The Crypt Trilogy Bundle

by Bill Thompson

  It was impossible not to think of the family secret – the rumor that Nicu had accumulated staggering wealth at some point. The deed made it seem possible. He’d never worked after his release from prison and lived modestly, yet he never lacked for anything. Without mentioning the rumor, they asked Mrs. Radu if she had any idea how he existed without working. She shook her head. It was a mystery to her too.

  Philippe pulled two keys out of the box and glanced at Milosh and Christina. Both were busy with other things. These were unmistakably safety deposit box keys from two different banks. One was imprinted with the name of Nicu’s bank a few blocks away. The other was unmarked. It was taped to an index card with the word Stadt written on it.

  As he examined them, Christina looked over at him. “What have you found?”

  He smoothly slipped the card into his pocket without her seeing it. “Looks like Grandfather had a safety deposit box at his bank.”

  Christina whooped. “Give me the key! I’m going to the bank right now!”

  “We’ll all go,” Milosh replied. “I suppose we’ll need to take Grandfather’s will.”

  An hour later all the formalities had been dealt with and they stood in the bank’s vault, a steel box sitting in front of them.

  Christina squealed, “I can’t wait any longer!” She grabbed the hasp that held the lid closed, but Milosh knocked her hand away.

  “Dammit, stop! I know nobody cared about Grandfather but can’t we at least pretend to have some sense of decorum?”

  She stepped back with a flourish, waved her hand and said, “By all means. After you. Open the lid.”

  The box was empty.

  Christina was livid. “Shit! What the hell…”

  Philippe had said nothing until now. “All we have to do is look at the bank’s record. Just like they did with us today, they will have a list of every person who accessed this box. Learning who was here may explain why there’s nothing in it.”

  The bank officer with whom they’d dealt earlier was only too happy to accommodate them. Nicu Lepescu had been a valued client of the bank for decades, he assured them. The huge sums he kept on deposit all those years had improved his standing as a customer, the grandchildren thought to themselves.

  “Let’s see,” the man said as he thumbed through the same large ledger they’d signed themselves a half hour ago. The leather-bound book was reminiscent of banking fifty years ago, with row after row of inked entries and signatures.

  “Ah, here it is,” he responded at last. “The last time the box was accessed was nearly two months ago. November 17, to be precise. That was when Mr. Lepescu and … Miss Creed – Adriana Creed – came.”

  The three looked at each other in surprise. November 17?

  Milosh asked, “They were here together on November 17th? Are you certain that was the day? What time was it?”

  He glanced at the ledger and ran his finger down to the entry line. “They signed in at 10:15 a.m. on November 17. Is there a problem?”

  Milosh looked at his siblings, giving his head a quick shake – a sign to be silent. “No. Keep going.”

  The banker scanned the entries. “Twice before that she came alone.”

  “How could she have accessed the box without our grandfather?”

  Oh, these meetings, the banker thought to himself. If he’d done one, he’d done a hundred where the heirs suddenly show up to find out where the spoils are hidden. With a smile he replied, “I knew that would be your next question. Let me look.” He turned to a computer on his desk, entered a few keystrokes and said, “Early in November Mr. Lepescu came into the bank with Miss Creed. They sat here in my office, exactly where you’re sitting now. He added her to his safe deposit access card that day. She came back the next day alone, then again a few days after that. Two weeks later Mr. Lepescu and Miss Creed came together.”

  “Did she take anything away the times when she was here by herself? Are there cameras?”

  “We don’t keep records of what people take from their own boxes. And of course there are cameras. There are cameras everywhere, but not in the particular room where you examined the box today. Our customers expect privacy when they are handling their property. We of course have video that would show her departure from the vault itself. That footage would reveal anything she carried out with her. However, we cannot show them to you, Miss Lepescu. Your grandfather authorized her to access the contents of his safety deposit box. She therefore had the right to do whatever she wished with whatever was inside. The bank will absolutely respect her legal rights in that regard.”

  “So I presume you can’t tell me if my grandfather took anything on the last visit here. It wouldn’t make sense she came twice, then again with him, to see an empty box.”

  “I can’t tell you if they took anything out of the box. They did effect another transaction with me that day. Since your grandfather was obviously still alive at that point, his assets were his, to do with as he wished. Your rights to information and property only began upon his death. Perhaps your grandfather’s records will reveal a transaction with our institution on that day.”

  He closed the ledger and said, “Is there anything else I may do for you?”

  Now they stood on the sidewalk outside the bank. Milosh asked the question that burned in his mind.

  “You heard him say Grandfather and Adriana Creed accessed his safety deposit box on November 17. I wonder what they were doing at the bank on the morning of the very day he killed a man in the ghetto?”

  “We need to find that bitch,” Christina replied tersely.

  Milosh agreed. “But no one’s seen her since Grandfather died. She’s gone.”

  Philippe snorted. “Then let’s find her. I suppose that’ll be my job, as always.” His brother and sister glared at him. It was always like this when they got together. Thank God it hadn’t happened often in the past few years.

  One of the three knew exactly what had happened that day Adriana Creed came to the bank with their grandfather, but volunteered nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  By the middle of 1941 the railroads were doing a brisk business in Germany and the countries it occupied. Hitler controlled much of Europe as country after country joined the Axis forces, either willingly or by force.

  The gas chambers were first fired up at Auschwitz in September 1941, and soon thereafter concentration camps throughout Nazi Europe had a steady inflow of prisoners. Trains filled with human cargo rumbled through towns day and night, the anguished cries of Jews torn from their families mixing with the click-click of wheels moving down the line. As the hated Nazis marched into one country after another, they slaughtered thousands of “undesirables” on the spot, but many more were herded into cattle cars, prodded and beaten like the bovines the cars previously carried. These prisoners were headed for one camp or another. The rail business was booming, thanks to the atrocities of Hitler’s government.

  By 1944 high-speed trains with dozens of boxcars thundered through towns and villages day and night. These weren’t the death trains; whatever these carried, it wasn’t people. The massive boxcar doors had imposing locks, and each carriage was marked with huge swastikas. In contrast to the trains carrying humans, these were much more heavily guarded. Every other car had armed soldiers clinging to its side. The townspeople wondered what cargo these trains transported; whatever it was, it must be valuable indeed.

  Adolf Hitler envisioned an expansive, beautiful gallery – the Fuhrermuseum – in his home town of Linz, Austria. It would be his gift to the Master Race he was creating. Most museums relied upon donations and gifts from wealthy benefactors to build their collections. Hitler’s would accumulate masterpieces much more expeditiously. The Fuhrermuseum was going to display the epitome of everything – the Mona Lisa, Michelangelo’s David, masterpieces from Renoir, Rubens, Picasso, Matisse and the like. It made no difference that each of these priceless works already had a home. They would be “appropriated” by Reichsmarschall Hermann G�
�ring to hang in the Fuhrer’s new gallery.

  Hitler had appointed Göring to supervise the largest art theft in history. When German soldiers captured new territory, the Reichsmarschall’s troops came in behind, looting museums and private homes of wealthy Jews and so-called enemies of the state, who were sent off to camps. The value and sheer numbers of what they stole was staggering, and it created a major logistical problem for the Reich. At the time of the looting, Hitler’s museum hadn’t yet been started – it was supposed to begin in 1945 and be finished by 1950. In the meantime, Göring scrambled to find places to store both gold bars and museum pieces.

  Some of the finest were placed in the bunker beneath Nazi headquarters – the Chancellery buildings in Berlin – where the Fuhrer himself could enjoy them. Others were hung in the fairy-tale Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria and in Hitler’s hunting lodge in Austria. As Hitler’s fears became reality – as Allied troops recaptured city after city – he quickly ordered the stolen treasures to be moved again – hopefully to a place safe from enemy bombs and from those who would repatriate them.

  Some tunnels were employed as hiding places, but Hermann Göring primarily chose mines – the Altaussee salt mines being the biggest. By early 1944 the works were moving by rail across occupied Europe. Things became frantic because Hitler was running out of time. Germany was losing, and as the war wound down, Hitler’s trusted lieutenant scrambled to hide the art in occupied countries such as Poland, Romania and Yugoslavia.

  In 1945 Allied soldiers captured cities, unaware some were very close to where the booty was hidden. Hitler had issued an order called the “Nero Decree,” requiring the mines and tunnels to be destroyed if Allied troops got too near. If he couldn’t have the artwork, neither could the rest of the world.

  Once the Allies were just a few miles from the Altaussee and Heilbronn mines, an Austrian official ordered them to be blown up. Unwilling to bear the loss of the objects, Hitler countermanded his own decree, but the Austrian ignored the reversal and ordered the destruction to proceed. Fortunately, local residents charged with the task refused to detonate the huge bombs that were primed and ready.

  In other places across the occupied countries, the Nero Decree was followed to the letter. Priceless works, even paintings by Picasso and Renoir, were lost forever as retreating German soldiers destroyed mines and put individual pieces to the torch. Thanks to the rescue efforts of a special force of Allied soldiers called “Monuments Men,” thousands of paintings and sculptures – plus millions of dollars in gold – had survived.

  Unfortunately for the Fuhrer and fortuitously for everyone else on earth, the Allies put a stop to Hitler’s plans for a museum – and everything else he wanted – by winning the war.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A sharply dressed man sat in the law offices that handled Nicu Lepescu’s affairs. The solicitor with whom he was meeting was businesslike and professional, as a young man on the rise in a large law firm should be. The lawyer listened politely as the stranger explained what he wanted. The visitor’s request was so unusual that at first he wasn’t sure he understood it.

  Once the man finished, the lawyer asked for clarification. “I’d like to repeat what I heard you say, to be sure I’m following your request. You’re asking me to speak with my client Nicu Lepescu, whom you say is a distant relative of yours, convince him to have his fortune told, and bring a certain gypsy fortune-teller to his apartment. Then I depart, leaving her there with him. Am I understanding your request?”

  “It is absolutely correct,” the man replied.

  The lawyer snapped, “Then I absolutely refuse, sir! If you want Mr. Lepescu to hire a fortune-teller, talk to him yourself. For all I know, you could be asking me to allow a robber – perhaps even a murderer – into his flat. This is an outrageous request!”

  “I can’t talk to him myself. We have been estranged for many years. He believes I am dead, and I want the fortune-teller to give him information about me. I hope and pray this action may solve our long-standing differences. A third party might accomplish what I cannot. He believes in prognostication, as all we gypsies do. A fortune-teller could help me reconnect with the only remaining family member in my life.”

  The man pulled a cashier’s check from his pocket and handed it to the solicitor, who glanced at it, turned away then looked again. It was made payable to him personally, not to the law firm. And it was for twenty thousand Romanian lei – almost five thousand dollars.

  “What is this?” he stammered as a wave of euphoria flooded his mind. He was overwhelmed with loan and car payments and his rent. He struggled to make ends meet while putting up a facade of success for his friends to see. He worked seventy or eighty hours a week, but his income never quite covered his expenses. His debts were killing him; accepting this simple job could put him back on the right course.

  The man sat patiently as he watched the young solicitor work through his thought process. Then the visitor spoke quietly.

  “I’m hiring you, not your law firm. I don’t want you to have to explain my request to a panel of your superiors, who would immediately dismiss it as absurd. In fact, it isn’t unusual at all.” He produced a one-paragraph letter from a law firm in Zurich. “Here is a letter of reference from my personal attorney. He can vouch for my character and my integrity. There’s no need to be concerned. All you need do is meet with Mr. Lepescu, convince him that getting his fortune told is a good idea, and bring the girl to see him. A pretty simple job for twenty thousand lei, don’t you think?”

  Fifteen minutes later the lawyer sat alone in his office. The man had been well dressed, he spoke intelligently, and he was sophisticated. He’d explained exactly how he wanted the entire situation to work, and he’d given the solicitor a week to get it accomplished.

  All that remained was to check the reference. As the lawyer placed the call, he held his breath, praying this would work. The attorney in Zurich had confirmed the man had been a client for decades. He was a wealthy individual who was forthright and trustworthy in every respect.

  The young lawyer called his client and accepted the job. Gushing with excitement at his sudden good fortune, he overlooked the fact that the Swiss lawyer and the new client had virtually identical voices.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Until three years ago Adriana Creed had made ends meet, but nothing more. She was thirty years old and made a decent living as a fortune-teller. A gypsy in Bucharest, Romania, she had a steady clientele. Locals and tourists alike sometimes waited in line to have the beautiful Romani caress their palms and whisper their futures. Some months she made enough to buy groceries, pay the rent and feed a habit she struggled to control. Other times, mostly in winter months when freezing cold kept visitors away, she’d go days without a client.

  She finally resorted to something she didn’t really want to sell, but when it came down to it, the decision was simple. She had something men would pay dearly for – her body. She carefully selected the clients who’d be offered these services. When a handsome man came in to have his palm read, she’d hold his hand and tell his fortune. She’d end by saying that an interlude with a young gypsy was in his future. Her other hand would slip under the table, lightly caressing between his legs. More often than not, they ended up in Adriana’s back room, where a twin bed with clean, fresh linens awaited. She made a hundred dollars, sometimes more, for a half hour of pretending, and she felt no remorse at all. Did she enjoy it herself? Occasionally, she admitted, but she really never gave it much thought. Even though she only sold her body to those men she thought looked interesting, it usually wasn’t satisfying. Only her addiction gave her a release, but sleeping with these men paid the bills.

  Adriana’s life changed forever that morning when a young man walked into her shop. He was her age, dressed impeccably in a suit, tie and starched white shirt, and she immediately sized him up as someone who had plenty of money. As it turned out, his reason for coming wasn’t to enjoy either of her skills – her crystal
ball or the delights she provided in the back bedroom.

  He explained that he was a lawyer whose aging client was eager to know about the future. He said he walked this street to his office, so he’d passed her storefront every weekday for months. He’d seen the beautiful gypsy and he had randomly chosen her when his client demanded to have his fortune told. He offered her three times the money she’d have accepted to accompany him on a home visit to see his client. The man was smooth, glib and professional. She’d never met a lawyer, but this is what she assumed one would be like.

  And she bought his story without hesitation. After all, it was so close to the truth that it seemed perfectly logical.

  A cab dropped them outside a seven-story apartment building on the fringe of the city center. They took an elevator to the fourth floor, and a housekeeper let them in. Adriana glanced around the living room – the apartment was spacious, airy and immaculate. The housekeeper stood in the kitchen, glancing warily at Adriana as the lawyer ushered her into a bedroom.

  Heavy curtains were drawn tight, and it took her eyes a moment to become accustomed to the room’s half-light. It was a dramatic contrast to the sunshine beaming through the windows in the front room. There was a double bed a few feet away. An old man lay there, his head propped up with pillows.

  “Open the drapes,” the man commanded in a clear, strong voice. The lawyer pulled the drawstrings, and suddenly the room was filled with light. Adriana looked around – it was like taking a step back in time. She saw an antique writing desk, an overstuffed chair and ottoman in the corner, and a massive armoire. Two shadow boxes hung on one wall, their faded glass masking what appeared to be war medals. A duvet covered the bed’s occupant up to his chest.

  The old man pointed to a chair next to his bed. “You’re beautiful, child,” he said to her. “Sit here. Are you Romani?”