The Snowman Read Free

flesh on his chin and cheeks compressed his mouth so that its pursed lips made it look curiously small and delicate. There were flashy rubies set in solid gold on the middle and ring fingers of his left hand, and a matching tie-pin glittered in his spotted tie. Blum had often had a drinkwith Hackensack before, but only this evening did the American let slip that he himself had worked for the government.
    â€œYou were with the CIA?”
    Hackensack’s face assumed an affected smile.
    â€œI’d once have felt flattered to be asked if I was with the Firm, but nowadays . . .”
    â€œI hope I didn’t insult you. I don’t know a lot about these secret service affairs. What you don’t know won’t make trouble for you, that’s my philosophy.”
    Hackensack laughed, but it was only his rolls of fat creasing up. His eyes were not laughing. Blum felt he was being sized up, but that was Americans for you, and Hackensack seemed to need someone to talk to. He ordered another two drinks. The textiles trade mingled with the tourist trade in the Pegasus Bar, and the Maltese godfathers sat in the corner in their black suits, watching the boxing on TV. Blum’s policemen friends couldn’t find him here. Inspector Cassar’s expense account probably didn’t stretch to more than a lemonade at the kiosk over by the bus station. The curry was being cleared away. While Hackensack explained to him why power was not just the salt of life but its very essence, Blum looked the women tourists over, but there was no one here today who seemed a hopeful prospect for him, and as she took the dishes away the beauty in the sarong was billing and cooing with the chef, a man weighing two hundredweight from the Weser Mountains who had cooked for the specialist supply troops in Saigon. Hackensack raised his glass and cleared his throat.
    â€œWhy so thoughtful, Blum? Business in a bad way, or has someone gone off with your girl?”
    The American’s nose was beginning to glow, and his cauliflower ears had a rosy tinge. But the bourbon lefthis eyes cold. He had said he came from Tennessee, but Blum didn’t think he was really a southerner.
    â€œIn a bad way is about right, Mr Hackensack.”
    â€œWhat, and you a German?”
    Blum was tired of this. Did the whole world think all Germans were winners because Hitler had lost the war?
    â€œNot every German is a millionaire just because the mark is strong, Mr Hackensack.”
    â€œCall me Harry. Yes, I know, Blum. My firm has a branch in Frankfurt. Drop in when you have business there.”
    Blum took the card and put it in his wallet.
    â€œI don’t expect to be in Frankfurt in the near future, but thanks all the same. What line of business are you in, if I may ask, or does that come under the heading of state secrets?”
    Hackensack spluttered, swallowed the wrong way, and went purple. In his tight suit with his sweaty little hat on his head, he now looked like a boxing manager who hasn’t had a winner on his books for ten years. Probably just a poor sap like the rest of us, thought Blum.
    â€œI’m a company adviser,” said Hackensack, when he had got his breath back. “And if I were to advise you some day you’d get a discount – after all, both of us here on Malta, that counts for something.”
    â€œI’m only a one-man firm, but if I do need advice I’ll be happy to get in touch. Another drink? The next round’s on me.”
    Naturally Hackensack would like another drink. He tipped bourbon down his throat like water with no obvious effect, except that the broken veins of his nose took on a darker hue.
    â€œWhat lines of business would you say are on the up now?” asked Blum.
    â€œAnything to do with power,” said Hackensack, wiping the sweat from his neck with a red flowered handkerchief, which deprived his words of much of their force. “Naked, profitable power with no