may seem a bit far-fetched to you, but—” He shrugged and let the sentence lie down and die. His clothes were English and he wore them well. A brown tweed jacket with dark flannel slacks, not baggy. Old but carefully cared for Scotch-grain brogues that looked comfortable. A black knitted-silk tie. I had draped his mackintosh raincoat over a chair. He was about my age, possibly a few years older. He had a long narrow face with a strong red nose and a chin that jutted and just escaped having a dimple. He wore an RAF-type mustache, and his hair was long and a little damp from the rain. It was ginger-colored, as was his mustache.
“You know where Padillo is?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. That is to say I know where he was last night. He’s been moving about a bit, you know.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t know.”
He looked at me steadily for a moment. “No, I suppose you didn’t. Perhaps I’d better explain. I formerly was with the government here in Berlin. I came to know Padillo rather well: we were more or less in the same line of work and there were a couple of mutual projects, you know. I still have contacts in the East—quite a few good friends, in fact. Padillo has been in touch with me, and I put him in touch with my friends. He’s been staying with them—moving about a bit, as I said. I believe you received a message from him through a Miss Arndt?”
“Yes.”
“Quite. Well, my further instructions were to meet you here at the Hilton today, and tonight at ten we’re to go to the Cafe Budapest.”
“That’s in East Berlin.”
“Right. There’s no problem. I’ll lay on the transport and we’ll drive over. You have your passport, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Then what?”
“Then, I suppose, we wait for Padillo.”
I got up and reached for Weatherby’s glass. He finished the last swallow quickly and handed the glass to me. I mixed two more drinks.
“Thanks very much,” he said as I handed his drink to him.
“To be frank with you, Mr. Weatherby, I don’t much care for any of this. Probably because I don’t understand it. Do you have any idea why Padillo is in East Berlin or why he just doesn’t come back through Checkpoint Charlie? He’s got his passport.”
Weatherby set his glass down carefully and lighted another cigarette. “All I know, Mr. McCorkle, is that I’m being paid in dollars by Mr. Padillo—presumably by him—to do what I’m doing and what I’ve done. I haven’t questioned his motives, his objective or his
“What happens at this cafe tonight?”
“As I said, presumably we meet Padillo and he tells you what he needs. If anything.” He rose. “I’ll call for you at nine tonight. Thanks awfully for the drinks.”
“My pleasure,” I said.
Weatherby slung his raincoat over his arm and left. I went back to the chair and sat there trying to decide whether or not I was hungry. I decided I was, so I took my raincoat out of the closet and went in search of the elevators. I caught a cab to a restaurant I knew. The proprietor and I were old friends, but he was ill and the food reflected his absence. After lunch I took a walk—something I seldom do; but the long afternoon that lay ahead seemed a dull infinity. I was walking down an unfamiliar street, pricing the luxury goods in the small shops, when I spotted him. It was just a peripheral glimpse, but it was enough. I increased my pace, turned the corner, and waited. A few seconds later he turned it, almost at a trot.
“Got the time?” I asked.
It was Maas: still short and squatty, wearing the same brown suit, although it looked as if it might have been pressed. He carried the same shabby briefcase.
“Ah!” he said. “Herr McCorkle. I was trying to catch up with you.”
“Ah!” I said. “Herr Maas. I bet you were.”
He looked hurt. His spaniel eyes seemed on the verge of manufacturing a few tears.
“My friend, we have many, many things to talk about. There is a cafe not far from here where I am well known. Perhaps you will be my guest for a nice cup of coffee.”
“Let’s make it a nice glass of brandy. I just had coffee.”
“Of course, of course.”
We walked around another corner to a cafe. It was empty except for the proprietor, who served us in silence. He didn’t seem to know Maas.
“Police ever catch up with you?” I asked pleasantly.
“Oh, that. They will soon forget. It was—how would you say?—a misunderstanding.” He brushed it away with a flick of his hand.
“What brings you back to Berlin?”
He took a noisy sip of his coffee. “Business, always business.”
I drank my brandy and signaled for another. “You know, Herr Maas, you’ve caused me a great deal of embarrassment and trouble.”
