Searching for Edgar's Five Dancers

by Efren O'brien

  “Camp by the river?” Quinn said quizzically.

  “Yea, there’s a whole group of us that lives there,” she stated. “We get by as we can.”

  “What do you live in…a house?” asked Quinn.

  “No…,” she said laughing. “In whatever we can. I made myself a tent out of blankets for me and my daughter,” she said. “Sometimes it gets cold, but we always can warm up by the fire.”

  Quinn stared at the thin young woman in her early 20s. She wore tattered leather slipper-like shoes. “Well, just be careful out there,” he said.

  “I will…I can take care of myself,” said Dixie as she looked at Quinn and calmly smiled.

  Quinn turned to move back down the sidewalk to his room, when he felt the coins in his right pocket jingle. He turned back towards the girl as she had resumed her search through the trash. Quinn grabbed the handful of coins out of his pocket. “Here,” Quinn said as he reached out his hand and released the metal coins into Dixie’s open hands. “I hope this helps some,” he said.

  “Thanks, mister! Thanks a lot!” she said as she replaced the trash can lids and turned to walk away.

  “It’s Quinn…my name’s Quinn,” he yelled to her.

  “Thanks, Quinn!” she yelled back as she walked quickly away, disappearing over the small knoll behind the motel that led down to the road below.

  Quinn watched the top of her head disappear as she walked away, and then he turned towards his new home…Room 12 at the Pueblo Inn. When he turned towards his room he immediately noticed another dark sedan parked in front of his room—with two men inside. As he approached on his crutches, the two men got out of their car and walked to him. One took out a badge from his trenchcoat and flashed it in front of Quinn.

  “I’m Agent Ridnell,” said the one with the badge.

  “And I’m Agent Sauer of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the smaller man said.

  “Do you have a few minutes, Mr. Chase? I think it’s important we talk,” the taller one said. “Can we talk in your room briefly?”

  Quinn opened his door and allowed the men in. His small room was very plain. Among the usual motel furniture pieces, there was a small table with pad and pen on it, along with several chairs. “Sit down, please,” said Quinn in a near nervous tone as he motioned to the two chairs. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  The two men spent the next 40 minutes with Quinn. They began by asking about his accident. Did he have any idea who inflicted his injuries or who had a motive to do so. Eventually, their line of questioning moved from Quinn’s injuries and activities to whether or not he knew of any secret government projects taking place around Santa Fe. Quinn denied any knowledge of such. “Mr. Chase, a word to the wise…don’t play stupid with us!” the taller agent said. “We know you have contact with several individuals who may be foreign spies.”

  “One of them is a client of yours,” said the other.

  “You must have heard something about The Hill, otherwise known as Los Alamos?” the first agent said.

  “What have you heard about The Hill, Mr. Chase?”

  “Not much,” said Quinn. “Only that they’re making electric rocket engines, laser weapons, or something else fantastic up there,” he said.

  The two agents informed him that they suspected Laszlo Tibor of committing espionage and engaging in black-market smuggling and embezzlement. They also had a hunch that Joel Finebaum and his niece Katrina were up to wrongdoing, though they couldn’t specify what yet. “Are you a loyal American citizen, Mr. Chase? Do you realize we have hundreds of thousands of men and women in uniform all over the world risking their lives for our country and the survival of humanity?”

  “We know you wouldn’t place their lives further in danger by concealing information you might have…would you, Mr. Chase?” said the taller man. “Because if so…then you’re aiding our nation’s enemies.”

  “No, gentlemen, not at all!” Quinn said. “My father fought in the First World War. I bleed red, white, and blue myself! I’m as loyal an American as they come! That doesn’t change the fact that I don’t know a thing about Los Alamos,” Quinn said with a straight face. “And Laszlo Tibor is our client, but my partner Ethan Clark mostly deals with him…not me.”

  The agents shared a quick look between themselves.

  “But, from everything I know about his case, Tibor is simply looking for some stolen Jewish art in Santa Fe. That’s the reason he’s here,” Quinn stated.

  “Well, Mr. Chase, we have yet to determine Mr. Tibor’s real motives and purpose here. We don’t even think Laszlo Tibor is his true name. We think he’s a Russian spy. And we think his purpose is something other than art. And if it is, we’ll catch him and he’ll pay a heavy price!” said the smaller of the two agents.

  “So, we want to ask you for a favor, Mr. Chase. Number one…forget you met us. We’ve never met, and you’ve never been contacted by the FBI,” the taller agent said as he handed Quinn his card. The card was blank except for one phone number on it. “Your partner Ethan Clark is not to know of this visit and our discussion today. When and if we’re ready to talk to him, we’ll let you know ahead of time. We know you talk to the police and Lt. Huff. Even he is not to know you’ve spoken to us. But, if you hear anything out of the ordinary concerning the war effort or Los Alamos from anyone—your partner, Tibor, Huff, or anyone else—you call us immediately!” he said.

  “We’ll be in touch with you again in the future…just carry on with things like normal. We know there are foreign spies here in Santa Fe, and we think Laszlo Tibor is one of them. We can’t tell you what’s goin’ on at Los Alamos…but let’s just say it’s crucial to the war effort,” the other agent said.

  The two agents walked to the door. Before opening it, the taller man said, “You don’t have any short-term plans to leave Santa Fe do you, Mr. Chase?”

  “No,” Quinn answered. “I’ll be staying in this room for a while. I have no plans to leave. I’ve lost my car in the accident and I can’t replace it now. I’m on crutches as you can see so my ability to really go anywhere at the present time is limited.”

  “Good,” said the smaller of the two agents. “We’ll know where to find you.”

  Then they walked out of Quinn’s hotel room that winter’s day, shutting the door firmly behind them.

  Chapter XLvi

  It was 3:00 p.m. on a grey cloudy day during the first week of March, 1944. Quinn and Ethan went to see Laszlo Tibor at his suite at the La Fonda. The meeting was requested by Laszlo Tibor. “Gentlemen, it’s good to see you again,” said Laszlo, dressed in his usual afternoon parlor jacket, with a monocle over his left eye, as he sat back in the plush chair of his hotel suite. The balding and pudgy man actually appeared quite distinguished this day.

  “May I offer you another Palinka?” Tibor asked as he reached for a small glass filled with the Hungarian Brandy on a silver tray. “I normally drink a small glass or two of my favorite Brandy in the afternoons and also enjoy a smoke.” He pulled out an aromatic cigar from a box on the same tray, struck a match, and lit it. The delicious smoke began to fill the room. “I’m Catholic, gentlemen, and the Patron Saint of Labour, St. Joseph, employs us to work hard and conscientiously. I wholeheartedly agree, but I haven’t read anywhere where it says we can’t enjoy the benefits of our labor along the way! May I offer you a cigar, gentlemen?”

  Ethan was quick to take him up on his offer, while Quinn respectfully declined. “Mr. Chase, your strange sense of duty and code of behavior amazes me. One cigar certainly will not affect or diminish your detective skills,” said Lazlo.

  “Mr. Tibor, I have to interrupt you for a moment,” said Quinn. “Do you know several months ago a man who smuggled Degenerate Art into Santa Fe was arrested and held in City Jail…and was then shot dead execution-style right in the jail?” said Quinn.

  “Yes, I heard about it and read about it too in the New Mexican,” said Tibor. “While I have no firsthand knowledge of this inci
dent, I’ve learned from other sources that the man named Goran Sebo was Croatian. As you may or may not know, gentlemen, Croatia has declared its support of Nazi Germany in this war, so it is not a complete surprise that a man from Croatia is found with stolen Nazi art. More likely than not, he was smuggling the art for the Nazis’ benefit. But other than what I’ve learned from third parties, I have no connection or other knowledge about it, Mr. Chase. But if I hear anything else, I will be sure to let you know. Now getting back to my issues, gentlemen…,” Laszlo said.

  Ethan and Quinn shared a quick smile.

  “Last week, I was walking along Canyon Road, on the top of the hill, east of the petrol station, when someone shot at me!” Laszlo said, barely containing a pent-up mixture of fear and indignation.

  “Did you report this to the police?” asked Ethan.

  “I don’t need problems with your police or FBI,” answered Laszlo. “I am convinced she is behind it,” he continued. “I know her motives well. In essence, gentlemen, she and I are competitors here in the acquisition of art. But we go about our work differently. I am here looking for art taken from my clients back in Hungary. Marika Kraus is here spying for Germany and to profit personally at the same time! You should turn her in to your police or FBI immediately!” he said.

  “Well, wait a minute, Laszlo…why would any foreign spies be here?” asked Quinn.

  “You are an incredibly naïve man,” said Laszlo staring at Quinn. “There’s hordes of FBI agents crawling around town. It is well known that there is a top secret project being conducted near Santa Fe.”

  “I haven’t heard of anything,” stated Quinn, blatantly lying.

  “What do you want us to do Mr. Tibor?” asked Ethan. “She hasn’t done anything to us.”

  “I tell you…she is a spy for the Nazis!” Tibor raised his voice. “She is alluring and an attractive woman, so men are taken in by her. Don’t make that mistake, gentlemen! She is as deadly as a poisonous snake. Turn her in now!”

  “Why don’t you report her?” asked Quinn. “You have the better claim as she seems to have shot at you, and not us.”

  “Because it’s wartime and I’m a foreigner as well…and I might be suspected of something,” he said.

  After a brief moment where none could offer a solution, Tibor leaned forward with a gleam behind his monocle. “Here’s what I will do…I will double your salary immediately if you investigate this woman,” he stated. “Find out who her benefactor is, what she is doing in Santa Fe…anything that we can give to the authorities as proof for them to detain her or even deport her,” he demanded.

  Ethan wrote down some notes on his pad.

  “I take my safety very seriously,” Tibor stated. “If this woman wants me out of the way, for whatever reason, I will take measures to ensure my safety!” he said.

  “Now, Laszlo, I don’t know what you mean by measures,” said Ethan. “I don’t doubt you were shot at, but we have no evidence Marika Kraus was involved. Not yet, anyway. My partner and I can’t get involved in shooting back and forth with someone else, and you should not resort to violence, either.”

  “Let me tell you, Mr. Clark, I have a right to defend myself. I’m sure if you investigate her, you will discover her shady past. She is a threat to your nation’s security, I tell you! Turn her in now before it’s too late!” he retorted with a raised voice.

  It was all Quinn and Ethan could do to keep Laszlo Tibor calm that afternoon, soothing the man from his strange rants while exchanging puzzled looks at each other.

  Chapter XLVii

  Winter was slowly turning into Spring in early March 1944 in Santa Fe, New Mexico. But it was cold. The day when Quinn met Marika as planned was exceptionally brisk. They met at the corner of the Guadalupe St. Bridge that afternoon. Even in the cold weather she looked attractive, wearing a matching long-sleeved tiger-striped top and pant suit from a designer label of the day, a striped head-neck scarf, winter coat, and Willsonite sunglasses. All, modern fashions of the day.

  She wanted to walk, and even though Quinn had trouble standing for any length of time and was recently released from the hospital, he took her arm and escorted her across the bridge. The sun was out, melting the ice and snow, making a stroll even more treacherous and unpleasant. Quinn had his cane, and they moved at a snail’s pace, but they walked. Most of the streets around the plaza in Santa Fe were either cobblestone or dirt at that time, so they stuck to the sidewalks. They stopped at a bench adjacent to the road and sat down.

  There was something on her mind, Quinn could tell. Finally she said, “I need your help. Recently I’ve acquired several originals. Paintings from…well let’s just say they’re from a renowned French artist. I’ve got them hidden. I may be leaving for Chicago soon, but if I can’t go back for some reason…I will need help getting this art back home. They must be brought back to my gallery. The Volks Galleria, in Chicago. Once there we can begin to try and determine who the rightful owners are and at least protect these paintings. I don’t want them ending up in South America in some Fascist’s collection,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Quinn. “We can talk about the paintings…but I have some questions for you first. Why is Laszlo Tibor convinced you’re trying to kill him?”

  “Because he’s crazy,” she said. Marika looked at Quinn with a puzzled look.

  “Someone apparently shot at Tibor earlier this week, and he’s convinced you’re responsible.”

  “That old man really is crazy!” she said, laughing and shaking her head. “No, I don’t own a gun, and I don’t know a thing about any shooting!”

  “How did you acquire these paintings, Marika?” asked Quinn.

  “Don’t be silly, my dear,” she said. “If you’re not interested in helping, just say so. You know I can’t divulge details other than what I’ve told you. If you agree to help me, you will be paid well,” she added. “You’ll just have to bring them to Chicago and deliver them. That’s all I’m asking you to do,” she said.

  “Well, the details do matter, Marika,” Quinn said. “If this is Degenerate Art…and you are implying it is…then it’s stolen from someone, probably some Jewish family in Europe. Stolen by the Nazis. So you’re asking me to transport stolen art. Actually, art that was taken by force from the rightful owners by our enemies of war,” said Quinn.

  “Like I told you,” she said, “this is a matter of trust. I am aware that these may have been stolen. But we don’t have any idea who the original owners were. A private owner, or a museum, or maybe they were floating around the open art market and were stolen. I want to safeguard the paintings and try to find the rightful owners or at least ensure they end up in a museum here in America. I don’t want them sold to the highest bidder on the black market somewhere else! So you’ll have to have some trust in me!” said Marika.

  Quinn took her delicate hand, and stroked the inside of her palm. She stood up holding his hand, indicating she was ready to walk again. He offered her his arm and led her again down the sidewalk, letting his cane pick their way forward.

  “There are two keys you’ll need,” said Marika. “The paintings are in a storeroom above Dempsey’s Drugstore on Cordova Street. The building used to be a bank, and the storeroom used to be a vault. The combination lock has been removed, but the room is very secure. There are two heavy-duty locks.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” said Quinn.

  “If for some reason I can’t leave when I plan to, I want you to transport the paintings to my gallery, the Volks Galleria on Riverside Drive in Chicago,” she said. “Inside the storeroom you’ll find complete instructions with the paintings. Instructions on how to transport them and keep them safe. Instructions on how to open the safe. There’s a safe with cash inside. This is to pay for your travel, expenses, and your compensation. Will you do this for me?” she asked again.

  “I’ll be in serious danger, won’t I?” he asked. “The same bad guys will be chasing after me, or just as bad…,” he added.
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  “You’ll be completely safe. Here’s the envelope with the keys.“Just like I’m asking you to trust me, I’m trusting that you’ll only go into that room if I ask you to,” she said.

  “This all doesn’t make much sense, but, okay, I agree to do it,” said Quinn. She handed the envelope to him. They had walked about a hundred yards and weren’t that far from where they started…by the bridge.

  “You know I do have a conscience about the war and my role in it,” she said.

  He looked at her. “Before we go, let’s talk about trust, Marika,” said Quinn. “Where did you get that scarf you’re wearing?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve had it many years as best I can remember,” she said.

  “The end of it seems torn, and I’ve never seen you wear torn clothes before,” he said.

  Marika remained silent.

  “Let me see the torn end…maybe I can help.” He held the torn end of her scarf in his left hand, and with his right hand took out the piece of clothing from his pocket he had been given by Velma Price several years earlier after the accident in Albuquerque. He took the small piece of torn clothing and put it up to the end of the scarf…the fabric pattern was the same. Quinn’s small piece fit perfectly on the end of her scarf like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

  “You were there that day, weren’t you, Marika?”

  She peered down at the ground. She didn’t say a word, but her silence spoke volumes. Finally, she said, “Yes…I was there.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Quinn asked. “Now you want me to trust you? I nearly died in Albuquerque that day!” he said. “Why were you there? What really happened? If you want my help, tell me everything…everything, or take the envelope back!” Quinn said.

  “I don’t want to discuss this now,” she said. “Meet me Saturday night at El Viajero at eight o’clock. Do you know where it is?”

  Quinn nodded affirmatively and said, “It’s a block off the Plaza.”