Vanished in Berlin: Kidnap suspense mystery set in 1930s Berlin (Berlin Tales Book 2)

by Christopher P Jones

  ‘Then may I be of assistance?’ Arno asked.

  ‘You may.’

  ‘What are your preferred artistic styles?’ he asked, coming from behind the desk to accompany the woman. He felt ready for a splash of bluster.

  She was immediately on the back foot. ‘Oh, I don’t know. How should I? Most pictures I see, I don’t like. Show me what you have.’

  Her manner was impatient, nervous. He led her to a nearby picture.

  ‘What do you think of his piece?’

  ‘Think?’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘No, it’s awful. What is it? I just see a scrawl. What is it?’

  ‘It’s by a painter from Dortmund. We have more of his work.’

  ‘No, no, no. There’s nothing to it. Show me something else. Quickly.’

  He took her to a different section of the gallery where three paintings were hung on the wall in a row. ‘If I were to ask you which of these you liked the most, which would you say?’ he said, adopting a change of tactics.

  Now the lady began to think, considering each alternative very closely. She seemed to prefer this way of shopping. She squinted at the wall and looked at the works carefully. Arno stood beside her in silence, pretending to gaze at the paintings along with her. Eventually, she stepped forward and raised her finger to point at the painting in the middle.

  ‘This one. I like this one the best. Don’t ask me why. I can’t justify it. Just my taste, that’s all.’

  ‘A fine choice.’

  ‘Why is it a fine choice? Tell me, why is it a fine choice?’

  ‘It’s a city landscape. The composition is excellent. The colours are Renaissance style. The harmony is wonderful.’

  ‘Is that so? Which city is it?’

  ‘Somewhere in Italy, perhaps.’ – No, he realised this was being too vague – ‘A rare view of Florence,’ he corrected. ‘From an unusual angle. Most original.’

  ‘Is it? How about that. Florence. I wouldn’t have recognised it. I’ve always wanted to go to Florence.’

  ‘This artist takes his imagery from his upbringing and from his memory, so we can assume he is a painter of deepest expression.’

  ‘We can assume that, can we?’

  ‘We can conjecture, yes.’

  The lady stood quietly for a moment, digesting what had been said. Six seconds later, she agreed to buy the painting.

  At this juncture, Lassner was called from his back-office and a price for the painting discussed. Arno left the negotiations to his boss. After the lady had left, agreeing to collect the painting once her husband had been told of the happy news, Lassner approached his new apprentice.

  ‘You are an art dealer now,’ he said. ‘You have sold your first work. Now, there’s no going back.’

  25

  ‘What’s he like?’ Arno asked Lassner after their guest for the following day had been announced.

  ‘Göring? He likes the good life. Brought up in the true German style. Castles in the mountains, hunting in the forests, that sort of thing. You’ll see when he comes. A Bavarian beast, with all the finery to match. Just look at his hands, all the gold rings he wears. Those rubies are real, let me assure you. He even designs his own uniforms. He likes to think he’s set apart.’

  ‘And he collects art?’

  ‘Among other things. He collects art. He collects jewels. He collects trains. He imbibes whatever is put in front of him. Someone once told me he keeps a baby tiger as a pet. In short, he doesn’t say no to many things.’

  Arno was waiting by the frosted doors of the gallery when a small entourage of men arrived. First among them was Göring. He wore a pale, dove-blue military uniform that wrapped tightly around his belly like a body in a hammock. With him were two other men; one of them carried a briefcase and wore a sharply tailored suit, the other was dressed the customary brown uniform, black boots and circular kepi cap. They arrived easily, smiling between them and sharing a joke. Göring had the eminent confidence of someone who was used to being listened to. He led the way, walking directly past Arno, who preferred not to draw attention to himself anyway. His moment would come soon enough. The three visitors took a few moments to examine some of the paintings hung on the walls. They played the game of trying to sound knowledgeable, astute and relaxed at the same time. There was a faint whiff of competitiveness between them; a sport that, in the end, no-one would let Göring lose.

  Göring went ahead and began a private conversation with Lassner, shaking his hand and patting him on the shoulder. They seemed pleased to see each other and made a great show of it. At this point, Lassner called Arno over to be introduced. Arno approached sheepishly, feeling a shimmer of nerves ripple through him.

  Lassner introduced Arno as his protégé. Göring seemed to enjoy the description. He smiled, that strange sickle smile, like the shape of a crescent moon or a scorpion arching it’s back. Then there was a moment of silence, and it was obvious that Arno was meant to fill it. Off the top of his head, he began to talk about some of his favourite artists. The words seem to come to him easily, as if the pressure of the moment – his great need to impress Göring – was squeezing the thoughts out of him, words he could never imagine speaking in ordinary circumstances.

  He decided that an opportunity was already presenting itself. It was time to mention the Caravaggio. With his best poise – eyes wide, head tall – he turned to Göring and said in a tone of intimacy, ‘I have recently acquired a piece that I feel may be of interest to you.’

  Göring replied casually, ‘Have you now?’

  Arno made his play unambiguously. ‘I have made it my business to procure works of art from the Jewish community. Like many others, I’m concerned that great works sit in the wrong hands. Art is like anything precious: without the proper attention, it can be taken for granted. This particular painting I was able to liberate from a desperate family who – typically for these people – had let greed overtake their basic needs. The work is by the great Italian, Caravaggio. I believe you are an admirer.’

  Göring nodded. ‘Italian artists, I do admire their sense of style. Caravaggio? We’ll see.’

  ‘Can I have a word?’ Lassner said lightly, catching Arno’s eye.

  Arno went with him to the other side of the room, whilst Göring watched on, amused by this need for a tête-à-tête.

  ‘I’m not sure this is the right time,’ Lassner said cautiously. ‘The other gent over there, that’s Göring’s personal art adviser. He’s not much of a businessman, but he has a fierce eye for detail. And what he doesn’t know about Italian painting is not worth knowing.’

  ‘But we have the painting here. Why wait?’ Arno replied.

  ‘All I am saying is this: the information you have, it better be good. If there’s a hole in your story, he will spot it. If it sounds fabricated, he’s bound to suspect.’

  ‘So, may we see the painting or not?’ Göring called over, intentionally interrupting.

  Lassner returned to his guest, stuffy with apologies. Arno trailed. By now, Göring had been joined by his advisor; both were waiting patiently, as if in a queue to catch a tram. Göring said, ‘I’ve been sharing the news of this recent discovery. We are growing more intrigued by the minute.’

  ‘Is it possible to see the Caravaggio?’ the adviser said, a touch more formally. His voice was rough and hoarse, as if he needed to clear his throat – which he never did. He was about fifty-years-old and had sagging cheeks, like someone who was always falling sick.

  Arno spoke up. He realised the only way to get through this was with guts. ‘It’s in the back room. You can see it right away.’

  Lassner, returning to his role as gallery owner, showed not the least hint of objection. He smiled and led the way, politely opening doors and moving furniture. They assembled in the back room around the wooden table with the ashtrays. Lassner fetched the painting and laid it down on the table for the group to peer over.

  ‘Boy Bitten by a Lizard,’ Arno said, intro
ducing the painting in the grandest tone he could muster.

  Göring spoke first. ‘It has no frame,’ he said. Then smiling, ‘It looks naked.’

  Lassner replied, ‘Not every work comes to us in perfect form. It is for the likes of you and me to cherish the object within, not merely how it’s dressed up.’

  Göring nodded, quietly agreeing with Lassner’s instruction.

  Arno was impressed with the way Lassner had guided the politician towards the correct perspective. He took up the lead. ‘I managed to acquire the painting in fleeting circumstances. The truth is, many families are on the move presently and their possessions find themselves in transit. This is how I take my advantage. When a family is on the back-foot, they tend to be more willing to agree to my terms.’

  ‘So the painting belonged to a Jewish family?’ Göring’s adviser asked.

  ‘To an Austrian family who are at this very moment sailing towards the United States. The proceeds of this painting have helped fund their passage from Europe. Of course, I achieved a very favourable price for the object, but because of circumstances, it did not include the frame.’

  The adviser now proceeded to pick up the canvas and hold it up at various angles. From his pocket he took out a monocle and pressed into his eye. Then with the tips of his fingers, he lightly brushed the surface of the painting. As he did, he uttered a single word: ‘Provenance?’

  Arno cleared his own throat. ‘The history is beyond doubt. The painting first belonged to a Roman dignitary by the name of Cardinal di Ripetta. It later passed onto the hands of the artist Guido Reni from the Bolognese School, acquired from the cardinal in payment for a private debt. Several generations later, inherited by a distant niece Francesco Savelli, she sold it to a Neapolitan family named Brigandi. Then by descent through the Brigandi family, who moved to Austria in the second half of the last century. There it stayed, until finally it came into my possession.’

  Göring’s attendant listened as he ranged his monocled eye over the painting. Arno’s small speech was delivered perfectly and met with nods of understanding.

  ‘So, what do we think?’ said Göring, stepping up and taking the item from his adviser.

  The adviser now unscrewed the monocle from his eye and said slowly, theatrically. ‘It’s good. It’s very good. It is fake, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Göring said.

  ‘It’s a very good fake, but a fake nonetheless. All the usual signs are there.’

  ‘All the signs are there,’ Göring repeated.

  Arno passed a desperate look to Lassner. In return Lassner responded with a less-than discreet wince.

  ‘Gentlemen, please, it’s not possible to describe an object such as this as a fake,’ Lassner said, stumbling over his response. ‘It’s just not possible, may I say. It’s more than perplexing and, and if I may add, rather hurtful, that you could think –’ Lassner began running his fingertips along the edge of the table in a nervous pendulum fashion, failing to finish his sentence.

  Now Arno took up the defence. ‘As I explained, we are able to trace the work back through many generations of owners, back through the centuries, all the way to its origins. To the very hand of Caravaggio.’

  ‘We have little else to say on the matter,’ Göring said.

  ‘This is a great opportunity,’ Arno replied. ‘You’re making a mistake.’

  Lassner interrupted. ‘No, no. Our guests do not make mistakes.’

  ‘But, they’re wrong –’

  Lassner put his hand on Arno’s wrist. ‘No more,’ he said firmly.

  All eyes turned to Göring, who’s expression changed in an instant. His stare was cold and unblinking. ‘Mistake?’ he said finally, his face hardly moving. He looked at Arno with a fearlessness that Arno had never known the likes of. His great frame and wide face formed a single looming edifice.

  In response, Arno felt himself shrinking – and at the same time, wanting to resist being beaten. ‘Perhaps our guest would like to reconsider?’ he said back to Lassner.

  Now the room of four men fell silent. Lassner shook his head. The advisor turned away, as if he couldn’t stand to watch what might happen next. Göring locked eyes with Arno, who in return, gazed back unrelentingly.

  ‘My good men,’ Göring said eventually, loudly like an explosion of noise, ‘this is our idea of a joke!’ He gave a lilting, silly laugh. ‘How else could we attempt to flush you out if not with a bit of horseplay?’

  Göring and his advisor swapped great trembling grins between them. Their delight was overbearing. Arno and Lassner looked at each other, allowing themselves to smile. Now Göring spoke again. ‘It’s a wonderful piece, but I’m afraid we are not interested. Whatever you want for the painting, it’s too much. A very fine work of art, I won’t argue about that, but we’re not interested.’

  Arno nodded in understanding.

  ‘However,’ Göring went on, ‘I must congratulate you on your project, young man. There’s a great deal of nonsense spoken in defence of the Jewish people. What their defenders fail to see is that the German people would be altogether more successful if liberated from the clutches of their manipulation. I let others put it into theory, but action – yes, that is something I can appreciate. Young men like you, taking the initiative, taking steps like this, rehabilitating our cultural heirlooms, it’s all to be applauded.’

  Göring smiled, his strange slivering lips widening and separating like the mouth of some alien fish. Arno wondered what to do next. Convincing Göring to buy the painting was the only intention he had. But it seemed too late to get him to change his mind.

  The entourage of men left the gallery a short time later, after Göring had signed some paperwork for Lassner and made a private telephone call.

  Then, as they passed into the street, Göring turned to Arno and said, ‘Young man, make yourself available tomorrow. I’ll send a car for you at midday. There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  26

  That night, as Arno returned home from the gallery, he had the distinct idea that fortune was turning in his favour. He had convinced Göring that the painting was genuine. That was an achievement. Whatever lay in store tomorrow, he felt a great deal more assured that he could come out on top.

  Just then, as he was stepping off the tram at Hallesches Tor a short distance from his apartment, he felt a presence lurking behind him. He turned to find Monika’s father bearing down at a pace.

  ‘Where is my daughter?’ came a booming voice.

  Arno was shocked. Why was he here? Was there news about Monika?

  The voice came again. ‘I said, where’s my daughter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Arno said quickly.

  ‘I know you know something.’

  Herr Goldstein grabbed Arno by his shirt and pushed him against a wall. The turn of violence took Arno by surprise. Herr Goldstein brought his face so near that their noses were almost touching. His face was unshaven, his stubble a great gloom of dark across his cheeks and chin.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Arno said again, thinking he’d never seen another man’s face so close up. Herr Goldstein’s eyebrows were thick and bushy. From afar they looked black, but up close they were in fact a perfect shade of walnut.

  ‘She was supposed to come home three nights ago,’ Herr Goldstein said. ‘She told us she was going camping, but we haven’t seen her since. None of her friends know where she is. We’ve been everywhere. And none of them know anything about a camping trip either.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I have no idea where she is.’ Arno felt flecks of his own saliva leave his lips and travel the short distance to Herr Goldstein’s nose.

  ‘You’re lying to me. I know it. You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I don’t know where she is any more than you do. That’s the truth.’

  Monika’s father tightened his grip on Arno’s shirt. Arno could feel a rack of bony knuckles pressing into his ribcage. When he glanced down, he saw a row of t
hick fingers screwed into his chest.

  ‘Her mother is worried sick,’ Herr Goldstein went on. ‘Something like this will make her ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m telling you, if you know something about where our daughter is, you better tell me now. God forbid…’

  ‘She’ll turn up,’ Arno said, basing his conjecture on hope over fact. She had actually been missing for five days now, not just the three as Herr Goldstein believed. But Arno’s optimism seemed to have a calming effect him. His grip eased, and he became suddenly self-conscious, stepping back and brushing himself down a little as if aware of being out in public and that someone he might know could be watching. He had the look of a man who was used to restraining himself, perhaps someone who worried over things too much and became agitated all too easily, who then had to rein himself in to save his temper from doing something stupid. He had none of the noble serenity of their previous meeting, when Arno had seen him stood before his fireplace, rocking on his heels like an assured monarch in his own castle. Now he carried a dangerous unrest, a common-man’s dismay. It vibrated all through his body like a simmering pot that might just boil over.

  Arno stood back against the wall, his eyes pinned on the figure in front of him.

  Now Herr Goldstein began digging around in his jacket pocket. He handed Arno an envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Read it,’ Herr Goldstein said.

  Arno pulled open the flap and took out a folded letter.

  ‘Read it out loud,’ Herr Goldstein instructed.

  Arno began reading. ‘We have taken your daughter.’ He glanced up at Monika’s father and then back down at the letter. The writing was hard to make out. It was typed in letters that were oddly spaced out and uneven. He read on. ‘If you ever want to see your daughter alive again, then pay fifty-thousand marks ransom.’ He looked up again. ‘I don’t believe it. Is this real? It can’t be. Are you telling me that Monika has been kidnapped?’