“Do you have Anthony Bowdler Cromwell?”
“I can produce him. For a price, naturally.”
“What price?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
“She only wanted ten thousand.” I jerked my thumb at Gretchen.
“For the wife, yes. But I have the genuine article. And, I might add, if you aren’t interested, there are others who are.”
“What others?”
“Hajstrom was one.”
“He’s dead,” I reminded Von Koerner.
“Yes. Most unfortunate. I really don’t know what you hoped to accomplish by that. I’m sure his people will arrange to contact me despite his unfortunate demise.”
I got a glimmering of why Stevkovsky had killed Hajstrom. Sure! The piece fit neatly into place. Von Koerner was offering Cromwell to the highest bidder. And Stevkovsky had simply eliminated Hajstrom to cut down the chances of being outbid.
“Who else is in the running?” I asked Von Koerner.
“The Russians. The Chinese. The Egyptians. Many countries have reason to want Cromwell’s process.”
“Do you have the process?”
“No. But I can produce Cromwell. After that, it’s up to you. Of course, I’m assuming that you’re in a position to speak for your government. If you are, I’m sure they’ll see the logic of meeting my price.”
“Suppose that instead we just lock you up for the treacherous kidnapping blackmailer you are and throw away the key? ”
“That would not be wise. Believe me. Cromwell would never be seen again. Arrangements have been made to cover such an eventuality. If anything happens to me, Cromwell’s fate is sealed.”
“You certainly have a way with words,” I told him sarcastically. “But before I advise my government to fork over a hundred grand, I have to be awfully damn sure that they’ll get what they’re paying for.”
“That can be arranged,” Von Koerner assured me. “Do you think you can have the money for me—in small, unmarked bills, of course--when you come to our little discipline meeting tomorrow night?”
“If I’ve gotten the reassurance I require.”
“Very well.” Von Koerner handed me a card. “Come to this address at two tomorrow afternoon and you shall have it. Ask for me. Then we can conclude our business when we meet later on in the evening.” Von Koerner grabbed Gretchen by her elbow and pulled her to her feet. Still holding his cane at the ready, he propelled her to the door. “Good night, Mr. Victor." He flicked his thumb, and the blade snapped back into the walking stick. The door closed behind them.
I hit the sack. But I couldn’t fall asleep. There was too much to think about. There were still too many unanswered questions. There was the card Von Koerner had given me for instance: Embossed letter spelling out “RESEARCH INSTITUTE OF ADVANCED GYNECOLOGY," an address beneath, and in the lower right hand corner Von Koerner’s name with a “Dr.” in front of it. What sort of place was it? I wondered. What was Von Koerner’s position there? What did it have to do with Anthony Bowdler Cromwell? Was that where he take that kind of chance. But then how would my going there provide me with proof that Von Koerner could really produce Cromwell?
Other questions—disconnected ones— also chased themselves around my head. How had Hajstrom come to Von Koerner? Gretchen had seemed unaware of any connection between them. And what about Carrie Cromwell? How had she gotten involved with Von Koerner? Had she delivered her husband into his clutches? Knowingly? If so, why? And how had Von Koerner known of Cromwell’s importance in the first place? Also, what of Stevkovsky? How had he gotten onto Cromwell’s invention? Had Von Koerner approached the Russians? If so, why had my double had to follow my trail and impersonate me in order to get to von Koerner?
Most intriguing of all, who was Von Koerner, anyway? Who did he represent? A gang? Some secret organization? An international outfit loyal only to itself and ready to sell to any side for its own profit? Or was Von Koerner strictly a loner engaged in a onetime venture he’d stumbled into, a loner operating probably with the help of a few hired thugs?
Questions! Questions! Questions!
I fell asleep.
The phone-—trustier than any alarm clock—woke me as usual. It was Hortense—as usual. Her voice was starry-eyed with wedding plans—as usual.
“Steve, I’d like your opinion about the caterer. Now, he advised . . .”
I tuned out. I looked at my wristwatch lying on the night-table. It was almost noon. And I was due at the Research Institute at two o’clock.
“Yeah, honey.” I interrupted Hortense in mid-sentence. “That sounds dandy. We can go over the details when I see you tonight.” I hung up before she could object.
Next I dialed Putnam. “American original,” I identified myself. “I need a hundred thousand dollars in small, unmarked bills.”
“You must be planning a pretty big wedding.”
“It’s for your boy with the mousetrap. That's the asking price.”
“How sure are you that the people you're dealing with can deliver?”
“I’m not sure. But I should know one way or the other by tonight. Can you get the money up to my hotel about seven?”
“The government doesn’t like to pay ransom,” Putnam told me.
“I’m a taxpayer. Neither do I. And maybe we can get it back in the long run. But the first thing is to get the mousetrap builder back safe, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You’re right. We can’t afford to take chances. I'll see that you get the money.” Putnam hung up.
I got dressed, ate a huge brunch, and headed for the Research Institute. It was five of two when I got there. I stood in front of it for a moment, looking the place over. Only four stories, but impressive. Clean lines, glass front, sterile steel. Very modern. Very utilitarian. Very impressive!
Two pyramids with a phallic sweep to them flanked the front entrance outside. I walked between them. Inside a pair of wire mobiles pointed an aisle toward a center reception desk. The desk was marble. I walked up to It.
“I’d like to see Dr. Von Koerner,” I told the pleasantly smiling middle-aged woman behind it.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes. He’s expecting me.”
Her fingers went tic-tac-toe over the switchboard at her side, and she leaned discreetly into the echo-proof mouthpiece. Then she leaned back toward me and showed me some more of her dentures.
“Room three-one-six, third floor. The elevator’s right over there.” She nodded in the direction she meant.
The elevator was automatic and over-pressurized. It made my ears pop. They popped back as I entered room three-one-six.
“Mr. Victor?” More teeth from the girl behind the desk. She was younger. I guessed they were her own.
“Yes, I admitted.
“You can go right in. Doctor is waiting for you.” She indicated a door to her right.
I went through it. Doctor was indeed waiting for me. His smile of greeting was even less sincere than the other two. “Mr. Victor. I’m so glad you came.”
For a hundred thousand dollars, I bet he was glad.
“Doctor Von Koerner?” I made it a question more than a greeting.
“Oh, yes,” he acknowledged it. “I am indeed a doctor, Mr. Victor.”
“A doctor of what?” I asked curiously.
“Gynecology. I do not like to brag, but at one time I was one of the best-known gynecologists in Berlin.”
“West Berlin, or East Berlin?” It was a dig.
He recognized it as such and raised an eyebrow. “I went wherever my practice took me, Mr. Victor.”
“And always ended up in the same old place.”
“Of course.” He gave me a cold smile. “But then I am forgetting that our professions are closely related, aren’t I? We are, in a sense, colleagues.”