The Chrysalis

by Heather Terrell

  Mara walked over to the boxes of still-classified World War II documents and picked up a particularly dog-eared report. “Listen to this. It’s from the Compendium of the Art Looting Investigative Unit’s Detailed Interrogation Reports: 24 November 1946. ‘With respect to the history of the complex web of art looting and acquisition spun by the Nazis, Kurt Strasser was one of the most important German figures based in a neutral country, Switzerland. He does not seem to be a leading force in the art-looting activities, but he was willing to profit from them. His level of culpability in the events is difficult to ascertain. It may be said, however, that during World War II, Strasser actually made financial gains from the misfortune of others.”

  “That sounds like our man.”

  “It then goes on to describe just how he perpetrated his schemes.” Mara grew quiet as she reread the report to herself.

  “Well?” Lillian faced Mara, her face dry and her curiosity piqued.

  “It seems that old Kurt, having been a German soldier in World War I, was something of a German nationalist and Nazi supporter. He even contributed to the Nazi Party from time to time, although he never joined. The report says that he described himself as ‘consultant and expert’ to dealers rather than a dealer himself.”

  “That’s all well and good. But what about his trafficking in stolen art?” Lillian was impatient with Mara’s meandering.

  “I’m getting to that, but this background is critical. He seems to have had a whole network of German art cronies who were linked to the Nazi Party, connections that stemmed from his own military days. Like his pal Walter Andreas Hofer, who was the ‘director of the art collection of the reichsmarschall.’ And he also had a whole network of art dealers in France, Switzerland, and Germany who were known Nazi sympathizers.”

  “Come on, Mara.” Lillian was antsy.

  “Okay, okay. Strasser’s system worked like this. Somehow, he would land upon an old master or a Germanic painting preferred by the Nazis, then go to one of his usual cast of characters, a fellow collaborationist dealer or a Nazi contact like Hofer, and exchange the painting for a number of ‘degenerate’ pieces, valuable paintings that the Nazis loathed. Strasser would then transport these paintings to the United States for sale via an American army officer, who could spirit away the paintings courtesy of the military mail.”

  “Is that what happened with The Chrysalis?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but it makes sense. The Chrysalis’s subject must not have been to the Nazis’ liking for some reason, despite its lauded Germanic origin—much like Elderly Jew—so once they stole it in Nice, they must have palmed it off on Strasser along with some of the ‘degenerate’ pieces he really wanted, such as all of those Impressionist paintings you’ve got propped up on your desk. Strasser then got the paintings to the United States, most likely through that mysterious American officer. And Edward somehow got the paintings from that connection.”

  Lillian grew silent. Mara said, “Lillian? I think we should follow up on that.”

  “Follow up on what?”

  “On this American officer. This report never says anything more about him, not even his name; it just cites another interrogation report. The referenced report isn’t here, and I’d really like to track that down.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Well, you got these classified World War II documents from someone, somehow. Is there any way you could go back to that source again and ask who the American officer was?” Mara implored. She knew that Lillian was growing impatient with the rate of their progress and nervous about the outcome. And every time Mara had to ask for more, she felt how tenuous their alliance really was. More and more, she missed Sophia and the solidity of their old connection.

  “I can try, Mara, but I don’t even know how well my contact is these days. He’s quite old.”

  “Please, Lillian. It’s the only way to close the loop on all this, to really understand Edward’s scheme.”

  “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The women returned to their work in silence. The daylight waned, and darkness settled in. When Lillian rose to switch on the brass desk lights, Mara dared to ask, “Can we go look at The Chrysalis?” Mara had begged Lillian to take her to the warehouse where The Chrysalis was stored before. Like a junkie in need of a fix, she hungered for a glimpse of the painting, craved its tranquillity as a salve for the treacherous times. Lillian complied without protest, as if she understood, maybe even shared, Mara’s need.

  Lillian smiled at her. “Why not?”

  They wandered the long, dark hallways to the storage area. Lillian unsealed its various locks with methodical care and entered. Mara followed. Whenever she stood before the painting, Mara felt a kinship with the offering in the woman’s hand, the yellow butterfly bursting forth from the ruptured cocoon.

  They stood in reverential quiet, as they did most visits, but Mara heard Lillian whisper a fragment of an Emily Dickinson poem:

  From Cocoon forth a Butterfly

  As Lady from her Door

  Mara understood the meaning of Lillian’s eerie words and comprehended why Lillian felt such an affinity toward the poet, who had dedicated much of her life’s work, her poems, to a secret male lover referred to only as “Master.”

  Without breaking the silence, she reached out her hand to rest on Lillian’s shoulder. This time, Lillian allowed it.

  twenty-four

  NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

  MARA’S CAB RACED UP FIFTH AVENUE, LONG BEFORE THE streets came alive with the sounds of the workday. Having decided to start the day at Beazley’s, she arrived at the designated meeting spot, the side entrance to the mansion. Lillian was waiting for her with the key in hand. They slipped down the empty hallways and passages. Lillian gave the royal wave to the sleepy night-shift security guards, and she and Mara gained access to the library, closing the door tightly behind them.

  “We’re going to London.” Lillian handed her a first-class ticket on British Airways. Mara understood that Lillian, with her own personal wealth, always traveled well.

  “London?”

  “Yes, for the army officer’s interrogation report. Be careful what you ask for, Mara, you just might get it.”

  “Wow. When?”

  “Tonight. So you’ll have to go get your passport at some point today.”

  Mara and Lillian did not speak for the remainder of the day as they wrapped up the loose ends of their research and Mara made sure her other Severin work would be tended to during her short absence. Mara circled back to all her open questions on Kurt Strasser and his schemes, while Lillian plugged away at holes in the provenances of the other paintings Beazley’s had purchased from Strasser. As the departure hour neared, they packed up their material, including the original Strasser papers and the copy set. There was no time left before the flight to lock them away in a safe hiding place, and neither of the women felt comfortable leaving any of the papers behind.

  They exited Beazley’s in the same surreptitious manner as they had entered, emerging from the dark labyrinth of the library and squinting into the waning light of day. Just as Lillian’s limousine pulled up, Mara heard her name being called. She reeled, afraid to turn round.

  “Hi there, Miss Coyne! Long time, no see!” Larry waved at her.

  Mara half leaned into the car, which already held Lillian. “What should I do?”

  “Go over and speak to him as normally as possible.”

  “And if he asks what I’m doing here?”

  “Just explain you’re picking up the last batch of documents for the case.”

  Mara strolled over to Larry. She gave him a little hug in greeting. “Larry, it’s so good to see you. I looked for you when I got here today, but you weren’t in.” A lie and a gamble, but she needed to divert him, if possible.

  “Yeah, I switched shifts with Sammy today, as a favor. We’ve missed you around these parts. What brings you here?”

  Slowing her brea
th in an attempt to calm her palpitating heart, she explained, “Oh, just rounding up a bunch of papers for that case I’m working on.”

  “Has that case kept you workin’ here over the past few weeks?”

  Mara wasn’t sure how to answer but thought it best to stick as close to the truth as possible in case others had spotted her. “Just the past few days.”

  He paused. “I’m surprised I didn’t see you come in or leave. I don’t miss much.”

  His comment took Mara aback for a moment, as she thought about her use of Beazley’s back entrance. She attempted diversion with a laugh and a teasing pat. “We must have just passed each other.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I missed you. I hope you’ll be back soon.”

  “Oh, I’ll be back from time to time. How could I not?” Mara eked out a flirtatious grin. “Probably not as frequently as before, sorry to say.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad I got to see you, then. I better run—Sammy’ll be chomping at the bit to leave.” He squeezed her forearm. “Bye, Miss Coyne.”

  “Bye, Larry.”

  She climbed into the car, with her heart pounding. Lillian had a scotch at the ready. Mara, who didn’t even like scotch, downed it. Lillian commanded her driver, “George, we’re going to JFK, British Airways. Please hurry.”

  A couple more stiff drinks were had, but no words passed between them on the ride to the airport. There was no need for speech; each knew how the other was feeling. Not until they settled into the British Airways lounge did they relax into conversation; even then, they began with rather desultory exchanges. Then Lillian asked about Michael.

  “You did let him know you’d be unavailable tonight?”

  “Dammit, I completely forgot to call him.” Given the way Michael plagued her mind, Mara couldn’t believe her oversight.

  “It’s not too late. You told him you’d be at depositions all day, so you really wouldn’t have been available until now anyway, would you?”

  “That’s true. I guess I could tell him I have to travel for business, but I usually give him the hotel information when I do. Or he calls me on my cell phone. Neither of which will be possible in London.”

  “I’m sure you can fabricate some Severin ‘emergency’ that will require you to be out of reach for an evening, can’t you?” Lillian quaffed her scotch.

  “Yes. But pray he doesn’t pick up or that a departure announcement doesn’t sound throughout the club just as I’m talking.” After several long, painful rings, Mara got Michael’s voice mail and closed her eyes in thanksgiving.

  Between the drinks in the car and the British Airways lounge, the preliftoff Moet & Chandon, and the luxurious fully reclining seats on the subdued upper deck of the 747, Mara slept for nearly five hours. The rest allowed her to waken refreshed, if a bit hungover. The women zipped through passport control and customs and were quickly outside in the drizzly, gray London dawn, where a Mercedes and driver awaited them.

  “So, how did you manage to get the army officer’s interrogation report?”

  “We’re meeting with an old friend of mine, Julian Entwistle. He used to be the provenance director at Beazley’s in London, before he retired some twenty-odd years ago—at the ripe old age of sixty-five.” Lillian chuckled to herself, Mara assumed at the thought of her own “ripe old age.”

  Lillian continued, “You and I have talked about the fact that, during the war, the Office of Strategic Services requested the formation of a special intelligence unit of military men with a fine arts background to deal with looted art, called the Art Looting Investigation Unit, whose goal was to trace and prevent the flow of art assets used to finance the Nazi war machine, right?”

  “Of course. I’m very familiar with them now.” Mara was irritated with Lillian’s habit of repeating long-trodden ground as if she still thought Mara was a simpleton.

  “Well, Julian was the British liaison to the unit. Through his work with it, he gained access to the classified documents to which you’ve been privy.”

  “Why did he give you a set?”

  “Because he thought it was critical that I have them for my work. And because he knew he could count upon my discretion.”

  “Why didn’t he give you the full set? One that included the U.S. Army officer’s interrogation report.”

  “Even he didn’t have easy access to all the classified papers. He collected what he could without arousing suspicion.”

  “So how’s he going to get us the report on the army officer now?”

  “I didn’t ask. I assume he called in some favors.”

  As they drove the rest of the way in silence, Mara reveled in the unfamiliar sights: the Thames, Covent Garden, and the Embankment. When the car veered off the Embankment, Mara caught sight of The Savoy hotel’s sign. A formally dressed attendant, adorned with a top hat that reminded her of a cherry on a sundae, assisted them out of the car. Mara and Lillian entered the lobby of the London landmark, opened in the late 1800s and destined to become an institution unto itself, the home away from home for royalty, the rich, and the renowned. Mara wondered what Sophia would think of it all.

  In the hotel boutique, Mara bought a new blouse and a fresh pair of undergarments—or knickers, as the sales clerk called them—then checked into her room. The room was far too fussy for Mara’s taste, and she felt stifled by all the cornflower blue and gold, but its windows offered marvelous vistas of the Thames and Big Ben. She stood for a minute looking out over the cityscape, then collapsed into the downy bed.

  Precisely two hours later, as instructed, Mara entered the hotel lobby and found the Thames Foyer. She admired the room, awash in bucolic murals, bordered by rosy-hued marble columns that soared high into whimsically carved ceilings, before she spotted Lillian settled in a pale green banquette at a table in the cozily lit far back corner.

  For an instant, Mara watched her from afar, captivated by Lillian’s unguarded smile and girlish looks, all directed at the mysterious Julian, whose back was toward Mara. For a fleeting second, Mara saw the beautiful young woman Lillian must once have been.

  Lillian looked up as Mara approached. “Ah, Jennifer, you’re here. I’d like to introduce you to my dear friend Julian Entwistle.” Lillian gestured in the gentleman’s direction. “Jennifer Cartwright, Julian Entwistle.”

  Mara reviewed the biography of her assumed identity, Jennifer Cartwright, a new provenance research assistant in Lillian’s department. Lillian wanted Julian to know nothing about the nature of their investigation.

  Julian got up to greet Mara. Though an elderly gentleman with thin white hair, he towered over her. He was elegantly dressed in a custom-made navy suit, a blue-and-white gingham shirt, and handmade black oxford shoes. A cane against the wall served as the only concession to his advanced years, although Mara supposed it could just as well be the final accessory of a properly outfitted Englishman. Given his august appearance, Mara braced herself for an intimidating greeting worthy of Lillian, but instead, she received an engaging, wide grin.

  Mara extended her hand, and much to her surprise, Julian kissed it. “Miss Cartwright, it’s my pleasure.”

  “Julian, would you mind terribly if we ordered a proper tea? Even though it’s nowhere close to the proper time?” Lillian asked.

  “Time. What’s ‘proper time’ to an old man like me? We shall have the works! Lillian, if I recall correctly, the cucumber sandwiches were always your favorites. Oh, and the smoked salmon with tomato. And scones with lots and lots of clotted cream and strawberry preserves.”

  “Oh, Julian, I’ve missed you.” Lillian actually giggled. Another flash of youth crossed her face, but this time, it was followed closely by a look of regret, a feeling Mara only guessed had been worsened by the recent revelations about Edward. Lillian reached out and clasped Julian’s hand. Mara leaned back in her chair to give the old friends a moment of their own.

  Over sips of steeped Savoy house tea and bitefuls of buttery scones heaped with cream and jam, the threesome cha
tted about Beazley’s, old times and new; about Lillian and Julian’s decades-long collaboration over the creation of their respective provenance departments; about the Wild West of the art world in the days of their youth; and about the bureaucracy and lack of romance of the current times. They talked about everything but what they’d come for.

  But then, as if on cue, Julian rose as soon as they finished their last sip of tea.

  He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew an envelope. “Well, ladies, I believe I’ll leave you to it,” he said as he laid the packet on the table. “Let’s not discuss how I came by it. Only know that I must return it shortly, with a promise that no copies will be made. I’ll see you back here in about an hour.” The gentle, repetitive thud of his cane accompanied his departure.

  Mara moved over to Lillian’s side of the table. Lillian unsealed the envelope with a clean butter knife and flattened the contents out on the table. The aged pages contained such small mimeographed words that Lillian pulled out her pince-nez, and Mara leaned close to decipher them.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  WAR DEPARTMENT

  OFFICE OF THE ASSISTANT SECRETARY OF WAR

  STRATEGIC SERVICES UNIT

  ART LOOTING INVESTIGATION UNIT

  WASHINGTON

  And

  OFFICE OF MILITARY GOVERNMENT (U.S.)

  ECONOMICS DIVISION, RESTITUTION BRANCH

  MONUMENTS, FINE ARTS AND ARCHIVES SECTION

  Detailed Interrogation Report

  18 September 1946

  Subject: Frank Shaughnessy

  SSU

  CONFIDENTIAL

  “Frank Shaughnessy. I know that name,” Lillian murmured.

  “You do? From your research?”

  Lillian spoke as if the words themselves were unpalatable. “No. From Edward. Frank Shaughnessy was his best friend.”