Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

“Van Gogh.”

“But of course,” Von Harbou said, allowing a slender smile. “Good one there, Herr Clegg. Good one. The sights are breathtaking and unlike the city, they give us opportunity to contemplate what life is truly all about.”

“I was able to do that, yes.”

“Shall we move indoors?” He stepped aside and gestured for Clegg to go first. “Maybe later, after we have conducted our business, you will allow me to take you on a tour of the beauty God has invested in our corner of the world going all the way back to the fifteenth century. I can promise you you won’t be disappointed.”

“With pleasure, thank you,” Clegg said, glad he didn’t have to suggest it himself.

Von Harbou had him wait in a wood-paneled room the size of a small auditorium that reeked of the centuries, three of the walls almost hidden by rows of neatly hung oils, photos, and documents, all ornately framed to emphasize importance. The paintings indiscriminately mixed portraits, landscapes, mythical and religious themes, some works better than others and none of value evident to Clegg, except as an historical scrapbook.

The east wall was fronted by a stage on which sat an elaborate mahogany desk at least fifteen feet across and a matching podium, a table microphone and speakers on either side the only modern touches.

The opposite wall was dominated by the largest heating stove Clegg had ever seen, made of cast iron and faced with tiles of white and a delicate blue. Piping ran into the wall at all angles.

“One of our village’s prized possessions,” Von Harbou said, joining him. “As old as the building itself. Made by hand in a time when craftsmanship meant everything and my countrymen were already considered among the world’s best. Years before the building came into possession of my family, it was our Rathaus , our city hall. The pipes, you see? They heat all the rooms, originally with wood from our golden forests, but now also oil can do the trick. This was our assembly room. Soon I’ll show you the library with books not to be believed. Also the mayor’s office, where I have proudly conducted business since the passing of my dear father.”

Von Harbou crossed himself.

He tugged at Clegg’s shoulder and crossed the room to a section of wall that had mostly latter-day portraits, several of the men striking show-off poses in military uniforms from the two World Wars, the most belligerent looks worn by those wearing Nazi uniforms, one of them an S.S. colonel.

Von Harbou pointed him out. “My late, beloved father,” he said, crossing himself again. He studied Clegg’s face for a reaction.

Clegg said, “I can see the family resemblance, a strong face,” but he showed Von Harbou nothing.

“Strong, yes,” Von Harbou said. “Her also.” He motioned Clegg’s attention to a woman as imposing as the frame around her photograph. “You recognize her?”

Clegg stepped in and studied the photograph at closer range. “No, but she’s quite attractive.”

“I supposed not. My great-aunt. Also a great actress, but her work was here in our homeland, so that’s why. Movies like Das Wandernde Bild, her first one with the husband who was her director, and you might know him from America. Fritz Lang?”

Clegg shook his head, shrugged. “Movies, not my thing.”

“A hack, really, especially after he left his homeland and my great-aunt behind. No loss. What good movies he made were always because of her. Vier um die Frau, Dr. Mabuse der Spieler, Die Nibelungen. Frau im Mond. Silent movies that I never got to see myself, but my grandfather, he told me how any of her movies never needed words when she was standing in front of the camera.”

“They had faces then.”

“ Ja. Well spoken, Herr Clegg, but come. I don’t mean to bore you with my family history.”

“Not in the least, Herr Doktor.”

Von Harbou did a sharp about-face and led him out and down the main hall to the library, where books were embalmed in fine leather, their titles on the spines embossed in gold, behind glass-fronted cabinets.

The library was less than half the size of the assembly room and seemed less worn by use. Spotlessly clean, a smell of disinfectant lingering in the air. Comfortable stuffed chairs covered in fine fabrics, and reading lamps artfully placed, as well as four antique desks from one or another of the Louis periods.

Von Harbou turned the door lock behind them and said, “I had to be sure first no one was here to disturb us. Now, we also have our privacy.”

Clegg surveyed the room.

No sign of what he was looking for.

He gave Von Harbou a questioning glance.

Von Harbou answered with a tight grin that inflated his cherry-pink cheeks and arched his thick eyebrows to show off the twinkle in his crystal blue eyes. He said, “You brought it?”

“Of course.”

Von Harbou tilted up his chin and cocked his head. “You don’t mind showing me first?”

Clegg reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved an envelope, offered it to Von Harbou, who snatched it from him, studied the blank front for a moment, then carefully worked the flap loose. Lifted out the cashier’s check as if it might self-destruct if he held it too tightly. Swallowed the room. Pursed his lips and blew out a silent whistle.

“Seeing is believing, Herr Doktor.”

“Ja. Ja, ja.”

“As agreed upon and exactly as you wished. Four million in U.S. dollars made out to you.”

“But untraceable to me.”

“To anyone. What you do with it from here on out is up to you.”

“It will serve a good cause, I guarantee you.”

Von Harbou crossed over to one of the chairs, dropped into it. He nursed the check back into the envelope, tucked in the flap, and put the envelope in a jacket pocket. Looked like he was already spending the four million in his mind.

Clegg’s cough brought him back.

Von Harbou understood. He pointed out an orange-colored mailing tube to the left of the door, leaning against a planter stand on which magazines had been stacked.

“You won’t be disappointed,” Von Harbou said.

Clegg had missed noticing it.

He got the tube and settled on the floor, on his knees.

Removed and unrolled the canvas inside, which had been wrapped in French-language newspapers dating back almost seventy years.

It measured about twenty-six inches by thirty inches.

Clegg inhaled audibly.

Von Harbou cackled. “Vincent contemplating the landscape at sunset. The colors, almost like brand-new, vibrant, alive, as on the day Vincent first put them there.”

“Yes,” Clegg said, “magnificent.”

“One like it, only smaller and not so good, went three years ago at auction in New York for more than twice what I agreed on, so you’ve bought yourself a genuine bargain.”

Clegg felt no need to remind Von Harbou that this Van Gogh couldn’t be sold that way—

Or to just any collector.

He rolled up the canvas tightly and slid it back into the tube, pressed down hard on the lid, and made sure it was secure.

Checked his watch.

Rising, he said, “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Herr Doktor.”

Von Harbou used the armrests to push himself up from his chair and said, “But, wait. The tour that I mentioned. You still have time, it’s included in the price, you know? No additional charge.”

Clegg had counted on Von Harbou remembering. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble, there’s nothing I’d like more,” he said.

Clegg pleaded his aching-hip excuse, the old patter about a need for replacement surgery as the reason for his driving, when Von Harbou proposed walking to what he said was the best observation point, about a half-mile up the hill. He stowed the orange tube in the trunk of the Mercedes.