The Eighth Dwarf by Ross Thomas Read Free Book Online Page B

a few inches from the dwarf’s left ear. What came out of Jackson’s mouth came out half shout, half roar:
    â€œBaker-Bates wants his money back!”

5
    The dwarf, barefoot and fuming, but wearing his rich green dressing gown, stalked into Jackson’s room with a glare in his eyes and a scowl on his face. “You damned near frightened Dorothy to death,” he snapped.
    â€œPoor Dorothy.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to yell in my ear. It made her cry. I can’t stand it when they cry.”
    â€œWhat was her last name—Dorothy’s?”
    â€œI don’t remember.”
    â€œIs she gone?”
    â€œShe’s gone. What’s this about Baker-Bates? I don’t know any Baker-Bates.”
    â€œSure you do, Nick. Gilbert Baker-Bates. A British chappie. He dropped you and your fist man back into Romania with a hundred thousand bucks in gold.”
    â€œHe lied. It wasn’t anywhere near that much. More like fifty.”
    â€œStill a tidy sum.”
    The scowl left Ploscaru’s face. In its place spread some lines of what Jackson took to be apprehension or even fear. “He wants the money back?”
    â€œNot really. They’ve written you off, Nick. You’re old hat. Ancient history.”
    â€œDid he say that?”
    â€œHis very words.”
    The dwarf relaxed, and the lines of apprehension—or fear—left his face, which reassumed its normal look of benevolent cunning. He studied Jackson for a moment. Then without a word he turned and, not stalking this time, went back into his own room. When he returned, he was carrying two glasses and a bottle. “Bourbon,” he said. “Bonded stuff. Green label. See?” He held up a bottle of Old Forester. Jackson realized that it was more than a bottle of bourbon. It was a peace offering, a mollifying gift that would help to smooth over some of the lies the dwarf had told him.
    Ploscaru used a carafe of water to mix two drinks and handed one to Jackson, who was sitting in an armchair. The dwarf hopped up onto the bed and wriggled back. “How’d he get on to you—Baker-Bates?” Ploscaru tried to make it a casual question and almost succeeded.
    â€œHe wants the assassin.”
    â€œAssassin? What assassin?”
    â€œWhat assassin? Why, the one that slipped your mind, Nick. The one you forgot to mention. The one you described as being just a lost boy strayed from home whose kinfolk would pay us a little money to see if we could get him back. Kurt Oppenheimer. That assassin.”
    â€œI know nothing of it. Nothing.”
    â€œCome off it, Nick.”
    The dwarf shrugged. “I may have heard some wild rumor. Idle gossip, perhaps. But—phht.” He shrugged again—an eloquent Balkan shrug that dismissed the notion. “How was your meeting with the Oppenheimers?”
    Jackson took the envelope from his pocket and tossed it to Ploscaru, who caught it with one hand. “Your cut’s in there,” Jackson said, “along with Leah Oppenheimer’s schoolgirl version of her brother, the brave underground hero. Read it and I’ll tell you how our meeting went.”
    â€œTell me now,” the dwarf said, counting the money. “I can read and listen at the same time. I have that kind of mind.”
    As a matter of fact, he did. By the time Jackson had described his meeting with the Oppenheimers, Ploscaru had read Leah Oppenheimer’s essay twice, counted the money three times, and made a careful study of the four snapshots.
    â€œAnd Baker-Bates?”
    â€œHe picked me up outside the hotel. We went to a bar and had a drink and talked about you. He doesn’t like you.”
    â€œNo,” Ploscaru murmured, “I suppose he doesn’t.”
    â€œHe called you names.”
    Ploscaru nodded sadly. “Yes, he probably would. How did he look, poor chap—a trifle seedy?”
    Jackson stared at him. “A