read. They went inside and came out five minutes later. Jesso had a little bag that held three passport pictures. Then they drove off again.
“You got a guy that’ll fix that passport for me?” He held the pictures out so Kator could take them.
Kator took them but looked annoyed.
“You didn’t think you were going to palm that Joe Snell thing off on me without my picture in it, did you?”
It wasn’t a question the way Jesso said it.
Kator gave the pictures to Bean Pole and sat back.
“When we get to the hotel, Jesso, Karl will of course rework your papers.”
“Good old Karl,” Jesso said. “How’s he going to do it, with his fingernails?”
“We have the equipment,” Kator said, and his irritation started to show.
The car turned into the Kirchenalle, a stately street with ornate old hotels on either side. Without a word from the back the chauffeur pulled up to the marquee of a place called Kronprinzen and the doorman that shot out from the hotel looked as if he were the crown prince himself. When he had the door open he made a bow as if he wanted to kiss somebody’s foot, and he said, “Herr Kator,” reverently.
They filed into the plush foyer, with Kator nodding at bell captain, room clerk, and elevator man. Like a general surrounded by his well-oiled staff.
“We’ll try the other one,” Jesso said, and without waiting for anybody to get it straight he turned on his heel and left.
The two trench coats kept on either side of Jesso but Kator almost had to run to follow. Jesso stopped a few houses down and walked into the First Bismarck. The hotel was just as plush, but nobody called Kator by name. This time he had to go to the desk and register.
There was a writing room off to the left and Jesso went there. One of the desks had a typewriter where a kid in a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit was pecking x’s and dashes.
“Beat it, kid.” Jesso lifted the boy out of the chair. Then he fixed himself two sheets with carbon. For a moment it looked as if the high-heeled woman with the gold pince-nez was going to do something about her screaming Lord Fauntleroy, but then there was Jesso looking at her, his sailor clothes rumpled and two mean lines running down through the stubble around his mouth. The two trench coats stood by just in case, and they didn’t look friendly either.
When Jesso had typed his piece he sealed it in an envelope and stuck the copy in his pocket. Kator was waiting at the front desk.
“If you are ready,” he said, but Jesso looked right past him.
“I’m not.” He stepped up to the desk. “You understand English?” he asked the clerk.
“Certainly, sir. All our-”
“Very neat. Now listen close. Here’s a letter. Hold it for the next thirty minutes. If I haven’t picked it up by then, open the letter, read it, call the police, and give it to them. Understand?”
Kator had stepped up, clearing his throat, and the clerk looked puzzled.
“If you won’t,” Jesso said, “I’ll call the police right now.”
Jesso hadn’t been wrong. There was nothing the clerk wanted less than having a policeman come across the lobby. Jesso looked at Kator and Kator didn’t like the idea either. The clerk took the letter.
“Let’s go, Kator. You got thirty minutes to get my papers ready.”
They went up in the elevator, looking normal enough, but when they were in the room Kator had rented and the bellhop had bowed himself out of the room the atmosphere changed. One trench coat sat down by the phone, the other stood by the door. He locked it, bolted it, then faced the room. Kator had sat down by the night stand because there was no table in the room. Jesso figured that Kator didn’t mean to stay here very long and there was no reason to waste any money on a proper suite. Good enough to have four bare walls, a washstand, and a bed. Good enough for a short talk and maybe a quick death.
“I thought you’d like to know what’s in that letter,” Jesso said, pulling out the carbon.
Kator took the sheet. It was addressed to the police and asked them to notify the American consul of the violent death of one Jack Jesso, abducted by force by one Johannes Kator, who was described in full and whose activities for the past two weeks were listed in great detail. The whole thing made quite an impression.
Kator’s words were hardly audible. “Would you mind if I burned this?” he asked.
“Go right ahead,” Jesso said, “and you got twenty-three more minutes.”
Kator lit the sheet with his lighter and watched it blacken and curl in the chamber pot he had found in the night stand. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. When he opened them they looked at the man by the phone. He got up with a rush and Jesso’s arms were pinned back. Then Kator leaned forward, pulled the Luger out of Jesso’s pocket, and tossed it to Karl, the Bean Pole.
Jesso hadn’t tried to move. When the guy behind him let go, Jesso straightened his jacket, folded his arms, and said, “You got eighteen minutes, Kator.” He knew there was a reason for that quick trick, but for the moment it didn’t seem to matter. “So tell Charlie to get busy with my passport.”
“Karl is very adept, you will see. There is plenty of time.” Kator took a leather-bound notebook from his pocket and a small silver pencil. He handed them to Jesso.
“You will write Snell’s instructions down, please. It is best if my associates in this room are not burdened by any unnecessary information.”
Jesso took the notebook and pencil. He flipped the pages but didn’t write.
“You got fourteen minutes.”
“You will write, please!” It was a voice that could have chilled an Army pro.
“Screw yourself,” Jesso said.
Kator looked for one long silent moment as if he were going to burst out of his collar. Then he exhaled. Only his eyes moved when he looked at Karl, but Bean Pole scrambled to his suitcase, opened it up, and sat on the bed with the open case on his knees. Kator handed the passport to Karl, who opened it to the page with the picture.
“Where’s the visa?” Jesso asked.
“Your visa is an entry on a page in your passport, and I am close to the end of my patience. Will you-“
“Why don’t you shut up?”
They looked at each other like stalking cats and then there was no sound except a gentle scraping as Karl removed Snell’s picture from the passport. He had a delicate touch as he worked a small scalpel under the glue of the photo.
Jesso started to write, “The upper half of the left column…”
Karl had the picture off. He picked a stamp from his suitcase, the kind notary publics use, and clamped it over the photo. A round, embossed emblem appeared on the paper.
“… and the lower half of the right column…”
Karl smeared glue on the back of the picture and pressed it to the page. While Jesso watched, Karl wrote “Joseph Snell” across the top of the picture, just the way Snell had done it.
“… combine to give the production figures at…”
There was one more job to be done. Karl had to duplicate the State Department stamp that ran across page and picture, serrating both with tiny holes. He had the stamp. It was a wide steel contraption, built like the jaws of a pair of pliers, and the job was to keep the holes on the page intact while serrating new ones into the photo.
It was a delicate job of positioning and Karl did it by touch.
“You got eight minutes,” Jesso said.
Nobody answered. Karl felt the underside of the page, eyes closed, and Kator had got up to bend over Jesso’s shoulder. He saw the incomplete sentence there. Jesso could hear the breath next to his ear, and he smelled the faint dry-cleaning odor from Kator’s clothes.
“You got five minutes.”
Karl grabbed the handles of the stamp, pressed, and held on. When he let go slowly the serrations across the picture looked neat. It read, as it should, “PHOTOGRAPH ATTACHED DEPARTMENT OF STATE WASHINGTON.” Karl was an expert.
“Continue, Jesso.” Kator’s breath was moist on Jesso’s ear.
He wrote, “Honeywell,” then closed the notebook. “You got four minutes,” he said, and handed the notebook
