Back from the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  Harry went back up to the garage and followed the stone walk – looking down at the pool – to the main entrance, assumed the door was locked but it wasn’t. He opened it and stepped into a small marble entryway. Stood listening, but heard nothing. There were two bedrooms on his left. There were stairs that went up and stairs that went down. He went down into an office that had a desk, chair and typewriter. He could see the gardener through the window, wiping his brow and then drinking water out of a bottle.

  He sat and opened drawers and found envelopes addressed to Vincent Chartier, a phone bill that listed calls – though nothing long-distance from Germany or the U.S.. He found a water bill, tax bills, bank statements. Okay, so Vince lived here, but he already knew that or assumed it. What was his connection, if any, to Hess?

  Harry moved along a hallway that led to the back of the villa, kitchen on the left, wine bottles, fruit and baguettes on the counter, food in the refrigerator. The salon was next, with glass doors that went out to the pool. The gardener walked by, crossed the deck and took the steps to the lower level.

  Harry went back upstairs to the main floor, and up to the master bedroom that took up the entire second floor. There was a bed and dresser, chairs and a table, and a sliding door that led to another deck with a view of the entrance gate, garage, and directly below him, the pool. He checked the closet, men’s clothes on hangers. There was a bright-colored painting on top of the dresser, leaning against the wall. He checked the drawers, moved his hand under handkerchiefs that were neatly folded, felt something and brought out a passport. It was a deep red color and said Republique française in gold type over a gold crest. Harry opened it, looking at a photograph of Ernst Hess, a younger version, taken many years before. Over the photo it said Vincent Paul Chartier.

  He heard something, looked out the glass door and saw the electric gate opening. The woman in the Fiat had returned, pulling into the short driveway. Harry put the passport back, closed the drawer, ran down the stairs to the front door, opened it and looked toward the driveway. The woman in the hat had a grocery bag in her hand and was leaning over the wall, talking to someone – probably the gardener. Her hat tipped forward and she fit it back on her head.

  Harry went out the front door and unlocked a wrought-iron gate in the outer wall, opened it and walked out to the road, his back to traffic, cars zipping by, looking over his shoulder.

  Colette was in the cafe parking lot behind the wheel of the Peugeot. Harry got in and looked at her. “Hess is Chartier. I saw his passport.”

  “Oh my God. Thinking it is one thing, Harry. Knowing it is something else.”

  Now they had to decide what to do with him.

  “It smells wonderful in here,” Hess said, walking in the kitchen, putting the paper bag on the countertop and taking out the three bottles of wine. “Nothing like the smell of sautéed onions and garlic.”

  “Someone was in the house,” Marie-Noëlle said, slicing mushrooms on a cutting board. “I was returning from the market.” She put the knife down. “Claude was cleaning the pool. I stopped to talk to him.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I have never seen him before.” Marie-Noëlle’s face was perspiring. She dabbed her cheeks and forehead with a dishtowel.

  “Did you ask what he wanted?”

  “No, monsieur. It happened quickly. I saw something out of the corner of my eye. And when I looked again the man was moving to the wall, and then through the gate to the street.”

  “You did not follow him?”

  “No, monsieur. I wanted to see if anything had been stolen.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “I could not see.”

  “You checked the house. Is anything missing?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “What did this man look like? Describe him.”

  “He had dark hair. Not tall. Not heavy. I did not see his face.”

  “Was he a laborer?” Maybe a man looking for work.

  “I cannot be sure. I am sorry, M. Chartier. I looked over and saw him, the man surprised me.”

  Hess thought there might be a reasonable explanation. The man had been hunting and came up from the valley chasing after his game. “Was he carrying a rifle?”

  “I do not know, monsieur.”

  More likely the intruder had been walking from villa to villa looking for work. No one could possibly know Hess was in Nice. Anke had been to the villa two years ago, but she didn’t know he owned it, and he doubted she would have any idea how to find it. Anke was pretty but not particularly bright.

  Hess went out to the pool. Claude was skimming leaves off the surface of the water. The gardener noticed him and said, “Bonjour, monsieur.”

  “Let me ask you something. Have you seen anyone on the property today?”

  “No, monsieur.” He rubbed the reddish-brown stubble on his jaw. “Mme Despas asked me. I didn’t see anyone.”

  Claude was sleeping with her but always referred to Marie-Noëlle in a formal way.

  “Keep your eyes open and your shotgun close.”

  “Is there a problem, monsieur?”

  “If the man returns.”

  Hess went back inside. He thought about the painting, ran up to the bedroom: there it was on top of the dresser where he had left it. So evidently the intruder was not an art aficionado. He thought about the passport, checked the drawer; it was there. The villa was owned by Vincent Chartier, Hess’ French alias. He had a forged French passport and French driver’s license, and spoke the language fluently. No one but Anke knew about the villa, and no one but Leon Halip knew that Vincent Chartier was Ernst Hess. All of the bills, taxe d’habitation and taxe foncière, electric, water and telephone, were paid by Marie-Noëlle from an account at Société Générale. Hess had opened the account with cash, making periodic deposits to maintain enough to cover expenses. The bank statements were mailed to the villa. There was no paper trail that connected it to Hess.

  He went to the cellar, staring at the crates that had not been opened since he had purchased the villa, and inventoried the paintings in his head. He had another Van Gogh: Still Life: Vase with Five Sunflowers, a Chagall, two Matisses, a Kandinsky, a Klee and several dozen lesser works. He and Braun had taken them from what remained of Hans Frank’s collection at the end of the war, and divided them. Many had “ERR” stamped on the back, confirming they had been stolen by the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, most likely from private collections and museums in France and the Netherlands, and had ended up in Frank’s collection at the palace of Count Potocki, his residence in Krzeszowice.

  Frank had been Hitler’s legal adviser and had been appointed governor general of occupied Poland. Hess had met Hans Frank over the years and they had become friends. Both were avid chess players and ardent anti-Semites. Hess and Arno Rausch had visited Frank on their way out of Poland in early January 1945. When they had arrived at the palace, Frank’s men were filling trucks with his collection of confiscated art. Frank was shipping everything to his estate in Tegernsee in southern Bavaria.

  After dinner Hess walked Marie-Noëlle to her car. She was wearing the dark brimmed hat, red scarf and green cape, her trademark apparel. He thought she looked like a bullfighter. Hess said good night, opened the electric gate and watched her drive out. He went back to the house, locked the doors, turned off the lights and went upstairs. He loaded the Benelli shotgun and laid it on the bed, barrel pointing at the sliding door on the other side of the room. The Walther was on the table next to him – less than an arm’s length away. The drapes were open. He could see a three-quarter moon and the lights of Nice in the distance.

  “I think we should follow him,” Harry said, looking out at lights on the promenade, the night sky and the Mediterranean dark behind it. They were sipping evening cocktails in their suite at the Negresco. “See what he’s up to. Make sure he’s at the villa before we go after him.”

  Cordell said, “Look for a place to grab him.”


  “The way Mossad kidnapped Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires,” Colette said. “Took him out when he got off the bus, returning home from work, kept him in a house in the city for a week. To get him out of Argentina they drugged him and dressed him in an El Al uniform, saying he’d had too much to drink as they boarded a plane bound for Israel. The Israelis were surprised how cooperative Eichmann was. It was as if he was expecting them.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’, grab him off the street.” Cordell sipped his drink.

  “There’s that bakery just down the hill from the villa,” Harry said. “We can wait there till he drives by. I agree with Cordell, it might be easier to surprise him.”

  Colette said, “What will we do with him?”

  “Take him out. What do you think?”

  “I think we should bring him to the police.”

  Cordell glanced at her. “What’re they going to do?”

  “Arrest him.”

  “As far as they know he’s a French citizen named Vincent Chartier,” Harry said. “You think they’re going to take our word over his? They’re going to let him go, and he’s going to disappear again.”

  “Harry, we have proof he’s a war criminal. You’re the survivor. Tell them your story.”

  “What do I have that proves I’m a survivor? And what do I have that connects me to Hess?” Harry paused, sipped his whisky. “Hess has a French passport. According to the tax records he’s owned property in Nice since ’48. He’s a solid citizen.”

  They were parked on corniche des Oliviers at eight the next morning in front of the bakery, car facing down hill, Cordell behind the wheel, Colette next to him and Harry in back, training binoculars on every driver and passenger in every car that passed them in a steady stream of traffic. The small parking lot was crowded. He saw the dark-haired woman from Hess’ villa come out of the bakery carrying two baguettes and a white bag of pastries. She got in the Fiat and drove back up the hill.

  By ten there was hardly any traffic, just an occasional car or truck passing by. Looking through the rear window Harry could see a dark sedan come over the hill. He waited till it was about fifty yards away, raised the binoculars, put them on the grill, it was a Renault, put them on the windshield, sun glinting off making it difficult to see in. Tried to focus on the driver’s face but the car was moving too fast. He adjusted the viewfinder, pulling back as the car closed in on them, held on the driver’s face till he was sure. “There he is.”

  Colette turned in her seat.

  Cordell started the car, glanced in the side mirror. “I see him.”

  The Renault sped by. Cordell started the Peugeot and took off after it. They followed Hess down the steep winding roads to boulevard Gambetta and all the way to the promenade des Anglais, then around the harbor and up the coast.

  “Where you think he’s goin’?”

  “Maybe he knows we’re on to him, he’s leaving the country. The Italian border’s right up here. Head down the Riviera, reinvent himself in Rapallo.”

  A few minutes later they were in Monaco, Harry looking at the marina filled with pleasure boats and yachts, and highrise apartment buildings built around the harbor. Hess turned and they followed him into the city that reminded Harry of Palm Beach with its wide boulevards, palm trees and Greco-Roman architecture.

  Hess parked in front of Galerie Broussard, got out, closed the door, moved to the trunk, opened it and took out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. Harry pictured the painting he saw on the dresser in Hess’ room and now it made sense. “That’s the painting you found in the locker, I’ll bet.”

  Colette said, “The Painter on the Road to Tarascon by Van Gogh.”

  “Describe it.”

  “It’s a self portrait – Van Gogh on the road, carrying artist’s supplies – showing himself as an alienated outsider.”

  “The painting in Hess’ villa was signed Vincent.”

  “That’s how Van Gogh signed his paintings. Harry, you saw it and didn’t say anything?”

  “It didn’t occur to me till now.”

  Hess was thinking about the value of the painting as he walked into the gallery. Based on what he knew, and he was no expert, the Van Gogh would sell for somewhere between five and seven million dollars. The sale would be confidential and discreet. Absolutely no publicity. No one except Broussard would know his identity. The money would be paid to Broussard, and Broussard would deduct his fee and send the balance to Hess. He would deposit the money in his account at Société Générale, and at the appropriate time, transfer the money to his Swiss account. When he needed additional funds he would sell another painting.

  Broussard saw Hess enter the gallery and came right over. “Bonjour, Monsieur Chartier. I see you have brought the painting. How exciting. Shall we unveil it in my office?”

  Hess followed Broussard across the gallery floor to a hallway that led to offices. Broussard’s was big and open, simple chrome-and-glass desk, black leather chairs, a wall of bookshelves. The only thing that looked out of place was a chrome easel set up on the floor next to the desk.

  Hess unwrapped the painting. Broussard took the discarded paper from him, folded it and placed it on the desk. Hess set the painting on the easel and now Broussard came over and stood close, smiling.

  “The Painter on the Road to Tarascon.” Broussard’s grin faded and he held Hess in his gaze. “It is impossible. This painting was destroyed when the Allies bombed Magdeburg, setting fire to the Kaiser Friedrich Museum. Where on earth did you get it?”

  “I can’t tell you anything about how the painting came into my possession. The sale has to be completely confidential. The buyer can’t know who I am.”

  “But M. Chartier, this is a missing masterpiece. There is a story behind it, a mystique that will add to its value. Prospective buyers will want to know, not to mention the art world.”

  “What is it worth?”

  “I can’t say with certainty. We will have to establish a selling price based on what other paintings by Van Gogh have sold for.” Broussard turned to the painting. “But this, I can assure you, will command a very high price. I would think eight to ten million dollars. What were you expecting?”

  “Somewhere in that range.”

  “I assume you have a bill of sale from the original owner, gallery or auction house.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “M. Chartier, we cannot in good conscience trust its authenticity unless you have authentication credentials. Van Gogh has been forged more frequently than any other modern artist. Before we can establish a price the painting has to be authenticated. So you won’t mind leaving it with me?”

  “Authenticated? You can see it is original. Look at the signature.”

  “Signatures can be forged.”

  “Maybe I should take it to another gallery,” Hess said, even though he had had a similar experience selling the Durer to the broker in New York. That had had to be X-rayed to prove its nature and origin.

  “They will tell you the same thing. Without authentication you will not be able to sell the painting.”

  “Do you know someone? I want to make this happen quickly. I will be leaving France soon for an extended vacation.”

  “The only person in Nice who can give an absolutely trustworthy and acceptable attribution is M. Givry. He is an art expert who intimately understands Van Gogh. M. Givry worked at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, and he has curated exhibitions of his paintings at museums around the world. Let me see what I can do. Please make yourself comfortable.” Broussard waved his arm indicating the leather couch. “May I offer you coffee?”

  Hess shook his head and sat on the couch. Broussard moved to the desk, took an address book out of a drawer, opened it and made a phone call.

  Hess walked out of the gallery. He didn’t have the patience to sit in Broussard’s office and wait until the expert arrived and authenticated the painting. Hess noticed a silver Peugeot parked across the street, morning sun reflectin
g off the sheet metal, making it difficult to see if anyone was in it. He had passed a car just like it on corniche des Oliviers on his way to Nice. Was he being followed, or was he suspicious because Marie-Noëlle had seen a man on the property?

  Hess walked to a cafe down the street, sat outside, feeling the warmth of the sun, and drank two cups of café americain, discreetly staring at two well-dressed, good-looking ladies a few tables away.

  When he returned to the gallery an hour later the Peugeot was gone, confirming that his jittery nerves and paranoia were an overreaction. Broussard was in his office, talking to a dapper little man wearing a dark suit and bow tie.

  “M. Chartier, let me present our foremost Van Gogh expert, M. Givry.”

  The little man stared at Hess, making no attempt to shake hands.

  “Have you finished the authentication?”

  Broussard said, “I am afraid we have bad news.”

  “This painting is a forgery,” Givry said. “The technique is all wrong. Van Gogh lathered his colors roughly on the canvas.”

  “How do I know this is the painting I brought?”

  “M. Chartier,” Broussard said, plump cheeks turning red. “We have been selling art for fifty years. I can assure you …” Givry, too, looked nervous, rubbing his hands, eyes darting around.

  Hess had taken the painting from Hans Frank. How could it be a fake? The Durer was from the same collection and it had been authenticated. “I should phone the police and have you arrested.”

  Broussard, offended now, moved to his desk, picked up the telephone receiver and glanced at Hess. “Here you are. Make your call, but it will not change anything. This was not painted by Vincent Van Gogh.”