Back from the Dead hl-2

by Peter Leonard

  Hess shook his head and sat on the couch. Broussard moved to the desk, took an address book out of a drawer, opened it and made a phone call.

  Hess walked out of the gallery. He didn’t have the patience to sit in Broussard’s office and wait until the expert arrived and authenticated the painting. Hess noticed a silver Peugeot parked across the street, morning sun reflecting off the sheet metal, making it difficult to see if anyone was in it. He had passed a car just like it on corniche des Oliviers on his way to Nice. Was he being followed, or was he suspicious because Marie-Noëlle had seen a man on the property?

  Hess walked to a cafe down the street, sat outside, feeling the warmth of the sun, and drank two cups of café americain, discreetly staring at two well-dressed, good-looking ladies a few tables away.

  When he returned to the gallery an hour later the Peugeot was gone, confirming that his jittery nerves and paranoia were an overreaction. Broussard was in his office, talking to a dapper little man wearing a dark suit and bow tie.

  “M. Chartier, let me present our foremost Van Gogh expert, M. Givry.”

  The little man stared at Hess, making no attempt to shake hands.

  “Have you finished the authentication?”

  Broussard said, “I am afraid we have bad news.”

  “This painting is a forgery,” Givry said. “The technique is all wrong. Van Gogh lathered his colors roughly on the canvas.”

  “How do I know this is the painting I brought?”

  “M. Chartier,” Broussard said, plump cheeks turning red. “We have been selling art for fifty years. I can assure you…” Givry, too, looked nervous, rubbing his hands, eyes darting around.

  Hess had taken the painting from Hans Frank. How could it be a fake? The Durer was from the same collection and it had been authenticated. “I should phone the police and have you arrested.”

  Broussard, offended now, moved to his desk, picked up the telephone receiver and glanced at Hess. “Here you are. Make your call, but it will not change anything. This was not painted by Vincent Van Gogh.”

  Hess lifted the canvas off the easel and walked out of the office. He sat in the car, thinking about Hans Frank and the paintings, now wondering if the others had been forged.

  After the war Hess had visited Frank’s estate. Hans had been uncharacteristically uneasy, pacing while they talked. “The Allies are closing in,” Hans had said. “They are going to arrest me.”

  “Why don’t you leave Germany?”

  “There is no place I can go.” He handed Hess a map. “I need you to move the paintings to a secure location. I’ll contact you when I have been released from prison.”

  Frank was arrested a few days later. He was taken to Nuremburg, tried and found guilty of war crimes and crimes against humanity. He was hanged on October 16, 1946.

  Hess found the cave and what remained of Frank’s art collection and contacted Gerhard Braun. Hess needed a way to move the paintings and Braun had trucks. They agreed to split everything fifty-fifty.

  Thirty-nine

  “Harry, you see him lookin’ over here? Why’s he lookin’ at us?” Hess had come out of the gallery and was staring at them. “It’s the car. I think he’s looking at the Peugeot.”

  But then Hess turned and walked down the street to a sidewalk cafe and sat at a table.

  Cordell made a U-turn. Harry said, “What’re you doing?”

  “Gettin’ outta here. Don’t you know nothin’ about surveillance? Man seen the car, we got to be more careful. When I worked for Chilly, see, we’d have to watch out for the police. They come to the projects in beat-up old cars, cops dressed for the street. They’d park, smoke cigarettes, lookin’ around, waitin’ for somethin’ to go down, couldn’t’ve been more obvious.”

  Colette said, “What did you do?”

  “Wait till they took off, or came back another time.”

  “But you got busted, you told me.”

  “Yeah, but it had nothin’ to do with that. I was suckered by a cop dressed like he was homeless, livin’ in a refrigerator carton. Man was a stone actor.”

  Cordell took the first left, made another U-turn and parked on the street with a clean angle on Hess’ car and the gallery entrance. No way Hess’d be able to see them.

  “How do you like me now?” Cordell said, glancing at Harry.

  “Not bad.”

  “There he is,” Colette said.

  Harry saw Hess come out of the gallery, carrying a painting. He put it in the trunk, got in the car and pulled out, going right toward Monte Carlo.

  Colette said, “What do you think he is doing with the painting?

  “Trying to sell it,” Harry said. “His German assets are frozen. I think he needs money.”

  “It has to be worth a fortune,” Colette said. “I looked it up in the library. It was looted by the Nazis and supposedly lost during the war, destroyed in a museum fire.”

  Harry saw Hess heading back to the harbor and then turning right toward Nice.

  Instead of turning right on boulevard Gambetta, Hess drove through Nice, going west, just driving, the Peugeot still behind him, seeing it in the rearview and side mirrors. At Antibes he turned off the highway and drove into town. It was midday and congested. He parked in an angled space on the street, picked the pistol up off the passenger seat and slid it in his pocket.

  Hess went into a restaurant. Standing just inside the door he could see the Peugeot double-parked behind the Renault, stopping traffic, horns honking. He walked past the maitre d’ into the crowded dining room, heard the loud din of voices, saw waiters carrying trays of food, moving about. He walked through the dining room into the stainless-steel kitchen, hearing the sharp clatter of plates and utensils, line cooks working, eyes on him but no one questioning his being there or trying to stop him, and then he was outside, walking along the alley behind the restaurant. He made a series of turns taking him blocks from the main street where he had parked. There was a taxi sitting in front of a small hotel. Hess got in and told the driver to take him to Nice.

  The taxi dropped him at a cafe back on boulevard Gambetta. Hess phoned Marie-Noëlle to pick him up. He sat at a table inside, drank an espresso in two swallows, watching the street. The Fiat pulled up a few minutes later. He went outside and got in, looking around for a silver Peugeot.

  “Monsieur, where is your car?”

  “Antibes.”

  She pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn, window down, left hand on the steering wheel, holding a cigarette between her index and middle fingers, shifting with her right. Hess felt claustrophobic in the small interior, his shoulder and Marie-Noëlle’s almost touching.

  “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?” She brought the cigarette to her mouth, blowing out smoke, and made a left turn. He was conscious of her earthy smell mixing with the cigarette smoke and diesel exhaust.

  “Mechanical trouble.”

  “Is the garage picking it up?”

  Hess nodded. “Have you seen anyone else on the property?”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Or cars parked outside the gate?”

  “No, monsieur.” She dropped the cigarette out the open window.

  “Any hunters?” On occasion Hess had seen villagers in the hills, hunting rabbits and quail.

  “No, monsieur, no one.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence. Marie-Noëlle lit another cigarette, kept it hanging in her mouth as she drove the winding roads to the villa, shifting and down-shifting, the cigarette ash breaking off, falling in her lap, Marie-Noëlle brushing it on the floor.

  Back at the villa, Hess contacted a service garage in the village just up the hill, and arranged to have his Renault towed there. Then he went to his bedroom and stood on the deck with binoculars scanning the hills and valley behind his property, and felt foolish when he saw Claude, the gardener, look up at him from trimming palm trees by the pool.

  He went inside and took a thick wad of money out of hi
s jacket pocket, counting the bills on the bed. $9,635 and 2,200 francs. He owned the villa free and clear, but selling it would take time. He would have to meet with realtors. And he owned twelve expressionist paintings and a couple dozen others that were, depending on their authenticity, worth either a fortune or nothing. But selling the paintings — going through an auction house or a gallery — would probably take even longer than selling the villa. He knew it was time to leave.

  At 4:30 the manager of the service garage phoned to tell Hess his car had been towed to the lot but there was no way to check its functions without the ignition key. Hess said he would bring the key in the morning.

  He waited until he was sure the garage was closed before he went to find Marie-Noëlle. She was folding clothes in the laundry room on the lower level.

  “I need your help with something.”

  “Yes, of course, monsieur. What can I do for you?”

  “Drive me to pick up the car. They have it at the garage.”

  “Monsieur, are you sure? I can take Claude if you would rather not.”

  Forty

  Cordell had parked on the street in Antibes. Harry saw Hess walk into the restaurant at 12:10, and now all they could do was wait. At 2:40 Harry was getting concerned. He glanced at Colette and Cordell and said, “What do you think?”

  “The French take their time eating but this is ridiculous,” Colette said.

  “Maybe he’s not in there,” Harry said. “Slipped out, we didn’t see him, or went out the back.”

  “What I was sayin’ earlier. Dude might’ve made us and took off.”

  Colette glanced at Harry. “And leave the painting, a priceless work of art?”

  “Unless it isn’t,” Harry said. “I’m going in.”

  Harry got out of the car, waited for traffic to clear and crossed the street. Looked in Hess’ car. Nothing. He went into the restaurant and scanned the dining room. Only half a dozen tables were occupied and Hess wasn’t at any of them. He checked the men’s room. It was empty. He walked out and went around the block. There was an alley behind the restaurant. Hess could’ve walked through and come out here. But why?

  Harry went back to the car. Cordell was on the sidewalk smoking a Davidoff. “Let me guess. Isn’t there, is he?”

  “Where’d he go and why’d he leave his car?” Harry said, and saw Cordell focused on something across the street.

  “Harry, check it out.”

  Harry turned and saw the tow truck parked behind Hess’ Renault.

  Colette rolled the back window down. “Maybe this explains it.”

  “Maybe.” But Harry didn’t think so. “If Hess had car trouble he would’ve called a tow truck right away and stayed there.” Leaving the painting was another thing that didn’t make sense. He watched the tow truck lift the back end of Hess’ Renault.

  They followed it to Nice and up the winding roads into the hills, past Hess’ villa to a garage on the outskirts of the village. They waited in a wooded area across the street from the garage until dark.

  “Harry, we know where the man lives, what’re we doin’ here?”

  Colette offered to go to the village and get food and coffee. “Let’s just give it a few more minutes,” Harry said.

  And then he saw the Fiat drive in, the housekeeper in the spaghetti-western hat behind the wheel, and someone sitting next to her.

  It was dark when they arrived in the village, the shops lit up. People picking up food on their way home from work, coming out of the bakery carrying baguettes, coming out of the butcher shop with cuts of meat wrapped in brown paper. Trucks and automobiles parked and double-parked, monsieur alert, looking about.

  Marie-Noëlle pulled into the lot and put the car in neutral. The bay doors were closed, the lights off. Monsieur’s Renault was parked on the side of the building.

  “I think it is not going to work today, monsieur. I can bring you back in the morning.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Just down there.” She pointed north. “Half a kilometer.”

  “Is your husband at home?”

  “No, monsieur. Henri is delivering parts to Flins, gone for three days.”

  “Show me your house.”

  Marie-Noëlle glanced at him, wondering if he was serious.

  “You have worked for me ten years. I want to see where you live.”

  She was nervous now, riding with her boss to an empty house. They were alone in the villa much of the time and he had never made a pass at her. So what was this all about?

  “How long have you been sleeping with Claude?”

  Marie-Noëlle could feel herself blushing. How did he know that? They had been so careful. “Monsieur, I get lonely.”

  “It’s all right. I understand. But Claude? I think you can do better.”

  Monsieur sounded as if he was offering himself. But why now? And why her? She was thinking about the German model he had brought to the villa one time, tall and beautiful. She turned off the main road, monsieur staring at her legs working the pedals.

  “There it is,” she said, slowing down, pointing to her small stone house, embarrassed, but this was where she lived. “Monsieur, have you seen enough? I can take you back.”

  “Let’s go in.”

  “Ah, monsieur. I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what? We are friends, aren’t we?” Marie-Noëlle didn’t see it that way. He owned the villa, and she worked for him. What was going on?

  She drove to the house, parking near the side entrance, her heart pounding now. She opened the door, waited for him to get out and come around the car. She unlocked and opened the door to the house, and they went in. It was completely dark. Marie turned a lamp on in the salon, removed her hat, hung it on a hook and fussed with her hair, self-conscious about the way she looked.

  “Are you going to give me the grand tour?”

  “Monsieur, there are only four rooms. Come this way.”

  Hess followed her into the kitchen that had a wide stone fireplace against one wall, a small refrigerator and a simple wooden table in the center of the room.

  “May I offer you something, cognac, Pernod?” She didn’t have anything up to his standards, but had to ask.

  “A little Pernod would be nice.”

  Hess didn’t believe in coincidence. He had to be sure. He didn’t see the silver Peugeot when they had passed through the village. He didn’t see it when they drove to the garage, or to Marie-Noëlle’s house. But when they came out a little after eight there it was parked on the street between two cars.

  They were turning onto the main road, Hess looking in the side mirror, when he saw the Peugeot’s lights pop on, and the car swing out and follow them. Marie-Noëlle was driving, a lipstick-stained cigarette butt clamped between her teeth, window open halfway, cold air blowing in. He had thrown down a quick glass of Pernod at her house as she sat across the table from him, nervous, keeping her distance. Then she had offered to drive him back to the villa.

  Forty-one

  Colette pulled over. Harry and Cordell got out and crossed the road and stood at the wall in front of Hess’ villa. No car had passed by for several minutes. Cordell hoisted him up and Harry grabbed the tile cap, went over the top of the wall and dropped down in the garden twenty feet from the front door. Harry crouched, listening, heard a dog barking in the distance.

  He drew the .38 from his coat pocket and took the stairs down to the lower level. He moved along the back of the villa, looking in windows, passing a dark bedroom, an office with a desk light on. He passed the kitchen, saw a pot on the stove top, a plate and wine glass set on the counter. He kept moving, glanced at the pool, crossed the deck and looked through the sliding doors. The TV was on in the salon. There were signs of life but no one was in any of the rooms. He turned and looked at the houses scattered through the dark hills, and down the valley at the city of Nice, lit up but subdued by cloud cover.

  Harry went along the house, back the way he’d come. Ha
lfway up the stairs, he heard a door close and footsteps on the pea-gravel path that led to the cars. Went up, moved along the side of the villa to the front and saw the housekeeper in hat and cape, carrying a small suitcase to the Fiat.

  Harry went to the front door, glanced to his right. The housekeeper was in the car. He heard it start and saw the lights go on and the gate open. But then she got out and went in the garage. Harry opened the door, stepped into the small foyer, closed it and went up the stairs to Hess’ bedroom. It was dark. He crossed the room, looked out the sliding door and saw the Fiat in the driveway.

  He went downstairs, gripping the .38, moved through the office into the hall, heard voices in the salon and then something else, a sound like someone moaning. He opened a door and there was the housekeeper tied to a chair in the laundry room, a rag stuffed in her mouth. He pulled it out. Hess was wearing her hat and cape. Hess was in the Fiat getting away. “Where is Chartier going?”

  “I don’t know, monsieur.”

  Claude was bringing a bag of trash up from his cottage to put in the bin in the garage, hoping to see Marie-Noëlle. He had been thinking about her all day. He had kissed her when she came out to bring him a glass of water. He couldn’t resist, even though she had told him no demonstrations of affection unless monsieur was away. He didn’t like it when she was in the villa alone with Chartier. Monsieur was a man, and Claude didn’t trust any man in Marie-Noëlle’s company.

  Now he was coming up the stairs and saw something out of the corner of his eye and ducked down. A figure moving along the back wall of the house, a man looking in the windows. Was this the one monsieur had been talking about? It was very strange. Where did he come from? How did he get on the property?

  Claude ran down the stairs to the cottage, went in and lifted the shotgun off the hooks above the fireplace. The gun was hot from the fire. He broke it open, loaded two shells and snapped it closed. Claude’s hands were shaking. He was a gardener, not a gendarme, but he had to protect Marie-Noëlle.