by Pieter Aspe
“I have an ulcer, Guido. Can you believe it? A stomach ulcer! The doctor prescribed pills.”
He pointed to a bottle of Logastric on his desk.
“If I stick to the pills, there’s almost nothing I have to give up.” Van In lit a cigarette and a took gulp of rum and Coke.
“Every drunk has his guardian angel,” Versavel muttered under his breath.
“What was that?”
“That doctor of yours must be pretty special. Anyone who can diagnose a stomach ulcer without X-rays deserves a Nobel prize,” said Versavel sarcastically.
“You’re right, Guido,” said Van In elatedly. “And if I win the lottery tomorrow, all my problems will be solved.”
“So you don’t mind if I start a pot of coffee?”
“According to the doctor, the only things I need to avoid are coffee and tea,” said Van In, still upbeat. “But don’t let me stop you. Your health, your risk!”
Versavel rolled up his shirtsleeves and switched off the word processor. The likelihood that the commissioner was going to need it any time soon was nonexistent.
“I still haven’t heard from our German colleagues,” Versavel said in passing. “I bet my little finger Croos has something to do with it.”
Van In used the remains of the Coke to add a little color to a couple of ounces of rum. “Plus the fact that Jerries are unreliable by definition,” he added with a scornful slur. This clearly wasn’t his second drink.
“Anything on Die Scone?”
Versavel had checked them out at city hall the day before. “Nothing to write home about. According to the clerk, the firm has an excellent reputation, but he did confirm that they were keen on historical buildings.”
“Who isn’t?”
Van In propped his feet on his desk and yawned. He had celebrated his common or garden-variety stomach ulcer with fervor and had made his way directly to the station at seven-thirty that morning.
“And Frenkel?”
“Shit,” said Versavel. “I completely forgot to tell you. Fifteen minutes after you left yesterday, we got a fax from Groningen. Commissioner Jasper Tjepkema is looking into the case. He promised to contact you sometime today. The military police have been charged with tracking him down.”
“That’s good,” Van In mumbled.
He had hit a wall. The hastily consumed rum-and-Cokes and the agreeable temperature in the room were beginning to take their toll. He felt his chin bounce a couple of times against his chest.
“Wouldn’t it be better if you went home, Commissioner?”
“Under no circumstances, Guido,” he responded, each syllable delayed.
“I’ll think of an excuse,” said Versavel, refusing to take no for an answer. “Let me take you home. Have a good rest and we’ll pick up again tomorrow where we left off.”
“On one condition, Guido,” Van In protested tamely. “Call Hannelore. Tell her the good news and tell her I want her in my bed tonight.”
“At your command, Commissioner.”
Sic transit gloria mundi, he thought.
Commissioner Croos of the Judicial Federal Police blew his nose with an already-soaked Kleenex. His head was pounding, and he had been sneezing like a dog with chili on its snout. The brand-new air conditioner pumped more dust into the room than it extracted, and the pile of moldy dossiers on his desk produced about as much pollen as an average forest.
Croos wadded up the dripping Kleenex and placed it beside him on his desk. Unlike so many of his colleagues, he refused point-blank to use toilet paper.
The sniveling commissioner took a swig of lukewarm coffee and popped a peppermint in his mouth to neutralize the bland taste of roasted malt.
He had received a second detailed report from the German federal police that morning. Was it because the Belgian prime minister and the German chancellor were such good buddies, or did those guys always work so fast?
Germans relate to creativity like pineapple trees to the North Pole, but you can never accuse them of sloppiness, he thought to himself with a sneer.
In less than a week, they had managed to reconstruct Dietrich Fiedle’s life, get it down on paper, and have it translated into Dutch by an overpaid interpreter. They had even included a summary of his correspondence.
Croos sighed and submitted to yet another fit of sneezing. Fiedle’s letters and personal notes contained explosive information, and while he had never been much interested in art history, the evidence was extremely convincing. Solving the German’s murder paled into insignificance against this new background. If the press got ahold of it, Bruges would be shaken to its very foundations.
Croos wiped his nose with the back of his hand, pulled the telephone closer, and punched in Creytens’s number.
“Good morning, sir. Commissioner Croos.”
“Good morning, Commissioner.” Creytens’s voice was cold and thin, as always.
“I’m calling about the Dietrich Fiedle murder.”
“Yes!” Creytens did his best to show at least some degree of interest. He had received a memo the day before from Commissioner Van In. That piece of shit was screwing around with one of the younger deputy magistrates. This interloper, nota bene, had informed him that he had traced a potential witness.
“New information has arrived from Germany,” Croos said. “I’m afraid we have a serious problem.”
“Is that so, Commissioner?” Creytens examined the photos lying in front of him on his desk. Fucking Germans and their fucking efficiency, he cursed under his breath. He could suppress the photos, but a hefty dossier and a memo from a smart-ass like Van In was a different matter altogether.
Croos sensed the investigating magistrate’s almost physical disgust. Creytens was a dangerous man. He would have to tread carefully.
“Dietrich Fiedle states in writing that his father had Michelangelo’s Madonna transported from Bruges to Germany immediately before the liberation.”
The investigating magistrate fell deliberately silent. Croos hated imposed silences.
Creytens took an audible gulp of coffee. It was precisely to his taste. “Surely you don’t see any relevance in such information, Commissioner,” he said condescendingly. “I don’t understand all the drama. Everyone knows that the Germans evacuated the statue to Altaussee on Himmler’s command.”
He used the word “evacuate” as if it was a humanitarian action.
“Of course, sir, but….”
“But what, Commissioner?” Creytens bit his bloodless bottom lip. His angular mouth was twisted with rage. He searched feverishly for an answer that could muzzle Croos.
“According to Fiedle, his father had the statue copied by Jewish forced laborers,” said Croos, pushing away his half-full mug of coffee and reaching for his soaked Kleenex. “According to Fiedle’s notes, the Americans found a copy of the statue in the salt mines there in—”
“Altaussee,” Creytens snapped, completing the sentence.
Creytens was both shocked and relieved at one and the same time. The Madonna had adorned the Church of Our Lady for no fewer than fifty years and no one had noticed the difference. And if he said nothing, it would stay that way. He didn’t give a crap about the original.
“A copy, my dear Commissioner? Surely you don’t believe such nonsense? The statue was examined by experts on its return, the best in the business. Michelangelo only made a couple of statues. Even a layperson wouldn’t have been fooled by a copy.”
As he did his best to overwhelm Croos with words, he grabbed one of the photos. It was the snapshot with the pokeweed in the background.
“Listen here, Commissioner. Every year, a handful of weirdoes claims to have seen the Loch Ness monster. There are at least five different heirs to the Romanov dynasty wandering the streets; and if you want, you can buy tickets next week in Brussels for the late Frank Sinatra’s
farewell concert. Give me a reason why the musings of some elderly German should be treated as authentic.”
Anne Frank’s diary is just the same, Creytens wanted to add, but he put the brakes on just in time. Croos may have been on the political right, but he was no revisionist.
“Fiedle’s notes appear to be accurate all the same,” Croos said. “He even mentions the name of the Jewish prisoner who made the copy of the Madonna. Such facts can easily be verified.”
“Don’t let it worry you, Commissioner,” said Creytens in an unexpectedly honeyed tone. “You’ve done an excellent job thus far. I give you my personal word that no stone will be left unturned until we get to the bottom of the affair.”
“The sculptor’s name was Frenkel.”
“I’ll have it checked out, Commissioner.”
“According to a police report, Adriaan Frenkel was one of the last people to see Fiedle alive,” Croos courageously pressed his point.
“A remarkable coincidence,” Creytens laughed nervously.
That fucking Van In must’ve passed on a copy of the memo to Croos. The bastard was going to pay. “Frenkel is a common enough name,” he said dismissively. “But you’re right, of course, Commissioner. It’s our duty to follow every lead.”
“No problem, sir. I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
“Croos,” said Creytens, adopting the tone he liked to use with minor criminals. “I’ll be taking care of things from here on. Is that clear?”
“Of course, sir.” Croos had been in the business long enough to know that you didn’t lock horns with a senior magistrate. Their “unimpeachable” status always gave them the last word.
“Shall I put the investigation on hold, or would you like me to shelve the file indefinitely?” Croos continued. He did his best to make the question sound subservient. It was a daring move, and he expected the magistrate to explode at any second.
Creytens felt the blood boil in his calcified veins. His first instinct was to cut the commissioner down a peg or two, but he spotted the trap just in time. Croos was no fool, and his question had been cunningly posed.
“Out of the question, Commissioner. I’ll examine Fiedle’s diary in person.”
“At your command, sir.”
“And I want to see all the documents, including copies.”
“Copies, sir?”
Creytens perked up. The evident consternation in the commissioner’s voice seemed genuine. “Excellent,” he said, almost purring. Creytens considered treating the commissioner to a compliment. The rank and file liked that sort of thing. “You clearly have everything under control, Commissioner. It would save me a great deal of time if you would … I mean … if you would tell me what that ‘explosive’ diary of yours has to say,” he fished in a friendly tone of voice.
Croos took a mouthful of lukewarm institutional coffee and was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. Inspector Vermeire popped his head in.
“Commissioner, the deputy public prosecutor is—”
Croos signaled angrily that he should get lost, and Vermeire reluctantly did what he was told.
“Dietrich Fiedle was born on April 20, 1935 in Hallstatt,” Croos began his diary-report to Creytens.
“Isn’t Hallstatt in Austria?” Creytens interrupted.
Croos had put together a synopsis of the diary and counted his lucky stars that he had made the effort to check a number of details.
“Fiedle took German citizenship after the war,” he answered with pride.
Creytens leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar.
“He was the son of Franz Fiedle and Ilse Weiss. Franz Fiedle was a professional soldier who experienced the hell of World War I in Poperinge in West Flanders. He was awarded the Iron Cross first class and made a career for himself in the Sturmabteilung in the early nineteen-thirties. He miraculously escaped the Night of the Long Knives and transferred to the SS in 1937. Two years later, he was promoted to the rank of major. As head of a special military unit, he scoured Europe during World War II in search of valuable works of art. On Himmler’s command, he ransacked museums and private collections and had trainloads of art transported to Germany. Franz Fiedle performed his duties with considerable diligence. He was a cultivated man with the allure of a true-blue aristocrat. He was also extremely ambitious. When he got his way, he was the most civilized man in the world. But those who crossed him were treated with exceptional brutality. He had more than a hundred people executed in Russia because he narrowly missed confiscating a Fabergé egg.”
“Is all this in the diary?” Creytens asked, his suspicions aroused.
“Yes and no,” said Croos. “I’m also basing my words on the report provided by our German colleagues.”
“Of course, Commissioner. Continue.”
“There were rumors in Hallstatt that Fiedle senior had hung around with a certain corporal with artistic aspirations. You know the one. They had made each other’s acquaintance at the front during the Great War. When the Führer-to-be was wounded in action and sent for treatment to a field hospital near Bruges, Fiedle visited his brother in arms several times. He used the opportunity to explore the city and immediately fell in love with it. The two comrades lost touch after the war, but in 1938 Hitler tracked him down and added him to his personal staff.
“Franz’s son Dietrich grew up in a protected environment, spared in the idyllic setting of Hallstatt from the horrors of the war. Franz Fiedle abandoned his wife after the war and fled to South America, although he sent money on a regular basis to pay for his son’s upbringing. Dietrich studied Classics at the University of Munich and turned out to be a typical representative of the German post-war ‘economic miracle’ or Wirtschaftswunder.
“When the tourist industry took off in the nineteen-sixties, Dietrich managed to bag a comfortable directorship at Kindermann’s, and he watched the company grow into Europe’s largest tour operator.
“Dietrich remained a bachelor. He was married to the firm. His ample salary allowed him to indulge in expensive call girls on a weekly basis.”
“Thank God we don’t live in Germany,” said Creytens light-heartedly. “If what you say is to be believed, they must have the entire population under surveillance.”
“But Dietrich Fiedle’s existence was otherwise fairly nondescript,” said Croos, almost apologizing for the man.
Creytens thought back to his childhood and to the tall and imposing SS officer. He found it almost inconceivable that the friendly Fiedle, who had treated him so often to a box of cherry bonbons, would have had innocent people shot for an egg.
“Extremely impressive, Commissioner.”
“Thank you, sir, but in my opinion there is a genuine link between Fiedle’s murder and the Michelangelo statue.”
Creytens let the photos slip through his fingers. The story had confused him. Franz had always denied the atrocities, but Creytens the man was starting to have his doubts. Bonbons and murderers often go hand in hand, he thought, his anxiety beginning to peak. His father had assured him that Franz confined himself to “confiscating” artworks.
“I’m impressed, Commissioner. I suggest we send you to Hallstatt with a rogatory letter granting official authorization to collect more information.” A trip abroad on the Belgian state has been known to appease many a conscience, he thought. “Give me a couple of days for the practical arrangements.”
Creytens had returned to his holier-than-thou tone. Croos listened with his mouth wide open. Austria was a beautiful country. His wife wouldn’t appreciate the idea of his going alone, but he could take care of that.
“We should also be aware of the economic implications, Commissioner. For that reason, I must insist that we keep the affair intra muros.”
Croos grinned. Now he understood why Creytens wanted to sweep the dossier under the carpet. The investigating magistrate was alluding to
the “principle of discretionary powers.”
Bruges owed its very existence to mass tourism, and Michelangelo’s Madonna was one of the city’s top attractions. If you visit Paris you’ll want to see the Mona Lisa, and if you go to Amsterdam the Night Watch is sure to be on your list. If the contents of the diary were to leak out, the damage to the tourist industry could be immense. Such circumstances gave magistrates the right to dismiss even serious cases if the consequences and the potential conviction of those responsible might be a danger to the public interest. Croos sidelined his personal animosity because he presumed that Creytens had this principle in mind.
“You can count on me, sir. This stays between us,” he conceded conspiratorially. “We should carefully check all the information before we proceed.”
“Very wise, Commissioner. We’re probably dealing with a run-of-the-mill homicide. And why should we alarm the public with the contents of some obscure diary?”
“The public are only interested in headlines, sir. God only knows what kind of sensational front pages the press boys would come up with if they got ahold of this information.”
“Precisely, Commissioner. I’m happy we’re on the same wavelength. Have the material delivered to me, and I’ll keep you informed of further developments. Agreed?”
“At your command, sir.”
Croos returned the receiver to its cradle in slow motion.
Peering through the glass office door, Inspector Vermeire had no idea why the commissioner now had such an expression of bliss on his face. A couple of minutes earlier, he had appeared to be pretty upset.
The balding inspector knocked three times and opened the door just enough to stick in his tanned face.
“Deputy Martens wants a word with the commissioner,” he said. “She’s been swinging her ass up and down the corridor for a good fifteen minutes.”
Vermeire, nicknamed the Rat, was fifty-six and known for his sexist remarks. He had a serious porn collection at home, put together in the nineteen-sixties when the vice guys turned porn confiscation into a sport.
“Let her in, for Christ’s sake,” Croos barked. Vermeire pulled back from the door opening like a startled Moray eel and winked at Hannelore Martens. She ignored the inspector’s lecherous look and marched into the commissioner’s office.
