I turned left down a dark, mean street whose name I didn’t catch and didn’t even look for. We drove a block, and the Cafe Budapest was on a corner, the first floor of a three-story building with a small electric sign that had half of its bulbs burned out. It was a prewar building, and you could see where it had been patched up with plaster that was newer than the original. Parking was no problem. We got out and walked toward the entrance, which was recessed into the corner of the building, catawampus to the sidewalk.

Cooky pulled open the heavy wooden door and we went in. The room was about sixty feet long and thirty-five feet wide. It had a high ceiling, and at the far end there was a platform where a four-piece band gave out a weary version of “Happy Days Are Here Again.” A few couples moved around the twelve-by-twelve dance floor. Two girls danced together. There were some dark wooden booths along both sides of the room and the bar was at the front, next to the door. The place was a quarter full, and we seemed to have missed the happy hour. We didn’t take off our coats.

“Let’s try a table,” I said.

We sat down at one near the door.

“What time is it?” I asked Cooky.

“Five till ten.”

“Let’s stick to vodka. I understand it’s halfway decent.”

A waitress came over and I ordered two vodkas. We attracted about as much attention as a flea in a dog pound. The waitress came back with the drinks and waited to get paid. Cooky gave her some D-Marks and waved the change away. She didn’t smile. She didn’t say thank you. She walked off and stood tiredly by a booth and examined her fingernails. After a while she started to chew on one of them.

Cooky drank half his vodka and smiled. “Not bad.”

I sipped mine. I can’t tell the difference in vodka, except for the proof. This was high-octane.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We wait.”

“What if nothing happens?”

“We go back to the Hilton and I explain what a dead body is doing in my room. You can be thinking something up.”

We sat there and drank vodka and listened to the band give its version of “Deep Purple.” At exactly ten P.M. the door opened and a girl came in. She wore a belted dark-green leather coat and high-heeled black pumps. Her hair was dark and long and fell to her shoulders in what they used to call a page-boy bob. She moved to our table and sat down.

“Order me a glass of wine,” she said in German.

I signaled the waitress. She trudged over and I ordered the wine.

“Where’s Weatherby? The girl asked. She pronounced the “w” like a “v” and the “th” like a “z.”

“Dead. Shot.”

Persons register shock in many different ways. Some gasp and start saying “no” over and over as if, through denial, things can be changed back to the way they were. Others are more theatrical and they grow white and their eyes get big and they start chewing on their knuckles just before they yell or scream. And then there are those who just seem to die a little. The girl was like that. She grew perfectly still and seemed to stop breathing. She stayed that way for what seemed to be a long time and then closed her eyes and said: “Where?”

I foolishly started to say “in the back,” but I said, “In West Berlin, in the Hilton.”

The waitress was bearing down on us and the girl said nothing. Cooky found some more money and paid again, this time increasing the tip. There were still no thanks.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Marta. He was to have a car.”

“Who?”

“Weatherby.”

“I have a car.”

“You’re McCorkle?”

I nodded. “This is Baker. This is Marta.” Since it was a girl, Cooky gave her his dazzling smile. His German hadn’t been sufficient to keep up with the conversation. I wasn’t sure that mine had been either.

“Padillo said nothing about another man.”

“He’s a friend.”

She glanced at her watch. “Did Weatherby—did he say anything before he died?” She got it out well enough.

“No.”

She nodded. “What kind of car do you have?”

“A black Mercedes—the new one parked just across the street.”

“Finish your drinks,” she said. “Tell a joke. Laugh and then leave. Shake hands with me, both of you, before you go. He does not speak German?”

“No.”

“Tell him then.”

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