The Forger

by Paul Watkins

  Slowly, Fleury raised his head. “Did he really say that?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, that’s more like it.” Fleury heaved out the other bottle of champagne and quickly had it open.

  “Valya’s back,” I said.

  He had the bottle to his lips, but now he set it back down on the table, thumb over the mouth to stop it from overflowing. “Is she alone?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. I told him about Dietrich.

  Fleury looked around the room while I spoke, alternately blinking and squinting, as if he could see my words as they drifted by in the air. He picked Dietrich’s card out of the basket and stared at it. Then he flipped it onto the table. When I had finished, Fleury sat there for a moment in silence. He pushed the champagne away from him, nudging the bottle with the tips of his fingers until it was as far away as he could get it. “I seem to have lost my thirst,” he said. Then he stood up suddenly, the chair scooting back across the floor. “Do you think it matters to her that the man is a Nazi? Is it possible she doesn’t know?”

  “She knows all right,” I said.

  * * *

  THE CAR THAT CAME to meet us was a black Mercedes convertible, with front doors that opened from the left side and swoosh cowlings over the front wheels. It was immaculately polished. The driver wore a black uniform and a black cap. He showed no reaction to my gray flannel trousers and rumpled sports jacket or Fleury’s tired-out tuxedo with its frayed lapel.

  The German Embassy was on the Rue de Lille. It was lit with floodlights and long, dark curtains were drawn across the windows. Two huge red banners hung down in front of the building. In the middle of the red was a white circle with a swastika inside. The car pulled up outside the building and the door was opened by an embassy staffer who wore a short blue tunic with brass buttons. People in tuxedos and evening gowns milled around the entrance.

  We made jokes to shake off our nervousness.

  “I insist that you walk three paces behind me and to the left,” Fleury told me. “I can’t have you spoiling my image.” He raised his eyebrows and peered at me, which made him look like an old barn owl.

  “What image is that?” I asked him.

  “The dashing image,” he explained. “The raucous, devil-may-care exuberance that surrounds me like a golden halo and ignites the passions of all who cross my path.”

  The driver glanced at Fleury in the rearview mirror.

  Fleury noticed this. “Oh, yes,” he told the man. “I see you feel it, too.”

  The driver’s face remained without expression. He looked back at the road.

  When we arrived, I gave our names to a man who stood at the door and showed us in. It was crowded and noisy. I heard laughter and the beehive hum of talk. A band played waltzes in a space between two huge staircases that curved around and joined on the second floor.

  We were ushered over to a short, stocky, gray-haired man in his mid-fifties, who wore a tuxedo and a large red sash across his shoulder. He introduced himself as Otto Abetz. “I am the ambassador,” he said, and gave a short bow.

  We told him our names.

  Abetz immediately turned his attention to Fleury. “I understand you own a gallery. I’ve been looking for someone to serve as an appraiser for my decorations,” he said, lifting his champagne glass to indicate the walls, which were already hung with paintings.

  I saw a Rembrandt whose title I knew was Les Pèlerins d’Emmaus. There was a self-portrait by Dürer. A portrait of a man in black clothes by Bellini, and a Caravaggio of Christ being whipped at a post. They were all in huge frames, each with elaborate plaster moldings that had been covered in gold leaf.

  “Perhaps you can stop by the embassy,” said Abetz.

  “I’m sure I can.” Fleury smiled confidently. He was in his element now, and he could not be outtalked or outcharmed or outstared if things got ugly.

  There was nothing for me to do but stand back and watch him at work, because this was definitely not what I did best. Already I could feel sweat cooling as the drops inched down my side.

  “Tomorrow would not be too soon,” Abetz told Fleury. He excused himself and walked over to another group of people, champagne glass locked in one hand and cigar smoldering in the other.

  “That’s what we came to do,” said Fleury. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you talking about leaving a party when you’ve only just arrived,” I said.

  “In this case,” Fleury told me, “I’ll make an exception.”

  On our way out, I heard someone call my name.

  It was Dietrich. He was sitting in a small room off to the side of the main door. It appeared to be some kind of library. The walls were made up of bookshelves, each inch of space jammed with volumes. The room was thick with smoke and crowded. Dietrich was lounging in the middle of the room in a large red leather chair, cradling a glass of cognac.

  Sitting on the arm of Dietrich’s chair was Valya. She wore a long black gown and a double band of pearls close at her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen—the comedians have arrived!” she announced, when we walked in.

  “Did you get that little present I sent over?” asked Dietrich.

  “Yes, I did,” I replied.

  “Tip of the iceberg!” he shouted. “I can get you anything! We at the ERR—”

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “What’s the ERR?”

  “Short for the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg. If we had to say our full name all the time, we’d be too tired to do anything except introduce ourselves.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case. “Smoke?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” I said.

  “And you, perhaps, Mr. Fleury?” He held the case out to Fleury.

  He already knew who Fleury was, even though they had never met before. I wondered how much else Dietrich knew.

  “No, thank you,” replied Fleury stiffly. He was studying Dietrich, appraising every facet of the man. Then he turned to Valya. He gave her a small, sad wave, like a tired man polishing a window. “I’ve missed seeing you around,” he said.

  Valya smiled at him, but it was a nameless kind of smile with no way to read what lay behind it. She seemed too caught up in being where she was, in the pleasure of it and the distance it put between herself and the shivering, naked woman I had seen when I first arrived in Paris.

  Dietrich snapped the case closed and slid it back into his pocket.

  Nobody else in the room seemed to notice us. They talked amongst themselves and filled their glasses from bottles ranged along the bookshelves.

  “So, Mr. Fleury, what do you think of our ambassador?” asked Dietrich.

  “He serves very good champagne,” replied Fleury.

  “He wants you to find him some paintings, doesn’t he?”

  “He didn’t say that, exactly,” said Fleury.

  “Oh, but that’s what he wants. Trust me. If he hasn’t asked you today, he will ask you tomorrow. Am I right? Did he schedule you in for tomorrow?”

  “He did,” answered Fleury.

  Dietrich stamped one foot and laughed. “I knew it!”

  “We ought to be going,” I said.

  Dietrich slid his foot forward until the toe of his boot touched my shoe. “Just remember,” he said. “I got to you first.”

  * * *

  WE DECIDED TO WALK home rather than take the car. There was a curfew, but we had been given a pass to show to any police who might stop us.

  “People will see us as collaborators,” said Fleury. “Going to embassy parties. That’s why we left in such a hurry.”

  “Once they found out what we were really doing,” I told him, “that would change their minds.”

  “What makes you think you’ll have a chance to explain?” Fleury asked. “This man Tombeau,” he went on. “He’s going to look after us, isn’t he?”

  “You can ask Tombeau yourself,” I replied. “We’re meeting him tomorrow.”

 
; The way we got in touch with Tombeau was to call a taxicab company called Moto Fabry and ask to be taken to 100 Rue Voisin. There was no such address, but a cab would come along and Tombeau would be driving it.

  I made the call the following morning and sat with Fleury at my kitchen table, which was the only table in my apartment. I tried to teach Fleury how to play poker. I was left with the feeling that once he’d learned it, if I were foolish enough to gamble with him, he would rob me blind.

  Finally, the buzzer rang. Tombeau announced himself with gruff impatience.

  When Fleury and I reached the street, we were surprised to see that Tombeau’s taxi was in fact only half a car, with the front seats and the engine taken out. In place of these parts of the car was a small motor scooter, which was attached to the rear with two welded metal pipes. Tombeau sat on the scooter, wildly revving its little engine. His shoes were wooden-soled, which had become a fashion of necessity now that leather was scarce.

  “What is this contraption?” asked Fleury, his nose in the air.

  Tombeau was in no mood to explain anything. “Just get in!” he shouted over the shrill, pathetic buzzing of the engine. “There’s plenty of room.”

  There was not plenty of room. Fleury and I clambered into the back, shoulders hunched to make space. The exhaust was hot and rude in our faces. We moved almost at a walking pace down the road. People stopped to watch us crawl past.

  “It’s sort of a motorized rickshaw,” said Fleury, trying to sound jolly, but at the same time arching his back with discomfort.

  “I’ll tell you what it is,” shouted Tombeau. “It’s what’s left of my damned cab! I got in an accident last week and this was all they could salvage. Besides, gasoline has gotten too expensive. This is more economical.”

  Tombeau wore a floppy cap. His big square head craned forward. One enormous fist gripped the wheel. The other yanked the gearstick around so viciously that I felt sorry for it. Tombeau was a hopeless driver, almost as bad as Pankratov, and swore almost as colorfully. His obscenities flowed together in one long incantation of rudeness. Tombeau explained that he had resigned from the French police before the Germans arrived, giving an excuse of ill health. Then he went to work for Moto Fabry. “The Moto Fabry company,” he explained, “is run by a group called Fabry-Georges. They’re gangsters. They run gambling and protection rackets. Fabry-Georges have businesses all over Paris. Now that the Germans are here, they’re hiring themselves out to do any dirty work the Germans don’t want to do themselves.”

  “So what are you doing working for Fabry-Georges?” I asked.

  “It’s the safest place to be,” he shouted over the whine of the straining engine. “Who’s going to question which side I’m on now?”

  Fleury asked him to explain why Dietrich and Abetz seemed to be in competition with each other for paintings.

  “Dietrich works for the ERR,” said Tombeau. “That’s a completely different organization from the embassy. The ERR have already taken over the Jeu de Paume and are stockpiling paintings there.”

  I asked Tombeau where these paintings were coming from, since Dietrich had told me the Germans promised not to raid the property of French citizens.

  “It’s from Jewish collections and galleries. The Rothschilds. The Wildensteins. The Jews have been designated enemies of the German state and anything they own is considered stolen property. They’ve already raided the Jacques-Seligmann Gallery on the Place Vendôme.

  “The ERR comes under the protection of Hermann Göring himself,” continued Tombeau. “So far, he’s made two trips to the Jeu de Paume and has bought over sixty works of art—sketches, paintings, statues, furniture. Whatever he wants.”

  “Why is he bothering to buy them? Why doesn’t he just take them?” I asked.

  “Göring might as well be stealing them,” replied Tombeau. “He brings in his own appraisers to the Jeu de Paume. They undervalue whatever painting he wants. Then he knocks the price down even further. No one lifts a finger to stop Göring and Abetz wants the same kind of deal. That’s why he wants you to work for him instead of Dietrich.”

  “Which one should we choose?” asked Fleury.

  “Choose neither,” ordered Tombeau. “Just get them both to trade you as many paintings as you can before they get shipped off to Germany and we never see them again.”

  “How long do you expect this to last?” I asked him.

  He glanced at me with his big, deep-set eyes and then snapped his head back to the road. “It depends on how good you are. A lot of German buyers are getting the artwork back to Germany as quickly as they can and stashing it away in warehouses. They don’t have time to examine the pieces as thoroughly as they should.” Now we were going in circles round the Place de la République. “Nevertheless, I hope you’re as good as Pankratov says you are.”

  “I’m more worried about your driving than his painting,” said Fleury.

  Tombeau laughed through his clenched teeth with an intermittent hissing sound, like air being squeezed out of a ball.

  We hurtled through the intersection of Rue des Pyrénées and Avenue Gambetta. The traffic was being directed by a caped gendarme with long white gauntlets on his hands. The gendarme stared bug-eyed as Tombeau’s taxi passed by only a few inches from him. The policeman’s cape wafted up in his face, and by the time he had pulled it down, we were already far away. His white-gloved hands waved madly as he cursed us.

  Tombeau stopped the cab at the beginning of the Rue de Lille, about ten houses down from the German Embassy. The red banners hung limp in the still morning air.

  It was time for our meeting with Abetz.

  Tombeau turned to face us. His forehead was pebbled with sweat. “Now go kiss some arses for the glory of France.”

  * * *

  AN EMBASSY STAFFER DIRECTED us around to a door at the side of the building.

  The only signs that there had been a party the night before were black smudges on the sidewalk, where cigarettes had been stamped out.

  We had our names checked at a desk by a pretty but stern-faced woman whose hair was knotted in what looked to be a painfully tight bun at the back of her head. The hammering clatter of typewriters filled the little rooms that we passed by. We were shown downstairs to a basement office, and told to wait.

  Fleury sat down and closed his eyes with a catlike smile. He didn’t seem the least bit nervous.

  I wanted to ask how he managed to stay so calm.

  Only a few seconds had gone by when a man in military uniform stepped into the room. He looked younger than I was and had several medals on his chest. I noticed the motto on his belt buckle: GOTT MIT UNS. He sat behind the desk and drummed his fingers on the pale green blotter as if giving himself some imaginary fanfare of introduction. “I am Leutnant Behr,” he said. “I am a military attaché with the embassy. I’m responsible for purchasing works of art for Ambassador Abetz.”

  “What’s the army got to do with art?” Fleury talked to the young man like a schoolmaster speaking to a boy who couldn’t remember his lessons.

  From the glazing of the soldier’s eyes, it was clear that Fleury had already struck a nerve.

  I found myself staring at the small eagle and swastika done in silver thread that was stitched above his right chest pocket. With each breath, it seemed to spread its wings and let them fall again.

  “Before the war,” said Behr, “I was apprenticed to Mr. Hasso Dietz of the Dietz art gallery in Berlin.”

  “The Dietz Gallery.” Fleury drawled out the words. “Oh, yes.”

  “I joined the army, but after the fighting in Poland they sent me here.”

  “Lucky you,” said Fleury.

  “Luck nothing,” replied Behr. “That stint at the gallery was just something my uncle found for me as a summer job. I didn’t give a damn about art before I started at the gallery, and when I was finished, I gave even less of a damn. I signed up to fight. Not to sit here and do nothing. I’m getting out of here as soon as I can.�
��

  “Where is the ambassador?” asked Fleury.

  “The ambassador is busy,” said Behr, straightening his back. “I will be acting as the ambassador’s representative in all future dealings with you. Now.” He spun in his chair to face the notice board, ripped a document off the cork with one sharp motion and then spun to face us again, leaving one white triangle of paper still tacked to the board. “Here is what I would like from you.”

  “Tell you what,” said Fleury. “Let me tell you what I can do for the ambassador. That will save us all some time.”

  Behr glared at Fleury for a moment. Then slowly he eased his chair away from the desk. He tilted it back on two legs, until he was resting against the wall. He flipped the document onto the blotter. Then he folded his arms across his stomach. “Fine,” he said.

  “You’re looking for works by artists such as Rembrandt, Vermeer, Correggio, Hals, Titian, Dürer, Brueghel. Is that right?”

  “Yes, yes,” droned the young man, “and Velázquez, Holbein, Cranach and Van Dyck. All of them.”

  “And,” continued Fleury, “you have no interest in artists such as Dufy, Sisley, Corot and the like.”

  “I wouldn’t even say their names out loud in here if I were you.”

  “Very good,” said Fleury. “But you have a stock of paintings by these artists. Confiscated from the Rosenberg Gallery, the Wildenstein Gallery, the Bernheim-Jeune Gallery. Am I right?”

  Behr raised his chin almost imperceptibly. “You might be.”

  “For exchange perhaps.” Fleury picked Behr’s pen off the desk. He turned it around in his hand.

  “Possibly.” Behr watched his pen, as if he were going into a trance.

  “I’ll get you the paintings you’re after,” said Fleury. “This gentleman here is my”—he paused—“my field agent. Yes.” He liked this title he had given me and he said it again, as if to make it official. “Field agent. His particular skills are useful in this difficult time.”

  “I don’t need to know where they come from,” said Behr.

  “Naturally.”

  “Everything will be paid for,” said Behr. “We will open an account in your name and will make deposits in Reichsmarks. It’s all here.” He tipped forward and tapped his index finger on the document. “It will all be typed up once you have agreed.”