The Heir Hunter

by Chris Larsgaard

  He looked beyond the reception area and into a large sitting room. The walls were adorned with rich tapestries and pictures, the carpet was thick and new, but somehow it was like colorful camouflage. The place had a cold feeling to him. It seemed more a hospital ward for the terminally ill than a retirement home. He wondered if Claudia was completely infirm.

  The woman returned in a moment’s time with an even sterner looking companion. The newcomer was a formidable presence, a pinkish-skinned woman with wide shoulders and a thick neck. She eyed Nick disapprovingly.

  “You’re the one who wishes to see Claudia Dorsch?” she demanded.

  “Yes, I believe she’s the one.”

  The woman walked slowly from behind the counter, examining Nick and his translator.

  “I’m the Directing Custodian here. This retirement community is a private home. We don’t let just anyone wander in to see our guests. Many of our boarders are not in the best of health. Unexpected visitors can be upsetting, Herr . . .?”

  “Merchant. Nick Merchant.” Nick extended his card and let her read it.

  “You’ve traveled far, Herr Merchant.”

  “Yes, I have, Frau . . .?”

  “Brausch.”

  Nick motioned to his translator. “Why don’t you step outside for a moment and let Frau Brausch and myself have a word in private?” Rolf exited. “Is there somewhere where we can perhaps sit down and talk, Frau Brausch?”

  “What is this concerning?”

  “A family matter pertaining to one of your residents. Please—just a few moments and I promise I’ll be on my way.” He took extra care to speak softly. The woman seemed too ready for confrontation.

  “This can’t take long. I have too much to do. Follow me.”

  Nick focused on the back of her thick neck and gathered up his resolve. A cranky old nursemaid wasn’t going to stop him so close to the summit. Persuasion combined with the proper amount of half-truths would do the trick.

  They entered a small, brightly lit office. Frau Brausch did not sit down and did not invite her guest to do so. Nick clasped his hands in front of himself and began.

  “Frau Brausch, I have a small business in the United States, a business which does genealogy on families. Through my research I’ve learned a great deal about Claudia’s family, some of whom live in the United States. Claudia may be entitled to a sum of assets in the United States which have been left to her by a recently deceased relative. I simply wish to speak with her briefly, to establish for legal purposes whether or not she is the person I believe her to be, and then inform her of her inheritance.”

  “She has never mentioned relations in the United States. I think you may have the wrong person.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t take me more than ten or fifteen minutes to find out. All I need to do is ask her a few very specific questions.”

  Frau Brausch was holding firm. “We’ve had problems in the past with unexpected visitors. Why didn’t you telephone ahead first? Frau Dorsch is in no condition to even understand any of your . . . legal phrases.”

  “I’m requesting just ten minutes and then I’ll leave. I promise I will be very gentle with her. Please—I’ve come a long way. . ..”

  Brausch was biting her lower lip in frustration. He was wearing her down.

  “As her guardian,” continued Nick, “you’re watching out for her best interests, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am,” she snapped.

  “Well, let me find out if she’s who I believe she is so that I can provide her with what’s legally hers.” He spoke firmly but softly.

  Brausch exhaled in defeat. “Ten minutes. That’s all you get. If she’s sleeping, you’ll just have to come back. If you upset her in any way or—”

  “I promise I won’t. I’m glad I haven’t come all this way for nothing.”

  “Yes, yes, yes—follow me and I’ll check on her. If she’s asleep you’ll just have to wait.”

  “Does she speak much English? I’ve brought my translator along with me.”

  “You won’t need him. Now come along.”

  Nick found Rolf by the front garden and sent him off to do as he wished until he was done with Claudia. He then followed the acerbic custodian as she led him up a stairwell.

  Nick was barely even aware of his surroundings. His hands felt a bit shaky. This was potentially the most important moment of his professional life, and the fact was flashing in his head like a thousand-watt strobe light. He wasn’t used to this. This wasn’t the happy-go-lucky heir finder strolling into the McClure house with a smile and a contract. This was Game Seven of the World Series, bottom of the ninth, bat in his hands, and a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball heading his way. He had to make good.

  They reached the second floor and proceeded down a tiled hallway. Small white marble busts peered at Nick from cubbyholes in the walls as they walked by. They would serve as his silent witnesses.

  At the hallway’s end, Frau Brausch stopped at a door and faced him. “If she’s sleeping, you’ll have to wait,” she repeated.

  Nick watched from the doorway as she entered. An elderly woman was sitting upright in bed, with another woman in a wheelchair facing her. The woman in the bed was speaking and looked gaunt and frail. Brausch placed her hand on her shoulder, and the old woman turned her squinty eyes up to her. They exchanged words in German and Nick saw her nod absently. There was a blankness in her eyes he had seen before. It wouldn’t be the first confused, elderly person he had to extract information from. It had never been easy.

  Brausch walked quickly back to the doorway.

  “She’s very disoriented, but she wishes to hear you out.” Brausch peered over her shoulder at the women. “Her friend Magda won’t disturb you. I’ll be right outside this door if there are any problems.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Brausch nodded and closed the door partially behind her. Nick looked at the old women and walked toward the bed. A large open window revealed the Alps, a sight probably unappreciated by the room’s boarders. The bedridden woman happily babbled to her friend in the wheelchair. She turned to Nick as he drew closer, and he saw her eyes, vacant pale-blue pearls. Nick smiled, glanced at her equally confused friend, and reached for a chair. He took a moment to rethink his strategy before speaking.

  “Hello, Claudia,” he said softly. “My name—”

  “Yes, hello, hello. You wish to speak in English, eh? Yes, Magda and I still remember it from the old days. We still like to practice it when old friends come to see us. Isn’t that right, Magda?”

  Her companion spoke in a smoker’s rasp. “He looks just like my brother Karl.”

  The eyes were completely blank, the smiles blissfully serene. Nick now fully saw what he was faced with. Forget trying to explain who he was or what he had come for. He needed to get her talking about Jacobs.

  “You’re feeling better, Claudia?” asked Nick sweetly, as if he were talking to a child.

  “Yes, I am, and I wish you would come visit more often. You are Uncle Willie’s young nephew, eh?” Her fingers fidgeted incessantly as she leaned against the headboard of her bed.

  “Yes, I am,” replied Nick without hesitation. “Uncle Willie says hello. . ..”

  “Tell him I’m not happy about that girl he chose. Not at all.” She pursed her lips and looked agitated. Magda frowned in agreement.

  “She wasn’t a very good choice, was she?” asked Nick.

  “She’s a Pole! I don’t approve of her.”

  “A Pole—how terrible,” added Magda, making a little clicking sound of disapproval. Nick nodded, his face duly concerned.

  “I don’t care for Poles,” continued Claudia. “For Willie to mix his blood with her is wrong. Do you know where her family is from?”

  “Where?”

  “Danzig!” She spat the word from her mouth as if it were a poison.

  “Danzig?” repeated Nick in mock astonishment.

  Both Claudia and Magda shook their h
eads dejectedly.

  “It’s terrible,” said Claudia.

  Nick nodded, his face a mask of empathy, while he processed what he was hearing. Was Uncle Willie actually Gerald Jacobs? If not, he needed to change the subject, and fast. He scooted his chair forward. It was time to be more direct.

  “I haven’t seen Uncle Willie in some time, Claudia. He hasn’t moved, has he?”

  “No. He was born in Düsseldorf, he will die in Düsseldorf. The family is still there.”

  “And how is Gerald? Gerald Jacobs?”

  Claudia’s face immediately brightened. Something had clicked.

  “Monica’s letter came the other day.” She reached to the nightstand by her bed and grabbed an envelope. “You can read it if you like.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, remembering the name on the back of the passport photo taken from Jacobs’s home. He opened the decrepit envelope carefully. It was in German and was dated August 2, 1972. Nick looked up and saw both women staring at him.

  “So . . . how is she?” he asked awkwardly, drawing a confused look from Claudia. “Monica. How’s her health?”

  “Much better. After the war, I think she and I will go to Dresden for a long vacation.” She tilted her head to Magda. “Maybe you will come, Magda?”

  Nick frowned. After the war? The woman was completely gone, living in some long-dead past. Anything out of her mouth was dubious. He needed to get to the heart of the matter.

  “What about Gerald Jacobs, Claudia?”

  She paused, her hazy mind struggling to gather fractured pieces of decades-old memories. “Ludwig,” she sighed, “poor little Ludwig, my darling.”

  Nick froze. Ludwig? He thought Jacobs was her darling. Alex was right, then—Jacobs was Ludwig Holtz-mann.

  “How is Ludwig?” he asked, prodding her along. “I’ve not seen him in a long time.”

  She smiled. “Ludwig used to have the most golden hair that I’ve ever seen. Everyone thought he was the dearest man.”

  “I’m sure they did,” replied Nick. “How is Ludwig, Claudia?”

  “Ludwig is fine. He now lives in the verdammt United States.”

  “What city, Claudia?”

  “Eh?”

  “What city in the United States does Ludwig live in?”

  Her face went blank, almost as if a synapse in her brain had misfired at that moment. “I don’t . . . remember.”

  “You don’t remember?” Nick asked. She did not respond.

  “Near New York City,” Magda interjected.

  “How do you know?” he asked, turning to Magda.

  “Because she told me.” Claudia glared at Magda and she looked down.

  Nick abandoned his previous tact and shot right to the point. “Magda, is Claudia Ludwig’s sister?”

  “No,” she whispered, a hand shielding her mouth. “His sweetheart.”

  “Not brother and sister?”

  “No.” She looked at Claudia cautiously before continuing. “Lovers.”

  Nick turned back to Claudia. “Has Ludwig ever married? Does he have any children?”

  Claudia shook her head adamantly. “No, Ludwig was too dedicated to his work.”

  Nick nodded. He was close—so very close. He reached into his jacket and produced the picture of the girl he had found in Jacobs’s room.

  “Who was Monica, Claudia? Who was she?”

  Claudia stared at the picture for five long seconds and then smiled widely. She pointed her crooked finger at the photo. “That is Ludwig’s sister, Monica.”

  Nick looked at the picture, his heart pounding his rib cage.

  “So many questions,” Claudia said. “Tell me when Willie will come visit.”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Nick, feeling his patience begin to slip. “How are Monica’s babies, Claudia? How are her children?”

  “Ah yes—Monica’s little boys. And one little girl too. Monica shouldn’t have disgraced them.”

  “What do you mean—”

  “She fled the country. Went to America.”

  “And she had three children?”

  “At least the little ones didn’t suffer through the war.”

  “What were her children’s names, Claudia?” he asked, almost pleading now. He touched her hand gently. “Do you remember their names?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the old woman absently.

  “Think, Claudia. You can remember—I know you can. Where did Monica live? What city in America?”

  “Monica just wrote to you, didn’t she, Claudia?” asked Magda.

  “Yes. I told her to come to Germany, but she never comes.”

  “Where is Monica now?” asked Nick.

  Claudia pointed. “Magda, give me my jewelry box.”

  Magda nodded, lifting herself slowly from the wheelchair. She slowly shuffled over to her dresser, opened a drawer, and removed a small wooden case.

  Nick scrutinized the box approvingly as she returned. Good things often came in small packages. Magda handed it to Claudia and she pried it open with her withered, skeletal fingers. She removed what appeared to be a small stack of envelopes. Nick leaned forward and wet his lower lip. Claudia held the letters to her heart and smiled sadly.

  “These letters are precious. My dear family—someday we will be reunited.”

  “Claudia, may I see them please?” Nick asked.

  He reached for them and, meeting no resistance, slid them gently from her grasp. To his relief, Magda began chattering away to Claudia, and their focus shifted away from him.

  He thumbed through the stack of envelopes. Some were in English; most were in German. He scanned several that were written in German, looking for names or addresses that might be useful, and found nothing.

  One letter caught his eye. It was in English and dated just over six years ago. From what Nick read, it contained the kind of everyday trivialities that elderly people normally love to hear. It had been sent from Des Moines, Iowa. The letter began “Dear Claudia.” The envelope, which Claudia had so meticulously saved, gave a return address of 11 Pinecreek Road, Des Moines, Iowa, 50312. The letter had been sent from a Monica Von Rohr.

  Before he could decipher the significance of the find, he noticed a letter unlike the others. The typewritten ink was faded and a bit smeared, but it was in English and completely readable:

  Dearest Claudia,

  I pray this letter finds you in improved health. I am well and bring you news, both good and bad. I have agreed to the Americans’ conditions. For my full cooperation they in turn have agreed to arrange my release and provide me with compensation. Unfortunately they require that I make my new home in America. Proximity is the only way they believe they can insure my silence. I have little choice in my current position but to accept their terms.

  I would have hoped to see you a final time, but my obligations begin the moment I am free. My situation has presented me with two damnable options. Having endured nearly fifty years of one, I hope you understand my decision to live my final years under the rules of the other. Please destroy this letter and the accompanying document after you read and commit them to memory.

  Love always, Ludwig

  July 30, 1997

  Affixed to the letter was a yellowed, poor-quality photocopy. Nick glanced at the women and then back down to read. The paper was faded, the words almost illegible. The seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was stamped at the top.

  Burdoc 863348

  CroRef 8741,-2,-3

  24 July 1997

  Re: Ludwig Wilhelm Holtzmann

  Pertaining to the matter of the now existent Gerald Raymond Jacobs, relocation shall occur in the city of Hudson in the state of New York. Manufacture/creation of all vital documents and testimonials shall reflect the adoption of the Jacobs identity. FBI Director Dalton given complete autonomy in selection of agents to initiate placement. The number of agents shall in no circumstance exceed two. Full implementation to begin on 14 August 1997.

  Nick let a br
eath out slowly. The picture had come into focus a bit more. The FBI had placed Gerald Jacobs, who was actually Ludwig Holtzmann, in Hudson, New York, back in 1997. But evidently the current FBI administration had been asleep at the wheel when he died. They hadn’t expected heir finders to descend on the body quicker than flies. A careless mistake.

  The women were too absorbed in their conversation to notice Nick slip the Von Rohr and Holtzmann letters into his inner coat pocket. He took the Bureau document as well. He then placed the slightly thinner stack on Claudia’s nightstand. They would never notice the difference, and he would definitely return them just as soon as the investigation was over. He rose to his feet.

  “Claudia, Magda, it’s been nice talking with the two of you. I really must be leaving, though. Thanks so much.”

  Claudia’s eyes momentarily twinkled. “Won’t you stay for dinner?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.” He gently took her hand. “It was nice seeing you.”

  He turned from them, feeling a bit guilty. He had deceived them, but if anything he had brightened their day by paying them a visit.

  Frau Brausch waited for him outside the door, her arms folded across her chest.

  “Find what you were looking for?”

  “I just may have,” he replied, hurrying by her. “I appreciate your help.”

  Nick hastily descended the staircase to the main floor, his mind reeling the entire walk. The names reverberated in his head. FBI Director. Ludwig Holtzmann. And the trail was now pointing to Iowa. Somehow he sensed that Des Moines wouldn’t be the last stop on this wild ride.

  He exited out into the sunlight of the front court and entered the rental car, beginning a slow cruise back down the road they had come on. He spotted his translator sitting along the way and five minutes later returned him to Bischofswiesen.

  Before returning to the autobahn, he pulled the car into the lot of a small inn by the side of the road. He began punching in Alex’s home phone number, then paused. The FBI was on to them. He hung up and tried her cell phone instead. It would be a harder line for them to trace

  “It’s me.”