The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  “Oh, I suppose. We have a long drive back. We must leave your things and get going.”

  “Of course,” Corrialles said. “And this other gallery you found will come get them tomorrow?” Both Eckhardt and Falkenberg nodded. “Then we can move them to Galería Tlaloc.” He glanced at Hawkins a moment, then very slightly smiled and shrugged, “Then I will buy them.”

  Other gallery? Hawkins thought. Exactly as we suspected, creating a paper trail. They drop them in one gallery, Gallery Tlaloc buys them from there, then Corrialles buys them from his own gallery. Presto, the record of ownership the big galleries in New York want, no risk of them being seized as looted property by the Americans under the Neutrality Acts. Corrialles watched them leave, then turned up the stairs.

  “Hawkins, no one has any manners anymore. Eckhardt, no class. Volcano maidens …” He made another contemptuous bouf sound with his lips. “But Falkenberg?” He shook his head and sighed slightly, as if to say, Now that one knows better. “Eckhardt was an executioner in Spain, did you know? He admitted it. Went through the hospitals.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He shot the wounded Republican soldiers.”

  “In their beds?”

  “Yes.” There was a moment of hesitation and a slight shrug in the semidarkness. “Perhaps it had to be done. But he followed orders and did his duty. That is his problem. Seen too much death, like the old Aztec priests, killing day after day, always more and more until it lost all meaning—a drug you get used to, a higher dose every time.”

  -40-

  Hawkins climbed the corral fence, sitting with the other men, hooking his heels over the rail, rapidly warming sun on his face. Only minutes earlier he’d joined Corrialles for huevos rancheros, warm tortillas and very good coffee—from Corrialles’s own beans. The general was already dressed in his jeans and old shirt, eager to test the mettle or manliness of another bull. This one trotted out, nostrils flaring, pawing the ground, ready to charge. Corrialles turned, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

  “Ah-ha! ¡Hay un toro verdadero!” Then at Hawkins, “A real one!” After a few quick turns in the ring, the bull sent Corrialles skipping and vaulting over the fence with a practiced ease, laughing and smiling. A real one, indeed. The watching hands buzzed and cheered. The two men on horseback herded it back out and swung the gate open for another.

  After a few minutes Hawkins waved goodbye, climbed down, shook hands over the fence with Corrialles and aimed the old Ford back up the mountains toward La Capital.

  By nine that night the streets around the building on Calle de Tacuba, near the Zocalo, were emptying out. Hawkins casually unlocked the lobby door. When he got back into the city that afternoon he went straight to the manager of the building where Aust’s insurance agency had its offices. Any vacancies? he wanted to know. The man was pleased to see him. Yes, there indeed was a small office on the fifth floor. The rent was cheap, and quoted in dollars, interestingly enough: $25 US or £5, plus the same as a deposit. Two keys came with the contract, one for his office, one for the front door, to be used if working late.

  Inside—no elevator operator at this time of night, of course—Hawkins almost skipped up the steps to the fourth floor and the office of Seguro del Capitolio. The hallway and all the offices were dark. Holding a small flashlight in his teeth, he quickly had his lockpick set out and opened the door. Not hard. A fairly simple American-made, Yale machine key lock. Inside, he snapped it shut and turned on the lights. That was actually safer. The beam of a flashlight flying around the room was more suspicious than turning the lights on, that was the equivalent of an alarm bell going off, at least if anyone saw it. But lights? The owners or staff could be working late, it could be the janitor, no one would pay attention. And he already knew there was no alarm system, he’d carefully if discreetly watched for one on his first trip to visit Aust.

  That other gallery will come and get them tomorrow, General Corrialles had said. Be nice to know which one, Hawkins thought, although not critical. He mainly wanted to know more about that airfield. Airplanes required insurance to get a registration. Hawkins was betting if Eckhardt and Falkenberg were involved in the flight school, they’d gone to Aust to get it. After all, they had an office down the corridor. Aust could’ve helped them with that, too, of course, purely business, but … I trust my gut on this one. That is not a coincidence.

  A dozen desks, piled with folders and papers. He flipped open a couple. All in Spanish. How would Aust handle this? Aust spoke German, a good guess said most of the staff probably did not. A good bet also said Aust handled that account himself. Hawkins settled in behind Aust’s desk.

  Where to start, though? He began riffling through the fourteen folders in Aust’s out basket, checking each for names, anything that might be a gallery, for Corrialles, Eckhardt and Falkenberg, for Norddeutsche Luftfahrtpartner, the Cuauhtémoc Academia flight school, anything art and aviation, for that matter, or any address associated with any of them. But nothing.

  Perhaps he’d been cautious, Hawkins thought. If it was sensitive, where would I put it? In the out basket, for someone else to file? Hell, no, he thought. He got up and carefully searched the office, in the closets, under tables and cabinets. No safe. He headed back into Aust’s office and checked his desk drawers. They were locked. Out came the little leather lockpick set. In the large bottom drawer he found a thick file marked ndlf. Norddeutsche Luftfahrtpartner? Yes. Going through quickly he found a sheaf of copies of registration papers for airplanes, trainers, a couple of Junkers transports, nearly two dozen registrations in all, including the Arado fighter he’d seen at the field. Then a sheaf of the insurance papers required for the registrations, with Eckhardt’s signature. That settled it, the flight school was Eckhardt and Falkenberg’s operation. He carefully put it all back.

  Now the other office, he thought. Outside Aust’s private office, at the far end of the main room of Seguro del Capitolio, another door was half ajar. Inside was a conference table with a few stacks of papers down the middle and a single used white coffee cup with a line of lipstick on it. On the far side was another glass door. He tried the knob, expecting it to be locked, but it easily swung open. A small storeroom, full of oak file cabinets. He tried the outside door, checking the number from the corridor: 6. Norddeutsche Luftfahrtpartner’s office.

  Of course, he thought. The registrations, now this—a mail drop. The Cuauhtémoc Academia de Vuelo, all those planes, was Eckhardt and Falkenberg’s operation.

  -41-

  For a city of a million and a half people it was as quiet as a village out on the Paseo de Reforma at this hour of the night—about two thirty, when Hawkins got back to the Imperial. He tuned across the nine-meter shortwave band, searching for a news broadcast. Finally he found it, weak, fluttering and popping in and out, but there, the end of the lilting tune of “Lilliburlero,” bringing up an instant and comforting image of marching grenadiers in bearskin hats. It was morning now in Britain, the BBC was back on the air after the overnight hiatus.

  This is London calling. You are listening to the Empire Service of the BBC. Here is the news …

  Empire. Hawkins found himself musing over that word. Empire. Why that word, why now? he thought. How would Riley, Corrialles, the Riveras, take that word? We kicked the British, the French, out of here, the general said. Perhaps it was a good thing Trotsky died when he did, Hawkins thought, saw right through me, he did, died before he could pass his little insight along, that I’m an officer of His Majesty’s Secret Service, and I suppose, His Majesty’s Empire. Incredibly smart man, to spot that so easily, so quickly.

  For a moment Hawkins was so lost in thought he almost missed the first part of the news until another word, “Luftwaffe,” burned through his rumination. A raid on Southampton. That meant the navy, shipyards, also the Supermarine works where they built the Spitfire. Casualties on both sides. There was no jolly tone to the announ
cer’s voice, none of the uplift of a pep talk, straight facts, plainly presented. There was, Hawkins thought, no gloss that could be put on it. This was a battle for basic survival, and yet also no alarm or panic. Pure determination. And concentration. If there was disaster pending, it wasn’t here yet. The fight went on.

  Falkenberg’s worried expression and particularly, Falkenberg’s com­ment that his mates were confused at fighting Britain would earn a prominent mention in Hawkins’s next report. Could that confusion, and a lack of zeal, be at least partly a reason for the lagging expectation of victory? Hearts not in the fight? Possibly. But Hawkins still felt the same old twisting, winding-up feeling in the stomach, no cheering like the mess room on the Dendrobium.

  They switched to the coast, a live broadcast. What an extraordinary thing, he thought, a critical battle fought out and covered live on the radio.

  From our position we can see the vapor trails of the approaching German planes, and our planes going up to meet them … One of our fighters has engaged a German plane on the left flank of the formation … They are maneuvering around, twisting in circles on circles, diving down. We can get a better look at them, now. One of the planes is trailing smoke … it’s diving down steeply, either trying to escape or blow the fire out. It’s … a German plane, a Messerschmitt, we can tell from the squared-off wingtips. A Hurricane is following it down … it’s firing again. Now it’s breaking away. The German pilot is bailing out … The Messerschmitt is diving down very fast now, trailing flames … the chute has opened … the plane has crashed into the Channel just short of the shore … a huge ball of flame …

  Maybe one of Falkenberg’s friends? Hawkins thought. Bailed out. Probably survived. Could Falkenberg be listening to similar broadcasts? See himself coming down under that parachute? Not an attractive prospect. That’s no victory parade.

  The vapor trails are steadily moving inland. More fighters are attacking, turning round and round, tracing large circles in the sky. Another fighter is now trailing smoke … It’s turning away from the battle and heading inland … It’s … a Hurricane … a German fighter is coming after it … another Hurricane turns onto its tail, defending its mate … they both turn away towards the Channel … the Hurricane trailing smoke seems to be heading back to base …

  But not a victory parade for us, either, Hawkins thought. The BBC switched to other news—measures in Parliament, the work of normal government carried on under white circles in the clear blue sky. He turned the set off and slowly reeled the antenna back in the window, gazing out at the quiet of the Paseo, watching a late-night delivery truck passing by. War was all-consuming. That was its nature. But, nevertheless, normal life insisted on carrying on. A good thing or not? When so much was at risk? Life does go on.

  Might as well call it a good thing and call it a night, he thought. Exhausted, he fitfully dreamed of flying, then airplanes, and white circles in the sky. It was almost eleven when a pounding on the door woke him.

  -42-

  He rolled over and checked his watch. Pounding again. Jumping out and across the room to the door, he caught it in midknock.

  “Hawkins! Another painting,” Riley said.

  “La Galería Esteban?”

  “No. A different one.”

  “A new one? Just opened?”

  “No. Montaña Verde. They opened, I think, two or three years ago. We were there.”

  “Come in.”

  Hawkins was shirtless, only his boxers on. He quickly began getting dressed as Riley watched.

  “You always change your clothes in front of women?”

  “The suit has me fooled. You always go up to men’s hotel rooms?”

  “Fair enough. I live with my choices.” She began idly walking around him. “Interesting. You have several scars. And a good body. I want to paint you. Have you ever posed?”

  “No. I’ll have you know I’m not great at sitting still.”

  “Yes. I’ve noticed. Always in a hurry. I will supply the tequila. It will calm you down.”

  As he knotted his tie Hawkins noticed there were now flecks of fresh paint on Riley’s suit, particularly the pants and shoes.

  “Riley, you painted in your new suit! What the hell?”

  She shrugged. “I am an artist. Not a plumber. I paint. It is what I am, not what I do.” Then she noticed his Browning Hi-Power hanging in the shoulder holster on a chair next to the bed. She walked to it and leaned over, hands behind her back, inspecting it. Damn it, Hawkins thought, half-asleep, forgot it was there. “I don’t think you need that here on the Paseo.” Before he could reach her she pulled it out and sniffed the muzzle. “And it’s been fired.”

  “For practice. And put that back, will you please?”

  “You come to our country, here in our capital, you think you need a gun?”

  “No. But the countryside—”

  “Camarada Trotsky called Frida and told her he thought you were a spy.”

  Ah, bloody hell, Hawkins thought. All the negative and dangerous possibilities flashed through his mind in a second. Bugger! Bugger it all! Trotsky must’ve called right after I left. What did he say? Now what—dare not ask—fuck all this is bad—but what to say? Don’t stop getting dressed, he thought, watch your face, a poker face, need that now.

  Every instinct said bluff it through, act innocent, say nothing, play it cool, maybe be amused, ask questions instead …

  “He said what?”

  “A spy. She didn’t believe him. Are you?”

  “Apart from the gun, what do I look like?”

  “The representative of a Manhattan gallery. But, still, Hawkins—”

  “The Americans don’t have spies.”

  “Answer my question.”

  “I don’t know how I could disprove that. Isn’t it enough that I want to stop the Nazis from stealing artworks, smuggling them into this country and profiting from it?”

  She gazed at him, chewing slightly on her lower lip.

  “I still want to paint you. And your interesting … scars. Agreed?”

  “Very well.” He whipped the shoulder holster around and on and grabbed his coat. “Let’s go.”

  Montaña Verde was in a magnificent nineteenth-century beaux arts mansion on Colima, a shady, tree-lined street in the Roma Norte section of the city. In the second room, on a side wall, there it was, the Rousseau Hawkins had seen in the Princess Hotel back in Bermuda. The same vibrant scene of the tropics, the trees loaded with fruit, the dark-skinned woman in a grass skirt near a tiger peeking out from the flowers. On this lush, green street, it seemed to fit in, its natural habitat. He and Riley stood in front, admiring it.

  He checked his watch. Noon. Where was General Corrialles? At La Galería Esteban Corrialles somehow managed to get there first and buy his Braque before it stopped swinging on its peg. The Rousseau had now been in Montaña Verde since nine. Something’s off, Hawkins thought. The manager came, he discussed the price. It was low. Hawkins told him he would think about it.

  They retreated to a restaurant across the street.

  “What are you going to do?” Riley said.

  “Enjoy lunch.”

  “Yes …”

  “And watch.”

  “You’re waiting for the general?”

  “Actually, no. I think he would’ve been here already. I only want to be sure.”

  They waited over leisurely plates of beef enchiladas in a tangy red sauce with rice, washed down with a pair of Dos Equis, then coffee. Close to two, Riley, bored, left for her studio.

  “Do change your clothes, will you?” he said.

  She laughed. “I already have enough for the right effect.”

  “Everything a work of art?”

  “Now you understand. An artist, not a businessman.” A huge, mischievous smile. “Or a spy.”

  “I am not a sp
y.”

  Hawkins moved the old Ford down the street, waiting and watching. But neither Corrialles nor anyone else arrived to collect the Rousseau. They would not, or at least, should not, take a chance of losing it. But it was clear Corrialles was not coming. Eckhardt and Falkenberg were not channeling this work through the general. Or do they need some quick cash? Wish I had the money, Hawkins thought, take it back to New York myself. Of course, if it was looted … probably was looted. What would Houghton, W say? Let it go, he decided.

  Time to report in.

  -43-

  It took Lilly only five minutes to get downstairs to the phone. This time he’d given her the number. Since he was the one calling, he came down the street to the Hotel Reforma. He waited in a booth at the end of the row, hoping for a glimpse of her. She must’ve run. On the first ring he plucked the phone from the handset. She was already talking, her voice excited and urgent. He held his breath and his report.

  “Hawkins! There are flashes from W at BSC in New York and General Houghton in Bermuda. Several, actually. I’m still compiling these all together. Late yesterday the censorship station in Bermuda intercepted an outbound airmail letter to Toledo, Spain, from General Corrialles to his son, Carlos Corrialles. He’s a student at Academia de Infanteria in Toledo—General Houghton says that’s Spain’s big military school. Corrialles told his son to return home immediately, that they need him for service with the army back in Mexico. Carlos is going to get his own company. Here’s the extraordinary part: Corrialles told his son that funding for a military takeover is nearly in hand, as he says”—Hawkins heard a rustling of papers—“ ‘thanks to our German friends.’ W states that:

  Now clear the purpose of the art smuggling operation is not the general funding of North American operations but specifically a coup establishing a military government in Mexico, to secure a foothold in Western Hemisphere, create conservative regime friendly to the Third Reich. Emphasize, Corrialles is not a conduit for the funding of operations in the US or Canada: they will need all of funds for operation. Information received from source Parke-Bernet Gallery in Manhattan indicates offers of major artworks from Mexico has resumed, funds to be returned to Mexico, presumably to Corrialles or some other front organization or company, and not banked or transferred within the States.