“I don’t have your stupid paintings, you old fool!” retorted Marika. “Someone’s playing both of us…can’t you see that?” she said.
Laszlo drew a pistol and pointed it at her. “Tell me where the paintings are, you Nazi!” he yelled.
“I don’t know anything about them, but even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you…just to see you squirm, old man!” she yelled.
“Are you trying to get us all thrown in jail…?” yelled Quinn. “Put that away, Tibor…” he yelled as he went to grab the gun from Laszlo, pushing the older man’s arm downward, then taking the gun away from him.
“Berndt Kruger was your contact. He brought those paintings in for you!” Tibor yelled. “And then you took the paintings and killed him!”
“Crazy old man!” she answered. “I don’t know who killed him, but it wasn’t me. And I told you I don’t have your damned paintings!” yelled Marika again. “Next time you point a gun at me you better aim well and it better work! It will be the last time you ever get the chance!” she said as she turned and slammed the door to Tibor’s suite as she left.
“What the hell were you doing? What was that all about?” demanded Quinn.
“I told you that woman is evil through and through!” said Laszlo.
“Tibor, if that gun had actually fired you’d be on your way to jail right now, probably charged with murder. I don’t know where you got this pistol from, but I’m gonna keep this for a while,” said Quinn. “It’ll be locked in the safe at our office. You can retrieve it when you leave Santa Fe.”
“I need that gun for my protection.!” Laszlo replied.
“Listen, dammit! You leave her alone!” Quinn retorted. “You’re either gonna shoot yourself or someone else by accident. You’re much safer without it, and that’s the way it’s gonna be!”
“Okay, Mr. Chase, okay…you keep it,” said Laszlo. The two exhausted men paused for about forty seconds before Tibor muttered, “You know Mr. Chase as much as I hate to say it, I don’t think she killed Berndt Kruger. And she could be right about something else,” Laszlo said. “Somebody else in Santa Fe is involved searching for this Nazi stolen art, and maybe manipulating all of us. Manipulating all of us like puppets attached to strings. We have to find out who it is!”
Chapter XXXIii
Springtime in Santa Fe was exceptionally beautiful in 1943. The foliage was green, and there were colorful roses, lilacs, and wildflowers blooming all over the small city. The temperatures warmed up in the daytime, but cooled down to a comfortable point by late afternoon and remained all evening long. A fair amount of snow had fallen in the Jemez and Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the wintertime several months earlier, so the rivers and streams seemed alive with runoff water jumping over the various rocks in their way. About the only drawback to spring in Santa Fe was the pollen in the air, which made some eyes water and other people sneeze constantly. Baseball was the national pastime and popular game at the time. Due to the war, major league baseball had shut down so there were no professional games to listen to on the radio or follow in the newspapers. There were many informal games, however played around town on any given day…and it seemed like every church and organization in town had a team.
Springtime was also the time for romance. Those staying back home still lead their lives; and fell in love. In one way or another, however, every physically and mentally able adult contributed to the war effort whether they knew it or not. Even if it was through the purchase of US Savings Bonds. Rubber and gasoline were just two of the staples of life that were rationed during the war years. People had ration coupon books and points for their coupons, allowing them to purchase varying amounts of gasoline if they owned a vehicle. Also, gasoline was dispensed on an as-needed basis, depending on where one lived and where they had to travel for work. Anyone needing an automobile for transport to and from Los Alamos New Mexico during this time had no problem acquiring coupons and fuel whenever they needed it.
Jeanny, the young woman from The Hill wrote a letter to Marika Kraus. Jeanny was eager to continue their dalliance and desperately wanted to see her again. Marika, for her part, never expected to hear from Jeanny again, and was surprised to receive her letter.
“My dearest Marika,” Jeanny began. “Even though we only spent a little time together, you have had a profound influence on me. Being away from you makes me feel empty inside. It is a feeling I hope can be overcome shortly. I am planning a trip to Santa Fe on Saturday, the 18th of May. Although we only spent, a short time together…I ache for more. You have provided your address to me…I will stop by at your home at three in the afternoon on Saturday, May 18th. I hope with all my heart to see you then.”
In Jeanny’s letter, she also stated that she could only be gone that afternoon. Eventually they would notice her absence, and she would be in great trouble as they tried to find her. And Jeanny noted that the consequences would be severe if her superiors discovered what had happened. But, where romance is involved, obstacles are overcome and things have a way of working out.
On Saturday May 18, 1943, Jeanny Conway jumped into the backseat of an administrator’s sedan who was leaving the compound, pulled a blanket over her body as she hid under the blanket in the backseat of a 1939 Buick Century Coupe as it rolled out the Los Alamos front gate. She rode in that backseat, concealed under the blanket on roads that were unfinished for an hour and 20 minutes, until she reached Santa Fe. Her chauffer and friend had offered to wait till dusk before driving back to The Hill, about 40 miles away.
Jeanny hadn’t said a word to anyone about her previous meetings with Marika at the La Fonda bar. Jeanny had never experienced a romantic, let alone sexual, encounter with a woman before, but at times found various women attractive. Back home in New Jersey she always had a boyfriend and was raised in a traditional Methodist family. But she couldn’t deny her curiosity or feelings. These feelings confused her as she never thought of herself as gay. She would just admire the personalities and sheer beauty of various women she had seen or encountered randomly. This was a first time for her. She was a little reckless in this new and strange environment. She had to satisfy this curiosity.
On the afternoon of May 18th she searched and found Marika’s place. It was a small casita in a row of small houses on the northwest side about a mile from the plaza. Marika’s casita was quaint but with a fairly large front window. There was a chimney, so there was a fireplace that most likely saw much use during the year, especially during winter. It appeared cozy.
Jeanny walked up to the front door and took the door knocker in hand. She hit it against the large wooden door distinctively two times. At first she didn’t hear a thing, but then she heard a noise on the other side of the door. The doorknob turned slightly, and then the door began to creak open. Standing before her was a blond tall woman, about 5 feet 10 inches, with a slender, athletic body, wearing a beige top and black tights like that of a dancer. Marika displayed a wry, mischievous smile as she stood aside and motioned for Jeanny to enter. As Jeanny walked through the door into the small home, Marika pulled her beige top completely off and threw it on the floor.
The thing that made Marika Kraus so sexy to both mean and women was difficult to define. Her mysterious and alluring charm? Her shapely figure? It was a combination of all things most likely. But there was no question that Marika exuded sexuality and appeal.
Two and a half hours later, Jeanny left Marika’s little home. She exited through the back door. Her hair was disheveled, and her face was flushed. She had a half bewildered look about her. If she wasn’t confused about her emotional and sexual identity before, there was no doubt she was now. But she didn’t have time to contemplate much at that moment. She had to find her ride back to The Hill. She only guessed at the trouble she’d be in if it was discovered she had snuck out and stowed away on a ride to Santa Fe.
As for Marika…she smiled as Jeanny walked away. She was now privy to a limited, but still top-secret information about America’s efforts to
design and construct an atomic bomb at the Los Alamos National Laboratory. Marika showered and then slipped into her outfit for the evening. She actually had developed real feelings for Jeanny that she could not deny, which was the exception from most of her other sexual conquests and relationships. Foremost, Marika was a German spy, and everything she did had to support and benefit her mission in some way. This was her reality. For Marika, relationships and sex had more to do with her mission in America than with her own personal enjoyment. It was the way things had to be, and she knew it.
Chapter XXXIv
“You’ve had quite a few tonight. You sure you want another one, buddy?” Mario, the bartender at Lorenzo’s on the plaza, said to Quinn on an abnormally cold night in late May 1943.
“Another shot, bartender! You got nothin’ to worry about. It’s not your health we’re talkin’ about…it’s mine!”
Based on that command, the bartender poured another shot of bourbon into Quinn’s glass.
“Wonderful! Someone who listens!” said Quinn, noticeably slurring his words.
“Anyway, how you getting home tonight, buddy?” said the bartender.
“I use Manny’s Cabs,” said Quinn. “Well, we close in 45 minutes, and it’s pretty cold out there tonight. Maybe we should call Manny now?” he said.
Quinn then felt a tap again on his right shoulder. “A thirsty girl needs a drink. How about buying me one?” The sexy deep voice that came from behind him was unmistakable. Marika took the chair next to his. She pulled her cigarette case out, pulled out a cigarette, and turned towards the bartender. Mario struck a match, and the scent of tobacco from a newly lit cigarette filled the air.
“What are you doing here?” Quinn asked. “This isn’t Alex’s.”
“Oh, I just happened to be walking by when I noticed someone wearing his G-man hat at the bar. That could only be one person I know in this town,” she said.
“What would you like, Marika?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll have my usual champagne,” she replied. When the bartender was out of hearing range, Marika said, “The better question, Mr. Chase, is what information may I provide you with?”
Quinn, noticeably drunk, turned in his chair, displaying a silly grin. “What did you just say?”
The bartender came back. “Marika do you know this…this gentleman?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “you might say we’re old friends.”
“Well, he’s had a few too many as you can see,” said Mario.
“How dare you question my sobriety, sir!” Quinn said with a sarcastic look on his face while slurring his words.
“Believe me, mister, nothing personal, but tonight it’s not hard to do! I’ve called him a cab. He’s probably gonna’ need some help getting to it when it arrives,” the bartender said to Marika.
“It’s okay, Mario,” she said. “I’ll make sure he gets home.”
She looked at Quinn with her sharp, well-defined looks and sparkling blue eyes and took a drag on her cigarette. “I may have some important information for you regarding the Degenerate Art,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” said Quinn. “You’re not gonna tell me Lazslo Tibor is smuggling art here, are you?”
“Please, Mr. Chase, don’t insult my intelligence…that’s no way to treat a lady,” she replied. “Listen to this, ten Impressionist original paintings were seized by authorities last week in Los Angeles as they were being loaded into an unmarked crate for transport on a ship bound for Buenos Aires. These are the types of paintings I want to buy for my gallery, Mr. Chase. Rumor also has it they originated from here. If true, what an interesting and strange little coincidence!” she said.
She had caught Quinn’s attention, even in his drunken state. “Well, that’s very interesting, lady!” he stated. “But I have it on very good authority that there is no connection between the Finebaum Gallery and this so-called Degenerate Art that everyone’s after,” Quinn stated.
“Mr. Chase, the paintings I mentioned were confiscated on the docks in California. Guess whose initials were written as “Sender” on the Bill of Lading? JF. And from of all places…Santa Fe, New Mexico! As I said…what a curious little coincidence.”
Quinn just stared at his drink.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“Because you need to know that the very people you think are your friends, may be involved in this. You’re looking into something so dangerous that it can get you hurt or even killed.…I told you this before. Remember Berndt Kruger,” she said.
“So then you’re obviously involved,” Quinn said.
“No, but I have my suspicions of those who are,” she said. “And they’re not nice people …starting with the most obvious, Laszlo Tibor. And yes, I believe Joel Finebaum is involved as well,” she said.
“Okay, folks, the bar closes in five minutes!” yelled Mario from the other end of the room, interrupting their tense conversation. “Buddy, your cab just pulled up in front. Here’s your tab for the night,” Mario said as he slid a small piece of paper under Quinn’s glass.
Quinn took his wallet out and pulled out a $20 and then a $10 bill. Then, enunciating his words clearly, as if he was sober and with no slur at all, Quinn replied to the bartender, “I’ll take care of the lady’s drink…and by the way Mario, my name’s not Buddy…it’s Quinn,” he said as he stuck his hand out and shook the bartender’s hand.
He then turned to Marika and asked with slurred speech again, “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“That would be very nice,” Marika replied as she allowed Quinn to help her with her coat before they both walked to the door. “Have a good evening, Mario!” she yelled from the door as she grabbed Quinn’s arm to help escort him out. They both stumbled out of the bar and to the waiting yellow cab that was idling outside, spewing exhaust into the cold night air of Santa Fe. Their eventual destination would be Marika’s small home on Guadalupe Street, about two miles away. Quinn attempted unsuccessfully to kiss her on the neck as they drove to her flat. He was so drunk that all Marika could do was help get him inside to her couch and then watch as he quickly passed out and began to snore loudly.
Chapter XXXv
A few days later both Quinn and Ethan Clark were at Lieutenant Huff’s office at the police station. “What do ya’ have for me?” said Detective Huff. “Some strange shit’s goin’ on around here. If you know something, you’re duty bound to tell me,” Huff said.
Quinn and Ethan just stared at the obese and homely-looking police detective, whose hair was noticeably disheveled and whose clothes struggled to fit properly.
“Detective, why don’t you tell us what’s happening around here?” Ethan retorted. “A man with a Dutch passport who is basically a stranger to Santa Fe is killed in an alleyway several months ago. The shell casings found at the scene were from a German Luger. How many murders does that make in the last three years?” Ethan asked.
“That fact, Mr. Clark, is irrelevant unless you’re suggesting some type of a connection or trend. Actually, we’ve only had two other incidents we’ve investigated for murder in the last three years. But those cases eventually were ruled as accidents. I’m gonna ask again, what information do you have for me concerning this murder?”
“The gallery owner Joel Finebaum didn’t do it,” said Quinn.
“And how can you be sure of that, Chase?” spat back Huff as he looked at Quinn with indignation.
“I know it,” answered Quinn. “I can’t reveal my source, but you’re lookin’ down the wrong alleyway, pardon the pun, detective, if you suspect Joel Finebaum.”
“We plan to interview him, and his niece too,” said Huff, “when we gather some more details to check on their stories.”
“Last time we were here, Lieutenant, I asked if you had ever heard the term Degenerate Art. Did you check up on that term?” asked Quinn.
“Once again, boys,” said Huff as he pointed at Quinn, “I’ll be the one asking the questions here.”
“Just so you know,” said Quinn, “it’s Modern and Abstract art from Europe that the Nazis have targeted as being anti-fascist. The art is a threat to their regime. Hitler himself and a few of his henchmen, including his Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels, have identified works of art they call Degenerate. They’re trying to either hide them away, auction them off, or burn them. Many paintings they want to get rid of are works from the great painters of the world. Well, the rumor is that some of these great works are in Santa Fe right now, Huff,” said Quinn.
“That’s ‘Detective Huff’ or ‘Lieutenant Huff’ to you, Chase!” replied the police detective. “I wouldn’t advise irritating me. My job is hard enough!”
“It very well could have had something to do with the Dutchman’s murder several months ago,” Quinn said.
“Perhaps your friend Finebaum and his pretty niece are hiding some of this art? They’d make the perfect front. They’re outsiders nobody really knows much about. Maybe it’s time for a good old-fashioned police search, with a warrant,” said Huff.
“As you see fit, but I think that would be a total waste of your time,” said Quinn.
“We’ll see,” said the police detective. “We’ll see if they willingly cooperate or not.”
Quinn could have easily turned Joel and Katrina in to Detective Huff based on what he had learned from Marika Kraus – but something prevented him from doing so. The two PI’s had much more criminal investigation experience than the small, awkward, and sloppy-looking police detective, but they had no other choice than to indulge this man and make him think they took him seriously. But Lieutenant Frank Huff was right about one thing. He could make their lives absolutely miserable if he wanted to.
So right in the middle of Lt. Huff’s speech, a well-dressed older man opened the door and walked into the meeting room. He appeared to be in his 50s.
“Mayor Harper, it’s good to see you,” said Huff. “Can I help you?”
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