Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

Harry took a drink of beer, put the bottle back on the table. “What’re you going to do about it?”

“Do about it? Not sure what you’re sayin’.”

“You should go to the police. Tell them what happened.”

“You mean like you did Harry, shot the three Blackshirts.”

“That was different. It was self-defense.”

“What do you think happened with us? They pulled first.”

Harry went back to his room at 6:30. There was a message from Stark: Call me. It’s important. I don’t care what time it is.

He sat at the desk, looking out at the dark ocean, picked up the phone, dialed Stark’s home number, heard Stark say hello. “What’s so important?”

“Harry, we’ve got trouble. The Germans want to extradite you for that triple homicide in Munich.”

“Somebody found the bodies, huh? Well, we knew this might happen. How’d you find out?”

“U.S. Attorney. Evidently they’ve got ballistics confirmation, and as you know they’ve got the murder weapon.”

“Let’s say they’re successful, how long before I’m sent over?”

“I have to believe the extradition request will be denied. So you’re okay unless you go back to Germany.”

Hess went to baggage claim, pulled Max’s suitcase off the carousel and carried it to the men’s room. He sat on the toilet in a locked stall with the suitcase across his legs, opened it, felt through the layers of clothes, brought out the .38 and slipped it in an outside pocket of Max Hoffman’s blazer.

He locked the suitcase in a locker, walked outside to the taxi queue and took a cab to 681 Park Avenue at 68th Street. Hess had come here six months earlier with the Durer, left it on consignment with Jurgen Mauer, a former gallery owner from Berlin Hess had done business with over the years. Mauer knew wealthy private collectors who would be interested in an original Durer. The arrangement was: Mauer would sell it and take twenty-five per cent. The artwork, charcoal and colored chalk on paper, was estimated at $250,000, maybe a little more.

Several weeks later the Durer was sold to a Japanese millionaire for $270,000. Hess had received $50,000 in cash, the first installment. Mauer had owed him an additional $152,500, the bulk of the sale, and had been holding out for months, but now he needed it.

Hess sat in a cafe next to the gallery, drinking coffee, waiting, watching for Mauer. A little past 1:00 p.m., the art broker, wearing a black overcoat, came out of the gallery, walking north on Park Avenue. Hess got up and went after him, catching Mauer at 59th Street. He could hear the sounds of the city around him. “You move fast for an old man.”

Mauer glanced at him in the Cleveland Indians cap and kept walking. Hess caught up to him again, coming up on his left. “I keep expecting the money but it does not come.” This time Hess removed the cap and smiled.

“Herr Hess, forgive me. I did not recognize you.”

“Where is my money?”

“The buyer has not yet paid in full.”

“That’s not what you told me. The buyer agreed to pay after the painting had been authenticated. Does that sound familiar?

“Why would I cheat you?”

“You thought you could get away with it.” Word had undoubtedly spread. Mauer knew Hess was a fugitive war criminal and wasn’t expecting to be stopped by him on the streets of New York.

“I have additional master works for sale.” Hess threw out the bait and Mauer went for it.

“Additional works by Durer?”

“Picasso, Chagall, Matisse, Klee and others.”

“Oh my.” The potential commission on such a collection took his breath away. “How many do you have?”

“We can discuss that when you pay me.”

“Come to the gallery this evening. Can you be there at seven?”

Hess checked into a room at the Pierre Hotel on East 61st Street. He was Max Hoffman from Pompano Beach, Florida by way of Cleveland. Told the reception clerk American Airlines had lost his luggage. He went up to his room that had a view of Central Park, sipped a Macallan’s and watched television, NBC Nightly News already in progress, staring in disbelief at a black-and-white photograph of himself in a Nazi uniform, posing in front of a pit filled with dead Jews, while the anchorman narrated.

“Ernst Hess, German entrepreneur, politician and former Nazi, is being sought by German authorities as a war criminal for crimes against humanity.” The camera cut to shots of Hess posing with his men smiling, holding bottles of schnapps, dead bodies in the background. Another one of him at a Christian Social Union meeting, and photographs of his estate in Schleissheim and his apartment in Munich. There was a $250,000 reward for information leading to his arrest and conviction.

Hess turned off the television, thinking about meeting Mauer at his gallery, seeing police there to arrest him and Mauer collecting the reward. He booked a flight to Munich on Pan Am, walked out of the room, took the elevator down to the lobby, looking around. He walked outside, it was getting dark and the hotel was lit up. He took a cab to the airport.

The German customs inspector was behind the glass partition, staring at something, or was it an act? Keep the tired passengers waiting for no reason.

The customs man finally looked up, no expression, and Hess slid Max Hoffman’s passport to him through the opening. The customs man opened it and compared the photograph to the man standing in front of him. He flipped through it and stamped one of the blank pages. “Welcome to Germany, Mr. Hoffman.”

Hess took a taxi to the Bayerischer Hof, the hotel where Harry Levin had stayed, on Promenadeplatz, happy to be back on familiar turf.

At 4:00, after a nap, shower and a plate of bratwurst and sauerkraut, Hess, wearing Max Hoffman’s blazer, khakis and Cleveland Indians cap, met Franz Stigler at the Hofgarten. Hess, with a 35-mm camera on a strap around his neck, was the quintessential American tourist. Franz walked right by and didn’t recognize him. “Franz, where are you going?” Hess said, breath condensing in the cold air.

Stigler stopped, turned, eyeing him curiously. Ernst removed the cap.

“Herr Hess?”

“Where is the journalist?”

They were alone in the colonnade. Stigler frowned. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I saw her leave the apartment.”

“Why didn’t you follow her?”

“She punctured one of my tires.”

Hess couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Where’s the painting?”

“I’m coming to that. Do you remember Riemenschneider? I introduced you at the rally. He’s a locksmith.”

“Just tell me, do you have the painting, or not?”

“It’s in the van.”

“What about the weapon?”

Stigler reached into his overcoat pocket.

“Not here.”

They walked to the parking area. There were only two vehicles, Hess’ sedan and Stigler’s van. It was 4:30, heavy cloud cover making it seem later. Stigler opened the rear doors. Hess saw the Van Gogh on the metal floor, leaning against the inside wall amid the clutter of tools and equipment. He could feel his blood pressure rise. “This is how you treat a master work of art?”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea, Herr Hess. I didn’t think it was anything special. I couldn’t understand why you’d want it.”

Hess tried to calm himself, looking at the positive side. The painting had been returned to him. Now Stigler took a Walther PPK out of his pocket and gave it to him along with a suppressor and a box of cartridges. Hess handed him an envelope. While Stigler counted the money Hess ejected the magazine — it was fully loaded — and screwed the suppressor on the end of the barrel. When Stigler looked up, Hess was pointing the gun at him. “I think it’s the perfect pistol. Small, lightweight, balanced. Did you know the Führer shot and killed himself with a weapon just like it?”