Back from the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  “What was Mr. Bass’ line of work?”

  “I don’t know,” Cordell said, looking right at her.

  “That’s the way it’s going to be, huh?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Carlos Bass, or whatever you call him, had twenty-five handguns in his house, .45s and .38s, not to mention four brand-new M16s. You don’t think he sold guns, do you?”

  “No idea. Haven’t seen High in years.”

  “So you said. I’m going to take a wild guess and say Carlos pissed off the wrong people, or someone new to the neighborhood wanted to eliminate the competition. You think that’s possible, Mr. Sims?”

  “I suppose.”

  Cordell got out of there and went to his car. Now he had to get out of Florida. He raced back to his apartment, sat in the parking lot, looking around, nervous, expecting Colombians with guns to appear. He got out of the car, reached back, felt the nickel-plate in the waistband of his claret-colored pants under his shirt. At the apartment door he drew the .45 and went in. They’d cleaned him out: the money he hid in the floorboard in the kitchen, the weed, even his clothes. Took everything.

  Cordell got in the car, backed out of the space and saw them in the rearview, two dark-haired guys in blousy island shirts, getting out of a white Chevy sedan, guns in their hands, moving toward him.

  Cordell put it in gear, revved the high-performance engine, popped the clutch and laid ten feet of rubber, went left on the main road, nailed it and lost them. Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of the Breakers, white clean-cut valet in a golf shirt giving him a look like – what you doing here? Hired help parks in back.

  “Keep it close. Won’t be too long,” Cordell said, handing him the keys.

  He called Harry from the lobby and they met outside, the beach bar, sat at a table under an umbrella, Cordell checking out two girls in bikinis coming up from the beach. They ordered drinks, a beer for Harry and Courvoisier and Coke for Cordell. He told Harry about High-Step and the Colombians, Harry listening without expression.

  “I asked you to do me a favor – keep an eye on Joyce. And you go kill four Colombians. Unbelievable.”

  “High was the trigger. I didn’t know what he was gonna do. I thought he was gonna talk to them that’s all. I had nothin’ to do with it.”

  “You know how dumb that sounds? You can’t keep making excuses,” Harry said, sounding like his honky father.

  A waiter brought their drinks. Harry stopped talking, waiting for the guy to leave.

  “You’re in the big leagues now, accessory to murder,” Harry said. “Congratulations, you’re moving up in the world.”

  “Harry, what do you say to a black man in a suit and tie?” Cordell paused. “ ‘Will the defendant please rise?’ ”

  Harry didn’t react. “I see you’re taking the situation seriously.”

  Cordell was takin’ the Colombians seriously. “Let me run it by you again. I didn’t go to Miami with the intention of killin’ anyone, okay? You with me so far?” Cordell took a big drink and got a boozy blast of Courvoisier, like an oil slick floatin’ on the top. “I was getting the money back they stole from me.”

  “You went in there with a machine gun.”

  Cordell decided not to say anything else. Harry was right. Every time he opened his mouth, sounded like he was makin’ excuses. But there weren’t any. Happened the way it happened, and if Harry didn’t believe him, what could he say?

  Harry took a drink of beer, put the bottle back on the table. “What’re you going to do about it?”

  “Do about it? Not sure what you’re sayin’.”

  “You should go to the police. Tell them what happened.”

  “You mean like you did Harry, shot the three Blackshirts.”

  “That was different. It was self-defense.”

  “What do you think happened with us? They pulled first.”

  Harry went back to his room at 6:30. There was a message from Stark: Call me. It’s important. I don’t care what time it is.

  He sat at the desk, looking out at the dark ocean, picked up the phone, dialed Stark’s home number, heard Stark say hello. “What’s so important?”

  “Harry, we’ve got trouble. The Germans want to extradite you for that triple homicide in Munich.”

  “Somebody found the bodies, huh? Well, we knew this might happen. How’d you find out?”

  “U.S. Attorney. Evidently they’ve got ballistics confirmation, and as you know they’ve got the murder weapon.”

  “Let’s say they’re successful, how long before I’m sent over?”

  “I have to believe the extradition request will be denied. So you’re okay unless you go back to Germany.”

  Hess went to baggage claim, pulled Max’s suitcase off the carousel and carried it to the men’s room. He sat on the toilet in a locked stall with the suitcase across his legs, opened it, felt through the layers of clothes, brought out the .38 and slipped it in an outside pocket of Max Hoffman’s blazer.

  He locked the suitcase in a locker, walked outside to the taxi queue and took a cab to 681 Park Avenue at 68th Street. Hess had come here six months earlier with the Durer, left it on consignment with Jurgen Mauer, a former gallery owner from Berlin Hess had done business with over the years. Mauer knew wealthy private collectors who would be interested in an original Durer. The arrangement was: Mauer would sell it and take twenty-five per cent. The artwork, charcoal and colored chalk on paper, was estimated at $250,000, maybe a little more.

  Several weeks later the Durer was sold to a Japanese millionaire for $270,000. Hess had received $50,000 in cash, the first installment. Mauer had owed him an additional $152,500, the bulk of the sale, and had been holding out for months, but now he needed it.

  Hess sat in a cafe next to the gallery, drinking coffee, waiting, watching for Mauer. A little past 1:00 p.m., the art broker, wearing a black overcoat, came out of the gallery, walking north on Park Avenue. Hess got up and went after him, catching Mauer at 59th Street. He could hear the sounds of the city around him. “You move fast for an old man.”

  Mauer glanced at him in the Cleveland Indians cap and kept walking. Hess caught up to him again, coming up on his left. “I keep expecting the money but it does not come.” This time Hess removed the cap and smiled.

  “Herr Hess, forgive me. I did not recognize you.”

  “Where is my money?”

  “The buyer has not yet paid in full.”

  “That’s not what you told me. The buyer agreed to pay after the painting had been authenticated. Does that sound familiar?

  “Why would I cheat you?”

  “You thought you could get away with it.” Word had undoubtedly spread. Mauer knew Hess was a fugitive war criminal and wasn’t expecting to be stopped by him on the streets of New York.

  “I have additional master works for sale.” Hess threw out the bait and Mauer went for it.

  “Additional works by Durer?”

  “Picasso, Chagall, Matisse, Klee and others.”

  “Oh my.” The potential commission on such a collection took his breath away. “How many do you have?”

  “We can discuss that when you pay me.”

  “Come to the gallery this evening. Can you be there at seven?”

  Hess checked into a room at the Pierre Hotel on East 61st Street. He was Max Hoffman from Pompano Beach, Florida by way of Cleveland. Told the reception clerk American Airlines had lost his luggage. He went up to his room that had a view of Central Park, sipped a Macallan’s and watched television, NBC Nightly News already in progress, staring in disbelief at a black-and-white photograph of himself in a Nazi uniform, posing in front of a pit filled with dead Jews, while the anchorman narrated.

  “Ernst Hess, German entrepreneur, politician and former Nazi, is being sought by German authorities as a war criminal for crimes against humanity.” The camera cut to shots of Hess posing with his men smiling, holding bottles of schnapps, dead bodies in the background. An
other one of him at a Christian Social Union meeting, and photographs of his estate in Schleissheim and his apartment in Munich. There was a $250,000 reward for information leading to his arrest and conviction.

  Hess turned off the television, thinking about meeting Mauer at his gallery, seeing police there to arrest him and Mauer collecting the reward. He booked a flight to Munich on Pan Am, walked out of the room, took the elevator down to the lobby, looking around. He walked outside, it was getting dark and the hotel was lit up. He took a cab to the airport.

  The German customs inspector was behind the glass partition, staring at something, or was it an act? Keep the tired passengers waiting for no reason.

  The customs man finally looked up, no expression, and Hess slid Max Hoffman’s passport to him through the opening. The customs man opened it and compared the photograph to the man standing in front of him. He flipped through it and stamped one of the blank pages. “Welcome to Germany, Mr. Hoffman.”

  Hess took a taxi to the Bayerischer Hof, the hotel where Harry Levin had stayed, on Promenadeplatz, happy to be back on familiar turf.

  At 4:00, after a nap, shower and a plate of bratwurst and sauerkraut, Hess, wearing Max Hoffman’s blazer, khakis and Cleveland Indians cap, met Franz Stigler at the Hofgarten. Hess, with a 35-mm camera on a strap around his neck, was the quintessential American tourist. Franz walked right by and didn’t recognize him. “Franz, where are you going?” Hess said, breath condensing in the cold air.

  Stigler stopped, turned, eyeing him curiously. Ernst removed the cap.

  “Herr Hess?”

  “Where is the journalist?”

  They were alone in the colonnade. Stigler frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I saw her leave the apartment.”

  “Why didn’t you follow her?”

  “She punctured one of my tires.”

  Hess couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Where’s the painting?”

  “I’m coming to that. Do you remember Riemenschneider? I introduced you at the rally. He’s a locksmith.”

  “Just tell me, do you have the painting, or not?”

  “It’s in the van.”

  “What about the weapon?”

  Stigler reached into his overcoat pocket.

  “Not here.”

  They walked to the parking area. There were only two vehicles, Hess’ sedan and Stigler’s van. It was 4:30, heavy cloud cover making it seem later. Stigler opened the rear doors. Hess saw the Van Gogh on the metal floor, leaning against the inside wall amid the clutter of tools and equipment. He could feel his blood pressure rise. “This is how you treat a master work of art?”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea, Herr Hess. I didn’t think it was anything special. I couldn’t understand why you’d want it.”

  Hess tried to calm himself, looking at the positive side. The painting had been returned to him. Now Stigler took a Walther PPK out of his pocket and gave it to him along with a suppressor and a box of cartridges. Hess handed him an envelope. While Stigler counted the money Hess ejected the magazine – it was fully loaded – and screwed the suppressor on the end of the barrel. When Stigler looked up, Hess was pointing the gun at him. “I think it’s the perfect pistol. Small, lightweight, balanced. Did you know the Führer shot and killed himself with a weapon just like it?”

  “Herr Hess, please. I have a wife and two children.”

  Hess smiled and slid the Walther in the side pocket of his sport jacket. “Franz, I’m not going to shoot you. I need you.”

  When he got back to the hotel Hess had the painting packaged and crated and asked the concierge to have it shipped to an address in Nice, France in the morning. He went up to his room and called Der Spiegel in Berlin and asked for Gunter.

  “Which one?” the operator said.

  “Colette Rizik’s editor.”

  “Stein. I’ll put you through.”

  “Hello.”

  “Is this Gunter Stein?”

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “Harry Levin, a friend of Colette’s.”

  “She’s told me so much I feel like I know you. What did you think of the article?”

  “Well written, provocative, first-rate journalism.”

  “I agree. Colette writes with the flair of a novelist.”

  “Do you know where she is? I’ve been calling her apartment for two days.”

  “She thought she was being followed, didn’t feel safe. So she’s staying with a friend. I’ll give you the number.”

  Next, Hess dialed Huber, a Munich detective whose father had served with him during the war. Huber wasn’t a neo-Nazi, but had given Hess information about Blackshirts the police were targeting.

  Against Hess’ explicit instructions, Huber had released Harry Levin from custody and had him deported a month earlier. Hess couldn’t believe it. Huber’s rationale: he didn’t want Levin, a Holocaust survivor, prosecuted and incarcerated in Germany. It would have attracted too much attention, and quite possibly have implicated Hess himself.

  When Huber returned to his desk the phone was ringing. He picked it up and said, “Huber.”

  “I need an address,” a man’s voice said.

  It was difficult to hear in the big room filled with desks and detectives talking. He pushed his left ear closed with his index finger. “Who is this?”

  “You know who it is.”

  Now he did. “I can’t help you. Every law-enforcement agency in the country is looking for you.”

  “Do you want to be next on their list?”

  This was typical Hess, using threats to get what he wanted. “You don’t have anything on me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “No one will go near you. You’re finished.”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “A war criminal, a wanted man.” Huber was stunned by the man’s arrogance. He had never trusted Hess but had always been respectful of him because of his political position and his connections. “All right. But this is the last time. Where are you staying? How can I reach you?”

  “I’ll reach you.”

  An hour later Hess called back.

  “The address is 60 Schellingstrasse.” It was a street near the university. The apartment was registered to a Dieter Ritmeier, a Nazi expert and author of a book condemning the Third Reich. What would Hess want with Ritmeier? Unless it was revenge.

  Hess drove to the university neighborhood, looking at young attractive girls carrying backpacks, trying not to run off the road. He parked on Schellingstrasse just down the street from number 60. It was a beautiful turn-of-the-century building. There was a restaurant on the ground floor, and four floors, likely four residences, above it.

  Hess got out and crossed the street when he saw a police car drive by. Ritmeier was on the third floor. The door to the building was locked, but he could see a small lobby with mailboxes on one wall and an elevator straight ahead.

  Back in the car Hess trained the binoculars on the third-floor windows, holding for a few seconds on each, but didn’t see anyone. He didn’t have the patience for surveillance work. He would have Stigler handle it.

  Gerhard Braun’s estate was in Baden-Wurttemberg outside Stuttgart. Hess parked in the circular drive, went to the door and rang the bell. The door opened. Martin, Braun’s butler and bodyguard, was looking at him quizzically in the Max Hoffman disguise. He removed the baseball cap with his left hand and smiled.

  “Herr Hess,” Martin said, obviously surprised. “It has been a long time. Won’t you come in?”

  Hess stepped into the foyer, drew the silenced Walther from his right sport-coat pocket and shot Martin, shell casing pinging on the tile floor. He closed the door and moved along the long hall, hearing music, Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries”, coming from Gerhard’s study.

  Braun was leaning back, arms conducting an imaginary orchestra, the music building as Hess entered the room and approached the
desk.

  “What is that you’re wearing?”

  “A baseball cap.”

  “I can see that. Quite out of character, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Gerhard, you look surprised to see me.”

  “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Well, now that you have?”

  “I thought the odds were with Zeller. He was ex-Stasi. But then you have always defied the odds, haven’t you, Ernst?”

  “Zeller made a couple mistakes,” Hess said. “And all it takes is one.”

  “I liked his confidence. You should have heard him. Guaranteed the day he would have you, almost guaranteed the time. It was impressive.”

  “But he didn’t deliver.”

  “How did you get him to talk?”

  “I explained my point of view in a compelling way. In the end he was anxious to tell me everything. Even suggested phoning you and saying I was dead.”

  “After the article appeared – guilty or not – you were finished. It reminds people of the war. It makes us look bad.”

  “And I thought it was because you wanted the paintings.”

  “That was part of it. The trouble you’re in, I didn’t think you would be able to sell them.”

  “The trouble I’m in, I need money. All my accounts are frozen.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re a war criminal. It happened to me after the Allied invasion.”

  “What the Americans confiscated they returned, as I recall.”

  “Only thirty per cent, but more than I expected. How about something to drink? Whisky, a glass of beer.” Braun pressed a button on the side of his desk. Hess heard a buzzer sound in the hall.

  “If you’re looking for Martin, he’s indisposed.” Hess glanced at a Van Gogh on the wall to his left. “Where did you get that?”

  “Hermann Goring. I traded a Raphael for the Park at Arles and the Portrait of Dr. Gachet. You may remember, Van Gogh’s paintings were considered degenerate art by the Führer. Goring was afraid Hitler would find out he had them in his collection.”

  “I doubt that. Goring probably thought the Raphael was more valuable.”