by Tony Bulmer
“And the painting too,” added Lohse.
“I would have thought you two clowns had stolen enough art off murdered Jews to last you a life time?” said Diels.
“You were always a traitor Diels, just like your friend Göring, your mistake was thinking we would allow your treachery to go unpunished.”
Diels stood silent.
“If you do not tell us where Fräulein Bergen is, we will still find her, and when we do we will hurt her,” said Lohse.
Diels looked at Lohse and smiled. “Eva Bergen is dead.”
The shotgun roared. A close quarters blast that almost cut Diels in two.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 41
San Telmo, Buenos Aires, Argentina 1993
The room was small and sparsely furnished. A crucifix hung above the bed and divine pictures, many of which had seen better days, stared down from walls stained dark from long years of humidity and neglect.
Father Lucas stood by the window blinds fanning him self. The weather had been this way for weeks, so hot and humid, it was quite unbearable. Even by the window the priest could feel the heat beading all over his face and body. He looked over to the bed, to the frail figure lying beneath the crumpled sheets—the poor señora —to be sick in this heat, a hundred degrees at least—it was quite inhuman. Father Lucas inserted his fingers inside his collar, hoping that the late afternoon would carry a breeze in from the river, as it sometimes did. But it was no use. The heat was relentless, bringing the whole city to a virtual standstill. He peered through the blinds at the normally bustling street-market, watching as the sun-baked world roasted and steamed. A gentle hubbub rose to the window, but it seemed that today, even the boisterous calls of the stallholders were subdued by the sweltering weather.
The señora stirred again—another wave of delirium taking hold? Father Lucas turned reluctantly away from the window and walked over to the rickety black chair, squeezed in between the bed and the wall. The chair was hard and austere looking. He sat on it anyway, perched uncomfortably, watching and waiting. The señora was very old and pale, but it was easy to see that despite her advanced years, she had once been very beautiful. At length, as he watched her, the señora opened her eyes.
“Thank you for coming father—I know your tasks are many,” the voice was low and throaty, northern European—almost certainly German, but there was no way of telling for sure. The señora was very guarded about her past.
“I have a confession to make father—”
The announcement was a relief to the priest, but he hid it well. The señora had been in this fragile state for almost two weeks now—and it seemed that there was no resolution in sight. The doctors had said her condition was caused by pulmonary edema, a fluid accumulation in the air spaces and parenchyma of the lungs—a condition that would eventually give rise to either respiratory failure, or heart attack, maybe even both. But she was strong, and despite the seriousness of her condition, she had surprised everyone by her tenacity to live. In fact, it seemed that there was no end to her resolve. To father Lucas this tenacity was becoming somewhat wearing. But the señora had been a regular visitor to the church of San Pedro Gonzalez, and a generous contributor on very many occasions, so it seemed only fitting that in her time of need, the church should return the favor. The problem was that the favor was becoming rather more extended than initially anticipated.
When the señora’s faithful landlady Justina came rushing to the vestry, almost two weeks ago, announcing that her most valued tenant was at deaths door, Father Lucas had been quick to make a house call. Since then, there had been bedside visits on a daily basis—prayers, both private and public—all to no avail. It was beginning to seem that the señora despite her advanced age would live forever.
With his frustration building, Father Lucas sat in the hard chair and contemplated his most devout parishioner, with what he hoped was a benevolent look. As the señora’s eyes fluttered open, she caught him with his hands steepled together as if in prayer. A nice touch, or so he thought.
“A confession father, I have to make a confession.”
The priest smiled, and reached out to her with quiet words of reassurance.
But still the señora looked anxious, “It is not an easy thing to admit father, because I know my words will condemn me to eternal damnation, but I know that unburdening my conscience will help me in my time of passing.”
Father Lucas gave the señora a reassuring look, and gently clasped her hand. What sins could a frail old woman have committed he wondered, an indiscretion in her youth perhaps, such sins were commonplace and easily resolved, especially in a time of great spiritual need.
The señora looked at him now her eyes burning brighter than ever he had known them. “I killed a man, a very evil man, but I killed him none the less.”
The priest’s eyes widened, he just couldn’t help it, the shock of the revelation almost forcing him to tear his hand away. The thought that this quiet little old lady had killed anyone was quite unthinkable—she was so old and frail, with skin like china clay. Perhaps this admission was a phantasm brought on by her feverish condition. Father Lucas allowed himself a look of benevolent understanding, telling him that he must go along with this delusional admission so that he might better understand where it was coming from. He pressed the señora’s hand, asked her quietly to continue her story.
“I knew him from the war—I hoped that when the war ended he would meet the fate he deserved, like so many of his ilk—but he came back to haunt me.”
Father Lucas grasped her hand tighter now. He had heard stories. Buenos Aires was a town of secrets. Many from the old world came to seek refuge, hoping to forget and start anew. But it didn’t pay to discuss such matters—such people often had friends in high places—rich powerful friends—the kind of friends who could make problems go away—permanently.
“The past is forgotten Señora, do not torture yourself. You are a woman of God, you have paid your penance, atoned for any sins you may have committed.”
“I hardly think that is true Father, I sought this man out—hunted him down, with a gun in my hand.”
“Lord have mercy, why would you do such a thing?”
“He killed the only man I have ever loved, a good man who fought evil and paid the price.”
Horror and concern began a steady journey across the Fathers face, “A mortal sin does not mean that a sin cannot be repented Señora. Perfect contrition and your love of God will offer salvation for your sins, you can trust in that without question.” Father Lucas prayed it would be so, but from the look on the señora’s face, he knew he would have to act fast to absolve her.
As she looked back at him he could see the emotion welling up within her. Father Lucas squeezed her had reassuringly.
“I would like to say I didn’t mean to kill him, but really I did. I spent many years moving from place to place hoping that I could free myself of this vengeful curse, but always the feelings came back, stronger and stronger until I could deny them no more.”
“You mention this man was evil—”
“He profited from the misery of millions, stole their property, knowing they would be condemned to torture and death—he cheated those around him and lied about his heinous acts to avoid punishment for his crimes.”
“You took the law into your own hands—” said Father Lucas his voice sad.
“I had to, his greed knew no bounds—he believed I had something of great value, something he coveted—something he pursued me for—chased me to the edge of madness.”
The priest nodded, “What was this object this man of evil so desired?”
“A painting of great value that was entrusted to me.”
“Why did you not free yourself from this man by giving him the object he so desired?”
“If only I could have done so, but the painting was taken from me during the last days of the war, a time so long ago I can scarcely remember it.”
“A cruel irony,” said the pr
iest quietly, “So you sought release from your dilemma by chasing down this man, thinking that violence was an answer to your problems?”
“I confess I did Father. But my actions offered no release, only bondage of a different kind.”
“You shot and killed this man?”
“I fully intended to Father, I waited for him outside his place of business, in the dark of night, taking care that no one saw me.” Her voice tinged with shame, she said, “Then I followed him on his journey home.”
Father Lucas squeezed the señoras hand and nodded supportively. Her eyes were wide with fear now, as though she were reliving every urgent footfall, every adrenaline charged second, to the crime that had left her life in ruins. “Did you challenge the man before you carried out this deed Señora? It may have some bearing on your salvation.”
She nodded slowly her eyes as wide with horror, “I came up fast behind him, to make certain of my shot. He must have heard my approaching footsteps, because as I raised the gun to his head he turned to face me.”
The priest nodded, “What did he say?”
“He said nothing, nothing at all—just stared at me as I stood there pointing the gun at his face—so I shouted at him, the only thing I could thing of, “I haven’t got it,” I said, “The Americans took it from me. I stood there pointing the gun at him and he said nothing, opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but he couldn’t get it out, he just collapsed to the pavement, it was horrible really horrible.”
“What did you do then Señora?”
“I stood there as he twitched and groaned, but I was paralyzed. I couldn’t do anything until he lay still. Then, finally, I found my feet and ran. I ran and ran and have been running ever since.”
The priest sat there for a long moment, rocking, backwards and forwards.
“I see,” he said gravely. “It would seem to me that your tormentor suffered a fatal heart attack. Stricken down by the hand of God so that you might be saved from a mortal sin—it would seem that you have been tormenting yourself needlessly these long years Señora for you are truly blessed.”
She was quiet then, as the priest smiled down at her. Slowly, she closed her eyes. “Say a prayer for me father,”
“Of course my child.”
Her hand tightened very briefly around his, and she whispered, “The envelope in the bureau—I entrust it to you father.”
As a reply hung on his lips, the grip on his hand very suddenly relaxed, and the breaths once labored became quieter, until finally they were no more.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 42
Gallery Lohse, Munich, Germany, the present day
Bruno Lohse sat at his desk, rounding off a very successful and lucrative day, with a glass of rare 1811 Cognac. At the grand age of 96 he denied himself nothing, even the occasional cigar, an indulgence that made his doctors crow with indignation. Lohse didn’t care. He had outlived so many doctors he had stopped counting decades ago. The only things that mattered now were the comforts of the day and he had plenty of those—years of shrewd investment had seen to that. As for the future, that no longer mattered, because he had more years behind him than in front. A man in such a position had little to worry about, especially when his legacy was so carefully assured.
Lohse sipped the Cognac, it’s smooth bouquet reaching back through the years, to when Napoléon Bonaparte was the Emperor of Europe. Lohse admired Bonaparte. He was a man of strength and inspiration—a soldier. Even if he lacked the moral backbone to see through his plans, he had done his best to seek order in a continent that so desperately needed it. But now, the time for great leaders was past. All the great men had been replaced by simpering fools, none of them with the wit or vision to achieve true greatness.
As Lohse pondered the inexorable decline of society, his phone began to ring. He contemplated it for a long moment. Technology, he hated it vehemently. The phone continued to ring, so Lohse took a long pull on his Cognac, and snatched it up. He wished he had a cigarette—he hadn’t smoked them for many years—but somehow, when he answered the telephone, he always wanted one.
“Lohse—you sound—preoccupied.”
“Eminence, I had no idea—I wasn’t expecting your call.”
“Indeed, it has been too long since last we spoke, but you will be pleased to hear that I have good news.
Lohse paused to think. The Cardinal ringing him again after so long, what could this mean—more business, or perhaps a favor? Either way it would involve time, expense and the kind of effort he was scarce prepared to give. Lohse frowned. “What do you want?” he snapped.
“What I want is to offer you a resolution to a very troubling question, and make you a very rich man in to the bargain.
“I am already a very rich man.”
“Eva Bergen is dead.”
“Of course she is dead, that bitch was much older than me—tell me something I don’t know.”
“She left a very interesting legacy, pictures of her former employer—with his art collection.”
“Taken by that odious little prig Heinrich Hoffman no doubt, the Führer’s personal photographer. Why are you ringing me about this Saligia? This is old news, those cretinous American pigs at the OSS found those pictures over sixty years ago—You think I need to see any more pictures of that traitor Göring at my time of life—Are you trying to provoke me Cardinal?”
The silence on the other end of the line, was smooth and unflustered, finally Cardinal Saligia, said quietly, “The pictures were discovered in Argentina, Buenos Aires, to be precise. Apparently Fräulein Bergen had been living there some years at the time of her passing.”
“South America. I thought as much, ” snapped Lohse.
“You will be pleased to hear that she sought the Lords guidance before her demise.’
“How fitting,” sneered Lohse, “Let her soul burn in hell anyway. Now tell me about these damn photographs, I am assuming they tell us something we didn’t know before?”
“Göring had the da Vinci—it is in the photographs.”
“I knew he had it damn you. Do you really think that fat prince would give it to the Führer like he said he would?”
“There is more, the girl confessed that the painting was taken by the Americans in the last days of the war—you have been chasing her all these years for nothing.”
“Principals are more important than money, but I wouldn’t expect you to know of such things Saligia. Where is the painting now?”
“America.”
Lohse gave an unpleasant laugh. “Then it is now the property of one of the great American collectors. There are few who would be able to afford such a painting, even at black market rates, and fewer still who would be prepared to purchase a work of such questionable provenance.”
“Provenance be damned, da Vinci was under contract to the Pope Alexander VI when the painting was executed, the painting belongs to the Vatican. And now after five hundred years we will have that which is ours returned to us, no matter what the price.”
Lohse laughed again. “You have people to recover the painting?”
“We have people everywhere,” said the Cardinal. “But we will have to lend an air of legitimacy to the recovery. The usual operatives will be unsuitable for such work.”
“Legitimacy Cardinal—you amuse me. If it is legitimacy you require you will have to use The American.”
“I was hoping to avoid that.”
“Then your cause is lost. Professor Cornelius Franklin is perhaps the only legitimate player who could handle a job of this magnitude.”
“But Franklin is a man of scruples.”
“Then you must send an emissary to meet with Javier Elzorra, he is perhaps the greatest private collector of High Renaissance art the world has ever seen, but proceed with caution Cardinal, Elzorra has very dangerous friends.”
“So do I.”
Lohse snorted with contempt. “Perhaps you thought that I would sort this mess out for you Salagia—perhaps you thoug
ht my people would mobilize? Well you are wrong. We are beyond such picayune tasks. We moved into the mainstream many years ago—perhaps you haven’t heard?”
“You are right, Bruno—but you have been most helpful, as ever—it was wrong of me to ask a man in your position for assistance, you will excuse me I am sure. But you will also understand that it is my holy duty to ensure that such matters are resolved as firmly and efficiently as possible.”
Bruno Lohse uttered an ugly curse and slammed the telephone into the cradle with as much ferocity as he could muster. Salagia was a dog—a parasite—a sub-human cretin of the worst kind, the kind of creature for whom extermination would be a merciful release. Damn Saligia, damn daVinci damn the girl too. Lohse sat back in his sumptuous leather chair, fighting the temptation to light a cigar.
Lohse sipped Cognac, allowing its warmth to calm him. At length he smiled, imagining with great satisfaction how horrible the end must have been, for the treacherous Fräulein Bergen. Dead in Buenos Aires—ten thousand miles away from her homeland—lonely, seedy, disgusting, hopefully she was in great pain when death took her. Serve her right, for double-crossing the Fatherland.
A sudden knock on the gallery door distracted him. He placed his glass on the desk, and peered at the CCTV monitor—a woman in a fur coat and diamonds, standing out front alone. She pressed the buzzer now, like she had only just seen it, stupid bitch. Lohse peered at the monitor—everything she wore was expensive—probably smelled expensive too, like a rich mans whore. What harm could another sale do, this self-important floozy was probably good for a million Euros—maybe two, and if she wasn’t she would feel the humiliation of her poverty as a reward for disturbing his evening.
Lohse buzzed open the door.
“Good evening Fräulein,” said Lohse, his voice sharp but business like. No perfume after all, but her clothes were reassuringly expensive, she had the air of an international jetsetter. Once, many years ago, such a woman would have excited him in a sexual way; now as he examined the size of her designer purse, it was only the thought of her money that appealed to him.