INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL

by Richard B. Schwartz

  “Possibly.”

  “That’s a very long time,” Baker said.

  “Perhaps not so long to those who were being stalked,” Tom answered.

  “These were elderly men,” Diana said. “They had all but disappeared anyway. Perhaps the killer was just as old. Perhaps he was just as poor. He needed time to secure his weapons, to hire associates, to gather his strength as well as his information.”

  “I know your feelings on the subject, but I continue to return to Kepler,” Baker said.

  “It couldn’t have been Kepler because Kepler’s death is somehow related to David’s,” Diana said, “and David had nothing to do with these other men.”

  “Nothing that we know of,” Baker said, correcting her gently.

  The boat passed Wapping. “Look there,” Baker said, changing the subject momentarily. “Wapping Dock. Where the mutineers and pirates were executed. The authorities let their bodies hang in state until three tides had washed over them. A lesson to others who might be contemplating a similar career. Swift and sure justice that. Necessary in those times, of course. No real police in London yet. Made an example of criminals then, they did. Forced the apprentices to attend public executions; kept their hands clean and their minds concentrated. It’s all changed now, of course.” He took a sip of his whiskey.

  “You may have something there,” Tom said.

  “Swift justice? Not much of that now.”

  “No, the absence of police.”

  “What do you mean?” Baker asked.

  “There were no police and there were no systems of communication beyond whistles and shouts. No cars, no airplanes, no high-speed trains, no telephones, no fax machines, no computers, no shared records. Nothing.”

  “I don’t take your point,” Baker said.

  “My point is that our killer should have had some of those things at his disposal. This was not the eighteenth century and yet it took him thirteen or fourteen years to find and murder all of his victims, victims who were all residing in Berlin, victims who had surfaced from time to time over a period of nearly thirty years and who had been seen together as recently as 1972.”

  “And?” Baker said, curtly.

  “Something interrupted the process; something kept him from using the tools and weapons and resources that should have been at his disposal. Perhaps he had no such resources.”

  “But why should he not use them?”

  “Perhaps he didn’t have access to them.”

  “Tom, I’m not following you,” Diana said. “Anyone trying to find someone at that time could simply look in a phone book or a deed register. He could have checked a newspaper morgue or an index. Why would a killer not do that?”

  “Think about it,” Tom said. “We’ve been imagining this situation in conventional terms: five men in Berlin, say, all of them walking the same streets, waiting for the right opportunity. Suddenly one is missing. Then two, then three, then, finally, four. But what if the situation was totally different, as in the eighteenth century?”

  “Come now, Deaton,” Baker interrupted. “The killer was no bloody time-traveller.”

  “Of course he wasn’t. Try this,” Tom said. “You’ve just had another skirmish over the Falkland Islands. England nearly went to war over the Falklands in the eighteenth century.”

  “Yes, and?” Baker said, trying to restrain himself.

  “There was a great difference between the two situations,” Tom said.

  “Yes, of course there was a great difference,” Baker said. “There were no modern weapons.”

  “There were also no modern communications,” Tom said. “Before the government could act it needed intelligence from the Islands themselves. Each communication involved a time lag of approximately six months. A decision was made and then everyone sat on their hands, waiting to hear of the result.”

  “I still don’t take your point,” Baker said.

  “Perhaps,” Diana said, “the Tenedos partners and their killer were separated in space as well as in available resources. Perhaps they were so distant from one another that they couldn’t find each other easily or quickly.”

  “Perhaps they were in some place where communication systems were nonexistent or not in use,” Tom said.

  “They were in bloody Berlin,” Baker said.

  “The Tenedos partners appear to have been in Berlin much of the time,” Tom said, “but what of their killer?”

  “I still don’t follow,” Baker said.

  “Forget weapon and motive for a moment and focus on opportunity,” Tom said. “The problem is that we must account for a great lapse of time between events and, possibly, a lack of contact between the killer and victims. Perhaps the killer had fled Germany and gone to some remote area; many did.”

  “Hitler in the jungles of Bolivia and all that?” Baker said.

  “Possibly,” Tom answered.

  “Very well,” Baker said, “but then he somehow returned.”

  “Yes.”

  “For what reason?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “And then it took him fourteen years to finish the job he started in 1975.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Bloody hell. We don’t know much at all then, do we?”

  “We know a great deal,” Tom said. “We’ve only been looking for a few days. Besides, we have things that your pirates didn’t.”

  “Phones, computers, and bloody fax machines.”

  “Yes.”

  “We have something else,” Diana said. “We know that the killer or his people have recently been in California, France, and England.”

  “If these cases are connected,” Baker said. “That is not at all certain. For one thing there is a break in the killer’s method. Your brother, Dr. Bennett, was found dead in his studio. Kepler was left in his bathtub; he did not disappear. Michael Sechrist—assuming for the sake of argument that his death is related as well—did not disappear either. His body was found in his garage. And your associates in France were simply gunned down, as was the killer’s accomplice. No disappearance there; your friend was assaulted in the hotel and their man was left in his car by the side of the road in plain sight. Either this is a different killer or he’s become very sloppy indeed.”

  “There is another possibility,” Tom said.

  “And what is that?” Baker asked.

  “The killer does not know that we are aware of the connection between those murders and these.”

  “Assuming that there is such a connection.”

  “The assumption is becoming more and more plausible,” Tom said.

  “Give me a possible scenario,” Baker said. “I don’t mean to challenge, but I would find it quite useful if you could do so.”

  “All right,” Tom said, taking a slow drink of his whiskey and then placing his glass on the table. “I will give you a scenario. Imagine that the Tenedos partners had lost their business and were unable to continue as legitimate dealers. Instead, let us suppose that they began to deal in forgeries. The chaos associated with the war and its aftermath would have made that easier. Pieces were lost. Pieces disappeared and resurfaced later. Pieces were created that could not come on the market at that time. Works were confiscated or destroyed; trade was suspended. Suppose the Tenedos partners marketed forgeries; suppose they shipped them to distant parts of the world, to private collectors with deep pockets and shallow knowledge.”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Years later one of the individuals they had duped discovered what had happened and sought them out. By then they had dispersed and were in semi-retirement. One or more of them were eventually found but each refused to make restitution. When they began to feel threatened, one or more of the remaining partners discovered the outraged buyer, k
illed him, and arranged their own disappearances. Any other duped buyers would draw the conclusion that they had been killed and assume that justice had been served.”

  “And now they are back in business, but selling originals and putting forgeries in their place,” Diana said.

  “Yes, possibly,” Tom said.

  “Very doubtful,” Baker said.

  “But not impossible,” Tom said, “and not implausible.”

  “No. Is that what you think happened?”

  “I have no idea what happened,” Tom answered. “All I am saying is that there are plausible explanations which fit the known facts.”

  “Yes,” Baker said. “We might also consider this. The selling of forgeries is easier in a world where the provenance of the pieces has become clouded. Computers and reference books and curators and bloody art historians change all that. One can only go on so long selling what purport to be lost masterpieces. Tenedos would have had to have changed their line. On the other hand, if they began to sell known masterpieces they would have realized one clear advantage: their purchasers would always remain invisible and silent. They would know that their newly-acquired works of art had been stolen and they could not allow the pieces’ existence (or their possession of them) to become known. Second, the remaining Tenedos partners would have what you yanks call a fall-back if they ever decided to return to their old ways. They could sell forgeries of known pieces. If their customers discovered that they had been swindled, they would be unable to go to the police without announcing the fact that they had knowingly purchased stolen goods.”

  “But a skilled forgery would require a skilled expert for its—what would you say—authentication?” Diana said. “Someone would have to provide assurances that the pieces were good enough to pass muster. Perhaps that is where Kepler came in (or where we are supposed to believe that he came in). The forger or forgers killed him and implicated him in the crime to distract attention from themselves. They’ve successfully escaped again.”

  “Right. It would actually work either way,” Tom said. “If Kepler detected or, as you say, authenticated a forgery he has now been silenced. At the same time, Tenedos (through Kepler) is associated with the theft of a masterpiece while each of his former partners remain invisible and forgotten, presumed dead. At this point we can’t be certain of the killer or killers’ precise activities, but we can imagine several scenarios and see how Kepler might have been involved.”

  “This is quite amusing,” Baker said. “You’ve nearly landed me.”

  “I was not trying to persuade, I was merely trying to suggest,” Tom said.

  “I understand. Ah, here’s the Tower. They’ll let us off here and I can check with the Yard on Sechrist and St. Paul’s. Perhaps they’ve made progress. We’ll be back in touch presently.”

  “Excuse me for a moment; I want to make a call,” Tom said.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Tower Hill

  Saturday, 2:17 p.m.

  “Who did you call, Tom?” Diana asked. They were moving through a crush of people, sidestepping those who were edging their way toward the kiosks to buy tickets for the Tower and doing their best to blend in with those who had completed the tour and were trying to free their hands and elbows to compare the souvenirs they had purchased from the Tower gift shop. Gardeners were trimming the grass on Tower Hill and bartenders from nearby pubs were clearing empty glasses from outside tables as the scent of stale beer mingled with the smells of a working river. The tourists queuing near the Tower entrance were largely couples and families, while isolated individuals and groups stood near the pubs and drink stands with glasses or cups in their hands. Tom heard Dutch, French, and Spanish voices. A group of four German teenagers were standing together, talking loudly. The girls were in black jeans and black tank tops with silver necklaces and workboots; the boys wore bootleg 49ers and Berkeley tee-shirts with earrings and razor stubble. Each of them was holding a cigarette and releasing small puffs of smoke with each word or laugh.

  “I was talking to the Chief; he promised to talk again to an old drinking buddy,” Tom said.

  “From where, Army Intelligence?”

  “No, as a matter of fact. I’m not exactly sure what his employer’s current designation is.”

  “Part of the CIA?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And he’ll give Chief Dietrich information, just like that?”

  “No. He’ll probably ask one of his assistants to do it. He’s busy keeping an eye on the Chinese.”

  “Is that legal—passing secret information to local law enforcement?”

  “The Chief will have to put in a formal request. That will make it kosher. I’m very glad he agreed to do it; we may get an interesting response to a question I posed.”

  “What information did you ask him to provide?”

  “I gave him five names: Bachmann, Berthold, Erhard, Driessen, and Kepler.”

  “They sound like the accounting firm from hell.”

  “They do, don’t they?”

  “What is he supposed to find out about them?”

  “He’s supposed to do a run on each, checking to see where and when their names surface, particularly in the period between 1972 and 1975. He’s also supposed to check on anything suspicious that could involve Germans and/or art pieces.”

  “During the same period?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a large order.”

  “Yes, well, they have a big computer and a lot of programmers.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “For the runs? Once they’ve asked the questions, a matter of minutes. It will take much longer to analyze what they turn and see whether any of it has any potential significance.”

  “Will the Chief tell his friend all of the details of our case?”

  “He’ll give him as much as he needs to know in order to do the job. He and the people in his shop basically answer requests. They aren’t in the habit of asking for reasons.”

  They met for dinner at Rules. Baker was late and apologetic. The waiter approached immediately, anxious to take his drink order. “Just some whiskey and soda,” he said. “Have you ordered?” he asked.

  “We were waiting for you. What would you recommend?” Diana said.

  “Contrary to belief, the game is for the tourists. The yanks go home and talk about all of the strange things they’ve eaten at Rules. We get too much of it in school. If I were you I’d have the steak. Aberdeen Angus, you know. You can always eat weasel or whatever, but Scottish beef is something else again.”

  “Have you learned anything?” Tom asked.

  “No, we haven’t, but we’re really rather relieved after all. Wouldn’t you be? There are too many things in our cathedrals that we’d rather not lose. We had one brief start. One of our chaps thought that they might have taken the bust of Blake from the poets’ corner in the Abbey. Epstein, you know. A bit piercing for my taste, but that’s Blake after all. The bust was authenticated; I don’t know who thought it looked off. It turned out to be the lighting and some dust in the eye sockets. When you’re looking for something odd you can always find it, what?”

  “How about at St. Paul’s?” Tom asked.

  “Not a thing out of place,” Baker said. “We had another thought though. We’ve begun to check paintings and statuary of every saint with a surname beginning with P. Needless to say, that has not been easy, not in a city filled with galleries and museums. The staff of the Courtauld is lending a hand. For example, there’s a statue of St. Peter, upside down on a cross. All in gold, mind you, and done by Cellini. Priceless, of course. It’s in one of the side chapels at the Brompton Oratory. And it’s still there I’m happy to say.

  “That’s the good news. The other news is that the Yard is a shambles. They don’t have the staff to check the riches of the entire bloody country
, but what can they do? They certainly can’t let these buggers steal from us the way they’ve stolen from the French.”

  “So they’re checking the entire country,” Tom said.

  “Trying to,” Baker said. “There’s just too much of it.” The waiter brought his drink and Baker gulped it. “Perhaps one more of those,” he said. “Steaks all around?” Tom and Diana nodded. “And a nice wine. How’s the house claret?”

  “Not as nice as this one, sir,” the waiter said, pointing to an Australian wine on the list at the side of the menu. “This one is quite lovely and good value as well.”

  “Why not bring two bottles,” Baker said, “save you a trip later.”

  “Very good,” the waiter said.

  “Now, where was I?”

  “The dimensions of the problem,” Tom said.

  “Yes, quite. Well, I’ll give you an example,” he said, finishing the rest of his whiskey in the second drink. “Take Plymouth. Hours away. Practically to Land’s End and it’s filled with things that one might nick. You know the story about Drake and the Armada. He’s on the hoe playing at bowls and he gets word of the Spanish ships. Tells them he’ll finish his game first and then sail. Quite charming. Rubbish of course.”

  “He was waiting for the tide; he couldn’t leave until then,” Tom said.

  “Quite,” Baker said. “Anyway, the queen was quite grateful for his help on that occasion and others and the local museum is filled with tokens of her appreciation. Navigational instruments and all that. Here . . .” he said, digging his fingernail into the tablecloth and outlining the island. “We’re running all round the country. Here’s Plymouth, there’s Oxford and the Ashmolean, here’s Glasgow and the University gallery, here’s bloody Edinburgh and the castle and there . . . would be Aberdeen. We did hear of a possible theft at Aberdeen. The University has an old sword in its collection which may or may not have been stolen. Very hard to say. The piece wasn’t important, so who knows whether it was authentic to begin with.”

  “What sword?” Tom asked.

  “Not excalibur, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Baker answered, as the waiter removed his whiskey glass and brought a fresh substitute. “It had some scrawls on it and the name Angus.”