The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  “Man, that is some ancient looking painting would you look at that,” said Horner quietly. “Where did you get it Fräulein?”

  “A family heirloom, I inherited it from my uncle.”

  Horner looked down at the painting, a beautiful girl in a low cut gown stared back at him through the fluttering newspaper. The girl’s expression seemed to move in the glow of the headlights, like she was smiling with silent amusement. Horner looked harder, not believing what he was seeing and the smile seemed to disappear—like the girl in the painting was mocking him.

  “We got to take her in, back to Division, Sergeant Paludo is going to shit a brick when he sees this.” Horner looked up, straight into the barrel of Manetti’s machine gun.

  “We ain’t taking her in,” said Manetti.

  “You crazy? We got orders we…”

  “Shut up,” said Manetti. “That stake we were talking about earlier, it just landed in our laps.”

  Horner stood slack jawed, his rifle pointing at the ground, his heart beating like a jack-hammer. “What about the girl—what about—”

  Manetti gave a derisive snort, “This is a dangerous road, real dangerous, especially at night—anything could happen out here and I do mean anything. What do you say Horner?”

  “I say you are crazy.”

  “Yeah? Maybe that’s so, but I can tell you something—this here work of art is from the Göring train, no doubt about it, which means we got ourselves a nice, valuable little nest egg and the young Fräulein here is a bona-fide Nazi sympathizer, at the very least.”

  “She could be telling the truth, and even if she isn’t, we’ve got to take her in anyway. She might have information—even know where that creep Göring is hiding out.”

  “Yeah, I am sure that would be real useful to those young princes up at Division. I am betting that Sergeant Paludo would even go as far as to give us a letter of recommendation by way of a thank you. Who knows, we might even get a pretty little medal ribbon to add to out collection.”

  Horner looked at the girl. She had taken a step back, like she knew exactly what was coming. “We could leave her out here, make like none of this happened,” said Horner quietly.

  “But we would all know what went down, all three of us. Kind of messy don’t you think?” replied Manetti.

  “I won’t say nothing, I swear I won’t.”

  Manetti lowered his machine gun and smiled, “I know you won’t say nothing—we’ve been tight since before Normandy, ain’t that right Horner?”

  Horner nodded.

  Manetti gave him a smile, “Come here buddy, over by the vehicle, where the girl can’t hear, and I will tell you how we are going to play this.” Manneti laid his machine gun on to the seat and rummaged under the dash.

  Horner felt elated, euphoric almost. “I thought you were going to grease me for a minute, the girl too—”

  “Nah, that would be stupid, I hosed you down with the greaser, those freaks in the Military Police would figure it was me for sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Manetti pulled the Nazi Luger he had taken of the kraut Captain in Belgium and fired point blank at Horner’s temple. The report came sharp and fast, echoing through the mountain pass, then disappearing, consumed by the Alpine night. Horner sagged to his knees, His eyes lolling back in their sockets, before he toppled forwards, face first on to the road.

  Horner twitched convulsively.

  Then he lay still.

  Manetti stepped around the crumpled body of his former comrade, making sure he was dead. When he looked up, the girl was already running. He gave a chuckle. “Just you and me now Fräulein.” He stepped around the Jeep into the glare of the headlights, then let loose rapid fire, hardly troubling to take aim, knowing that very soon the girl would be dead and he would driving back to base, telling Sergeant Paludo the sad, story of how they got bush-wacked in the dark by a bunch of renegade krauts. Course he would miss out the bit about finding the painting, and the girl—well, once he tossed her off the mountain into the ravine, it would be months maybe years before anyone found her—if at all.

  —A sudden flash, from down the road, followed quickly by another. Manetti lowered the pistol and gaped, not quite believing what he was seeing. The girl was firing back!

  A bullet zipped past his ear, cutting into the darkness and ricocheting noisily off the rocks.

  The bitch had a gun!

  Horner had taken her ID, but he never patted her down.

  —The useless piece of crap.

  Manetti moved fast, heading for cover behind the Jeep. He tossed the Luger to the floor and reached into the Jeep for his machine gun. Another bullet sailed overhead and another, pop, pop, pop. Man, the chick had some kind of purse-packing peashooter, a ladies gun for Pete’s sake. He almost laughed as he reached out his M3. Man, it would be fun to ice this dame—like popping ducks at a fairground. He stood up with the greaser and let rip, 400 rounds a minute on full auto. He kept firing until he was out, then popped the magazine, letting it rattle down into the road.

  —The clatter of reverb banging off the rocks—then nothing.

  —A deafening windblown silence.

  —Dead. She had to be.

  Manetti slid home a fresh magazine and peered into the darkness, beyond the wash of the headlights. No corpse. Nothing.

  Maybe she’d taken a tumble over the edge?

  Manetti cocked his greaser, and crouched down behind the Jeep, listening for footsteps, but there were no footsteps, just the gentle throb of the Jeeps engine, idling at the ready. He licked his lips thoughtfully. No way he had come this far to let some dame get the better of him.

  He peered out cautiously from between the Jeeps wheels.

  The painting lay in the suitcase, bathed in the glow of the headlights. Manetti gave a chuckle, his quick mind working the angles.

  She was down there—waiting for him to dodge into the light—had to be.

  Except, there would be no light.

  Manetti moved fast. He flipped off the headlight beams then, writhed across the road on his belly, moving like a snake towards the open suitcase. No sooner had he reached it than he was shimmying back. He waited in the darkness, panting, as clouds rolled in low from the Alpine peaks.

  —Nothing.

  He gave it four, maybe five minutes of staring into the blackness looking for movement.

  —Still nothing.

  His confidence bounded high, even if she was alive, he had the edge. That meant he had to move. If the dame wanted to pop one off with her ladies gun, then let her.

  —Only one more task to go.

  Horner’ corpse was heavy, and sodden with pooling blood. Manetti grunted with exertion as he hauled it into the Jeep. Man, those punks at division would love that—Corporal Manetti, the big hero, hauling his comrade home after coming under enemy fire. Sergeant Paludo would be popping off a commendation soon as he walked in the door. Maybe that putz Horner would get a posthumous gong as well—he could wear it on his coffin. The thought made Manetti snicker out loud pleased at how clever he had been—and how dumb the rest of the world was.

  —Only the girl to worry about. Waiting down there in the dark. He peered out from his hiding place at the black skeleton of her bicycle laying crooked and discarded in the road.

  Manetti snickered again. The he got up at a half crouch, moving more boldly this time. A half dozen fast steps and he had the bike. He hoisted it up by the handlebars and seat back, swinging it high as he could—man it was heavy—that big front wheel flopping about like that, he almost staggered and fell—instead, he used the momentum to propel himself forwards, towards the edge of the bottomless ravine.

  The bike sailed over the edge, down, down into the endless Alpine night.

  He could have waited for the impact—but no that would have been too gratuitous—too self-indulgent. Instead he climbed into the Jeep and gunned the engine. If the girl was waiting down there in the dark she would be disappointed. Manett
i hit reverse and headed up hill at speed, a hundred, two hundred yards at least, before he pulled a furious hand brake turn and headed off uphill. He would take the long route back. So what if he was late, those freaks at Division could go hang. He was a hero for Christ’s sake—A HERO.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 40

  Germany 1957

  In the silence of the forest, the years seemed to slip away. Standing very quietly in the midst of the fragrant pines it almost seemed that the past had returned, or the future arrived ahead of time. It was a tranquil world, and as the sun blinked down through the leaves, it was possible—standing in the very middle of the forest—to feel the elemental force of the earth, rising up, powering life forward—it was a peaceful, uplifting feeling that created a sense of balance for the mind, offsetting the vulgar encroachment of modernity.

  Diels breathed the forest air, as his pointer Franz tore through the undergrowth, in pursuit of unknown prey. Wood fowl were fast moving and elusive. When hunting them the services of a well-trained gundog were essential.

  Watching the undergrowth carefully, as Franz rooted out his prey, Diels allowed himself a quiet smile. Out here in the forest, it was so easy to forget about the machinations of the political world—budgetary constrains, legal hassles, and the myriad governmental rivalries of the new post-war Germany.

  In just a few short years, the world had changed beyond recognition. Now that the years of National Socialism had been swept away, there were so many considerations to make—compromises to adopt—there was political diversity, and its myriad arguing voices. Then there were the challenges of rebuilding Germany under the oversight of drab minded committees—dour face men who lacked both strength and vision. Worse, the sensitivities of the Americans and their emergent super-state had to be considered above all else. Hard to imagine just a few short years ago, that these rosy-faced capitalists would have become so omnipotent—such a complex world thought Diels—even for a career politician.

  But now, the time for politics was over. The Iron Curtain of Bolshevism had risen all over Europe—now it was time for a new generation of political animals to speak out against the old enemies. The new breed were everywhere—grey faced accountants and lawyers, imbued with the silent machinations of big business. No place in the new Germany for the cult of personality, that time was done—consigned forever to the shame-faced past.

  Diels didn‘t like the idea of retirement, but the new breed had angled him out. A cruel irony that he had avoided the merciless blast of totalitarianism, and the endless recriminations of Nuremburg, only to be edged out of office by an army of grey faced bureaucrats. Early retirement they called it.

  The scrap heap at fifty-six, it was hard not to be bitter, but the accountants had offered him a very generous retirement package. They said they valued his insights. They said he could remain on payroll, in an “advisory capacity”. Trouble was no one wanted his advice, not these days. The grey-faced men had their own ideas—bright new plans, that couldn’t involve former Nazis, no matter how completely they had been exonerated by the war criminal hoopla of the Nuremburg years.

  Diels waded through the waist high brush, every sense straining to detect his prey. It was a close-quarters game, shooting fowl in the woods. Split second reactions and a steady eye were needed. No telling when your prey could break cover. Diels held his gun at the ready, preparing to make a shot. Franz surged forward through the undergrowth. And without warning a brace of wood pigeons rose up to the left in a flurry of alarm. Diels twisted around fast, popping both barrels in quick succession.

  The pigeons broke clear, heading off through the dense forest, unharmed. Diels watched them go. Perhaps the grey-faced accountants had been right to let him go? Perhaps he was losing his touch? Perhaps it would be better if he returned to his unassuming little suburban world, lit his pipe and forgot about the past, and the future too? That was the problem with early-retirement, the active mind had too much time to think. The mind was a cruel little monkey, quick to blame and reluctant to forget—the kind of companion a man of leisured hours would do well to avoid. Diels broke his shotgun open and popped fresh cartridges into the breech. There was no avoiding the monkey, his nasty little accusations, cleverer and more insistent with each passing day. Diels looked to the sky, and breathed deep, hoping that the peace of the forest would restore him, but it was no use, the moment of tranquility was lost. Suddenly, a jet airliner broke across the clearing in the trees, flying high, heading out into the bold new world, using technology of the old Reich. Diels watched with wonder, as the plane disappeared, leaving only a softly dissipating chalk mark in the sky to mark its passage. The plane was an omen, a signal to let him know that the day was finished—nothing further could be accomplished now, the portents had spoken.

  Diels trudged back to his car, his thoughts turning to the long evening that lay ahead. It was difficult to know under such circumstances how to spend ones time. As he pondered the possibilities, he emerged from the woods and came upon the secluded track that led back to the main road. After about half a mile, the track broadened out into a rough surfaced parking area strewn with rain-filled potholes.

  Perhaps sensing that he would soon be inside a warm car Franz ran ahead now. But as he caught up with the dog, Diels had a surprise, a stranger bending down by his car, lavishing affection on Franz as though the dog were his very own.

  Diels felt his hackles rise. Franz was a friendly dog, perhaps too friendly, especially when it came to strangers. As he drew closer Diels felt ever more uneasy. There was something strangely familiar about the man, something that made him want to—no, that would be ridiculous. This was the new Germany. The time for paranoia was over. They were living in a new and civilized world now, a world where due process and the rule of law took precedence over the extra judicial instincts of a political elite.

  The figure stood now, rising to face him. Diels’ blood ran cold.

  “Herr Diels, how marvelous to see you.” The man holding his hand out now, making ready for a hearty greeting.

  Diels pulled up short. He eyed the man with suspicion, trying to place the face—fat and ruddy, with tiny vulture eyes, he had short, red hair that reminded Diels of Paris for some reason—suddenly the war came flooding back—long dead faces reaching up from the grave, then snap—the name came to his lips, passing out crisply as though it had been there all along.

  “Herr Hofer.”

  The vulture eyes glistened. “It has been a long time Herr Diels, I am flattered that you remember.”

  Diels regarded him coldly.

  Hofer smiled, “You must have met so many people, over the years Herr Diels—so many important people.”

  “What do you want?” asked Diels.

  Hofer’s lips twisted, “Simply looking to reacquaint myself with old comrades Herr Diels—I am sure that a man such as yourself could understand—”

  “The past has no interest to me,” said Diels, his voice quiet.

  Hofer gave a laugh, “Alas, Germany is full of such amnesia these days—it seems like only yesterday the whole country was alive with a sense of pride in our glorious past but now—well, it is perhaps understandable why men such as yourself should choose to forget.” Standing beside Diels’ car Hofer lounged back against the door, his beady eyes popping like hot coals. He was an ugly little man, even less suited to civilian attire than he was to uniform.

  Diels snapped closed the breech, on his shotgun. “This is a lonely kind of road to look up acquaintances who don’t want to be looked up Hofer.”

  “Indeed it is Herr Diels, lonely and quite perfect.”

  The footfalls were so quiet Diels hardly heard them until they were too close to do anything about. Diels scrutinized Hofer’s face—saw from his gloating expression that the weasel was working a two-man drop on him. Diels let his eyes dart sideways to the reflections on his car, confirming if confirmation were needed, that the man now standing directly behind him had a gun pointing at his head.


  “Place your shotgun on the floor Herr Diels, so that we may discuss matters in a more civilized fashion.”

  Diels stood there for a long moment, weighing the options—finally, figuring that a few more moments of conversation might bring their business to a swift and painless conclusion he placed the shotgun slowly, carefully on the floor. In the back of his mind the monkey screamed accusations. Diels smiled to himself—such concerns were no longer important—perhaps, at long last, the cruel little beast would be cheated out of his game. Diels felt the hard jab of a pistol against the back of his neck. He took a step forward then another—he sensed the gunman bending down for the shotgun—if there was going to be a time to make this good, the moment was now—but inertia held him fast, the moment passed. Hofer spoke again.

  “You have met my partner Herr Diels—back in Paris I believe.”

  Diels said nothing as the baby faced Prussian from the Einsatzstab Paris office circled into view—he was older now, his cherubic curls longer than Diels remembered, but there was no mistaking that face. Diels gave a derisive snort. Had it come to this? The long years of terror suddenly reaching out from the past, as though the world had ground still on its axis?

  “How is the art business Lohse?”

  “Very lucrative.” replied Lohse without humor, pointing the shotgun at his midriff.

  “Please, Herr Diels, you are in no position to judge us. Your friends in the party have been watching your postwar career with interest—perhaps you thought you could escape your commitments to the party—assumed that you could use your weasel words to feather your nest at the expense of true patriots?”

  “I have no friends in the party.”

  Hofer smiled. It was a cold unpleasant smile, the kind of look that oozed contempt and superiority folded inside a shallow wrapped tissue of hate.

  “The party has been watching you Diels, we know you made contact with the girl, all we need to know now is where she is.”