Searching for Edgar's Five Dancers

by Efren O'brien

  Manny indicated he would return as requested. Quinn went inside.

  Quinn immediately began to feel the strangeness of the place and of the environment he’d never experienced before. Compared to The 9:15 in Albuquerque, this bar was very different. The 9:15 was a drab place with a long bar, many booths, and a jukebox in the corner. Alex’s was more colorful and upscale from the start. This place was larger with a long bar on one end, high barchairs with many tables spread out around the large room. One waiter who Quinn noted walked a little odd for a man, and three waitresses quickly moved throughout the main room delivering drinks to the throng of patrons there. Quinn gazed at the colorful murals that took up several walls. There was another backroom, which had fancy couches, large tables, another bar and a small stage. Instead of the blue-collar atmosphere of The 9:15, Alex’s had nicely dressed people; even men and women in suits. Some of the women had short, cropped hair. There were Hispanic patrons in the bar as well. This was something that wasn’t seen at The 9:15 in Albuqerque. There was a baby grand piano in the main room, and a woman wearing a pinstripe suit playing it. Quinn sat down in a free chair at the bar.

  “How can I help you, amigo?” said the bartender. “What are you drinking tonight?”

  “Bourbon and soda,” replied Quinn. “Nice place you have here…seems a little different from what I’m used to,” said Quinn.

  “You should go and thank Alex for that,” replied the Hispanic bartender. “It’s her place. First time here?” said the bartender.

  “I’m new to Santa Fe,” said Quinn.

  The bartender set Quinn’s drink in front of him. “Here, try this,” he said. “Bourbon, soda, and a hit of my secret liquor, Curacoa. Tell me what you think.”

  Quinn took a sip, and then replied, “Not bad…not too bad at all. Who painted the murals on the walls?” asked Quinn.

  “Several local artists have contributed, but the main painter is Alfred Mahone. He’s an odd guy who likes this bar. He’s here a lot,” said the bartender. “He’s a strange guy. He walks up here from his studio and house, just down the street. Always smoking a cigarette and always wearing his sunglasses in here, even at night. He did a real good job on the wall murals though,” said the bartender.

  “Yes, he sure did,” said Quinn. “I’ll have another of your concoctions,” Quinn said to the bartender as he pulled a cigarette out and lit it.

  A lady with short, cropped blonde hair came and sat in the chair next to Quinn. “ Fidel, I’ll have my usual Manhattan with a twist,” she said to the bartender in a low-pitched voice. The lady appeared to be around 30 years old. “Do you have a light?” she asked as she opened up a cigarette case and pulled one out.

  “Here, allow me,” said Quinn as he pulled his lighter out of his pocket.

  Quinn lit her cigarette and she began smoking. “Thank you,” the young blonde said as she pulled the lit cigarette out of her red colored lips with her right hand. The smoke from the lit cigarette filtered up to the ceiling. She wore a fairly tight-fitting dress. Once again, not the norm for ladies’ fashion of the 1940s. She had an attractive face with high pronounced cheeks. She had light blue eyes and seemed to be either English or German. “What brings you to Alex’s tonight?” she asked.

  “Oh, I heard this was an interesting place, and different, and I felt like something different tonight,” he said.

  “Are you new to Santa Fe?” she asked.

  “Yes…I’ve only been in town a short while. My name is Quinn Chase. What’s yours?”

  “Marika Kraus,” she said as she stuck her hand out, palm down. “Happy to meet you. What do you do, Mr. Chase?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” replied Quinn.

  “How exciting!” she replied.

  “I was a police detective,” Quinn stated. “As small as Santa Fe is I’m surprised there is work up here. But so far I’ve been busy,” he said.

  “Where do you come from?” she asked.

  “I’ve lived my whole life in Albuquerque, but my partner and I decided to come up here to Santa Fe.”

  “Well, welcome to you again!”

  “And what brings you here?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m in the art business,” she said. “My father owned an art gallery in Chicago, and I inherited it. So my work involves a lot of travel, buying and selling…and please, call me Marika,” she said. “Recently some works by well-known European artists have found their way to Santa Fe, and I’m here to check them out. Art is a fickle business,” she said.

  “So is the average woman,” said Quinn.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true as well,” she replied.

  Quinn then said, “I was just in a gallery on the Plaza, 104 ½ East Palace Avenue…and I met the owner who said he had some paintings by Europeans.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard, and I have to go look at his display. Do you know his name by chance?” she asked.

  “Joel Finebaum,” Quinn said.

  “Is he Jewish?” she asked.

  “I don’t know…I really don’t,” said Quinn. “He’s one hell of an artist, though, I do know that.”

  “It truly is a shame,” Marika said, “but many European works of art…sculptures and paintings are being smuggled out of Europe on the black market by the Nazis. Priceless original works of art by Monet, Renoir, Matisse, and other masters,” she said. “The Nazis have basically rejected and condemned any modern art made after 1910. Or at least that’s what their public stance is,” she said. “They’ve publicly burned some of the art they classify as degenerate. Someone has to locate and protect these masterpieces, or they’ll be lost forever.”

  “So you travel around looking for art?” Quinn asked.

  “Among other things,” she said. Another woman then approached and sat on the other side of Marika. She was a younger woman with long auburn hair. “Hi, baby,” Marika said as she kissed the younger, more fragile appearing woman on the lips for a considerable length of time.

  Quinn’s eyes widened, and he nearly dropped his drink…and just stared in shocked silence.

  The two women giggled about something, and Marika Kraus then briefly turned back to Quinn. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Chase. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime?” she said as she winked at Quinn.

  He was speechless as the attractive blonde and her apparent lover stepped off their chairs and retreated into the hoard of patrons at Alex’s that evening, most likely to some other area of the bar. The bartender walked over to Quinn again.

  “Can I get you another one of those?” he asked. Quinn had a look of disbelief on his face. “Didn’t anyone tell you, this is not your typical bar…it’s really an open lounge…there’s all sorts of people here on any given night. Stick around…you’ll see things you won’t believe.” Quinn’s expression never changed as he took the glass from the bartender and sat on the barstool continuing to drink.

  About 90 minutes later, as Quinn was on his sixth drink that night and feeling the effects, he felt a tap on his right shoulder. He turned and the blonde woman with the short hair—Marika—was back with a smile on her face.

  “Mind if I join you again?” she said. “I thought you might buy me a drink.” She pulled another cigarette out of her case and sat down next to him at the bar. It was the 1940s, but she wore a tight blouse with the top two buttons undone, showing ample cleavage, along with the rest of her beige dress that seemed to hug her body. She held Quinn’s attention. At near midnight and with a buzz, she looked extremely sexual and alluring.

  Quinn wanted to comment on the sexy dress she wore, but then wondered, Why is she interested in me? But then he thought about it again…and really all that mattered to Quinn was that she was interested in him. They sat and talked for a while about nothing in particular. When Manny’s cab came back to pick him up, two fares got in. A-40 year old man wearing his Fedora and London Fog overcoat, and a very attractive, tall, blonde with an athletic body and cropped haircut.

  “Let’s go
back to your place and have a nightcap,” she said. The two disappeared into Quinn’s hotel at 1:20 a.m., and remained there till the sun shined brightly the next morning when she reemerged, and quietly left the premises.

  Chapter XVIi

  It was about noon the following day when Quinn awoke. He made inaudible grumbling sounds as he opened his eyes and looked upon his disheveled hotel room that appeared slightly blurry. He accidentally swung his arm and knocked a pitcher of water on the adjoining nightstand down to the floor. The pewter pitcher crashed on the hardwood floor, and water spilled everywhere. He was by himself in bed now…with a pronounced hangover. He slowly got out of bed, stood up, and made his way carefully to the shower. He took a cold shower to wake up. Then he filled up half a shot glass from the bottle of Bourbon left over from the previous night and instead of chugging it, he sipped it. Marika Kraus had supplied the bourbon…and as he drank he asked himself, What the hell was last night all about? Why did she come back? Who is this woman? I’ve gotta’ find out.

  Marika Kraus was also thinking of her night with Quinn. In fact, she was contemplating how Quinn could serve as a helpful connection to her. Perhaps she might acquire from him information down the road that could be useful in dealing with the police, the identity of a mysterious figure known as The Merchant, or the alleged research and development center near Santa Fe. Marika Kraus was an alluring and sexy lady. She did deal in art. But Marika Kraus’ main occupation at this time was as a Nazi spy. While Quinn was taking his cold shower and thinking about his latest love conquest , Marika wrote a letter in coded message to her main contact and superior officer in New York. She then dropped it in the mailbox. The letter was short and read as follows:

  Greetings Henry,

  All is well here. Met many fine artists and possible buyers. Hope to contact our main prospect soon. May need additional funds…I’ll let you know.

  Yours truly,

  “M”

  She wasn’t sure who “Henry” was because her superior contacts in New York were anonymous to her, but she had various names and addresses to send updates and correspondence to New York. She knew all messages and names were coded, but she followed her orders to the letter as best she could. She had her own P.O. Box and would receive similar letters back and occasional cashier’s checks from “Armbridge Mortgage Company,” which she promptly cashed at a local bank. Every letter she received also included additional instructions in code.

  Marika had been recruited by the Abwher at the beginning of the war before Germany invaded Poland in 1939. She had personally met and been briefed by Admiral Wilhelm Franz Canaris, the head of the German Army Intelligence Agency, before traveling to America with a false passport and other supporting documents. Although Admiral Canaris had such an important position, he was not a member of the Nazi Party and at times openly voiced his opposition to Hitler and the Nazi Party. Marika’s father formally held the title of Graf before the start of the war and was offered a high position in the Nazi government, but he declined to serve. Marika had been previously educated in Switzerland and didn’t have Nazi political sympathies or leanings. She was well aware, however, of how powerful and insidious the Nazi officials were, and how vulnerable her position was. She knew she was the linchpin spy in this area, chosen to ensure the black-market trade of Nazi art went smoothly, and that the art was moved through Santa Fe to the west coast in California. Her father was Heinz von Lohseman, a respected aristocrat and landowner in Eastern Germany before the war. She knew as long as she made a reasonable attempt to fulfill her mission and kept in good contact with her superiors in New York, her mother and father would be safe. And Marika would go to any length to ensure her family’s safety.

  Chapter XVIIi

  It was two weeks later, and Quinn was meandering around Santa Fe on a Sunday afternoon. The bars in town didn’t open until 4:00 p.m. on Sundays, so he had to occupy himself for a few hours. He meandered on foot over to 104 ½ E. Palace Ave, the Finebaum Gallery on the Santa Fe Plaza. He looked through the divided window and saw her sitting at the desk in the front of the gallery. She was speaking with an elderly man who was holding a watercolor up to the light. Her blonde hair reflected the light beaming from the gallery’s spotlights above. She looked just like she did eighteen months ago when he drove her home that cold wintry night from The 9:15. But would Katrina remember him?

  Quinn walked in and removed his hat. At first she didn’t notice him, but when she finally turned her head and saw him, her eyes lit up and she flashed a broad, beautiful smile. “Oh, my lord,” she said. “My uncle said a man stopped in who recognized my portrait, but I didn’t make the connection that it was you! What are you doing in Santa Fe?”

  “I live and work here now,” said Quinn.

  “Are you a policeman here?” she asked.

  “No, I’m not on the force anymore. I’m a private investigator…a detective,” said Quinn.

  She smiled, and the two just enjoyed the moment of meeting again after so much time and in another place.

  “So you painted all of these?” Quinn asked, sarcastically.

  “No…no,” she answered. “But my uncle Joel painted many of them. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she said.

  “Yes, especially the portrait of the lady in the corner. I wonder who she is?” Quinn asked, feeling emboldened.

  Katrina blushed.

  Quinn said, “I think I’ll take a self-guided tour around your gallery if that’s okay? I’ll be back, and maybe we can talk some more.”

  “Okay, and if you have any questions about any of the paintings, just ask. This is modern art you won’t see everywhere,” she said.

  “Hey…what’s that noise coming from the ceiling?” Quinn asked.

  “What noise?” Katrina said, listening intently. “Oh…I know what you’re talking about,” she said. “It’s my uncle’s pigeon coop from up on the roof. He raises pigeons. It’s his hobby, besides painting. He had one in New York when we lived there.”

  Quinn embarked on a self-guided tour of the art gallery, which had several rooms with about 50 paintings and 10 sculptures placed on small tables. The paintings were nicely framed and were a mixture of oils, watercolors, and pastel sketches. Joel Finebaum painted many of them, but there were other artists represented too. Quinn, being a novice to the world of art, didn’t know what he was looking at except that he had to spend considerable time with the images before he could figure them out. Most of them didn’t have a clearly defined subject. The Impressionists painted natural scenes, but not in the classical sense. What made it to the canvas was what the artist saw and interpreted the very instant a scene hit their eyes. This could be different from what others saw while looking at the same scene. The Expressionists took it one step further into the realm of imagination. Artists like Matisse painted forms and subtle shapes on canvas, which were sometimes vague and ill defined—wanting to express a scene, but a mood or feeling as well. Quinn was fascinated by what he saw in the gallery, but he really didn’t come there to look at art. His attention was drawn back to Katrina. To Quinn, Katrina’s natural beauty was prettier than any painted or sculpted work of art.

  “I never really got a chance to speak with you when I drove you home that night. You ran off so quickly. Maybe we could have dinner and catch up on our lives since then?”

  “Yes, I’d like that, Mr.—”

  “My name’s Chase…Quinn Chase.”

  “I’d really like that, Mr. Chase.”

  “Everyone calls me Quinn. Please call me Quinn.”

  “In fact, why don’t we set a date?” she said.

  “Wonderful…how about next Wednesday night, say around 7:00?” Quinn asked.

  “Sounds great, I look forward to it. And why don’t you pick me up here at the art gallery, Quinn?” Katrina said.

  On the prescribed date and time, Quinn came as a passenger in Manny’s cab up to 104 ½ E. Palace Avenue. The gallery was the last storefront on the east side of the plaza, clo
sest to the Palace of the Governors off to its left, as one faced the gallery. Quinn could see a pretty blonde staring out of the main window as he got closer. Katrina was nicely dressed, and Quinn was dressed in a suit and tie for the occasion too. He presented her with a bouquet of flowers. He had made reservations at one of the nicer restaurants in town, about a six-minute drive from the Plaza; Le Meilleur Boeuf was upscale for Santa Fe at that time and required coat and tie for men and dresses for women. It was known for its French cooking, so that night Quinn and Katrina would be treated to some of the best French cooking in Santa Fe. Quinn ordered a Beef Burgundy meal, and Katrina ordered Lapin a la Cocotte, a fancy name for “rabbit stew.”

  Once the wine was poured, Quinn raised his glass for a toast. “Katrina, may you find happiness here in Santa Fe, and hopefully two years won’t pass by before we see each other again,” Quinn said as he touched his glass to hers.

  “And may you find the same here as well,” she replied.

  They ate their dinner while a pianist played background music. “I am curious,” he said. “When did your uncle come to New Mexico?”

  “He came to New Mexico three years ago. He was an art dealer in New York before coming here.”

  “Oh,” replied Quinn, “it must be a big climate change from New York to here?”

  “Yes, well that’s one reason my uncle came here, because of the climate. Tuberculosis has been a problem for him for many years. He needed a drier, less humid climate for his health,” she said. “Since being here, he’s felt much better.”

  They talked on and on that night. He learned some about her and her family, and she learned about his history and his time in the Albuquerque Police Department. Once they finished dinner, they decided to take a walk. “Let’s walk back to the gallery. We could both use the fresh air,” said Quinn.

  “Okay,” she said, “there are several things I want to show you along the way. ”

  They got back to the gallery after dinner that night around 10:00pm. If he was going to show her he was romantically interested, Quinn figured that the appropriate time was now. He had the urge to kiss her, and she wanted the same. They were outside the gallery front, and before either could say a word, he took her in his arms. He knew once started he couldn’t hesitate. Their lips touched for the first time. To Quinn, Katrina’s kiss felt like the sweetest fruit he’d ever tasted. It was a moment of bliss for him. He drew her body close and held her.