Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

Tony memorized, all too quickly; then it was time to go. Billy was peeking out the front door to be sure his exit was unobserved.

“See that the painting is not damaged, I beg. For it is the true original, passes all the tests,” Lizveta Zlotnikova said with real emotion. Tony felt put upon.

“Is it okay if I’m not damaged either? It’s my neck in the noose, you know.”

“Now,” Billy piped. “No one in sight.”

“Do not let us down again,” Sones ordered.

Tony slipped out wondering when he had let them down before. Not for the first time he yearned for the cool serenity of the National Gallery. This Mexican thing kept rolling downhill like a runaway trolley. Getting him involved more deeply all the time. The guard at the gate saluted him out, otherwise no one else saw him, then held the door open on the black Cadillac with the memorized number. The guard was also close enough to hear the spoken destination, which proved, if nothing else, that Sones at least knew the mechanics of his job. The trip on the toll road was swift, fine views of the valley and mountains far away, closer view of the nape of the uniformed chauffeur’s neck and the dandruff on his shoulders. All too soon they were in the automotive inferno of Mexico City and stopping close to the multifunctional delicatessen. Not a word had been exchanged, other than the issuing of the two orders. Tony watched the car pull away, took a deep breath, then walked toward his destiny.

Ornate gold letters on the plate-glass window read tolteg kosher delicatessen. Clearly visible seated inside was an elderly gentleman in dark coat and wide-brimmed hat who was straining soup through his full beard. At a longer table nearby an entire family was eating from plates of various sizes, apparently enjoying themselves, while toward the back a tourist couple sipped at beers and looked expectantly toward the glass-fronted delicatessen counter. A round young lady in white was dishing up portions of potato salad, coleslaw, hot chilies, while a familiar figure assembled thick sandwiches from smoking meat. He looked up when Tony came reluctantly through the door and nodded pleasantly.

“Buenos tardes, senor. Agui hay una mesa para ti?”

Tony nodded, impressed with the success of the disguise for the first time, remembering full well that the genial fat man had the keen eye of the spy catcher. Seating himself at a table away from the others, Tony read the menu with interest, breakfast, large as It had been, seemed to have slipped away leaving a vacuity. Jacob Goldstein brought over a glass and bottle which he set before Tony, smiling benevolently.

“Be with you in a moment, Hawkin. Meanwhile, have a celery tonic on the house. That’s not too bad a disguise, all things considered.”

No, not bad at all, Tony thought gloomily, sipping at the strangely flavored beverage. Instantly penetrated. Would the police see through it as easily as well? Goldstein reappeared, slapping down a glass of tea and dropping into the chair opposite.

“Very nice of you to come by and see an old man, seeing how you are so busy these days. Our Italian friends are very hurt by your actions and say you stole some money from them.”

“I did not! It was freely given—and how do you know about that anyway?”

“Word travels. We help each other. There are a lot of Nazis they have no love for either. I hear also you bumped off this Davidson because of a feud between the CIA and the FBI!”

“That’s not true!”

“I thought not, nice fellow like you would have a better reason.”

“Listen, Goldstein, let us get one thing clear. I did not kill Davidson. He was knifed while I was in the other room. I have no idea who did it or why. I have been framed.”

Goldstein nodded benevolently as he sipped his tea, spoon in glass threatening his eyeball. “You been pretty busy, like I said.”

“That is all beside the point. I’m here because of what you have done. You told me you weren’t interested in the paintings at all, yet you had one of your muscle-bound sabras steal it from us. Why? Or are you going to deny the whole thing?”

“Me, deny? Of course not. A very nice painting and it is put away in a safe spot.”

“Give it back, you crook.”

“Crook, surely, return painting, perhaps. That depends upon you.”

“I had that feeling all along. What can I possibly do for you?”

“We’ll get to that in good time, but first I have a little story to tell you.”

“Could you tell it to me while I’m eating? It is lunchtime.” Rich odor of pastrami, salami, corned beef, pickles, peppers, salad, rye bread, onion rolls, gave sweet torture to his nostrils. Goldstein nodded with sympathetic understanding and called out a rapid order to the girl behind the counter, then sipped his tea until a great sandwich had arrived, and Tony had worried a delicious corner off it, looking on with appreciation at his healthy appetite. The girl called for assistance as another table filled and by the time Goldstein had returned the plate was empty and Tony dabbing the last crumbs from his lips.

“I’m glad you ate first, because what I got to tell you won’t help your appetite, young and healthy as it is. It’s not a nice story about a man by the name of Hochhande.”

“So it is a man, the name I mean, I wondered.”

“Perhaps man is too nice a word to apply to Hochhande, you will judge when I am finished. I ask you to turn your mind back to a period that, to one your age, is becoming a part of history. Except that all the players have not yet vanished from the stage. The time is during what we call the Second World War, which the English more personally refer to as the Hitler War, in the south of Italy, the province of Salerno. There was a prison camp there outside the city of Sapri, commanded by one Kapitan Hippolyt Hochhande, known as Hippo to his close friends of which he had very few. Hochhande did such admirable work in this camp that toward the end of the war he was called back hurriedly to Germany by none other than the Fiihrer himself, with whom he had a slight acquaintance due to a mutual interest, and was given the immense responsibility of running an extermination camp. You have heard of these camps? I see by your complexion that you have.

In Gelsenkirchen, as in the other camps, the civilized Germans did their best to preserve the cultural world image of their nation by killing off all the victims who knew better. Hochhande, ever the efficient man, did away with over three hundred thousand people before he fled ahead of the advancing Allied armies. Most of the dead were Jews which explains, in case you are interested, why I have come here and now labor in the guise of a smiling delicatessen man. Enjoyable in many ways, except I am putting on weight, and far better than the time in Argentina when for three years I worked out of a hay, grain and feed shop.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see the connection between Gelsenkirchen and Mexico.”

“I’m coming to that. The mutual interest that Hochhande shared with Adolf was art, Hochhande having been the operator of a Munich art gallery before the war. It is known that Hochh; actually obtained some paintings for Adolf, and for Goring as well. It is also recorded that he visited Monte d’Capitello many times to admire the paintings there, it is just a few kilometers from Sapri.”

“I’m beginning to see ...”

“I thought you might. The museum is destroyed, the pain vanish, presumably destroyed with it. Now strange things begin to happen. A Matisse painting from the Hitler collection reappears on the world market after many years. The Capitello paintings also come to light. I detect the spoor of Hochhande here. I will sniff him out.”

“But Kurt Robl is the man who is doing everything, that is what I was told. Is he Hochhande?”