a city in the rain. I picked up the phone and ordered breakfast. After my third cup of coffee and a glance at the
Then I sat in an easy chair, smoked my seventh cigarette of the day, and waited for something to happen. I waited all morning. The maid came in and made up the bed, emptied the ash trays, and told me to raise my feet while she used the vacuum cleaner. At eleven I decided it was time for a drink. That killed another twenty minutes, and another drink brought me up to noon. It had been a dull morning.
At twelve-fifteen the phone rang.
“Mr. McCorkle?” It was a man’s voice.
“Speaking.”
“Mr. McCorkle, this is John Weatherby. I’m calling for Mr. Padillo.” The voice was English and sounded public- school. He fairly clipped his consonants and savored his vowels.
I see.
“I was wondering if you’d be free during the next half hour, say. I’d like to pop over and have a chat.”
“Pop away,” I said. “I’ll be here.”
“Thanks awfully. Good-bye.”
I said good-bye and hung up.
Weatherby was knocking at the door twenty minutes later. I asked him in and indicated a chair. He said he wouldn’t mind a whiskey and soda when I asked if he would like a drink. I told him I didn’t have any soda and he said water would be fine. I mixed the drinks and sat down in the chair opposite him. We said cheers and took a drink. He produced a package of Senior Service and offered me one. I accepted it and a light.
“Nice place, the Hilton,” he said.
I agreed.
“You know, Mr. McCorkle, one sometimes finds oneself in rather peculiar positions. This go-between business
