The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  The Prodigy thrust out his chin and gave them a smug look.

  Franklin looked thoughtful, “There is, however, one slight problem dear boy—you are lying.”

  The smug look faded quickly, replaced by a quick-fused face of indignation.

  Franklin raised a cautionary hand, “Please, spare me your protestations—I recovered the copy you made of the da Vinci. I congratulate you on the undeniable quality of the work, but your style is most idiosyncratic—you might almost have attached a label to the piece, complete with your name and address.”

  The Prodigy frowned, made a wild sputtering noise, then fell silent, as Franklin continued, “I have no wish to involve myself in your affairs my boy. What I will tell you however is I have a very distinguished client, who is seeking to recover the painting and return it to its rightful place in the public eye. It is after all, a masterpiece by one of the greatest painters of all time.

  The Prodigy whet his lips. “What kind of client?”

  Franklin smiled happily, “A very wealthy and appreciative client.”

  “So I get a taste of the action?”

  “I am sure that we could arrange a certain consideration to be awarded to any person who provided information, leading to the recovery of the lost da Vinci.”

  The Prodigy was grinning widely now, “You came to the right place Franklin, because Elzorra spilled the whole story on that lost Leonardo. He told me everything, and I do mean everything.”

  Franklin raised an eyebrow, “My dear boy, your wisdom is much appreciated.”

  “You can keep your appreciation Franklin. You ain’t going to muscle me on this one, I got a handful of cards, and I ain’t showing until you front the cash.

  “You drive a hard bargain.”

  “Damn straight—and I tell you something else—this sweet little painting you brought in by Verrocchio, I want you to leave it here for a spell, so as I can make a copy.”

  “I was hoping you would say that dear boy, because that is precisely why we brought it over. The party we borrowed it from is very fond of your work.”

  The Prodigy frowned, “You were planning for me to copy this painting?” he asked suspiciously, “What about your holy rolling ideas concerning art quality duplication?”

  “That has got to be the cutest way to say forgery that I ever heard,” said Mira.

  The Prodigy frowned, opened his mouth to reply, but Franklin interrupted him. “I think what my charming niece meant to say, was that we will be most appreciative if you were to help us out.

  “Help you out—that’s priceless Franklin. If you are looking to buy one of my artworks it will run you a million-five for the basic package. If you are looking for anything more ambitious, I can offer you my antiquarians special. Should you choose to go that route, and I recommend you do, your purchase will look like it just dropped out of a time machine—so realistic not even the dude who painted it would know the difference.

  “Impressive,” said Franklin.

  “Damn right it’s impressive, but that kind of treatment will run you extra,” replied the Prodigy, his voice sounding doubly smug now.

  Franklin gave the Prodigy an easy smile and said, “So tell me dear boy what can you tell me about Hermann Göring?”

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 33

  Berlin March 1941

  They drove to the station in the white Benz. The Reichsmarschall had chosen it above the other cars because it matched his new uniform, powder blue, with diamond and ivory accessories. Naturally, he wore his full compliment of medals, but the Reichsmarschall always wore his medals, even at home. Eva Bergen sat beside him, with her bag of ledgers. There were three sets as always, red, green and blue. Red ledgers contained details of the military budget; green, the details of public expenditure related to the running of the Reich, while the blue ledgers detailed the financial assets and liabilities of the private budget. Eva kept the ledgers with the efficiency of a career librarian. She prided herself in her scrupulous record keeping, even the ghost ledger that described Reichsmarschall’s private expenditure in full unabridged detail was correct to the nearest Reichspfennig. There was no question of malfeasance, of course. The Reichsmarschall was most scrupulous in his affairs. Every transaction he made had to be accounted for, even the generous gifts from his many friends and colleagues went down in the book.

  As they drove south, through the Brandenburg gate, the spring light filtered down through the Linden trees, casting dappled shadows in the soft Berlin morning. How beautiful the city was thought Eva—surely the most beautiful in all of the world?

  They headed down the wide boulevard towards the Anhalter Bahnhof railway terminus—the grand terminal made her proud to be German. How lucky she was to be living in such a forward thinking and civilized society, and no matter what wagging tongues might say. The Führer had done a marvelous job marshalling the chaos of post war austerity. Now, at last, there was a feeling of hope, as optimistic and enlivened as the new spring. Germany would be great once again. There were foreigners who saw things differently of course, and seditious insurgent elements who disagreed with the proud new direction the country was taking, but they were being routed out, Minister Goebbels had been very clear on that.

  Eva had met Goebbels, on a number of occasions. He was a thin-faced womanizer, with a clubfoot. While charismatic in public, he was creepy and salacious in private. Always talking about his hatred of the Jews and how they were responsible for the rejection of his literary ideals. Poor Goebbels, he was nothing but a failed novelist. He liked to call himself a playwright too, but he expounded his plotlines tirelessly over dinner, and they were as cretinous as his many prejudices.

  “Fräulein Bergen, you are lost in thought, perhaps you are pondering the many delights that Paris has in store for us?” The Reichsmarschall regarded her with his piercing blue eyes. He had a way of staring at you that made you think he could read your every thought.

  Eva smiled shyly, “I have never been out of Germany before, I am not sure if I want to start now.”

  “Nonsense,” thundered the Reichsmarschall, with contemptuous laughter, “It will do you good to experience life outside of your ledgers. The French may have the worst army in the world, but their food and wine is almost as good as their taste in the arts, don’t you agree Hofer?”

  Andreas Hofer forced a thin smile, his beady little vulture eyes darting reluctantly from the hemline of Eva’s skirt, “Quite so, Herr Göring.” Hofer was the Reichsmarschall’s chief art advisor, a man of predatory instincts. He had snatched control of his brother in laws art business at the end of the thirties, and was running it with ruthless effect. Eva new for a fact that the brother in law was Jewish, which meant mandatory deportation, even for a family member of the national Socialist elite. Luckily, the Reichsmarschall had interceded, offering the brother in law special dispensation, if he kept his mouth shut. Naturally dispensation had a price, and Hofer was quick to step into the void—he would run the business while the brother in law took early retirement—it was after all quite illegal for members of the World Jewery to own businesses, even if they did have special dispensation from the very highest level of the Nazi leadership.

  Hofer gave Eva a wet little smile, his beady vulture eyes shining with barely concealed lust. “I have a instinct that this is going to be our most successful trip yet Herr Göring.”

  Eva regarded him coldly. Hofer was a creep and a coward. The Reichsmarschall insisted that his advisor to the arts wore the uniform of a Luftwaffe Colonel during foreign trips, so that Hofer might go about his duties unhindered. If he had been any kind of man he would have refused to wear the uniform of a fighting man, But Hofer was unaffected by such scruples. He enjoyed the gravitas that a smart uniform afforded him, and he wore it at every possible opportunity. And now, as he sat next to his grand patron smoothing back his red hair like a cockatiel in heat, Eva couldn’t help despising Hofer. He was a disgrace to the Reich and the uniform too, a capitalist, of the ugliest kin
d. He paid lip service to the service of the arts and loyalty to the greater Germany, but Eva new the truth. Hofer was a filthy little pervert; a lover of money who’s only true loyalty was to himself.

  Eva gave Hofer a look of scorn, and kept her thoughts private. She knew that disparaging the Reichsmarschall’s favorites, would lead to a precipitous fall from grace. She had seen it happen to others, and it was a fate she had no desire to replicate.

  Instead, Eva said, “Tell us once again, of the great works that you have acquired in Paris Herr Hofer.”

  Hofer beamed, tipped his colonels cap to a jaunty angle and said, “We have made very many acquisitions Fräulein. Even more than last time; pivotal pieces in the evolution of classical art.”

  Eva nodded, “I understand the French are apologists for degeneracy in the arts. I hear that they paint colored boxes in the most garish and dissonant of colors and display it before the public, as though such daubings were part of a new intellectual movement.”

  “Intellectuals, pah!” interrupted Göring.

  Hofer gave Eva an oily smile, “Indeed, Fräulein. The decadents consider such work to be avant-garde. But such modernist ideas are a mere passing fancy. Modernists, Cubists, Fauvists, so many names they have for this garish degeneracy. Thankfully the Einsatzstab Rosenberg will purge the world of such poisonous Bolshevik influences.”

  “Perhaps you are burning these works Herr Hofer?”—Eva knew Hofer would not register the contempt she felt for such barbarian practices—She had seen such atrocities before, indeed the 1933 book burning by Goebbels and his thugs in the National Socialist German Students League had been instrumental in her seeking a job in Herr Göring’s employ. So that she might escape the wrath of the Nazi’s cultural foot soldiers.

  Hofer didn’t hear the disapproval in her voice, instead he looked ever smugger “Heavens, no, Fräulein. We collect all works of a decadent nature and sell them to the Swiss for hard currency. If those fools are willing to pay good money for such capricious nonsense, they should be allowed to give it to us, don’t you agree Reichsmarschall?”

  “Cranach, Holbein, Titian—Renaissance men—artists of Aryan intent. These are all artists of true merit,” said Göring, curtly.

  As the giant white Benz pulled into the station forecourt, a cheering crowd of well wishers surged forwards, to greet them. They waved patriotic flags and threw rose petals, as a band struck up a rousing welcome. The crowd made Eva uncomfortable. Their great enthusiasm seemed somehow manufactured. She really couldn’t imagine what kind of person would have the time, let alone the inclination to wait outside a railway station just to witness the departure of a public official, it just didn’t seem right.

  By the time they reached the Reichsmarschall’s personal train on platform nine, they were almost twenty minutes behind schedule. Göring did not mind however, he strutted down the platform, enjoying the attention, as every traveler and station hand they passed stopped what they were doing so they might witness the Reichsmarschall pass by. Many of threw straight-armed Nazi salutes, or shouted patriotic words of encouragement. Resplendent in his new uniform, Göring smirked and played the hero, offering a jaunty salute and a tip of his swagger cane to everyone they came across.

  Eva hung in the background, stepping quietly aboard the Reichsmarschall’s palatial day carriage, while her boss basked in the adulation of his adoring public. Eva was anxious to take her seat, so that she might pour over her ledgers and crosscheck figures. It would be an expensive trip. The Reichsmarschall had a penchant for extravagance at the best of times, but when he visited the occupied territories, costs rose exponentially, in a way that would make any normal bookkeepers head spin of their shoulders. But Eva Bergen was no ordinary bookkeeper. She held control of an almost limitless budget of war and acquisition—the Reichsmarschall could and would acquire anything he desired—but it was important to present an ordered interpretation of such expenditure, so that bills might be rubber stamped by the budgetary committee Göring had appointed to over see such matters. To some such correctness might seem superfluous, but one never knew when the Führer, in one of his fits of control-freakery might demand to see the ledgers.

  As she hurried towards her usual seat, Eva gave a start, as she glanced up and saw a thin, elegant looking man watching her, from the far end of the carriage. His was not a face you could forget in a hurry—pale, handsome yet irredeemably spoiled—slashed wide on both sides, with violent Bavarian dueling scars. He ambled towards her, with slow, deadly steps. As he grew closer, his gaze took hold of her. His eyes were sharp and unsettling. He had the look of the new Germany about him—bold, brutal, uncompromising. Eva had seen the man before—his name was Rudolf Diels, a political animal, from the early days. Diels had been a regular visitor to the State Library in Unter Den Linden, where she had worked. He had made enquires regarding the allegiances of staff members on a number of occasions, making clear that, Bolshevism and intellectualism would not be tolerated.

  Weeks later, they started burning books, more than 20,000 works in all: Ernest Hemingway, Emile Zola, H.G Wells, Albert Einstein, shelf after shelf going up in flames. A scene she could not easily forget. And now, as she stared into the face of Rudolf Diels, she saw the flames again, rising high into the night, as the rising pyres of destruction crackled wildly, with the death of freethinking ideas.

  Diels watched, as Eva took her seat. His black eyes stared into her soul and he said “What a pleasant surprise Fräulein Bergen, I had no idea you would be joining us. He tipped his hat very slightly then sat down beside her, without waiting to be invited. He smelled of strong liquor, and a dandyish cologne, that made her struggle for breath.

  “I thought you had been exiled to the provinces Herr Diels?”

  “Please, call me Rudolf, everybody does.” He turned towards her, his dark, unsettling gaze burning into her from close range, the horrific scars on his face livid against his icy flesh. Diels paused for a moment—then he offered her a cigarette. She declined politely, but Diels held the cigarette case steady. Slowly, reluctantly, she reached out and took one. Diels brightened immediately, lighting her cigarette with a flourish of an expensive looking lighter. He gave her a smile. He had small, white teeth that looked malformed, almost childish. “Herman told me you were all going on a marvelous trip to Paris, so I thought it only fitting that I should tag along, I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It is of little consequence,” said Eva quietly.

  Diels pulled a pouty face and took a long, leisurely drag on his cigarette.

  “I hear you have a little treasure hunt planned?” said Diels, his childish teeth glistening in the predatory light.

  “Baron Von Behr has sent intelligence that he has acquired a large number of paintings that might be suitable for the Reichsmarschall’s collection, naturally we will have to assess the acquisitions, to establish if any of them meet his very exacting requirements.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Diels easily. He took another drag on his cigarette and re arranged the line of his suit with a careless flick of his hand. He leaned in confidentially and said, “I see you have brought your friend Hofer with you,” Diels’ tone was mocking, he annunciated Hofer’s name in an irreverent way, as though it were synonymous with some feeble minded joke.

  Eva held her cigarette nervously, and let the smoke drift upwards. Diels made her nervous. He was a bad man to know, an outsider who had fallen foul of the Führer’s volatile nature. Only the Reichsmarschall’s protection had saved him from a certain death, but there was no guarantee how long this reprieve would last. Under the circumstances a low profile might have been be the best policy for a man such as Diels. But he was hard-faced and arrogant. Eva had heard ugly rumors about the Reichsmarschall’s oldest friend. The gossip suggested that Diels been given over to a new recklessness, that he had been freely using his position in Cologne to make an open mockery of National Socialist Policy—It was rumored he had Jewish friends—that he had countermanded deportation orders. No
wonder he had been expelled to the provinces and stripped of his position as head of the Gestapo. Diels had always been a dangerous man to know but now it would appear, he was more dangerous than ever.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 34

  As Eva mulled over the implications of Diels joining them for the trip, the Reichsmarschall, finally boarded the train, with Hofer and an entourage of lackeys trailing in his wake, like a schoolyard weakling. Göring’s corpulent face glowed with enthusiasm as he swaggered aboard the train to a fusillade of press flashbulbs. When he saw Diels, he opened wide his arms and roared with delight. As Diels and Göring embraced, Eva noted that Hofer looked rather less than pleased. He hung in the background his face grim, as he brewed and perspired in the juice of his own prejudice.

  No sooner had the Reichsmarschall completed his endless round of greetings, than the train was off, steaming out of the black walled station, into the endless rolling suburbs, and the dark, industrial hinterland that lay beyond. Soon, they were setting a furious pace, through the open countryside, a slipstream of steam and sparks rushing past the windows, as they headed south, for the border with the low-countries. As the sun climbed higher, the spring clouds roiled menacingly, billowing and tumbling over the forests and mountains to the lands of the rolling south. How could anyone argue with such God given beauty? Eva touched the crucifix that hung, hidden beneath her blouse. Surely they were doing Gods bidding? How else could the world have turned to this preordained moment? How else could the seamless beauty of the homeland run so glorious and triumphant, to the far distant shores of Europe?

  The train made good time, heading south and west across the Elbe to Hanover, then further west again, across the Rhine, towards the vanquished landscape of the low-countries, and through into eastern France. As they moved deeper into occupied territory, the grand forests and majestic vistas of the homeland gave way to mile after mile of bleak colored farmland. As the train roared endlessly into the fading afternoon, the fields hung grey and petulant, while ranks of tortured vines paid homage to their passing, their skeletal arms stretched high to the heavens. Eva strained against the window, to hear their cries, but the clatter and thrum of steel, engulfed their entreaties as the train passed by at speed.