They crossed the street and went in the restaurant. Harry ordered sole meunière; Colette, fruits de mer, and Cordell, fillet of beef. They drank a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and ate without saying much, had profiteroles and coffee for dessert, and got back in the car.
Cordell took it the rest of the way, found a radio station in Marseille that played Motown, singing along with Stevie Wonder and the Temptations.
“Harry, check this out,” Cordell excited as they passed through Cannes, the city lit up and alive on one side of the car, the Mediterranean on the other – pleasure yachts outlined in lights, anchored in the harbor. “I might like this better than Palm Beach and there ain’t no Colombians tryin’ to blow my head off.”
“Just Germans.”
Traffic was heavy in Nice, people on the street partying, Cordell taking it all in, eyes lit up again. “Might like it here even better.”
Harry directed Cordell to the Hôtel Negresco on the promenade des Anglais, woke Colette up, gave the Peugeot to the valet and checked in, getting a two-bedroom suite at 12:20 p.m., three people and no luggage.
In the morning, Hess went to a men’s shop and tried on clothes. He purchased three white dress shirts, grey trousers, a tweed sport jacket and a black overcoat, the salesman looking at him quizzically. “I’ve waited on you before, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I have never been in your shop, but I can assure you I will return.”
Even in the electrician’s uniform, the salesman thought he knew him.
Hess also purchased socks, underwear, shoes, a belt and a fedora, paid in cash and walked out carrying the new clothes in a shopping bag. He signaled a passing taxi. He noticed a newspaper on the front passenger seat as he opened the door and sat in the back and told the driver take him to his daughter Katya’s school in Oberschleissheim, arriving at 2:53, cars lining the street on both sides, mothers standing in groups in front of the building.
“Here you are,” the driver said.
“I am waiting for someone.”
The driver seemed annoyed. Hess, in the rear seat, could see the man’s eyes watching him in the rearview mirror. He put the window down and smoked a cigarette, seeing schoolgirls in their plaid skirts and blazers coming out of the building. He saw Katya, his only child and the only person he loved, with two friends, laughing, enjoying themselves. Katya was a lot like him, she had the same sense of humor, and the same intolerance for fools. Hess was sorry he had to leave her, regretted that he wouldn’t see her grow up. But he knew that like him, she was self-sufficient. When Katya put her mind to something she did it. This was his last opportunity to see her for a long time, maybe ever.
Hess removed the cap, rubbed his forehead and noticed the driver looking at him again, eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Take me to the railway station.”
“You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.”
On the way to the station, Hess saw the man glance at the passenger seat, reach over and unfold the newspaper. The driver looked over his shoulder. “Excuse me, I have to stop and make a phone call. I’ll deduct it from the fare.”
They were driving through the village of Schleissheim. He pulled over to the curb next to a small park with a fountain in the center and a bench occupied by an elderly couple in hats, gloves and overcoats. There was a phone booth at the entrance to the park. “I have a train to catch.”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
Hess drew the silenced Walther and shot the driver twice through the seatback, the man falling against the steering wheel. He reached between the seats and grabbed the newspaper and saw his face on the front page. He pulled the man away from the wheel, tilting his body sideways across the seats. The train station was at the far end of town. He got out, glanced at the couple on the bench and started walking.
Hess changed in the men’s room in the terminal. The train to Stuttgart arrived at 5:27. He kept to himself, hiding under the fedora and behind a newspaper in a nearly empty second-class car. He disembarked and boarded the 6:12 train to Karlsruhe, across the Rhine from Alsace. It was a quick trip, only about forty kilometers. Again, no one looked at him except the conductor asking for his ticket and that exchange was fast and impersonal.
Hess took a tram into the city, walked around and checked into a small hotel. He was a businessman from Essen on his way to Geneva. He had dinner and two superb glasses of Mosel-Saar at a bistro in Ludwig Square, then he walked back to the hotel, retired to his room and went to bed early.
In the morning he checked out and took a cab to the port. There were dozens of ships and barges being loaded with heavy equipment. He went to the docks and rented a twenty-foot boat with an outboard engine, paid forty Deutschmarks for two hours and set out, heading down river trailing a barge, looking across at Alsace-Lorraine on the other side. The Rhine was crowded, boats going in both directions, faster boats passing him. He stayed on the tail of the barge for an hour under a perfect blue sky, autumn sun warming the chill out of him, and by eleven o’clock he was hot and removed the overcoat.
When the river traffic lessened he crossed over to the French side and took a series of canals into a village. Hess steered to a dock, got out and tied up the boat. The village was small. There was no taxi service or rail line. Hess offered money to a truck driver for a ride to Besançon. From there he took a train to Nice.
Hess opened the sliding door and walked out to the terrace, looking out at homes dotting the hills. He could see Nice in the distance and beyond it the bright blue Mediterranean. He sat at the table drinking coffee, sun coming up over the hills behind him. There was a slight chill in the air, the temperature about sixteen degrees.
The Van Gogh had arrived before he did and was waiting on the desk in his office. He removed it from the crate and carefully unwrapped the canvas, the painting beautifully intact. He had taken it up to his bedroom, leaned it against the wall on top of his dresser.
The sliding door opened. Hess glanced over his shoulder at Marie-Noëlle Despas, the housekeeper born on Christmas Day, coming out with a tray. She served him a croissant stuffed with ham and cheese, pain au chocolat from a bakery just down the road, and more coffee.
“Anything else I can bring you, monsieur?”
Hess shook his head and watched her walk back in the house, a stocky farm girl with heavy legs and small breasts, and yet there was something sexy about her. He was sure she was having an affair with the gardener, Claude D’Amore. Hess had seen Marie-Noëlle sneak out of his cottage down the hill at first light. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had been standing on the deck outside his second-floor bedroom. Marie-Noëlle was married to a truck driver who was on the road for days at a time, and Hess could only imagine she was lonely.
Hess had purchased the villa, La Citronneraie, on August 22, 1948, when property in Nice was relatively inexpensive. Between construction projects he would retreat here to drink wine and relax.
He was certain he could live here indefinitely without attracting attention. His only problem was money. His account at Société Générale was down to 1,700 francs, and the taxe foncière was due in less than one week. Of the money he had withdrawn from Max Hoffman’s Florida bank account only $9,870 remained. Sooner or later he would have to sell one of the paintings, and it would take time to find a qualified buyer.
Hess showered and dressed, wearing an ascot and a sport jacket. He had a Renault in the garage, a basic car that wouldn’t attract attention, and drove to Galerie Broussard on avenue de l’Hermitage in Monaco. Hess was acquainted with M. Broussard, the owner, who had been with the French Resistance. Mention the war and Broussard would talk about the Nazis plundering art from galleries, museums and private collections. He had lost dozens of paintings from his gallery, which had been in Nice, moving to Monaco after the war.
Hess had stopped by the gallery over the years, planting the seed that he had masterworks by Picasso, Klee and Matisse in his collection that might one day
be for sale. “Please keep us in mind,” Broussard had said.
He was thinking about selling the Van Gogh that was in his bedroom. Present The Painter on the Road to Tarascon to Broussard and observe his reaction.
Hess was studying a Chagall, remembering his fellow Nazis had described Chagall’s art as full of: “green, purple and red Jews shooting out of the earth, fiddling on violins, flying through the air … representing an assault on Western civilization.”
Hess saw Broussard coming toward him. “M. Chartier, it has been too long. I see the Chagall has caught your eye. This is one of my favorites. You can feel the emotion.” Broussard paused, out of breath. He was overweight and walking across the gallery floor had exhausted him. “Picasso once said, ‘When Matisse dies Chagall will be the only one who knows color.’ ”
“It is magnificent,” Hess said. “But I am here to sell, not to buy.”
“What are you selling?”
“A Van Gogh.”
Broussard blinked with excitement. He rubbed the tip of his long Gallic nose. “When can I see it?”
“I will bring the painting to you.”
“At least tell me the title if you wouldn’t mind.” Broussard could hardly contain his excitement.
“I’ll surprise you.”
“I can’t wait. How about tomorrow morning? Will that be convenient?”
Hess drove back to Nice and had lunch at a restaurant overlooking the harbor. Ordered a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet and a bowl of mussels to start, followed by grilled sea bass, enjoying a leisurely lunch, watching the pleasure boats motor in and out.
On his way to the villa Hess stopped at a cafe on boulevard Gambetta for coffee, sitting outside, the sun on his face, drinking the bitter double espresso in three sips, feeling that surge of caffeinated energy. He paid for the coffee and walked down the street, stopped in a wine shop and bought a Chablis for the cheese, and two bottles of Bonnes-Mares, thinking an earthy Nuits would be perfect with the coq au vin Marie-Noëlle was preparing.
Harry checked the phone book. The only name close to Vincent Chartier was V. Chartier in Antibes, a quaint little town down the coast. The address was a small house just out of town. The owner was a stylish fifty-year-old woman named Vivienne Chartier. She didn’t know a man named Vincent Chartier in Nice. All of her relatives were from Aix-en-Provence and Marseille.
She invited them in for coffee and pastries, Harry thinking this older broad was surprisingly attractive. Colette picked up the vibe and gave him a look that said she did too and he’d better watch himself.
After coffee and conversation with Mme Chartier they drove back to the hotel to get Cordell. He’d left a note in the room saying he was going to walk the beach, scope the topless sunbathers, Harry thinking at sixty-two degrees the locals were going to be wearing parkas, not bikinis.
The concierge had given Harry the name of a high-end real-estate broker who might be able to help them. His office was just down the street. They went there and met M. Gascon, a plump effeminate man with a little mustache who had been selling properties on the Côte d’Azur since the end of the war.
“Mademoiselle is trying to locate her estranged uncle,” Harry said, referring to Colette. “Her aunt died recently and no one has heard from Vincent Chartier, Uncle Vince, for quite some time. His name is not in the phone book. How do we find him?”
“The property is registered in the uncle’s name?”
“As far as we know,” Colette said.
Gascon looked at her quizzically. “The system of land registration in France is cadastre. It is maintained by the French public land registry under the auspices of the tax authority, the Direction Générale des Finances Publiques.”
Gascon might as well have been speaking Chinese for all Harry could understand.
“To find the owner of a specific plot, you must consult the matrice cadastrale. You go to the local land registry, the Centre des Impôts Fonciers.”
Harry said, “Is it in Nice?”
“Yes, of course, Nice. On rue Joseph Cadei.”
They took a taxi to the office, waited an hour for the only clerk who spoke English. Gilles, a young longhaired Frenchman, escorted them to an office and sat across a table from them. Harry explained who they were and what they wanted.
“What proof do you have that M. Chartier is your uncle? How do I know you are related to this man? Do you have a passport? A birth certificate?”
Harry could see they weren’t going to get anywhere with this guy unless he took a chance. “I have something better than a passport.” He slid a wad of francs across the table. The clerk stared at the money, Harry wondering what he was thinking.
There was a long silence and then the clerk picked up the bills and put them in his pocket.
Harry said, “Where is the corniche des Oliviers? I don’t see it.” The concierge studied the map that was open on the mahogany hotel counter and pointed to an area north of the city. “You do not see the street name because it is not there. But here you see route de St Pierre de Féric?” The concierge traced the road with his index finger.
Colette leaned in close.
“This road becomes the one you look for.” The concierge pointed again to show Harry. “Right here, past the church.” Harry looked at the maze of winding roads. “How do we get up there?”
“You see boulevard Gambetta?” The concierge pointed to a heavier line on the map that went straight up from the Mediterranean. “Take this to boulevard du Tzarewitch, go left and follow this.” He highlighted the route in red marker.
Harry thanked the man and gave him a ten-franc note and folded up the map. He and Colette sat on a couch in the lobby that was always crowded, always full of people walking around. Harry said, “Are you ready?”
“What are we going to do?”
“Drive up and find the villa.”
“And then what? Are you going to ring the bell?”
“I haven’t gotten that far.”
Colette frowned.
“If you don’t want to come – ”
“I want to, I’m just nervous, wondering what’s going to happen.”
“Probably nothing. First we have to find it. Then we’ll decide what to do. How does that sound?”
“Okay, Harry. I’ll be your navigator.”
The valet brought the Peugeot and Harry drove along the promenade des Anglais, past the joggers and walkers and blue-and-white beach chairs lined up facing the water. “This is it,” Colette said, the map spread open in her lap. “Turn right.”
Now they were on boulevard Gambetta passing shops and cafes, markets and bakeries. He went left where Colette told him to turn and they climbed a steep incline in a residential neighborhood. He went left again and then right on avenue du Dauphine, climbing higher into the hills on a narrow winding road that didn’t look wide enough for two cars. Driving alongside a brick wall about five feet high added to his feeling of claustrophobia. Harry saw a bus approaching and got over as far as he could. The bus passed inches away. Harry let out a breath. They went around a blind 180-degree turn and through a one-lane brick tunnel, halting at a stop sign at the top of a hill. Harry looked at Colette. “You have any idea where we are?”
“Harry, this is it, this is the road, turn right,” Colette said, looking up from the map.
He turned and they drove up a steeper stretch of road. Out the right side he could look down the valley and see the city of Nice spread out stretching all the way to the Mediterranean. They were on route de St Pierre de Féric. Harry saw a church on the left, and according to the concierge, the road now turned into corniche des Oliviers. Fifty yards further on, Colette pointed to her right and said, “There, Harry.”
He hit the brake and saw number 26 on a black metal gate, the entrance to the villa. Driving by he could see the top floor set behind a six-foot wall made of stone. Harry wanted to stop but there was no place to pull over. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a truck bearing down on them and sped up. Ju
st ahead they came to a small café on the left and pulled in.
“Harry, I can’t believe we’ve found him.”
They’d been lucky to say the least, lucky Anke Kruger had remembered the name Vincent Chartier, and lucky they’d been able to trace the property through tax records. But it didn’t prove Hess was living there, and if he wasn’t there, where was he?
Harry convinced Colette to drop him on the road near the villa.
“I want to go with you.”
“You can’t. There’s no other way to get close. Give me twenty minutes, I’ll meet you at the cafe.”
“I have a bad feeling about this. I think we should come back with Cordell.”
“I just want to see what the place looks like. If I’m lucky Hess will be sitting outside reading a book. I’m not going to take any chances.”
Harry got out of the Peugeot just north of the villa at 26 corniche des Oliviers, using the wall for cover. He walked to the entrance. Looking through an opening in the gate he could see the villa, built on the side of a hill on two levels. The upper level was where you entered. The lower level opened to a deck with lounges and a long dinner table and chairs on one side and a swimming pool on the other side.
Harry saw a stocky woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, cape and scarf come out of the house and walk toward a Fiat parked on the driveway just inside the gate. Harry moved north along the outside wall, walking on the road. He saw a car approaching and turned his back. He heard the gate open and saw the Fiat drive out heading south, and on impulse, he ran back and slipped through the gate as it was closing and ducked behind the garage.
From this vantage point, he could see across the valley, clouds resting on higher hills in the distance. Looking south he could see the red tiled roofs of Nice and beyond it the Mediterranean. Stone stairs led to another level of the property. There was a small shed or cottage at the bottom of the slope. Harry went down to the pool deck. The afternoon sun was slanting through the sliding glass doors and he could see into the house. It was a big room with a lot of furniture, and no one appeared to be in it. A wall overflowing with flowering plants ran north parallel to the villa. A man in a work shirt was trimming a palm tree on the far side of the property.
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