He bought a Palm Beach Post and read it, sipping coffee at a restaurant on South Atlantic Boulevard. On page 3 a headline caught his eye: Murder Stuns Palm Beach Residents. There was an artist sketch of the suspect. Hess studied it, a face under a cap with a wide nose and three days of whiskers, and decided it looked nothing like him. The article went on to say that a forty-one-year-old Palm Beach woman had been strangled in her home on Seabreeze Avenue. Palm Beach police were investigating. Nothing further on the abandoned Hatteras.
Hess had an idea and went back to the shopping center and bought a bottle of Macallan’s for himself and a bottle of Canadian Club for Max. Then he went next door to the supermarket and picked up two porterhouse steaks. He would arrive bearing gifts.
At 12:15, Hess crossed the bridge, went north on NE 26th Avenue to 5th Street and went right through a residential neighborhood of single-storey houses painted soft pastel colors and built on small treeless lots.
Max’s house was at the end of the street on the Intracoastal. To the north was a vacant lot with a For Sale sign on it. To the south was a house, Max’s nearest neighbor. It was a hot day and Hess was perspiring when he arrived at Max’s front door, holding a bag of groceries against his chest, and rang the bell.
Hess watched former Sonderkommando Max Hoffman floating on an orange vinyl pool raft. Max was in good shape for a man fifty-four years old, barrel chest and flat stomach covered with grey hair that looked like a dove-colored sweater. He would drift around, eyes closed, occasionally pushing himself away from the side of the pool. Or he would slide off the raft into the cool blue depths, and come back up wiping water out of his eyes, saying, “Harry, come on. You don’t know what you’re missing, get in here.”
“I’m fine,” Hess would say from his chair on the pink patio, watching the endless parade of boats move past on the waterway. “Perfectly content right here.”
There was an apartment building with a swimming pool directly across the Intracoastal, thirty meters away, retirees lounging under wide-brimmed hats and umbrellas, two couples at a table, playing cards. Hess, expecting quiet and seclusion, was surprised by all of the activity. Max, in the shallow end, climbed out of the pool, grabbed a striped beach towel off a chair, dried himself and took a seat next to Hess.
“What I tell you? Not bad, uh?” Max said, swinging his arm open like an impresario, indicating the pool, the house, the property.
Hess nodded, the nod answering both questions in the affirmative.
“I wish Ellen, God bless her, had lived long enough to enjoy it with me. If my fellow teachers at Rocky River high could see me now.”
Hess didn’t think the modest house built on a treeless lot on the busy polluted Intracoastal warranted such praise.
“I taught history, I think I told you, and also accounting. I used to say to the kids: ‘Assets equal liabilities plus proprietorship. What? Assets equal liabilities plus proprietorship. What are you going to say to me on the street in thirty years?’ ” Max was beaming. “I have to tell you, I miss it.” He paused to reminisce. “How about a dividend?” Pointing at Hess’ empty cocktail glass.
“Only if you’re having one.”
“Twist my arm,” Max said, getting up and grabbing Hess’ glass off the round plastic table that had an umbrella through the middle, and disappeared in the house.
Max was a lot more personable and outgoing on familiar turf. That, or he was getting more comfortable with Hess. Ernst was standing at the edge of the waterway, admiring a seventy-foot pleasure yacht, two shapely blondes in bikinis sunbathing on the aft deck, when Max returned with the drinks. Three fingers of Macallan’s for Hess and a dark lowball cocktail for himself.
“I remember this feeling of freedom when we were liberated. I remember being in Krakow, walking through the town square shouting, ‘I’m a Jew. I’m a Jew.’ Finally able to say it and proud that I was.”
“I know what you mean,” Hess said. “The stigma was finally gone.”
Hess saw a woman in a bathing suit standing by the pool next door. She glanced at them and waved. Max saw her and waved back.
“Who’s that?”
“My neighbor, Lois Grant. Lost her husband eight months ago. We’ve gone out a couple times. Nothing serious.”
“How old?”
“Forty-eight.”
Hess said, “You like the young ones, huh?”
Max grinned. “I’ll introduce you if you want. Nice lady.” He sipped his drink and got up. “Harry, relax, I’m going to take a shower, wash off the chlorine. I’ll light the grill when I come back. You hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.”
The afternoon sun had dipped over the house. Hess, sitting in shadow, felt a slight chill. The retirees across the way, he noticed, had disappeared, gone back to their apartments. Hess knew he had to seize the opportunity. He went inside, locked the patio door and closed all the windows.
Hess walked down the hall to Max’s bedroom, went in and stood listening at the bathroom door. He could hear the shower, and heard the doorbell ring. He moved to the front of the house, looked out and saw a maroon Ford parked in the driveway and a tall man with dark shoulder-length hair at the front door. Hess watched him press the doorbell again and heard it echo across the foyer to the patio doors. When no one responded, the man knocked impatiently. Hess waited him out, saw him go to the car, glance back one more time, get in and drive away.
Hess returned to the bathroom door, heard the shower turn off and the rattle of the shower curtain being pulled open. He drew the revolver and knocked on the door, heard Max say, “Just a minute.”
The door opened, steam floating through the crack, Max visible now with a towel wrapped around his waist, wet hair dripping water on his chest.
“Someone is at the door,” Hess said, holding the gun down his leg, pillow on the floor against the wall.
Max opened the door halfway. “Who is it?”
“Some guy wants to talk to you.”
“Tell him to hang on.”
Hess raised the revolver and shot Max point blank in the chest. Max glanced down at the little spot of blood just above his right nipple, and charged through the doorway. Hess stepped back and shot him again, lower this time, center chest, and still he charged, Hess retreating, firing two more times from the hallway, the .38 jumping, and now Max staggered and fell face down on the white tile, blood running out from his body in crimson streams following the level of the floor. Hess glanced at himself in the hallway mirror, spatter from the gunshots on his face, shirt and khaki trousers.
Hess dragged Max into the bathroom and lifted his wet naked body, first his legs, then his torso, into the tub. He found a bucket and mop in the laundry room and a bottle of ammonia and cleaned the floor, coughing at the toxic fumes. When he was finished, Hess went in the guest bathroom, wiped the blood off his face and arms with a washcloth, and changed into one of Max’s Cleveland Indians tee-shirts and cap and a pair of his madras Bermuda shorts. Hess looked in the full-length mirror on the bedroom wall and barely recognized himself in the borrowed clothes.
Hess planned to stay there for a few days until his money arrived. Max had said he didn’t have any friends in the area. And since they looked somewhat alike, Hess thought, as long as he maintained a low profile, he could become Max Hoffman, assume the Jew’s identity. Wear his clothes, drive his car. But what was he going to do with Max’s body? He could weigh him down and dump him in the Intracoastal. But what if a fisherman snagged the body and brought it up? That wasn’t out of the question. Not in a fishing community such as this. No, dumping a body in water was dangerous. Hess himself was proof of that.
In a flashback, maybe triggered by the blood spatter, Hess recalled the scene in the forest outside Dachau, the pit dug, the bodies shot and thrown in, and saw the solution to his problem. He would bury Max Hoffman somewhere on his own property.
In the garage Hess found a shovel and walked around the house, trying to find an area that wasn’t vi
sible to the neighbors, which didn’t leave many options. The only possibility was the north side of the house adjoining the vacant lot. There was a flowerbed that was roughly eight feet long by three feet wide.
Hess sunk the shovelhead and pulled back, lifting a shovelful of dirt and pieces of flowers that had yellow and white petals. He dug down three feet and hit the water table, but for his purposes it was deep enough. The sun was hanging on the rooftops, red highlights subdued by heavy clouds. He could see a woman down the street, walking her dog, and hear the low rumble of boats moving by on the waterway. Hess was exhausted, sweat-soaked and filthy but he had to finish the job. He found garbage bags in a drawer in the kitchen and a roll of duct tape. He cut the bags in half, taped the sections together and laid out a canvas of plastic on the bathroom floor. He grabbed Max’s legs and pulled his body half over the side of the tub and then all of him, wrapping sections of plastic around him and securing the sections with silver duct tape.
It was dark and quiet when Hess dragged Max’s plastic-wrapped body through the garage and out the rear door, and rolled him into the hole and filled it in with dirt. When he was finished he went in the garage, locked the door, stripped off his soiled tee-shirt and dirt-caked shorts and walked naked through the house to the guest bathroom.
He showered and dressed in a pair of Max’s trousers and a blue cotton shirt, went in the kitchen and poured a much-needed glass of Macallan. He sat at the kitchen table, going through Max’s wallet, which held two $20 bills, a $10, a $5 and a $1. Hess studied Max’s face on his Ohio driver’s license. Max had a bigger nose and grayer hair but other than that they really did look remarkably similar. He practiced forging Max’s signature with its big dramatic flourishes, and finally wrote one that looked passable.
In the morning, Hess, wearing Max’s white terrycloth robe that had the faint smell of aftershave, walked through the garage, out the door, and surveyed his work from the night before. There was a convex mound where he had buried Max and filled in the hole with dirt. And now, despite the missing flowers, there was nothing suspicious about the garden.
Hess carried Max Hoffman’s wallet in his back pocket as he drove south down the coast in Max’s light green Chrysler New Yorker that was the size of a motor yacht and only had two doors, stopping at a restaurant in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. He ordered eggs over easy, sausage, toast and black coffee. He’d brought the Palm Beach Post with him and perused it while he ate. There was a small one-column article about the murder in Palm Beach and the same sketch and description he had seen in yesterday’s paper.
On the next page was a photograph of Tony and Denise Brank under a headline that said Hijacked Couple Back Safely in South Florida. A Bahamian fisherman had rescued the shanghaied American erotic film producer and his actress wife on a remote island in the Bahamas. U.S. Coast Guard officials said the Branks’ fifty-one-foot Hatteras pleasure yacht had been returned to them.
After breakfast, Hess stopped at Publix, bought enough food for a few days and went back to Max’s house.
Zeller had underestimated Harry Levin, sure he was in control of the situation when Levin walked in his house. Surprised when the man pulled a gun on him. It was embarrassing. This scrap-metal dealer had made him look like an amateur. Zeller wasn’t convinced Levin or the journalist knew where Hess was hiding anyway.
But that was all moot now after he had received a call from his answering service telling him Ingrid Bookmyer had the information he had been waiting for. Zeller flew back to Munich and was waiting in Ingrid’s apartment the next evening, sitting in an easy chair in the darkness of the salon when he heard a key in the lock and saw the door open, casting light across the foyer. Ingrid entered the apartment, dropped her keys and purse on a table and turned on a lamp. She moved toward him but turned right into the kitchen. Zeller saw a light go on and heard the rattle of utensils. He heard the refrigerator open and close, the sound of a cork popping.
Ingrid came out of the kitchen into the dark salon and now Zeller turned on the lamp that was next to him on an end table. Ingrid, startled, dropped the wine glass. It hit and shattered on the hardwood floor.
Zeller said, “Where is Hess?”
“All I have is a post-office box in Pompano Beach, Florida.” Ingrid glanced down at the broken glass and the spilled wine moving in a stream across the floor.
“What does he want you to send him?”
“Money,” Ingrid said.
“Where is it?”
“In the desk. I will show you.”
Ingrid crossed the room, opened a drawer and took out a manila envelope. She came back and handed it to him. The envelope was addressed to Max Hoffman, PO Box 3456, Pompano Beach, FL 33064. “Max Hoffman, is this an alias, or an acquaintance?”
“Herr Hess did not explain.”
Zeller undid the clasp, tilted the envelope and out came five bundles of $100 bills held together with rubber bands. He picked up a bundle and shuffled one of the ends to make sure there were $100 bills all the way through.
“Why would Hess have fifty thousand U.S. dollars?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” Zeller reached behind his back and drew the silenced Makarov, training it on her.
“He did business with American companies and traveled frequently to the United States.”
Zeller could see in her eyes there was something else. “Where did Herr Hess get the money?”
“From an art broker in New York,” Ingrid said. “For the Durer.”
“It was a painting?”
“No, I think an illustration. I never saw it.”
“Where did Herr Hess get it?”
“All I know, it was during the war.”
This was getting interesting. He knew the Nazis had stolen thousands of paintings and artwork from occupied countries throughout Europe, from private collections and museums, from churches and synagogues. Zeller was intrigued by the possibility that other stolen paintings might exist. He thought of the Van Gogh that Hess’ wife had mentioned, and it occurred to him – this is what Braun was after. Hess’ alleged war crimes had nothing to do with it. Hess being on the run gave Braun the opportunity.
Zeller had searched Hess’ estate in Schleissheim, his place of business and his apartment. There were no paintings. Where would Hess store them? He would need a place with controlled temperature and humidity. The Nazis had hid their stolen treasures in caves and salt mines for that very reason. “Does Herr Hess own property in the country?”
“I would have no idea.”
“Does he own a chalet or a summer home? Is that where the other paintings are stored?”
Ingrid fidgeted with her hands. “I don’t know anything about other paintings. I only know Herr Hess had the Durer and brought it to a broker in New York. It was authenticated and sold.”
“Who is the broker?”
“A man in New York named Mauer.”
Zeller had seen the name in Hess’ address book. He glanced at the bundles of money in his lap and noticed there was something else in the envelope. It was a copy of Der Spiegel. Of course, she was sending him the article. “Does Hess know about this?”
“I told him,” Ingrid said. “Herr Hess wants to read it for himself.”
Zeller was trying to think if there was anything else he needed from Ingrid, and decided there wasn’t and raised the Makarov.
“I think I misjudged you,” Gerhard Braun said, “You are obviously the wrong man for the job.
“I will have Hess on the twenty-seventh of October,” Zeller said. “I’ll put him in a crate and mail him to you if that’s what you wish.”
“Well, you are confident, I’ll give you that.”
“It has nothing to do with confidence. It’s assurance.”
They were sitting on a stone bench in the English Gardens. Braun wore a long coat buttoned to the neck and leather gloves, smoking a cigar, the smoke mixing with clean cool late October air. Braun could see stands of tall trees t
hat had lost their leaves, stretches of leaf-covered lawn and people scattered about on the walking paths. His driver sat behind the wheel of a black Mercedes sedan twenty meters away, watching them, smoking a cigarette with the window down.
“Where is Ernst?”
“Southern Florida.”
“I would have guessed South America. Join the old gang in Buenos Aires.”
“Too obvious.”
“How did you find him?”
“It’s what I do.”
Zeller was still boastful and over-confident and had not accomplished anything. Braun puffed on the cigar and blew out a stream of smoke.
“What do you want me to do with him?”
“Persuade Ernst to tell you where he hid the paintings.”
“The paintings?”
“A few works considered degenerate art by Hitler. Entarte Kunst, modern art that was deemed un-German or Jewish Bolshevist. Many of these paintings were confiscated and destroyed, but some survived.”
“What artists are you referring to?”
“Liebermann, Meidner and Freundlich,” Braun said, downplaying their artistic significance. Leaving out better-known names: Picasso, Matisse, Kandinsky, Klee and Chagall.
Two days later Zeller landed at Palm Beach International Airport. It was October 26, 1:30 p.m. He had been traveling for twenty-four hours. Walking out of the aircraft he was hit by the tropical glare and humidity. He put on sunglasses, took off his leather jacket and folded it over his arm.
Zeller picked up his suitcase at baggage claim, rented a car and drove to Pompano Beach. He had been thinking about his conversation with Braun. Zeller had no doubt the paintings Hess had looted or confiscated were worth millions, or why would Braun be wasting his time? Find the paintings and he would be rich.
He stopped at a Shell gas station on North Ocean Boulevard and asked for directions to the post office. “Which one?” the man behind the counter said. “There’re two. One’s on NE 16th, other’s on East Atlantic.”
By process of elimination, he found the post office where the package was being shipped. It was on East Atlantic Boulevard in a crowded shopping center. He had parked, gone in and checked the numbers on the boxes, a wall of them, and found Hess’ number, 3456. Business hours were posted on the glass door: 8:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.
Back from the Dead Page 10
