Back from the Dead (22 page)

“I think we should follow him,” Harry said, looking out at lights on the promenade, the night sky and the Mediterranean dark behind it. They were sipping evening cocktails in their suite at the Negresco. “See what he’s up to. Make sure he’s at the villa before we go after him.”

Cordell said, “Look for a place to grab him.”

“The way Mossad kidnapped Adolf Eichmann in Buenos Aires,” Colette said. “Took him out when he got off the bus, returning home from work, kept him in a house in the city for a week. To get him out of Argentina they drugged him and dressed him in an El Al uniform, saying he’d had too much to drink as they boarded a plane bound for Israel. The Israelis were surprised how cooperative Eichmann was. It was as if he was expecting them.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, grab him off the street.” Cordell sipped his drink.

“There’s that bakery just down the hill from the villa,” Harry said. “We can wait there till he drives by. I agree with Cordell, it might be easier to surprise him.”

Colette said, “What will we do with him?”

“Take him out. What do you think?”

“I think we should bring him to the police.”

Cordell glanced at her. “What’re they going to do?”

“Arrest him.”

“As far as they know he’s a French citizen named Vincent Chartier,” Harry said. “You think they’re going to take our word over his? They’re going to let him go, and he’s going to disappear again.”

“Harry, we have proof he’s a war criminal. You’re the survivor. Tell them your story.”

“What do I have that proves I’m a survivor? And what do I have that connects me to Hess?” Harry paused, sipped his whisky. “Hess has a French passport. According to the tax records he’s owned property in Nice since ’48. He’s a solid citizen.”

They were parked on corniche des Oliviers at eight the next morning in front of the bakery, car facing down hill, Cordell behind the wheel, Colette next to him and Harry in back, training binoculars on every driver and passenger in every car that passed them in a steady stream of traffic. The small parking lot was crowded. He saw the dark-haired woman from Hess’ villa come out of the bakery carrying two baguettes and a white bag of pastries. She got in the Fiat and drove back up the hill.

By ten there was hardly any traffic, just an occasional car or truck passing by. Looking through the rear window Harry could see a dark sedan come over the hill. He waited till it was about fifty yards away, raised the binoculars, put them on the grill, it was a Renault, put them on the windshield, sun glinting off making it difficult to see in. Tried to focus on the driver’s face but the car was moving too fast. He adjusted the viewfinder, pulling back as the car closed in on them, held on the driver’s face till he was sure. “There he is.”

Colette turned in her seat.

Cordell started the car, glanced in the side mirror. “I see him.”

The Renault sped by. Cordell started the Peugeot and took off after it. They followed Hess down the steep winding roads to boulevard Gambetta and all the way to the promenade des Anglais, then around the harbor and up the coast.

“Where you think he’s goin’?”

“Maybe he knows we’re on to him, he’s leaving the country. The Italian border’s right up here. Head down the Riviera, reinvent himself in Rapallo.”

A few minutes later they were in Monaco, Harry looking at the marina filled with pleasure boats and yachts, and highrise apartment buildings built around the harbor. Hess turned and they followed him into the city that reminded Harry of Palm Beach with its wide boulevards, palm trees and Greco-Roman architecture.

Hess parked in front of Galerie Broussard, got out, closed the door, moved to the trunk, opened it and took out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. Harry pictured the painting he saw on the dresser in Hess’ room and now it made sense. “That’s the painting you found in the locker, I’ll bet.”

Colette said,
“The Painter on the Road to Tarascon
by Van Gogh.”

“Describe it.”

“It’s a self portrait – Van Gogh on the road, carrying artist’s supplies – showing himself as an alienated outsider.”

“The painting in Hess’ villa was signed
Vincent
.”

“That’s how Van Gogh signed his paintings. Harry, you saw it and didn’t say anything?”

“It didn’t occur to me till now.”

Hess was thinking about the value of the painting as he walked into the gallery. Based on what he knew, and he was no expert, the Van Gogh would sell for somewhere between five and seven million dollars. The sale would be confidential and discreet. Absolutely no publicity. No one except Broussard would know his identity. The money would be paid to Broussard, and Broussard would deduct his fee and send the balance to Hess. He would deposit the money in his account at Société Générale, and at the appropriate time, transfer the money to his Swiss account. When he needed additional funds he would sell another painting.

Broussard saw Hess enter the gallery and came right over.
“Bonjour,
Monsieur Chartier. I see you have brought the painting. How exciting. Shall we unveil it in my office?”

Hess followed Broussard across the gallery floor to a hallway that led to offices. Broussard’s was big and open, simple chrome-and-glass desk, black leather chairs, a wall of bookshelves. The only thing that looked out of place was a chrome easel set up on the floor next to the desk.

Hess unwrapped the painting. Broussard took the discarded paper from him, folded it and placed it on the desk. Hess set the painting on the easel and now Broussard came over and stood close, smiling.

“The Painter on the Road to Tarascon
.” Broussard’s grin faded and he held Hess in his gaze. “It is impossible. This painting was destroyed when the Allies bombed Magdeburg, setting fire to the Kaiser Friedrich Museum. Where on earth did you get it?”

“I can’t tell you anything about how the painting came into my possession. The sale has to be completely confidential. The buyer can’t know who I am.”

“But M. Chartier, this is a missing masterpiece. There is a story behind it, a mystique that will add to its value. Prospective buyers will want to know, not to mention the art world.”

“What is it worth?”

“I can’t say with certainty. We will have to establish a selling price based on what other paintings by Van Gogh have sold for.” Broussard turned to the painting. “But this, I can assure you, will command a very high price. I would think eight to ten million dollars. What were you expecting?”

“Somewhere in that range.”

“I assume you have a bill of sale from the original owner, gallery or auction house.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“M. Chartier, we cannot in good conscience trust its authenticity unless you have authentication credentials. Van Gogh has been forged more frequently than any other modern artist. Before we can establish a price the painting has to be authenticated. So you won’t mind leaving it with me?”

“Authenticated? You can see it is original. Look at the signature.”

“Signatures can be forged.”

“Maybe I should take it to another gallery,” Hess said, even though he had had a similar experience selling the Durer to the broker in New York. That had had to be X-rayed to prove its nature and origin.

“They will tell you the same thing. Without authentication you will not be able to sell the painting.”

“Do you know someone? I want to make this happen quickly. I will be leaving France soon for an extended vacation.”

“The only person in Nice who can give an absolutely trustworthy and acceptable attribution is M. Givry. He is an art expert who intimately understands Van Gogh. M. Givry worked at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, and he has curated exhibitions of his paintings at museums around the world. Let me see what I can do. Please make yourself comfortable.” Broussard waved his arm indicating the leather couch. “May I offer you coffee?”

Hess shook his head and sat on the couch. Broussard moved to the desk, took an address book out of a drawer, opened it and made a phone call.

Hess walked out of the gallery. He didn’t have the patience to sit in Broussard’s office and wait until the expert arrived and authenticated the painting. Hess noticed a silver Peugeot parked across the street, morning sun reflecting off the sheet metal, making it difficult to see if anyone was in it. He had passed a car just like it on corniche des Oliviers on his way to Nice. Was he being followed, or was he suspicious because Marie-Noëlle had seen a man on the property?

Hess walked to a cafe down the street, sat outside, feeling the warmth of the sun, and drank two cups of
café americain,
discreetly staring at two well-dressed, good-looking ladies a few tables away.

When he returned to the gallery an hour later the Peugeot was gone, confirming that his jittery nerves and paranoia were an overreaction. Broussard was in his office, talking to a dapper little man wearing a dark suit and bow tie.

“M. Chartier, let me present our foremost Van Gogh expert, M. Givry.”

The little man stared at Hess, making no attempt to shake hands.

“Have you finished the authentication?”

Broussard said, “I am afraid we have bad news.”

“This painting is a forgery,” Givry said. “The technique is all wrong. Van Gogh lathered his colors roughly on the canvas.”

“How do I know this is the painting I brought?”

“M. Chartier,” Broussard said, plump cheeks turning red. “We have been selling art for fifty years. I can assure you …” Givry, too, looked nervous, rubbing his hands, eyes darting around.

Hess had taken the painting from Hans Frank. How could it be a fake? The Durer was from the same collection and it had been authenticated. “I should phone the police and have you arrested.”

Broussard, offended now, moved to his desk, picked up the telephone receiver and glanced at Hess. “Here you are. Make your call, but it will not change anything. This was not painted by Vincent Van Gogh.”

Hess lifted the canvas off the easel and walked out of the office. He sat in the car, thinking about Hans Frank and the paintings, now wondering if the others had been forged.

After the war Hess had visited Frank’s estate. Hans had been uncharacteristically uneasy, pacing while they talked. “The Allies are closing in,” Hans had said. “They are going to arrest me.”

“Why don’t you leave Germany?”

“There is no place I can go.” He handed Hess a map. “I need you to move the paintings to a secure location. I’ll contact you when I have been released from prison.”

Frank was arrested a few days later. He was taken to Nuremburg, tried and found guilty of war crimes and crimes against humanity. He was hanged on October 16, 1946.

Hess found the cave and what remained of Frank’s art collection and contacted Gerhard Braun. Hess needed a way to move the paintings and Braun had trucks. They agreed to split everything fifty-fifty.

“Harry, you see him lookin’ over here? Why’s he lookin’ at us?” Hess had come out of the gallery and was staring at them. “It’s the car. I think he’s looking at the Peugeot.”

But then Hess turned and walked down the street to a sidewalk cafe and sat at a table.

Cordell made a U-turn. Harry said, “What’re you doing?”

“Gettin’ outta here. Don’t you know nothin’ about surveillance? Man seen the car, we got to be more careful. When I worked for Chilly, see, we’d have to watch out for the police. They come to the projects in beat-up old cars, cops dressed for the street. They’d park, smoke cigarettes, lookin’ around, waitin’ for somethin’ to go down, couldn’t’ve been more obvious.”

Colette said, “What did you do?”

“Wait till they took off, or came back another time.”

“But you got busted, you told me.”

“Yeah, but it had nothin’ to do with that. I was suckered by a cop dressed like he was homeless, livin’ in a refrigerator carton. Man was a stone actor.”

Cordell took the first left, made another U-turn and parked on the street with a clean angle on Hess’ car and the gallery entrance. No way Hess’d be able to see them.

“How do you like me now?” Cordell said, glancing at Harry.

“Not bad.”

“There he is,” Colette said.

Harry saw Hess come out of the gallery, carrying a painting. He put it in the trunk, got in the car and pulled out, going right toward Monte Carlo.

Colette said, “What do you think he is doing with the painting?

“Trying to sell it,” Harry said. “His German assets are frozen. I think he needs money.”

“It has to be worth a fortune,” Colette said. “I looked it up in the library. It was looted by the Nazis and supposedly lost during the war, destroyed in a museum fire.”

Harry saw Hess heading back to the harbor and then turning right toward Nice.

Instead of turning right on boulevard Gambetta, Hess drove through Nice, going west, just driving, the Peugeot still behind him, seeing it in the rearview and side mirrors. At Antibes he turned off the highway and drove into town. It was midday and congested. He parked in an angled space on the street, picked the pistol up off the passenger seat and slid it in his pocket.

Hess went into a restaurant. Standing just inside the door he could see the Peugeot double-parked behind the Renault, stopping traffic, horns honking. He walked past the maitre d’ into the crowded dining room, heard the loud din of voices, saw waiters carrying trays of food, moving about. He walked through the dining room into the stainless-steel kitchen, hearing the sharp clatter of plates and utensils, line cooks working, eyes on him but no one questioning his being there or trying to stop him, and then he was outside, walking along the alley behind the restaurant. He made a series of turns taking him blocks from the main street where he had parked. There was a taxi sitting in front of a small hotel. Hess got in and told the driver to take him to Nice.

The taxi dropped him at a cafe back on boulevard Gambetta. Hess phoned Marie-Noëlle to pick him up. He sat at a table inside, drank an espresso in two swallows, watching the street. The Fiat pulled up a few minutes later. He went outside and got in, looking around for a silver Peugeot.

“Monsieur,
where is your car?”

“Antibes.”

She pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn, window down, left hand on the steering wheel, holding a cigarette between her index and middle fingers, shifting with her right. Hess felt claustrophobic in the small interior, his shoulder and Marie-Noëlle’s almost touching.

“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?” She brought the cigarette to her mouth, blowing out smoke, and made a left turn. He was conscious of her earthy smell mixing with the cigarette smoke and diesel exhaust.

“Mechanical trouble.”

“Is the garage picking it up?”

Hess nodded. “Have you seen anyone else on the property?”

“No,
monsieur
.”

“Or cars parked outside the gate?”

“No,
monsieur
.” She dropped the cigarette out the open window.

“Any hunters?” On occasion Hess had seen villagers in the hills, hunting rabbits and quail.

“No,
monsieur,
no one.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Marie-Noëlle lit another cigarette, kept it hanging in her mouth as she drove the winding roads to the villa, shifting and down-shifting, the cigarette ash breaking off, falling in her lap, Marie-Noëlle brushing it on the floor.

Back at the villa, Hess contacted a service garage in the village just up the hill, and arranged to have his Renault towed there. Then he went to his bedroom and stood on the deck with binoculars scanning the hills and valley behind his property, and felt foolish when he saw Claude, the gardener, look up at him from trimming palm trees by the pool.

He went inside and took a thick wad of money out of his jacket pocket, counting the bills on the bed. $9,635 and 2,200 francs. He owned the villa free and clear, but selling it would take time. He would have to meet with realtors. And he owned twelve expressionist paintings and a couple dozen others that were, depending on their authenticity, worth either a fortune or nothing. But selling the paintings – going through an auction house or a gallery – would probably take even longer than selling the villa. He knew it was time to leave.

At 4:30 the manager of the service garage phoned to tell Hess his car had been towed to the lot but there was no way to check its functions without the ignition key. Hess said he would bring the key in the morning.

He waited until he was sure the garage was closed before he went to find Marie-Noëlle. She was folding clothes in the laundry room on the lower level.

“I need your help with something.”

“Yes, of course,
monsieur.
What can I do for you?”

“Drive me to pick up the car. They have it at the garage.”

“
Monsieur
, are you sure? I can take Claude if you would rather not.”