by Tony Bulmer
“Indeed there has Baron, tell me how is it possible that the most famous painting in the world has slipped through your fingers once again—is it not your responsibility—your duty, to ensure that such paintings are saved for future posterity?”
“We have been close a number of times Herr Reichsmarschall but the French are a cursed people, in league with Jews and Bolsheviks, as soon as we track the painting that you seek the agents of chaos spirit it away.
Göring raised his eyebrows, “Agents of Chaos?” he examined each face in the assembled party with his pinprick eyes, before turning to Diels, “Tell me Diels what do you know of Agents of Chaos?”
“Collaborators Herr Reichsmarschall.”
“Ah, collaborators, a term with which I am more familiar.” He turned to Lohse, “Tell me, what do we do with collaborators Lohse?”
“We eliminate them Herr Reichsmarschall.”
“Precisely. Now tell me about this delightful painting.”
Lohse, cleared his throat and said, “We acquired it from a country estate in Cassan from collection of an old money capitalist. We had suspicions that the owners had business dealings with the powers of World Jewery, so naturally we made a full investigation and came up with a number of works of importance, this being one of them.”
“Good work Lohse, I trust that you made this capitalist a fair offer for the works?”
“A very fair offer Herr Reichsmarschall, the owner was very eager to cooperate.”
“Splendid. Cooperation is what we are about, don’t you agree Fräulein Bergen.”
“Absolutely Herr Reichsmarschall.”
Göring beamed widely now, as though every opinion he held dear had just been confirmed. “Tell me Lohse, how much did you acquire this painting for?”
Lohse, looked uncomfortable now, his baby blue eyes flicking quickly in the direction of Baron Von Behr.
“We acquired the painting as part of a job lot Herr Reichsmarschall, it is difficult to put a price on such an item, but I think 70,000 francs would be a ball park figure for such a painting. The owner told a charming story of how the picture once belonged to the wife of Napoleon Bonaparte—naturally he had no documentation to prove this story, but such tales frequently lift prices at auction.”
“Göring, nodded, “Splendid, you have done well. I trust you will do even better before my next visit as I have set my heart on owning The Mona Lisa. I trust you won’t let me down Baron?”
“We will redouble our efforts Herr Reichsmarschall, why as we speak, I have every agent under my command searching for the painting. The French and their Bolshevik friends may think they can deceive us, but they are slovenly thinkers, no match for Aryan ingenuity—”
Göring pursed his lips. And contemplated the da Vinci for a long moment.
Emboldened by the Reichsmarschall’s amenable nature the Baron suddenly gushed, “I must have apologize for the horrible misunderstanding with the da Vinci Herr Reichsmarschall, but I earmarked the painting for the Führer, even before Herr Hofer got word of it.
“Absolutely, I quite understand Baron, mistakes can so easily happen. Now, if you do not mind I will leave Fräulein Bergen to settle my account and if you will permit me, I will offer you an extra commission, call it an advance if you so please, against my impending acquisition of the Mona Lisa.”
Lohse and the Baron bowed in unison, “You are most generous Herr Reichsmarschall, rest assured we will redouble our efforts.”
“I am certain that you will. Now, as far as matters of transportation are concerned, you will ship my purchases to the station with all haste, as I depart for Berlin tonight.”
“Tonight, Herr Reichsmarschall? But we have seats at the opera for you this evening, a special performance in your honor.” The Baron looked disappointed, Eva felt sure she saw a tear misting out from beneath his monocle, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure.
“Much as it would please me, to spend another night in Paris, I fear my duties must tear me away from your delightful company Baron. Now, take care to pack my pictures carefully, I cannot abide breakages, and while you are at it, you can pack up the works you have earmarked for the Führer, I might as well deliver them to him since I have made the trip.
Lohse and the Baron exchanged glances. But the Reichsmarschall was smiling now, a thin-lipped smile of victory.
Eva stood in the background, her checkbook at the ready. She knew that such irregularities would have to be accounted for. Luckily the trip back to Berlin would be a long one, and by the time they arrived at the Anhalter Bahnhof railway terminal, the immaculately maintained ledgers would be faultlessly completed, every transaction catalogued to the nearest Reichspfennig. As Eva contemplated the magnitude of the task ahead, she suddenly felt the eyes of Lohse’s mouse like assistant upon her—staring like the woman could read her thoughts. Eva dismissed the idea as preposterous, what could a hunched little woman like Rose Valland know about the nature of the art business, or anything else for that matter?
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 39
May 1945
“All the way from Normandy, you know how many times I nearly got my head shot off—and for what?” Corporal Manetti chomped down on his cigar stub and spat a loogie out the corner of his mouth. The loogie sailed back in the Jeep’s slipstream, and disappeared into the night.
Private first class Horner, jammed his boots hard against the dashboard, and hung on tight to his rifle. When Manetti had been on the sauce, there was no telling what could happen. That dago freak had flipped the rig three times already, and that was just since they left Belgium.
“Hey numb nuts, you hear me speaking rhetorical, or you just playing dumb as usual?”
“Rhetorical means sounding off without wanting a reply—but if you really want my opinion, you might ease up on the gas first, on account of the fact I’m about to throw my lunch.”
Manetti spun Horner a look, “What the hell are you talking about? I had to listen to your to your candy-assed griping all the way from France. So stop being so selfish, thinking about your own pathetic little problems all the time.”
“Really? So what’s eating you now Manetti?”
“This bullshit detail is what’s eating me, every NCO in the entire division is making coin and here we are, freezing our asses off in the Bavarian night, with zip to show for it. I swear to you, we are going to finish this war as paupers.”
“Hey, least we made it through. They say it’s all going to be over in a week—two at the most, then you can chill it Stateside, pick things up where you left off.”
“You got to be kidding dumb ass, there ain’t going to be no picking up anything for guys like us. Less we got a stake, we are going to hit the skids and fast.”
Horner sat quiet, mulling over the implications. He had never liked Manetti, the guy was a blow hard creep, who though he was something, always sounding off, whining about how special he was. When you had to listen to that kind of crap at close quarters it quickly got old and fast. Horner stared into the darkness, as the Jeep sped through the Alpine night. Fate had thrown them together and now they were stuck with each other until they shipped home or got dead. He gripped his rifle tight, bracing his feet against the dash as Manetti took another corner at break neck speed. It wasn’t like he had much choice Manetti neither. They’d seen a lot of action in the past year. A lot of guys had had shipped home in coffins. But somehow, the bullets had passed them by. It had to be a miracle. Either that or they were getting special dispensation from the guy upstairs. Maybe it was the picture of Juju Jesus that Manetti had taped front and center on the Jeep dash that had seen them through? Either way Horner wasn’t complaining. He had to put up with Manetti’s constant bitching, big deal. What kind of price was that to pay for having your own personal lucky charm drive you around?
Horner switched his focus, thinking now about going home to Boston, heading back to family and the hope of better times. At last he said, “When I ship home I am going into the flower business
with Pops and my brother Joey. Maybe hook up with some local Lucy—and get myself a whole houseful of kids.”
“You know how lame that sounds?” scoffed Manetti.
“I’ve had enough excitement to last me a lifetime. I want to play it quiet, in a place where I will never have to see no more krauts, or mountains, or bullshit army orders ever again.”
“I give you six months tops before you lose your mind, and don’t be thinking I will come and visit you at the funny-farm, because I got high rollin’ plans of my own, let me tell you. Kind of plans where I get to sit in the sunshine on a fat pile of money, with a cigar in one hand and an ice-cold cocktail in the other, while some red-hot hoochie-coochie shotguns my shvantz.”
Horner stared at the road coming up fast in the headlights, the mountains pressing in from above, jagged like shark teeth. Man, he hated the mountains. Swimming around in this dark little valley in the middle of Nazi Germany, it was like being swallowed down into the belly of some dark Leviathan. He pondered the lonely forest, rushing by in the night and said, “You ask me, we are wasting our time out here—we haven’t seen a single kraut in this sector since we captured the train.
Manetti bit down on his cigar and said, “Finally, you get what I am saying. Those shmos in division are sharing out Herman Goring’s little nest egg and all we get is a crate of friggin’ Cognac by way of a thank you.”
“You don’t like it, we can trade up the Cognac at the guard post.”
Manetti shot him a look, “I ain’t saying I ain’t appreciative I would rather get my hands on some of that Nazi gold Big Herman was shipping out to Switzerland. And all those other goodies too—man that train was like an Aladdin’s cave, all those fancy antiques and paintings. It breaks my heart, to think of all those punks up at division splitting that booty out, like we don’t matter a damn.” Manetti sniffed then added, “ It really burns me man—I get they lucked out, but if we weren’t working this god forsaken backwoods detail we could be back in Stangass fleecing those suckers out of their ill gotten gains.”
“Poker? That is your big plan Manetti?”
“You got any better ideas genius—maybe we could set up a flower stand on the Berchtesgaden strip and make ourselves a million.”
Horner was quiet then. He never should have told Manetti about his plans. The guy was a world-class knucklehead, no more class than a street corner bum. Sure, the guy was big talking now, but wait ’til he got back Stateside to that dumpy little apartment building in Sherman Oaks—see where his nasty little mouth got him then.
Heading up the valley in a final push through the southern sector, the night was even quieter than usual. Everyone tucked up tight after curfew. Not a single vehicle on the road and only the distant twinkle of the occasional cabin to show there was anyone else alive in this jagged Alpine world. They drove on in silence, finally they reaching the peak above Bischofeiesen. Then headed downwards, curving around on the precipitous road towards Stangass. Manetti took the curves fast. The Jeeps tires shrieked out, protesting every hairpin turn. Horner felt sick and dizzy, his ears popping like crazy as they made the descent. It was quite some view though you had to admit, so high above the valley floor now they might as well be gods or eagles.
Horner closed his eyes hoping he wouldn’t feel so sick but it was no use—one minute the headlights picked out precipitous rock faces, next they reached out into space into the endless blackness and certain death. They took a turn off the road now and it would be curtains for sure. No more south Boston flower stand, no more Sherman Oaks, just a couple of skid marks and an ugly grease stain on some Alpine cliff face to mark their demise.
That’s when they saw the girl, peddling on a bike, with a battered old suitcase strapped tight to her back. Manetti swerved and stepped hard on the breaks—they cut past her, but only just, bowling down the road another hundred feet at least, before the Jeep finally came to a rest.
“I told you we were going too fast,” said Horner.
“Hey, screw you Mr. pleasure cruise. The sooner we finish up this detail, the sooner we get back to barracks, maybe set about compensating ourselves for having to run around in the dark all night, looking for that lard-bucket Göring.”
Horner took a look over his shoulder. The girl had pulled her bike over to the side of the road and was watching them.
“She doesn’t look much like a Nazi to me,” said Horner.
“How the hell would you know? You think just because she ain’t wearing one of those sausage-eating helmets with a swastika on the side she can’t be one of those SS goofballs in disguise?”
“Hey, you nearly knocked her over the side of the cliff with your lousy speedway driving, why not cut the chick a break…”
Manetti knocked the Jeep out of gear and tightened the hand-break. “That little honey could be General Eisenhower’s daughter for all you know Horner, so we follow procedures.”
“I know but…”
“Get out there doofus and point your bayonet at her. She blubs, we let her go. She makes tough, we ship her back to base camp for questioning, and either way we open that big assed suitcase and find out what she’s got in there.” Manetti paused, shot Horner a look and said, “What you waiting for?”
“What if she is armed?”
“She pulls on you—blast her another asshole, you fanook, now get going.”
Horner stepped out of the Jeep, and motioned the girl forwards. She didn’t understand at first, but Horner waved her on with his rifle and she cottoned on fast.
“Hey, what you doing moron? Ask her for her papers and search her up there, she pulls some stunt up close and we’ll have ourselves a situation.”
“I figured it might be a good idea to get her in the headlights—if we are going to search her that is.”
Manetti gave a low curse then said, “Keep her tight on the sight. She peddles off down the mountain, you are going to be the one chasing after her.”
“Hey relax, I got this covered.”
Horner brought the girl into the glow of the headlights. All around them, the Alpine night closed in, constricting their world into a ghostly circle of light. Horner asked her for her papers. She looked pouty, but reached inside her coat anyway, making slow, careful movements, like she had done this kind of thing before.
“Hey Fräulein, you seen Herman Göring recently?” called Manetti from the Jeep.
The girl looked at him quickly, fearfully, then, turned her head down avoiding his gaze.
“Hey, you got her spooked. Would you give it a rest?” said Horner.
“Maybe she’s got something to hide—ask her what the hell she is doing out here on the mountain in the middle of the night.”
Horner crooked his rifle over his left arm and took the girls papers. The small white ID card was crisp and new. Horner turned it over in his fingers—angular Germanic script, a black eagle holding tight to a Nazi swastika, and inside, a head and shoulders photograph with identifying characteristics, printed in a neat, efficient hand.
“Says here her name is Eva Bergen, from Munich.”
“We are a hell of a long way from Munich,” said Manetti, his voice impatient now, “What’s she got in the suitcase?”
Horner looked back at the girl, and nodded towards the suitcase, “What’s in the case Fräulein,” he asked in fluent German.
The girl looked surprised, like she never imagined an American, would be able to speak German—particularly a battered looking paratrooper from the 101st Airborne division. “Why don’t you look for yourself,” she said, in heavy accented English.
Manetti stood up in the Jeep, “What you waiting for doofus? Open it up.”
The girl looked confused. Horner took a step back, then another. He leveled his rifle at her and said, “Go ahead honey, open it up.”
She bent down now, placed the case flat on the road, and snapped open the hasps. They flipped up with a hard metallic sound.
Manetti climbed out of the jeep, his machine gun, slung low a
cross his chest.
The girl eased-open the lid, and shrank back, with fearful eyes.
—Nothing but clothes inside.
“Would you look at that corporal, we got ourselves a suitcase full of smalls.”
Manetti spat on the road, “Turf that shit out Fräulein. Let’s see what you got.”
The girl looked sulky now, made like she didn’t understand.
Manetti gave a sigh. He turned his gun towards her, until the girl was looking down the barrel, and said coldly, “Let’s see what you got Fräulein, because I got a busy night going on, and if you waste anymore of my time, I am liable to spill your guts, just so as I can get a look at them.”
“Hey, take it easy. Can’t you see you are scaring her?”
Manetti racked back the slide on his machinegun. “Not as scared as she’s gonna be if she doesn’t spill her stash and quick—what you say baby—you going to turf out that case or am I going to grease your pretty little face all over the road?”
The girl bent down now, pulling clothes out of the case, placing them carefully on the roadway in front of her knees.
“Faster,” snapped Manetti.
It was no good. The Americans had her. Eva tossed the last of her clothes out of the suitcase watching, as the mountain winds carried them away into the darkness. The package was underneath the clothes, wrapped in newspaper and string. She didn’t touch it. She left it sitting there, hoping the Americans wouldn’t realize the significance of the discovery they were about to make.
Manetti saw the package in the bottom of the suitcase and licked his lips, “Lookee here, we got ourselves some contraband—tell her to open it up Horner—nice and quick like Christmas time.”
Eva understood everything the Americans said, but she knew that if she played dumb she would be able to gain an edge—force them into making a mistake. She waited until the tall American with the rifle ordered her to open the package before she made a move, only then did she begin to unfasten the knots and fold away the yellowing newspaper from around the package. When she was finished, she rose slowly to her feet, watching as the Americans peered into the case, straining to see the treasure they had found.
