Kiss Me Twice

by Thomas Gifford

  “When it comes to art, I’m one of those people who knows what he hates. If it looks to me like a bull terrier could paint it with a nose and two paws, I say the hell with it.”

  “Aha, a traditionalist. Good. I’m with you there. I prefer traditional representational pictures. That is, people who look like people and so on. There is so much lying in the world, why should art lie to us, as well? Paint what you see, that’s my view. Helena is a fan of this modern stuff, Picasso and Braque, Rothko and Pollock and so on, it’s quite beyond an old-fashioned fellow like me.” Three ball in the corner. Potted like a sitting duck. “Dali. Fellow with all the melting pocket watches … can’t make heads nor tails of it. A Freudian nightmare.” Seven ball in the side. Leaving himself the six in the other side.

  Cassidy said: “My interest tends more to sculpture.”

  “Does it really? Classical? Modern? Or American, perhaps, Remington, all those bucking broncos—rather nice. I believe our host owns a lovely Remington or two.” The six fell right on schedule.

  “I’m more often drawn to the—oh, let’s say the eccentric, the unusual.”

  “You don’t say. Country pleasures, that sort of thing?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Erotica, the risqué stuff. Always a seller’s market.”

  “Try mythological,” Cassidy said.

  “Mythological. How extraordinarily interesting. You do surprise me, Mr. Cassidy.” Eight ball in the far corner. “My wife would find this fascinating. I’d greatly enjoy seeing your collection. Just what sort of thing, may I inquire?” Four in the side, two rails, a very nice shot. Dainty, but firm.

  “Well, I’m on the trail of a piece right now, a very special piece. An acquisition I have in mind. It’s a rather curious story—one of those bits and pieces of wartime rumor. I’ve been given to understand that a very mysterious piece has turned up here in the United States. Frankly, between the two of us, it is more than likely that it’s been smuggled in from Europe in the last few months.”

  “Are you saying it’s Nazi loot?” Dauner was lining up the nine ball.

  “Possibly. Probably.”

  “Then I’d be very careful if I were you, Mr. Cassidy.”

  “Oh, you know how it is, the collecting mania. You find yourself hot on the scent and common sense goes out the window.”

  Dauner pocketed the nine ball with an utter economy of motion. He stood up and chalked his cue. “You must have some fascinating sources. May I ask, just what is this mythical piece?”

  “Oh, it’s real enough. Not mythical at all.”

  “Aha, point to you! But tell me, what is it?”

  “Just between the two of us?”

  “But, of course, Mr. Cassidy! Discretion is imperative in the art world.”

  “It’s a minotaur.”

  “A minotaur,” Dauner mused. “Of all things. Do you know the provenance?”

  “In outline. Apparently it was sculpted by an unknown Italian—it was the patron who mattered. The Mad King of Bavaria. Ludwig. From one of Ludwig’s own drawings. You can imagine how odd a piece it is. … I have a passion to see it, hold it, own it. You understand.”

  Dauner bent over the table, caressed the ten ball the length of the table where it hung, teetering, then plopped into the leather pocket. “It sounds like a tremendously esoteric work. Is it any good? What’s it made of?”

  “Solid gold. Completely encrusted with precious stones—”

  Dauner smiled.

  “Its value is nearly incalculable. So I admit that my interest is not solely in the minotaur as a work of art.”

  Dauner stood looking across the lush green table. “Are you quite sure such a thing exists? It sounds more and more mythical—more and more unlikely. The stuff that dreams are made of, as the man said. If I may say so. Who possessed it last?”

  “Reichsmarshal Göring.”

  Dauner laughed sharply, shook his head. “Well, you are quite the boy, Mr. Cassidy. Quite the lad. You amaze me, by God, you do! I’m not at all sure we’re not breaking the law by just having this discussion.”

  “Well, what’s a little rupture of the law when you’re talking about something like Ludwig’s Minotaur? Göring’s minotaur! As I’ve made my way through life, I’ve learned that certain risks plainly justify themselves. This just happens to be such a risk. Men have died for this piece.”

  “When men have died for something,” Dauner said, “it almost always means that more men will die for it. But tell me, how much is this thing worth? Quite frankly, it’s certainly out of my league.”

  “Oh,” Cassidy said, spreading his hands in an all-inclusive gesture, “would anyone be rash enough to set a price? It’s invaluable—no point in discussing it in terms of money. No, money has nothing to do with it.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I am prepared to offer something in trade.”

  Dauner’s smile clung manfully to his long, lined face. He carefully replaced his cue in the wall rack. “You must have something of inestimable value, Mr. Cassidy.”

  “Oh, I do, I do.”

  “I congratulate you, then. I can hardly imagine what such an item might be.”

  “It’s not a work of art,” Cassidy said. “You might say it’s more of a service I can perform for the man who holds the minotaur now.”

  “Indeed? Well, I say it again, you are a fascinating chap. It’s indisputable. But … a service?” He laughed in a doubting, comradely way. “I enjoy your company, Mr. Cassidy. Perhaps you and your friends would like to see some of my collection.” He turned, one finger to his mouth as if he’d just thought of something wondrously clever. “Also, I have a private source of my own, a dealer with the most amazing way of finding things—”

  “Might he know about the man with the minotaur?”

  “Who knows? But if you wish, we could inquire of him about this minotaur you have on your mind. I’d enjoy the opportunity of bringing you together, you and my friend and the minotaur. Why don’t you and your party come by my home once this is over? However, you must excuse me for the moment, I must watch over the checkbook while my wife buys a Tiepolo.” He was consulting a gold pocket watch on a gold chain. “Shall we say eleven o’clock? We’re only a couple of miles from here.” He jotted down directions.

  “Very kind of you,” Cassidy said.

  “There’s nothing more satisfying than bringing people together. And your minotaur problem, well, I can’t resist. Tell me, Mr. Cassidy, since your minotaur seems to have had a busy war—did you see any service abroad?”

  “My leg kept me out. A million-dollar wound, you might say. How did you spend the war, Mr. Dauner?”

  “Oh, I tried to do my bit in Washington.”

  “You’re too modest. You were one of the dollar-a-year men, weren’t you?”

  “That’s what they called us.” He chuckled in a self-deprecating way. “I’d say most of us were overpaid. But I did find my share of fighting in the Great War. Thirty years ago.”

  “Who were you fighting for?”

  “Ah, you have a blunt way with a question! In those days I was a German, one of the dreaded Boche, the Hun.” He shrugged as if to say, Can you believe such a thing? “Did my time in the trenches. Young, idealistic, fighting for the Fatherland, that was how I marched off to war. I came back older than my years, cynical about mankind, fighting strictly to survive. I couldn’t sleep for years … I heard noises, artillery shells exploding in my head.” He took a cigarette from a box on the table and lit it, tasting it reflectively. “To be a German in 1918 was to have a dim future at best. I was thirty. I became Swiss. It was better to be Swiss. Forged papers, bribes, an unhappy business but a necessity. I was a lawyer, banker, ski instructor—I always believed it was wise to stay near the money. Being Swiss made a good life. But I became an American citizen in 1926. So much for my vita, Mr. Cassidy.” He was smoking, smiling tolerantly, a man with all the answers. “I have nothing to hide, you see.”

 
“You certainly seem to know a winner when you see one.”

  “I learned the hardest possible way. I’ve certainly done what I could to aid my adopted country. A convert is always a zealot. Don’t you find that the case?”

  “If I ever convert to anything I’ll let you know.”

  “Eleven o’clock then?”

  “Bank on it,” Cassidy said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FOR THE FIRST MILE THERE was a lot of traffic on the narrow road, guests emptying out of the Benns’ driveway. Terry Leary drove carefully. Karin sat between them, half asleep, her head resting on Cassidy’s shoulder. The champagne mixed with the sedatives hadn’t done her any good. Cassidy stroked her forehead, brushed the hair back from her eyes, felt the ridge of scar tissue just past the hairline. He squeezed her tightly against him.

  “Is Dauner our man Vulkan?” Terry kept his eyes on the taillights ahead.

  “Looks like a helluva candidate to me. He’s a confident bastard, I’ll give him that.”

  “Did he sit up and take notice when you dragged out Ludwig and his minotaur?”

  “Rolled over and stuck his paws in the air.”

  Traffic began to thin out after the first major turnoff but Leary didn’t speed up. “I’m a little worried about Sleepy here,” he said.

  Cassidy leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Ready for Act Two?”

  She opened one eye. “Where are we going?”

  “Fella’s house. We’re going to talk about statues.”

  She struggled to swallow. Her throat was dry. “Will … will Manfred be there?”

  “No. But that’s what we’re working on. We’re trying to find him.”

  She clutched his hand, nails digging into his flesh. A look of atavistic fear crossed her face, lingered in her familiar eyes, as if she were back in the nightmare, the bombs raining from the smoky sky. Terry Leary’s head was half turned, watching her, then the road.

  Cassidy stared into her eyes. “Karin, Karin, calm down. Everything will be all right—”

  She interrupted, whispering insistently. “You’ve got to tell me.” He could just barely hear her. “Do I know you from before?” She swallowed again, licked her lips. The sedative and champagne had dried her out. “Please … if I did, then you’re part of the past … part of my life. One of the secrets I can’t get to …”

  “Is she okay, amigo?”

  Cassidy put his mouth to her ear. “Yes,” he said, whispering into the delicate shell. “You know me from before. We met years ago, at the Olympics. You were skating. So beautiful I just stood there with my mouth open.”

  “The Olympics.” He thought that was what she said but he might have imagined it. She might have just been breathing.

  Leary put on the brakes and made ready to turn. “Looks like we’re here, ladies and germs.”

  Karl Dauner met them at the front door of the vast brick building with its pristine white trim and neatly clipped hedges. He came outside still in his evening clothes, a black cape draped over his square shoulders. With his long face and piercing eyes he was giving a passable impression of Dracula. “My wife,” he said, “is having some friends in for a nightcap. I’ve asked my art dealer friend to join us down at the tennis courts where we can speak privately.” His eyes moved slowly from Cassidy to Leary to Karin. “Perhaps your young lady would prefer to join my wife?”

  “Miss Richter,” Cassidy said. “And Mr. Leary. This is Karl Dauner.”

  Dauner’s gaze stuck for a moment on Karin. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Miss Richter,” Cassidy repeated. “Karin Richter.” Cassidy turned to her with a smile, took her arm. “No, she’ll come with us.”

  Dauner took her free hand, bent over it and brushed it with his lips. He was the kind of man who could get away with it and not look like a road-company ham. “I am enchanted, Miss Richter. Your face has haunted me all evening. I feel almost as if we’ve met somewhere. …”

  “I think not,” she said.

  “Wishful thinking, no doubt.” He pulled the coat tighter and led the way around the corner of the house. “This way, then.” He slipped her free arm through his. “Watch your step here, my dear. This can be dangerous in the dark.”

  The lawn sloped down toward a lily pond bordered by stones and dark conical shapes, trimmed evergreens. The wind ran like ghosts among the trees, carrying a wet chill. The gardeners had been at work. There were several teepee-shaped mountains of leaves dotting the lawn.

  The tennis courts turned out to be enclosed, in a huge looming structure, like a gymnasium or hangar made of glass. A very high greenhouse. Karin moved against Cassidy, shivering. Terry Leary brought up the rear, constantly looking deep into the darkness, the dark whispering shadows. Cassidy felt the weight of the .38 in the shoulder holster rubbing against his ribs.

  Dauner opened the door, which seemed like a tiny cave entrance beneath the mountain of glass. They followed him inside.

  The air seemed to swirl, a tiny cyclone surging past them and out the door, and they were overwhelmed by the smell of cooped-up clay, stale air, and old summer sweat. It was like the secret hangar, the mysterious airfield, in a boys’ story of adventure. It was colder than it had been outside, like walking into a crypt.

  Dauner snapped on one set of lightbulbs, enclosed in dangling wire cages that swayed slowly, shadows moving. The net was still up. A couple of racquets lay discarded on the scuffed clay. It felt like walking into one of the vast mausoleums of the rich, an elephants’ graveyard, the deepest recesses of King Tut’s tomb. Cassidy stopped, drew Karin closer still. Leary settled into a comfortable slouch, leaning against the door frame. Slowly he bounced a stray gray tennis ball on the clay before him.

  Dauner sniffed the dead air. “I’ve never been out here in the middle of the night before. Ominous, isn’t it? Well, we won’t worry about that.”

  “Where’s your friend?” Cassidy shifted uneasily. Dauner was right. It was ominous and dark and scary. The perfect place for an ambush.

  Dauner produced a cigarette case and offered it around. There were no takers. He walked back across the court, kicked a loose ball into the darkness, and stood in the doorway looking out toward the house with its welcoming glow of lights. “Here he comes now. Felix,” he called, “so terribly kind of you to come.”

  A short, roly-poly man stood puffing in the doorway.

  “Mr. Cassidy,” Dauner said, “this is Mr. Heinz Felix. Late of Berlin, in the old days. Now a dealer of some repute in New York, Palm Beach, Los Angeles, and Zurich.” He introduced him to Leary and Karin.

  Heinz Felix blew tiny bubbles of saliva as he nodded, panting, his fat little mouth making a solemn little smile. He was florid, probably in his forties, wore a huge gold signet ring. His face was puffy and blotched. He was perspiring heavily and his collar had wilted. His long hair was plastered against his round skull, curled over the damp, bedraggled collar. His tie, flowered, bore traces of a recent dinner. He looked like a character actor, or somebody from the pages of Dickens. When he extended his hand Cassidy felt as if he’d been offered a plate of fat, wet sausages.

  “I got here as quickly as I could, Karl. Not much notice.” He wheezed slightly, like a man with asthma. “This is the man?”

  “Indeed.”

  Felix looked up at Cassidy, his rubbery lips working against themselves while he thought how to begin. “I understand that you are interested in a minotaur, a very special minotaur.” He had a thick German accent that made him sound very scholarly.

  “Look, gentlemen,” Cassidy said, “why don’t we just cut to the chase here? It’s late and we would all like to know what’s going on. Why do you think I came to you two guys? I know exactly what you are—do you understand? Exactly.” Felix stiffened, cast an anxious glance at Dauner, a faithful, frightened hound and his master. “I have no interest in politics, yours or mine or anyone else’s, so there’s no need to pussyfoot around the bog. You guys may be the two biggest patriots since George and
Martha Washington or you may have Hitler and Eva Braun stashed in the basement—it’s no concern of mine. I want the Ludwig Minotaur. Göring’s minotaur. I’m a simple victim of the collector’s obsession.”

  Dauner folded his arms across his chest, chuckled softly. “I’m not altogether sure that I trust you, Mr. Cassidy. Delightful fellow and all, disarming—but I guard my trust most jealously.”

  “Well, unless you’ve got the minotaur, I couldn’t care less. In fact, I’ll do you one better—I don’t trust anyone at all. Ever. I just want the minotaur. … I know who brought it to this country and it turns out that I have something he wants—”

  “I’m quite baffled by everything you say,” Dauner observed, “but for the sake of argument perhaps you could tell us what you have that he wants, this trade you seem to propose—would that be possible, Mr. Cassidy?”

  “His wife. I have his wife.” She shrank against him for an instant, then steadied herself.

  Dauner cocked his head as if needing to make sure that his hearing aid had not deceived him. “Do tell, do tell. Well, I should think he’d be very interested, indeed. … Whoever this man may be. If, in fact, he exists at all—then, of course, he might try to acquire his wife and keep the blessed minotaur. As I say, if such a man and such a minotaur exist—”

  “Well, my friend, if your chums haven’t told you about this man and his treasure, I’d say you’ve been rather left out of things.”

  “And I would advise you, Mr. Cassidy, to watch your step.” The tolerant smile had begun to fade.

  “How good of you, how kind.” Cassidy turned to the fat man, who was wiping his face with a crumpled white handkerchief. “Now, Mr. Felix, if you can get yourself dried off and pay attention, you might tell me where I can find this minotaur or I can get the hell out of here and stop wasting time.”

  Felix was trembling, turned on Dauner. “Karl, you fool—this man, this person, he knows everything, he knows … the Göring minotaur …” He was beginning to babble, words tumbling over one another. “The escape route, the money, he knows …” He stared off into the emptiness of the tennis court.