Davidian Report (22 page)

Steve interrupted, “It was because of Janni.”

The true Davidian emerged briefly again. The cold dangerous man who dwelt beneath the cap and bells. “Yes, because of Janni. Because you would no longer be around—” He shrank from Steve’s face. Then he said simply, “Because only Janni I can trust.”

And this could be true. Steve said, “You were not to communicate.”

Davidian observed his dirty nails. “But I communicated with Janni.”

“Who are the old ones?”

“I found them for Janni. For her protection.” The teeth flashed. “She is so desirable, is Janni—” He helped himself openly to a cigarette.

“You didn’t trust her too far. She couldn’t reach you. You moved too often and without advance notice.” She’d told him the truth. “You trusted her only for your own convenience. An address.”

“For her cut she is happy to play postmaster.”

Steve glowered.

“But certainly. For money she is always happy. Ten per cent.” He flung his hands petulantly. “You send me so little.”

“It was the best I could do.”

“And of this I must pay ten per cent to Janni. After your fine promises, behold me! The attic! The shoes!” He extended them.

“You’ll get it all now.”

Davidian was eager. “The house? The little car? Money?”

“All of it.”

“And my papers. A citizen.”

“That takes more time. But you’ll get it. In exchange for the report.”

Davidian’s eyes lidded. “There is something I do not comprehend, Stefan.”

“Yes?” Now came trouble.

“The report. Why is it I must run in two directions? Neither the F.B.I. nor the C.P. must know of the report. Why must it be given privately to Stefan Winterich?”

Steve said coldly, “I like a cut myself.”

Davidian flicked up greedy eyes.

Steve laughed in his face. “If you think you can make a better deal alone, go on, make it. Would you like to know, my friend, what will happen if you try? The F.B.I. will take your report and dump you back in Berlin. Or the C.P. will take your report and exterminate you, to make sure you do not write another one. In either case—” He cut his forefinger across his throat.

“I am satisfied,” Davidian said quickly. “You will give me all you promised?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“No. Oh no,” Davidian assured him. He drained his glass. Moisture stood on his lip. He eyed the empty bottle. “We need a little more, I think. If you could spare a dollar, Stella may be awake—”

Steve rooted in his pocket, counted a dollar in change. Davidian’s fingers closed over the silver. He started to the door, shook his head thoughtfully and returned to the orange crate. “Ah yes! A bottle escaped my eye.” The silver jangled in his pocket.

While Davidian’s fingers twined around the cork, Steve said, “You knew I was in town. Janni told you. And you saw me at the parade.”

The lips tittered. “Yes.”

“Why did you keep me waiting?”

Davidian drew the cork with dignity. “You insisted you would come to me when it was safe. I wished it to be safe.” He poured for himself alone.

Steve took the bottle from him. “You’re a Goddamned liar.” But he knew why. The man’s malice wasn’t a trifling thing. Only by making fools of those on top of him had Davidian managed to cling to a shred of dignity. “You do have the report?”

Davidian squirmed into his easy chair. “Must I repeat myself?” His ink-stained fingers warmed themselves on the tumbler. “Not so much a liar, my dear Stefan. It will surprise me if you complete this job in good health.” He toasted Steve silently. “I am your friend. I tell you this because I am your friend. I planned to welcome you when you arrived but the plane was too late.”

“Albion?”

“Is dead,” Davidian said complacently. “You believed he was your friend. You did not know he had become suspicious. Too suspicious. Poor Albion.”

Steve shook his clanging head.

“Did you believe he visited the F.B.I. as an informer? Did you not know he was looking for information about you?” He repeated, “Poor Albion, he wished so badly to lay his hands on the report. How surprised he was the night I permitted him to catch up with me! And how happy. Because now he could get the report for his good friend Stefan. For no other reason, to be sure, but to surprise you at the airport by having it in his hands. He was even willing that I too should meet you at the airport, when I was reluctant to permit him to carry the papers.” The lips drew back over the pointed teeth. “So trusting, our good friend Albion. He believed I too was trusting.”

“If I’d been on time—”

“How simple it would have been. None of this hocus-pocus. Albion and you and I. Old friends meeting. He did not know he would become sleepy. You were too late. I could not remain after Albion—”

Steve said huskily, “Skip it.”

“We are friends?”

“Yes.” He’d have done it himself, have been forced to do it to eliminate the threat. There were no friends; there was only the imperative: Survive! The wine was making Steve sick. “Where’s the report?”

“You have a purchaser?”

“I’ve told you often enough, yes. Hand it over.”

“I am a careful man.” Davidian sighed. “But who knows when I am not careful enough? It would not be safe here where I live with my wine and my books.”

Steve spat the words. “Where is it?”

“It is safe.” He mouthed slyly, “Tomorrow—”

Steve was out of the chair. “Why waste my time tonight?”

“It is a waste of time to drink wine and talk of the old days with a friend?”

Steve spoke one cold warning. “I can’t sell it until I get my hands on it.”

“I will bring it to you tomorrow.” He smiled piously. “Not too early. First I must play the organ at Dr. Ormigon’s church. You did not know I am a musician?”

Hidden in the organ. Or under the altarpiece. Or in the preacher’s Bible. Yes, the report was safe.

“How will you get it to me?”

Davidian patronized. “That will be my problem. Yours will be to arrange the quick sale. You notice I trust you, I ask for no receipt.” No receipt; only a knife in the guts, a noose for a collar, Albion wine for betrayal. “You will be careful leaving here. It is well you carry something, just in case.” He went to his dirty cot, lifted the mattress. “My books. You did not know I am a poet?” He selected a small volume. The binding was of rotting leather, the pages were pen-written with cramped letters. “You will not be able to read these, I regret, they are in Rumanian.” He put it in Steve’s hands. “It is well to carry a bone to toss to the wolves.”

“It’s safe to toss this?”

“Perfectly safe. It is not my best poetry.” The lips twisted. “But should you be discovered leaving, you have been visiting Stella. She will agree.”

Steve nodded. He slipped the volume into his jacket pocket. His topcoat would cover the additional bulk.

Davidian said suddenly, “Be careful the popcorn man does not see you depart. I do not wish to leave Stella yet.” His smile was mocking. “He watches this house often, a suspicious man, but I am too clever for him.” He hesitated, and then continued, “He and Albion were good friends. Possibly Albion confided in him? I would not wish any harm to come to you until after the sale is complete, you understand.”

Davidian held open the door until Steve had descended to the sleeping second floor. From there on Steve walked in darkness. It was safer in the dark. He did not need to go outside to spot the little yellow lantern. It was reflected in the window glass of the front door.

He retreated to the rear of the house. He knew the password should he be challenged: Stella. He slid the bolt on the kitchen door and was outside. A silent bolt, a silent door; Davidian was a handy man about the house. Steve was as silent on the kitchen’s shallow steps. Protecting himself against the wall of the house, he edged to the corner, to where he could glimpse the street. The popcorn cart blocked the mouth of the alley. Again he retreated, brushing the wall, until he reached the back steps. There was no way out except across the empty courtyard. The house masked it from the street but when he ducked out into the shadows at the far end of the alley, he was observed. He heard the piping little whistle and the rattle of wheels. Without appearing to pick up speed, he lengthened his stride.

Hollywood had gone to bed, the streets were deserted as those of a lost city. The cops were never around when you needed them. He didn’t want cops, he must go it alone. It was no more than a half-block to Hollywood Boulevard but he stuck to the alleyways. He’d have a chance to elude the popcorn man in their murk, none at all on the lighted boulevard. At this hour it, too, was a desolate road.

The bobbing yellow lantern, the faint whistle followed inexorably. Steve didn’t run, only a frightened man took to his heels. He wasn’t afraid but he couldn’t afford to answer questions tonight. Because he wasn’t hampered by a pushcart, he was able to outstrip the popcorn man. He cut over to the boulevard just below his hotel. And knew he’d been tricked, the yellow lantern waited on the corner. There was no way out of it but to brass. He walked steadily to the danger.

The man beside the cart wasn’t anyone, he was motley, he’d fade into a crowd. Unless you’d had experience you wouldn’t recognize in his face the marks of the beast. He said, just passing the time, “Out kinda late, Mister. Popcorn?” His voice was scratchy, as if phlegm were lodged in his throat.

Steve shook his head and kept on walking.

“I been waiting for you.”

He stopped. “What for?”

“You been wanting to see me.”

“I don’t now.”

“You stayed pretty long in the brown house.”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you when you come out.” He took hold of the handles of the cart, preparatory to turning it. “Guess you got plenty to say to Mr. Oriole.”

Steve said quietly, “I’m not going to Oriole’s.”

“They been waiting a long time.”

“Tough.”

“They sent me to fetch you. I kinda guessed you might be at Stella’s house.” The grimace wasn’t pretty.

Steve demanded, “Do you know who I am?”

“Stefan Winterich.” It didn’t mean a thing to him, a man Oriole wanted fetched, no more.

“Go back to Oriole’s,” Steve said. “Ask the boss, the big boss, to let you have a look at the directions on Stefan Winterich’s job.”

Uncertainty began to trouble the man’s face.

“Ask him for the Berlin directive. If you can read, take a look at the signature.” He smiled at the sudden fear glazing the porcine eyes. “And present my compliments to Mr. Oriole and his guests. Tell them I miscalculated slightly. I’ll meet them tomorrow night, instead, early, say ten o’clock.” The business wouldn’t take long once it was set up. Janni went on the Main Street job at ten; he’d pick her up within an hour of that.

Steve’s tongue whipped. “If anyone doesn’t like it, tell him to read that directive.” He walked away then, across the street to his hotel.

The old man with the dyed hair was behind the desk. Steve said, “Don’t put any calls through until noon. Just in case you forget, I’m leaving the phone off the hook.”

The lights were on in his room, Reuben’s bags were packed, the kid was lying on the bed in full uniform. He was wide awake. “I thought you’d never get here.” His smile was hesitant.

Steve said, “You’re not leaving?” He’d almost forgotten the words between them, it seemed months ago.

“I have to be in San Francisco tomorrow. My orders were waiting for me when I got back to the hotel. I’d been expecting them.”

“You can’t leave at this hour.” Steve flung his hat and coat at the chair.

“I figured on getting out at midnight.” The smile flickered. “But I couldn’t walk out without seeing you, not after—” He talked fast, embarrassed. “My old man always said two guys can’t carry one dame. It just doesn’t work. I’m sorry, Steve.”

Steve tried not to sound too tired. “Don’t apologize. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“I’ve been trying to call Janni. To say good-by.”

“She’s all right,” Steve told him. “I found her.”

Reuben must have been able to see it was all right. He said, “You’ll tell her I tried.”

“I sure will.”

He chewed the end of a match. “She thinks a lot of you, Steve. She’s afraid of this business you’re mixed up in.”

Steve lay on his bed. The book was a stone slab in his pocket. “Did she tell you about Berlin?”

Rube didn’t answer. He wondered how much she had told the boy. Of a guy who deserted the American Army after beating up a snivel-nosed major who accused him of operating on the black market? Of a guy who joined up with the Cocos in the Eastern zone? Or only of love in the rubble.

Steve said, “She needn’t worry. I know what I’m doing. Didn’t she tell you I was the smartest operator in the business?”

Rube’s face was torn apart. He was very young.

Steve said, “I thought you were here on a job. To watch me. I still don’t know.” And because he didn’t know, he had to force things, instead of shaking hands and saying,
I’ll see you, kid.
“What was your job in Berlin? Why were you sent home just when I was?”

Reuben said dully, “My outfit’s being transferred to the Pacific. We got a week’s furlough. There wasn’t any reason to hang around New York. My old lady’s shacked up with a new boy friend. I told you that. My old man’s too busy for me. All the other guys went home. I wanted to have a little fun.” He didn’t look at Steve. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me. I don’t want to know. I’m nothing but a private, first class. If I thought you were—” He looked at Steve then, out of slaty blue eyes. “You’ve been swell to me. You didn’t have to take me on. I don’t want to know about your job. Janni’s still in love with you.”

Steve let out his breath slowly. “Whatever anybody tells you, Reuben, this is God’s truth. I’m here only for one reason, to take care of a friend of mine. Davidian.” In a way it was God’s truth.

“That’s good enough for me.” It wasn’t but the boy wouldn’t start brooding again until he was alone. He wondered if Steve had found Davidian but he didn’t ask. It was better not to ask questions.

Steve said, “You’d better get some sleep. You’ll be falling over your own feet before you get to San Francisco. The bus is hell.”