This setup is right out of Raymond Chandler.
DiPinto was short, husky, balding, confident, with alert eyes and a short, pointed graying beard.
"Heard a lot about you, Mr. Barnes," he said in excellent English, rising to shake Hank's hand.
"From Marci?"
DiPinto shook his head. "Mr. G. He's my client."
As they spoke, night settled upon the city, turning the view from Dipinto's window into something quite marvelous, Hank thought. Surrounding buildings were lit up, many with cupolas on their roofs. The facade of the National Congress building, which reminded Hank of the Berlin Reichstag, was illuminated by spotlights. Traffic raced in yellow ribbons along Avenida de Mayo below.
"I've looked over your contract," DiPinto said. "You've received a ten thousand dollar advance. If we locate the dagger, you're to receive ten more to authenticate it, and an additional ten if you successfully negotiate its purchase. Plus all your expenses for which I'm to advance you funds each week. Is that a proper summary?"
Hank nodded.
"Here's an important point, Mr. Barnes. Mr. G is my client. All contact with him must go through me. No end runs. You're here only as a negotiator and adviser. So long as we keep that straight, I'm sure we'll get along."
He was a tough little guy, Hank could see, yet everything he said was true. Those were the terms he'd accepted. Mr. G had insisted he couldn't pay a standard commission on such a priceless object, and that, in turn, he didn't expect Hank to go to Buenos Aires on spec. If the trip turned out to be a wild goose chase, Hank would have ten thousand and a free trip to South America for his trouble. To which Hank replied that he fervently hoped it would not be a wild goose chase, for more than anything in the world he wanted the pleasure of holding the Göring dagger in his hands.
DiPinto continued. "You've seen the photos. I gather you were impressed."
"Very," Hank said. "But as I told Mr. G, promising as they are, I must physically examine the dagger to determine authenticity."
"Understood. Now here are some facts you haven't been told. The photos came off a jewelry store security tape. An Asian woman brought the dagger into the store. She wanted the hilt jewels appraised. When she left, the jeweler jotted down the plate number of her car. I traced it. It's registered to a certain Dr. Pedraza. Based on this information, I set up a lookout to watch his residence, situated in one of our better neighborhoods. From there I took photos of various women coming and going. When I showed them to the jeweler, he picked out the woman who brought in the dagger. I've since identified her as one Luisa Kim, Señora Pedraza's personal maid. Though I can't be certain, I believe she went to the jeweler's on the Señora's behalf. That's where the matter now stands."
"So what's the next step?"
"Tonight we'll go together to interview the maid. We want to know who currently has possession of the dagger, and, most particularly, whether it's been sold. Mr. G has authorized a bribe of up to one thousand dollars to induce the maid to talk. Depending on what she tells us, we'll decide what to do next."
As all this sounded reasonable, they agreed to meet in two hours in front of the Castelar.
"I'll pick you up," DiPinto said, "we'll proceed to the maid's house, interview her, then have dinner." DiPinto smiled. "Perhaps the bribe won't work, perhaps the maid'll refuse to talk. But at the very least I can promise you an excellent tasting Argentine steak."
Walking back to the hotel, Hank wondered about DiPinto. With such an efficient private investigator, why did Mr. G need him? His ability to authenticate the dagger wasn't worth twenty thousand dollars. And DiPinto looked fully capable of negotiating a purchase on his own. For that matter, how did DiPinto come into contact with Mr. G? And how did DiPinto obtain the jewelry store security photos in the first place?
It was all quite strange, and yet, Hank felt, if things turned out as represented and events occurred as hoped, these issues could well turn out to be the least strange aspects of the matter.
His interview with Mr. G had been bizarre. He wasn't pleased to be dealing with a disembodied voice. But as Marci pointed out on their way down to his suite, Hank dealt with unseen clients on the phone all the time.
Still it was odd to sit beside Marci in the suite living room while her mysterious employer spoke to them from behind the half-opened bedroom door.
Mr. G was apologetic. He regretted not being able to shake Hank's hand. He then made several flattering remarks about Hank's status in the business.
"I'm the current owner of the Feldherrnhalle you found. Great piece! One of the best in my collection. Good timing too. Soon as Marci told me she met you, I realized you're just the man I need."
The photographs Marci handed him were amazing. He felt his heartbeat quicken as he studied them. The workmanship on the dagger looked to be superb. The hand-forged steel blade, diamond and garnet decorated eagle, fluted ivory handle, goldwork on the crossguard—everything appeared correct. But there were no period color photos to compare these to, just the two old black and white shots he'd mentioned to Marci in the bar. Hank warned himself not to get swept away. The very act of wanting a rare object to be real had entrapped many an expert, most spectacularly in the case of the bogus "Hitler Diaries" that had been authenticated by one of the top handwriting authorities in the world.
He mentioned all this to Mr. G, who conceded he too was skeptical.
"But in a situation like this," Mr. G said, "one has no choice but to follow up. If I don't, and the dagger in these pictures turns out to be real, I'll kick myself the rest of my life."
Mr. G, Hank found, was knowledgeable about the rumors surrounding the famous missing dagger, the most dramatic being that Göring had revealed its location to one of his American jailers in exchange for the cyanide capsule he'd used to avoid execution.
But it was the Walter Hobler rumor that appealed to them both, especially after Mr. G revealed that the photos had come to him from a source in Buenos Aires. If Hobler had successfully escaped, Argentina, Hank knew, was the most likely place for him to have gone.
After this exchange, it was but a simple matter to negotiate terms, receive his ten thousand dollar advance, then return home to Chicago to await developments.
He waited three long months before receiving a go-ahead. Over this period, he and Marci spoke several times on the phone. She always began their conversations by telling him how much she missed his body, flattery that titillated and amused him.
Mr. G, Marci reported, was still tracing the dagger, working with an Argentine private detective, a man with an impeccable reputation. The investigation was proceeding. If and when the detective succeeded in narrowing down the source, Hank would be dispatched. He should be prepared to leave on very short notice. Mr. G, as always, sent his regards.
Four days ago she'd called to tell him his tickets and a week's worth of expense money were on their way by courier. She also instructed him that while in Buenos Aires he was to work under the supervision of the detective.
"Mr. G has full confidence in this man. So far he's done an excellent job. You have a six p.m. appointment with him the day you arrive. Have fun down there, Hank! And please hurry back...dagger-in-hand!"
Hank packed a bag, recorded an "I'm away on a field trip" voicemail message, dropped his cat off with his niece, then boarded a flight for Miami.
While in the Miami Airport transit lounge, awaiting his flight to Buenos Aires, he received another call from Marci. As she spoke, he detected a measure of anxiety in her voice.
"I want you to take good care down there," she said. "There may be some unsavory characters involved."
"Is this a farewell warning?" he asked.
"No kidding, Hank—please take care, okay?"
On their way to see the maid, DiPinto made an effort to befriend him. He also asked Hank the question people usually asked when they found out what he did: Why had he chosen to become a expert/dealer in such an esoteric field?
Hank gave his standard answe
r: that he'd always been fascinated by the combination of brutality and elegance that constituted the Third Reich aesthetic; that he despised everything the Nazis stood for, yet found their dress uniforms, dress daggers and swords extremely beautiful. He quoted Susan Sontag's famous final line from her essay "Fascinating Fascism":
"The color is black, the material is leather, the seduction is beauty, the justification is honesty, the aim is ecstasy, the fantasy is death."
What he didn't tell DiPinto, and, in fact, never told anyone, was that for him one of the most pleasurable aspects of dealing with Third Reich material was the feeling it gave him of being transgressive.
"But do you really like these daggers?" DiPinto asked.
"It's not a matter of liking or disliking them," Hank said. "I appreciate them as objects reflecting a particular epoch. I don't collect. I just buy and sell. Yes, there's a sinister quality about them. That's also part of the attraction. The point is they're beautiful and superbly made. And the field is fascinating because of all the variations, forgeries and fakes."
"What kind of people become collectors?"
"They run the gamut from a high-end collector such as Mr. G, to despicable skinheads and neo-Nazis. Most fall in the middle range, guys who collect relics of World War II. You may be surprised that there're some very serious Jewish collectors who'd give most anything for the dagger we're after here."
Interestingly, Hank thought, DiPinto did not appear surprised by that.
The drive to the maid's house took half an hour, most of it on freeways. The city was huge, seeming to stretch endlessly in all directions. Yet, DiPinto told him, when one finally did reach its end, one would find oneself in the pampas where the cattle fed on the famous grasses that gave Argentine beef its inimitable flavor.
When they pulled off the freeway, Hank discovered they were in a neighborhood of stores bearing Asian language signs.
"Koreatown," DiPinto announced.
DiPinto stopped in front of a run-down apartment building. "She lives in a single room, first floor rear."
Luisa Kim turned out to be a young, short, pretty Asian girl with a humble domestic servant's manner. She was surprised to see them and clearly intimidated when DiPinto pushed their way into her pathetic little room.
"You're in a lot of trouble," DiPinto told her in Spanish, immediately translating everything so Hank would understand. "You went to a jewelry shop and tried to sell a dagger that didn't belong to you. That's a serious crime."
Clearly she was frightened by the accusation. "I did not try to sell it! I only asked the jeweler for an appraisal."
"That's not what he says."
"Then the old man lies!"
After some minutes of this kind of bullying, DiPinto sat her down on her bed, pulled a chair up close and stared into her eyes.
"I'm willing to pay you one hundred US dollars to tell us everything you know about this. If you refuse or lie, I'm going to cart you off to jail."
Luisa, seeing he was serious, nodded and began to talk. The dagger, she told them, belonged to her mistress's husband, Dr. Osvaldo Pedraza. He and her mistress were unhappily married. The Señora has confided to her that she planned to seek a divorce. Many months back, the Señora asked her to undertake a confidential mission: unbeknownst to her husband, she wanted the gems in his dagger appraised, and, if they turned out to be valuable, she wanted to know what it would cost to have them removed and replaced by glass. As ordered, Luisa took the dagger to a local jeweler. He told her the gems were real, but not of great value. He wanted to take the dagger into his back room for examination, but since the Señora had instructed her not to let it out of her sight, she refused and left the store. She returned the dagger to the Señora, and, as far as she knew, it was now back in Dr. Pedraza's possession.
When Luisa had finished, DiPinto turned to Hank. "Believe her?"
"Do you?"
DiPinto nodded. "Her story makes sense. I think we should pay her off and be on our way."
DiPinto peeled off five twenty dollar bills, pressed the money into the maid's palm. Luisa responded by bowing and kissing his hands, a gesture Hank found extremely embarrassing.
As soon as they were back in the car, DiPinto handed Hank three hundred dollars in cash.
"What's this?"
"Your cut."
"What're you talking about?"
DiPinto grinned. "I told you Mr. G authorized a bribe of up to a thousand dollars. The bribe tonight only cost me a hundred. I'm going to tell Mr. G that I got her to talk for seven. That leaves six hundred free and clear. Your cut of that is three hundred, a fifty percent share."
Hank studied DiPinto.
Is this a sample of his "impeccable reputation," or is this what Marci meant when she referred to "unsavory characters?"
Hank didn't want to take the money, but felt he had no choice. If this was how DiPinto operated, he'd have to play along. There were all sorts of ramifications to this crooked little act, the most serious being that DiPinto had forced him to collude against their employer. The question now was how far this collusion might go.
An hour later they were sitting in an open air parrilla, smelling of wood smoke and broiling beef, sipping full-bodied deep red Argentine wine while devouring enormous steaks. For a short guy, Hank observed, DiPinto was a pretty big eater.
Ever since they'd left the maid's apartment, DiPinto had been in an expansive mood.
"You know, Hank—offering you that money back there was actually a test."
"Figured that. What did it tell you?"
"That I can trust you. That we're a team."
"What if I'd refused?"
"I'd know I couldn't trust you. See, in my experience a little shared larceny creates a bond. Remember, Mr. G is a very rich man so I'm sure he expects us to skim a little cream off the top."
"Is that how things are done down here?"
DiPinto laughed. "Pretty much!"
As DiPinto's manner turned increasingly warm, Hank slipped several questions into the conversation.
"Are you the one who originally sent the photos to Mr. G?"
DiPinto smiled. "Sorry, Hank there're some things I can't discuss."
"Any chance I can meet this jeweler, ask a few questions about the dagger?"
"Such as?"
"Since he handled it, he would have sensed its weight."
"Write out your questions and I'll try and get you answers."
"You're saying I can't talk to him myself?"
"Sorry again, Hank—my arrangements must remain confidential."
Which was all rather curious, Hank decided, considering DiPinto's earlier assertion that they were a team.
Over coffee and dessert they discussed their next move.
"Seems to me," DiPinto said, "that if the dagger's owned by this rich old guy whose unhappy wife was thinking about replacing the gems with glass, then the Señora may be in sufficient need to sell the dagger complete...assuming, of course, there's some way she can do it without her husband finding out."
"How's that possible?" Hank asked.
DiPinto showed a canny smile. "One way would be a staged robbery. The Señora could help set it up. She could tell us when she and her husband are going out, how to neutralize their home security system, where the dagger's hidden, as well as a few other valuable items, to make it look as though they were victims of an ordinary residential burglary."
"But then Mr. G wouldn't have clear title."
"Depending on how much he wants the dagger, that could be a nicety. Tomorrow I'll tell him what we discovered and request further instructions. Meanwhile, feel free to enjoy the city. It's lovely this time of year. There're many interesting sights. I'll have Laura make you a list."
On their way back to the Castelar, Hank asked DiPinto how he happened to connect up with Mr. G.
"That's a long story. I've never actually met the man. We were put in touch by a third party," DiPinto said, showing Hank a cryptic smile.
Hank
spent the next several days exploring Buenos Aires, not from the list of attractions DiPinto's secretary sent over, but simply by wandering its streets. He wanted to get a sense of the city, understand the ground where the game in which he was now involved would be played. And all the while he also thought about the game itself, its rules and/or lack of same.
He found the city beautiful, a grid, easy to navigate, filled with fine buildings. He walked down broad avenues into lovely parks embracing impressive bronze statues. From a distance Buenos Aires appeared well kept. But up close there were signs of decay—broken windows, boarded-up doorways, eroding walls, peeling paint. For a city named for its "sweet breezes," he was also surprised to catch so many unpleasant odors—hot asphalt, uncollected garbage, overflowing sewers. Buenos Aires, it seemed, had seen better days.
He witnessed several demonstrations. At an intersection beside the Congress building, just two hundred yards from his hotel, he watched as fierce men with angry eyes set a pile of railroad ties on fire. This blaze tied up traffic for hours.
In elegant Retiro, he saw a group of belligerent youngsters jump off the back of a flatbed truck, rush toward a bank, methodically smash its windows with sledge hammers, then jump back onto the truck and drive off.
He was struck by the lack of outrage on the faces of passersby. People stopped, shook their heads, then walked on. As soon as the vandals were gone, employees of the bank came out to patch the broken windows with plywood slabs, pre-cut as if in anticipation of the attack.
He learned from the English language Buenos Aires Herald, that unemployment was at thirty percent and the government was on the verge of collapse. People who'd deposited their money in dollar accounts now found their savings forcibly converted to devalued pesos.
It was a city of heavy smokers, strident walkers, people who looked hopeless and lost.
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