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“I wasn’t thinking of our current situation.”
What the hell does she mean by that?
That with me, she’d be willing to pay the usual price?
You are out of your fucking mind, Jimmy Cronley!
Paying for the two uniforms wiped out the last of the stack of scrip twenty-dollar bills and he had to take a second stack from his other boot.
[SEVEN]
In the Kapitän on the way to the Kurhotel Marburg, the smell of Chanel No. 5 told him she had decided not to wait until she had her bath before applying that.
—
“This is the Goethe Suite,” the manager of the Kurhotel Marburg said, “normally reserved for colonels and general officers. But Major Connell explained the situation. I hope you will be comfortable, Frau von Wachtstein. If you need anything, just pick up the telephone.”
“Thank you,” Elsa said.
“And per Major Connell’s request, Lieutenant,” the manager went on, handing him a key, “I’ve put you near to Frau von Wachtstein—in 408a, next door. It’s usually where aides-de-camp are placed. There is a connecting door to 408, the Goethe Suite. It’s locked.”
“I’ll be next door when you need me, Frau von Wachtstein,” Cronley said.
Cronley went to 408a and let himself in.
Compared to the rooms in the suite in which Frau von Wachtstein had been installed, 408a was small. But compared to his room in the Alte Post Hotel, it was almost luxurious.
He saw the door connecting 408a with 408, noting that it seemed substantial and that the locking mechanism could be operated only from within the Goethe Suite.
Which is a good thing, otherwise I might go completely bananas and “accidentally” burst in there to get a look at that woman in her bathtub.
A woman who is thirty-two fucking years old, looks older, and, as another consideration, is under the personal protection of a bird colonel who has Major Connell, a ruthless bastard himself, scared shitless. . . .
What the fuck am I thinking?
If I get two inches—hell, a half inch—out of line with Frau von Wachtstein, then it’s auf Wiedersehen, good life in the good ol’ Twenty-second.
I’ll wind up changing tracks and bogie wheels in the mud in some tank company in Grafenwöhr.
Cronley sat in an armchair, lit a cigar, found a copy of the Army newspaper Stars & Stripes, and started to read it.
And, when he had finished going through it, fell asleep.
—
“Well, Mr. Cronley, how do I look?” Frau von Wachtstein asked.
Startled awake, he stood up.
She was standing in front of him, wearing the Uniform, Class A, Female Officer’s.
How the hell did she get in here?
She unlocked the connecting door, Stupid, and came through it, that’s how.
“Very nice,” he said.
You don’t look fifty anymore. You don’t even look thirty-two.
