Searching for Edgar's Five Dancers

by Efren O'brien

  Quinn didn’t normally enjoy the surveillance part and duty of being a detective. But now Quinn knew the room key he had would open up more than a door to a hotel room. Hopefully, a treasure-trove of evidence and clues to this art mystery awaited Quinn. It was a cold day, and he wore his overcoat with a scarf and fedora. He would cover up as much of himself as he could to get in and make it up to the room…and at that time Quinn didn’t know the true identity of the dead man. He was hoping to find out. He passed a few people on the way, but Quinn was so innocuous by the manner in which he moved that no one really noticed him. He caught a break as he approached the entrance to the hotel. A large group of people, possibly tourists, were entering, and he quickly got in the middle of the group as they entered. The concierge was standing not far from the entranceway ready to say something to the group of 30. Quinn mulled momentarily with the group as they entered and listened to the concierge direct them, then he slipped behind the concierge and started up the staircase of the De Vargas to the third floor while lowering his head as he ascended. He needed to go up two more flights of stairs to get to the third floor, and Room 310.

  He passed some people coming down the staircase who were loudly engaged in conversation. He ducked his head again and faked a cough to appear to be a man with a cold who didn’t want to speak to anyone, and then Quinn proceeded on. The third floor of the DeVargas Hotel was a long, plain-looking corridor. The hotel had a very simple charm, but could not be called a luxury hotel.

  He reached Room 310, looked to his right and left but saw no one in the hallway. He quickly tried the key. It opened the door, and Quinn entered. He didn’t see much in the room. Quinn experienced the chills as he would be literally rummaging through the personal effects of a dead man. What was he hoping to find? Anything that could shed light on what the hell was really happening in Santa Fe, and could explain the murder of the man. He knew he didn’t have much time. The police were inefficient here, but they would soon start checking area hotel lists for a visitor from Holland named Gustaf Vondolen.

  Vondolen (Berndt Kruger) had an open suitcase on top of his bed. Quinn chose that place to start looking. He took out all the neatly folded clothes and laid them on the edge of the bed. All the clothes would need to be searched as well. Vondolen, or whatever his name really was, was a traveler as he had many maps and travel guides from various cities in the US and Europe; including New York, Chicago, Berlin, Copenhagen, and Zurich, Switzerland. He had nothing from Holland.

  Quinn next checked the three jackets hanging neatly in the coat rack. Just as he was ready to abandon further search of the suitcase, something caught his eye. A small slit at the bottom of the suitcase concealed something underneath. The suitcase on one side had a false bottom. He tried to stick his hand through the opening to lift the false cover up. It was zippered shut with a small zipper. He located it and opened the cover. He found what he was looking for. Inside were what appeared to be several small notebooks, a key with no markings of any kind, and cash. About $100 in US currency, some English pound notes, and German Reichmarks. One of the notebooks was actually another passport; this one from the German Reich, the official name of Nazi Germany

  Bingo! Quinn thought. The picture was definitely that of the man in the alley who had been murdered, only with a different name. This passport showed the name, Berndt Kruger.

  Quinn heard a noise outside the room. Someone was trying to open the door, and Quinn heard muffled voices from the hallway outside. The room was small, and if he had to hide quickly, the only possible place was under the bed. The doorknob to the room was turned again, but the door was locked. Whoever it was mumbled something and began to walk away. Quinn could hear the footsteps walking on the carpet of the old hardwood corridor floor.

  Time to get outta here, he thought. If that was the police, they’ll be back soon. He went through the pockets of the jackets hanging up. Nothing. Before leaving, Quinn quickly opened the chest of drawers in the clothes cabinet. Nothing. Having located the most valuable piece of evidence and information he could—the dead man’s actual passport—Quinn placed the clothes back in the suitcase and slipped out of Room 310.

  There was an exit; another staircase at the far end of the corridor. Quinn quickly headed for it. The staircase went all the way down to a cellar where the boiler room for the hotel was located. Another small staircase led back up to the first floor and to an exit to the rear parking lot. Quinn exited the hotel and quickly left the premises, walking at a fast pace. As far as he could tell, no one knew he had been there. Now he knew instinctively, that he was involved in something big…a murder investigation now gave new meaning and made this larger than searching for some paintings.

  Chapter XXx

  They met at Laszlo Tibor’s suite at La Fonda on San Francisco Street on Wednesday of the next week. “Gentlemen, it’s good to see you. I’m sure there is much to discuss about our case,” said Tibor. “I am anxious to learn what information you’ve uncovered so far, but first please join me in a glass of a native Hungarian drink, Pilanka. It’s very much like Brandy only with a fruity taste.” He filled three shot glasses and handed one each to the two men.

  “Laszlo, I brought my partner Ethan with me today because this may not be a completely pleasant conversation, and I want a witness.”

  “A witness…to what, Mr. Chase? I have no quarrel with either of you,” replied Tibor. “We are supposed to be working on this case together…or so that was my belief. What have you found so far, and what is happening now?”

  “I think you know what we’ve found, Laszlo. Berndt Kruger came to Santa Fe as you predicted, and within a short time of his arrival he was found dead in the alleyway behind the Finebaum art gallery, shot three times. The murderer used a silencer on his handgun. That tells me this was a planned hit by a professional…not a random robbery or argument that resulted in violence. Also, I think the murder weapon was a foreign-made handgun. I believe it was a German Luger.”

  Laszlo took a seat.

  “You knew Kruger would be here. I need some questions answered to decide whether or not I share your name and information with the police,” said Quinn.

  “Gentlemen, just because I knew of the man and what he did gives you no basis to suspect me of wrongdoing or to conclude that I had anything to do with the murder of this man. For god’s sake, get a grip!” said Laszlo.

  “Yes, that’s true, but it’s one hell of a coincidence,” said Quinn.

  “So, are you going to tell me more about what happened?” Tibor asked.

  Quinn and Ethan looked at one another.

  Tibor continued, “Oh, I see. Since I am the killer, I must know all the pertinent details…right?”

  “Who is this man again, and how is it you knew about him?” asked Quinn.

  Berndt Kruger was a German art dealer who for years specialized in the very art the Nazis hate so much; such as Impressionist, Expressionist, and Abstract works, like Picasso, Cezanne, Monet, and Kandinsky,” said Tibor.

  “But that makes no sense. Why was he permitted to come here to conduct business as a German citizen if the Nazis hate what he was doing and what it stands for? He should have been in jail in Germany. They’re not shy about locking people up,” said Quinn.

  “You’re not acknowledging the evidence in front of you, Mr. Chase,” said Tibor. “The Nazi’s are using their own art professionals and any other contacts who will work with them to smuggle this art out of Germany and anywhere else they occupy and sell it on the black-market. Kruger was probably here to do just that.”

  “So you didn’t know he was actually here in Santa Fe now? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “On my life, gentlemen, I had no idea he was here!” said Tibor. “Again, gentlemen, my only concern is finding specific paintings for my clients. I am somewhat offended by your questions and tone, Mr. Chase, and I am beginning to wonder if this partnership is the right thing for us or not.”

  “Listen, Tibor, this case is beginning to
cut across many lines. There is a war on that my country is involved in as you are aware. There is now a homicide involving an art dealer. Gustaf Vondolen…or whoever the hell he really is. There seem to be valuable stolen paintings from Europe that might be hidden somewhere in Santa Fe.”

  Tibor stroked his beard, thinking through the recent events.

  “He was only here a short time before being knocked off,” Quinn continued. “It would make sense that anyone associated with this man at all…even remotely…should be concerned for their own safety too. We’re meeting with Detective Huff from the Santa Fe Police in a few days. He’ll press us for information about the murder and who we’re representing. We have to decide what to tell him.”

  “I ask, gentlemen, that you not mention me…or any knowledge you may have about Kruger’s death at all. Whoever did this and for whatever motive, they probably won’t stop there. As your client, I am asking you not to reveal my name to the police. I was not involved in Kruger’s killing in any way, so please don’t reveal your client’s identity or any predetermined conclusions based on pure speculation. I have enough trouble in other areas of my life to have the police snooping around. But, I still need assistance tracking down this art I am looking for. So I need to know, do we still have a business relationship, gentlemen? And am I still your client?”

  “Of course you are, Mr. Tibor. We’re in this investigation together!” replied Ethan, and he continued. “Please understand, my partner and I were police detectives ourselves not too long ago. My partner gets a little too serious and overzealous at times… no offense intended. I completely agree with you and we will maintain your confidentiality when we meet with the police later in the week. There are some additional leads we want to pursue and maybe more information about your paintings will develop there, but right now we have very few answers,” said Ethan.

  Tibor smoothed a wrinkle in his sleeve.

  Ethan continued. “Now, I do hate to bring up formalities, but I was checking over our employment agreement, and looking at our ledger of time spent on this demanding case, we must ask now for an additional $230 to continue working on your behalf,” he said as he handed Tibor the ledger.

  “Gentlemen, money was never an issue between us. Please give me a moment, and I will pay you your requested amount,” said Tibor.

  “Mr. Tibor, and also if it’s not too much trouble…I’ll have that fruit Brandy now,” said Quinn.

  Chapter XXXi

  “Okay, dammit, enough double talk! What the hell’s going on here?” Quinn’s voice rose as he stood in the front of the art gallery staring at Joel Finebaum and Katrina. “A man is dead with a suspicious Dutch passport. He was shot two or three times in the alley behind your gallery. What the hell happened, Finebaum? Don’t tell me you don’t know this man. I want the truth or from here on out you won’t have a minute’s peace. Oh, and by the way, the victim wasn’t Dutch.” Quinn continued, “Here’s a clipping of a German newspaper Das Reich, dated August 20, 1936. It shows the picture of a man holding up a painting he had just purchased. The caption under the photo in German reads, Berndt Kruger is smiling after buying a new portrait by Ludwig Dettmann…one of Germany’s top artists, at a recent auction in Munich. Does the man in the photo look familiar? Berndt Kruger looks very much alive in this photo to me!”

  “No more double talk and no more lies, Finebaum, if that’s even your real name. What was your connection to Berndt Kruger? Tell me now, or I will go right to the police.”

  “No, no, they don’t need to be involved in this,” said Finebaum. “Alright, alright…I think I can tell you what you have to know,” he said. “Life at times can be complicated and unforgiving, Mr. Chase,” said Finebaum. “We all have a past…sometimes things we’re not proud of. And such is my story,” Joel said.

  “You see, Mr. Chase, I’m a German-Jewish immigrant who didn’t grow up in the US. My family, including Katrina, has been here less than 10 years,” Finebaum said.

  “So, Mr. Chase, are you aware of what is happening to Jewish people in Germany and the rest of occupied Europe? Well, tragedy sometimes makes for strange bedfellows. To get out and get my family out of Germany nearly seven years ago, I did things I never want to discuss, but I had to do these things, Mr. Chase. For no sane reason…no sane reason other than ideological hatred and greed, the Nazis are systematically murdering hundreds of thousands of innocent people. They’ve refined their murder to an industrial scale. I couldn’t let this happen to my family, and Katrina. Berndt Kruger was my underground contact, and I paid him a lot of money to get us out. There were others too. But he paid off various officials to get us out of Europe. In the process, someone else tried to blackmail us for money…and then double-crossed us and nearly turned us in. I killed the man to save my family. I have never thought of myself as a murderer, but in this instance it was for self-preservation and preservation of my family. I deeply regret it just the same.”

  “Kruger disposed of the body and covered for me while we escaped with false identities and passports and came through Lisbon, to America. We have since cleared customs and are in the process of gaining citizenship, but Kruger located us and began harassing us with letters, trying to blackmail us for more money. He’s threatened to turn us into the authorities here. We’ve been through so much and are so grateful to be here that we submitted to his demands. Last night he came by and I gave him more money. He left through the back door to the alleyway, but I didn’t shoot him. I swear I didn’t! I don’t know what happened when he left, but he had cash on him,” said Finebaum.

  “Interesting story. Does anyone know this besides me?” asked Quinn.

  “No, and I want to keep it that way, Mr. Chase. I have money, and we can work out a deal. Katrina deserves a chance at a free and decent life here in America, and a chance to put an ugly past she didn’t cause, behind her,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Finebaum,” Quinn said. “I believe even though you lied to me earlier about Berndt Kruger…basically you’re an honest man. If you’re telling the truth now about this and you haven’t committed a crime here, you should be able to live in peace. The police will be here soon to talk to you…but I don’t want your money and I won’t say a word unless I have reason to think you’ve committed crimes here,” Quinn said.

  “So, Finebaum, this murder had nothing to do with paintings…this Degenerate Art?” Quinn asked.

  “As I told you before, Mr. Chase, I know what the term refers to, but that’s all. I haven’t heard anything, seen or come in contact with it in Santa Fe. As to Kruger’s murder…I have no idea what happened. Maybe someone saw him leave through the back door and was lying in wait and robbed him?”

  “You understand that you had a very strong motive to kill him, Finebaum. He was extorting money from you with the threat of turning you into the authorities,” said Quinn.

  “Yes, that’s true, but there’s another fact you’re not aware of, Mr. Chase. I have relatives in Germany and I was ensuring their security and safety through Kruger and the money I paid him. Because of his unexplained death, now they are all at much greater risk. I will have to make other arrangements somehow to ensure my family overseas remains safe. Mr. Chase, I am never surprised when I’m visited by adversity and misfortune…these two evils always seem to locate me and harass me in life.”

  Chapter XXXii

  Quinn had always followed his instincts as a detective. Now his instincts led him to the two suspicious art dealers he knew. Laszlo Tibor’s story about Kruger made sense, but so did Joel Finebaum’s. It was possible that they could both be telling the truth. But why would two foreign art dealers be spending their time in Santa Fe, if there wasn’t some prize to make their efforts here worthwhile? And then it occurred to Quinn that Marika Kraus and Laszlo Tibor may not be the art dealers they claimed to be. Quinn knew it wouldn’t be long before Detective Huff would put two and two together and begin looking at both of them.

  Quinn called a meeting with both of them at Tib
or’s hotel suite. “Alright, I asked both of you to meet me here for one reason,” Quinn said to Marika and Laszlo Tibor. “What the hell is going on in this town?” he asked. “The man who was supposedly from Holland wasn’t Dutch and is found dead shot to death in the alleyway behind an art gallery. You two are supposedly art dealers, but is that who you really are? We haven’t seen violence and a murder up here like this in many years. It’s too much of a coincidence. You know more than you’ve told me. Tell me what’s going on and maybe I can keep the police and FBI away,” he demanded. “Otherwise, I’m afraid either the FBI or Detective Frank Huff will be breathing down your necks in a week or so,” Quinn said.

  Laszlo seemed as if he might say something to Quinn, but then he turned and looked at Marika…“You harlot!” yelled Laszlo. She answered right back, “Old swine!” Quinn wasn’t sure whether or not to intervene at this particular moment.

  “You’re the perfect spy,” said Laszlo. “Underhanded and slippery as an eel! Have you ever told the truth in your entire life?” he asked.

  “Your people will be under our domination very soon! Then we’ll crush you like the cockroaches you are!” she replied.

  Quinn thought he should say something as this argument was getting nastier by the second. “You two…screaming at each other isn’t gonna solve your problem,” as he pointed at Laszlo, “or your problem,” as he pointed at Marika.

  “You’ve done this to me before…I know you’re hiding my paintings!” yelled Laszlo, pointing at her.