A Shroud for Jesso by Peter Rabe

trees, then at the villa again. He didn’t often feel like this, but suddenly it was as if he were out of place. Jesso hunched his shoulders. It sure didn’t feel like home territory. Hell, there was no more home territory There was nothing but Jesso with a two-day beard, his stolen clothes, and a half-crazy scheme that hadn’t even begun to take shape. He rubbed his face and then he made a noise as if he meant to laugh but thought better of it. Christ, a real one-man operation. He always wanted a one-man operation, and now he had it; right in the neck he had it. Or it had him. A free hand and nobody underfoot. It had come true so completely that he didn’t know whether to laugh or to swear. And the right kind of woman would be the next thought. At a time like this, for Christ’s sake, he was going to start thinking about women.
    Jesso jumped off the drive that swung under the villa’s porte-cochere and stumbled over the low curbing. The long car, built like a ballroom, made just the merest hum and then stopped by the door. A chauffeur jumped out, moving as if he too were powered by a Daimler motor, and then it looked as if he were going to throw himself right up those stairs. Jesso too thought he might want to throw himself right up those stairs.
    She wasn’t big or sharp or anything, but she had presence. The heart-shaped face almost spoiled the impression of coolness and grace. The heart-shaped face had a full mouth and wide, light eyes that had a waiting look; and all that with live lights moving on the silk that stretched over her breasts, a blue raw silk, and hips that made a waltz out of the way she walked down those stairs. She stopped halfway down and looked at Jesso. At least, her eyes were turned in his direction. She massaged white gloves over her hands and wrists, and when she was through she got into the car. And that was that.
    He stood a while, thinking about it. There are women like that. That was all that came to him. Or, anyway, there is a woman like that.

Chapter Ten
     
    Jesso walked up the stairs. By the big door he rang a bell and waited. Then he rang it again. An old man came to the door, dressed like a butler. He cocked his head and didn’t say hello.
    “I want to see Kator.”
    The old guy cocked his head the other way.
    “Herr Kator.”
    “I understood you the first time,” said the butler. His English was precise.
    There was another door behind the butler, so Jesso couldn’t see very far. He felt like a Fuller Brush man.
    “What is your name, sir?”
    “Jack Jesso. Take my word for it.”
    “Your business?”
    “Kator owes me money and I came to collect. Now open that door wide enough—“
    “Mr. Kator is not in. If you have a private debt to discuss, his personal accounts are handled by the firm of Bohm and Bohm. You can—“
    “This account is handled right here, so open up.”
    The door came shut but didn’t quite make the lock. Jesso wasn’t using any salesman’s foot in the door; he hit it hard with the flat of his sole, making the heavy door fly back. It hit the wall and made a crash.
    Jesso walked in.
    The butler’s face screwed up like a wrinkled prune. He reached for a bell near the doorjamb but thought better of it. Jesso wasn’t looking friendly. “Now open the next door.”
    But before the butler could get there the door opened.
    What Jesso saw was a sight. The man was slim, with silky hair draped artfully across a balding head. His frail face looked like a baby’s and then again like an old man’s. He put his yellow hands into the pockets of his brocaded robe and looked annoyed.
    Jesso didn’t understand a word of what followed. There was a lot of sharp and stilted-sounding talk and every so often “Herr Baron.” That was the butler talking. Jesso started to feel left out.
    “All right, enough of the love talk. I’m—”
    “I know,” said the Baron. He spoke English with a cultivated British accent. “You are Jesso.” He peered closer. “What is