The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  She leaned back in her chair, mulling over the possibilities. “Let’s assume that Konrad Heider is still trying to find Arjan’s artwork. He couldn’t very well claim Irises himself, could he? No one working at the museum would be sympathetic to the nephew of a Nazi officer who’d acquired the artwork by blackmailing a Dutch art dealer. Yet by acting as Karen’s lawyer, he was privy to every meeting she was and had unlimited access to any documentation the museum might have already gathered regarding Irises or any of the other paintings in Arjan van Heemsvliet’s collection. And he and Karen are obviously in a relationship, we both saw them kissing at the Amstel Hotel. She must be in on it, too.”

  “I suppose,” Friedrich grudgingly conceded, evidently not yet convinced. “But why, when she has so much to lose?”

  “That must be why they never went to the press – Karen didn’t want to make her role in this fake claim public knowledge,” she said. She chewed on her thumbnail, momentarily lost in thought. “Or Heider thought that the Wederstein painting held a clue to the location of Arjan’s secret hiding place. Huub Konijn certainly did, he ran every test conceivable according to the museum’s art conservator. That would explain why Heider tried to steal Irises when it became clear Karen’s documents would be examined by the museum’s experts,” she ventured.

  “But it doesn’t,” Friedrich countered. “You said the tests the museum’s art restorer ran showed there were no mysterious texts or drawings scrawled onto the painting or frame. And from what happened at your last meeting with Huub Konijn, it doesn’t sound like he found anything hidden inside the frame either.”

  Zelda thought back to the meeting, remembering excitedly, “But Heider didn’t know that Jasper de Vries had run any tests on Irises, at least not until after the botched robbery. It was during the meeting Huub accused me of trying to steal Irises that he mentioned the restoration lab’s tests for the first time. Konrad Heider must have been behind the break-in.”

  “One thing is certain, if the lawyer is Drechsler’s nephew then Arjan must have been successful in hiding all of his artwork, otherwise Heider wouldn’t still be looking for it,” he replied.

  Zelda was quiet a moment. “That must be why he was so interested in Gerard’s letters when I mentioned them during our last meeting. Heider didn’t know they existed. I mean, how could he have known Arjan wrote to his brother about being blackmailed, and that Gerard had held onto those letters all of these years? Heider must have assumed Arjan told his brother where the art was hidden in one of them. It must have been Heider who broke into my apartment and into Gerard’s house.”

  Her skin turned to goosebumps as she realized what that meant. “Konrad Heider murdered Gerard,” she cried out. How many times had she been in the same room with a thief and killer? She’d always found Karen’s lawyer to be cold and calculating, but capable of murder?

  “But we’ve read through all the letters, and no exact location is ever mentioned.” Friedrich said dismissively, still not convinced.

  “We know that, but Heider doesn’t.” Zelda glanced at the pile of aged correspondence stacked up on the dining table, forcing her mind to forget about the Nazi’s nephew and concentrate on locating the storage space. “We know Philip Verbeet told Arjan van Heemsvliet about a space that ended up being the solution to his storage problem. And they paid five year’s rent to secure it.”

  Her face went white as a recent memory popped into her foggy brain. “Of course, why didn’t I think of that earlier? After Rita and her family left for Venlo, her dad paid five years’ rent on their apartment, even though her mother swears they were not planning on going back to Amsterdam after the war.”

  “Then they must have hidden the art in Rita’s old house,” Friedrich piped up, cutting Zelda off. “Otherwise why else would Philip Verbeet have spent all that money on rent when his family wasn’t even living there? It must be a really good hiding place, though, if the artwork still hasn’t been found after all these years.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” she said wryly. “When Rita and I were there, the new owners said they’d moved walls and tore out all the closets when they renovated it last year. If hundreds of paintings had been hidden inside that house, they would have found them by now.” Zelda pounded her fists on the kitchen table again, making Friedrich jump a little in his chair. “We are so close to figuring this all out, I know we are. But what are we missing?”

  “Missing?” Friedrich roared, “We have practically solved this thing.” He pushed himself up out of his chair and glared at his friend. “We can always go back to Rita’s house later today and look around. Right now I’m too tired and hungry to think about this anymore.”

  “Oh yeah, great idea. Let’s knock on the door and ask Eva if we can tear up her floorboards, in case a Picasso or Monet is hidden underneath,” Zelda retorted.

  “Do you think Konrad Heider is just going to ask for the art back?”

  “Even if he gets his hands on the letters and figures out the artwork is hidden in Rita’s old house, he won’t know where to look either.” Zelda closed her eyes and tried to recall all she had seen in the old lady’s family home during their impromptu tour. Something was bothering her, tickling at her memory, but wouldn’t come to the surface. She stood and pulled back the kitchen’s curtains, groaning as daylight filled the room. She looked over at the wall clock, staring in disbelief. “It’s already eight in the morning; we’ve been at this all night. We really should take a break, shouldn’t we?”

  “I could use some fresh air. Maybe my brain will function better after a walk and a croissant.” Friedrich joined her at the window, watching as the sun broke through the cloud cover and briefly lit up the gardens behind his house. “The bakery should be open by now. Are you up for a walk?”

  Zelda stared out the window, pre-occupied as that niggling in the back of her brain grew stronger and stronger. I’m missing something obvious, she thought, but what is it? Perhaps if she meditated on it alone for a few minutes she would remember whatever it was. “No thanks, though I’d love a chocolate croissant.”

  “Coming up.” He smiled as he patted her brusquely on the shoulder. “We’ve done everything we could. At least we know Heider and O’Neil are behind the robberies and why they’re after the letters. The police will be able to handle the rest.”

  She nodded distractedly. “You’re right. When you get back we can head over to my apartment. Two officers should be arriving there in about an hour to fingerprint my housemates. We can give them the information we found online about Drechsler and Heider, as well as Arjan’s letters.”

  “Sounds good. See you in a few minutes,” Friedrich said, whistling as he skipped down the stairs.

  Zelda wished she shared his optimism. She turned her chair towards the window and leaned forward, staring out at the tree-filled gardens below, letting her mind mull over all they had learned. They were looking for a large space that Philip Verbeet had access to, one he was certain would survive the war unscathed and undetected. And it would have to be pretty big if Arjan really did hide all three hundred and twenty-six pieces in it. Was there a neighborhood bomb shelter nearby? No, too public. And that wouldn’t explain the five year’s rent paid on the Verbeet’s apartment. That couldn’t be a coincidence, she told herself, convinced the artwork must be hidden there. But where?

  She let her eyelids close and her thoughts wander. The sun’s rays warmed her face as she relived her visit with Rita; walking through the living room and kitchen, climbing the steep stairs, seeing the girls’ bedroom, and finally Rita’s surprisingly strong reaction at seeing that rundown garden shed. Her dollhouse, that was what got her so upset, her precious dollhouse, long gone, probably used as fodder for fire during the war.

  Outside Friedrich’s house, a strong gust of wind blew puffy white clouds across the sky. The full sun momentarily bounced off the corrugated metal rooftop of a neighboring shed and right into her eyes. The burst of light brought with it a burst of insight. The garden s
hed! Rita’s dollhouse was built in an L-shape so her parents could access the root cellar below!

  Zelda forced herself to exhale as a smile spread over her lips. Could it really be that simple?

  FORTY-FIVE

  Zelda sashayed her way around Friedrich’s dining table, whooping softly in delight. It had to be the root cellar, safely tucked away under the shed in their old garden, well-protected from bombing raids and prying eyes. Where else could Arjan van Heemsvliet and Philip Verbeet have stored all that artwork and expected it to have remained hidden and safe until the war was over? And according to the current owners, the concrete shed was the only space on the property that had remained untouched all these years.

  Friedrich’s doorbell began ringing, putting a temporary halt to her jubilant dance. As it wasn’t her house, she didn’t really feel comfortable answering the door. On the other hand, she knew after a long night out drinking, Friedrich’s housemates would be comatose until noon or later and probably didn’t even hear the bell ring. When it began to chime again, Zelda listened intently for movement from one of the rooms above but didn’t hear a single peep or creak. Eight a.m. on a Saturday morning was too early for door-to-door salesmen or even package deliveries. In his sleep-deprived state Friedrich must have forgotten his keys, she reckoned, unless the Jehovah’s Witnesses were getting an early start to their day.

  Humming a jaunty tune, she began jogging down the two flights of stairs. The bell went a third time, convincing her it was her friend trying to get back inside. “Keep your pants on, I’m coming,” she called down, increasing her pace.

  As she opened the door, slightly out of breath, her smile froze in place.

  “Back up slowly.”

  Zelda looked down the barrel of a gun into the steely eyes of Karen O’Neil’s lawyer and did as she was told.

  “How did you find me?” she asked, her voice trembling as much as her body. She’d never had a gun pointed at her before. The fear was overwhelming; he only had to flinch and her life was over. Zelda willed her muscles to stop twitching as Konrad Oswald Gotthard Heider stepped inside and closed the door.

  “I followed you two from your flat last night and saw you turn onto this street. If you hadn’t run that last red light, I would have seen which apartment you went into. Instead, I had to wait in my Audi until one of you finally emerged,” he said, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders. He spoke so casually and conversationally Zelda had trouble remembering he had a weapon trained on her.

  “Where are the letters?”

  “Upstairs,” she replied promptly, knowing she was in no position to argue.

  Waving his pistol towards the stairs, she began climbing back up to the kitchen. She hoped none of Friedrich’s housemates heard them talking and poked their heads out to see what was going on. She was sure Heider wouldn’t just let them go back to bed.

  As they entered Friedrich’s kitchen, the lawyer stopped in the doorway to take in the scratched-up furnishings, peeling paint and sink full of dirty dishes, disgust etched on his face.

  Her eyes darted reflexively towards the dining table where Arjan van Heemsvliet’s letters and their translations were piled up.

  “Gather them up and put them in here.” He set his shoulder bag down on one corner of the table and fished two manila envelopes out of it with his free hand.

  Zelda did as she was told, careful not to tear the fragile documents. When she was done, the lawyer stuffed the envelopes back into his bag, the gun never leaving his right hand.

  “Why did you have to hurt Gerard?” she asked.

  Konrad smirked. “Just before his heart gave out, Gerard told me you had the letters all along. It’s too bad about the old man, but you have no one to blame but yourself. If you hadn’t lied to Bernice Dijkstra and Huub Konijn, Gerard would still be alive today.”

  His words were like a knife in her heart. If she had done what Gerard had asked of her – given the letters to the museum professionals straight away – instead of trying to help Rita, Konrad wouldn’t have gone to his house. Her deep-seated need to be right had in fact gotten him killed. Her legs were like jelly; she sank into a chair and hid her face in her hands, trying to come to terms with her actions.

  “You’re bad luck, aren’t you?” the lawyer grinned, obviously enjoying himself. “Now Friedrich has to die, too. After I take care of you.”

  “We read all of Arjan’s letters last night; I know where the artwork is,” she blurted out.

  “Even more reason to get rid of your friend.”

  “No!” Zelda yelped. Gerard’s senseless death was more than enough pain to deal with; she couldn’t bear it if anything happening to her friend as well. She had to get Konrad Heider out of this house before Friedrich came home, even if that meant revealing the truth straightaway.

  “Why would you kill Friedrich? He doesn’t know where Arjan’s collection is hidden; only I do,” she said in a defiant tone, trying to muster her courage.

  Heider’s gun sagged slightly. “You mean to tell me you’ve been in his house studying these letters all night long, yet only you know where the art is? Impossible.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Arjan never mentioned the exact location of his hiding place in any of his letters.” Heider cocked his gun, causing Zelda to speak even faster. “But he did leave his brother Gerard some clues as to its whereabouts. It was only after Friedrich went out a few minutes ago that I remembered something Rita Brouwer said when we were at her childhood home. Suddenly everything fell into place. Friedrich’s never met Rita or been to her house, he wouldn’t know where to look – only I do. But if you hurt Friedrich I won’t tell you a thing,” she exclaimed shrilly, resolutely crossing her arms over her torso. Every second they remained in this house was a second too long.

  The lawyer frowned. “You think Arjan’s art collection is hidden in Philip Verbeet’s old house? I don’t believe you. They didn’t know each other.”

  “Arjan wrote to his brother that it was Philip Verbeet who had access to a space large enough to hold all three hundred and twenty-six pieces. When Rita and I were at her family home, she told me about the root cellar her father dug out under the garden shed. The current residents didn’t even know it existed, so the entrance must be hidden. Rita said it was as solid as a bomb shelter and as big as their living room. It’s the only place Arjan’s art collection could be. The rest of the house has been remodeled too many times since then for all those paintings to have been hidden inside their apartment.”

  A glimmer of hope crossed the lawyer’s face, quickly replaced by disbelief. “My uncle spent his life studying Arjan’s business records. Verbeet was not one of the frame makers he worked closely with. Why should I believe you?”

  “Your uncle didn’t have these letters. Read them yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  The lawyer fell silent, obviously contemplating his options.

  Zelda pushed on, willing him to move towards the front door. “If I’m right, all the paintings listed in Arjan’s inventory book will be there.”

  Heider stared at her through the gun’s sights as he decided what to do. Zelda forced herself to breathe deeply and try to stay calm.

  “Okay, walk slowly down the stairs to the front door. You try to run, I shoot you and wait for Friedrich.”

  Zelda didn’t doubt him. The look in his eyes told her that he would happily pull the trigger if she disobeyed him. She followed his orders, waiting until he was beside her before opening the front door.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her outside, onto the sidewalk. “Remember what I said.”

  She nodded gravely. He tugged her arm towards the right. His silver sports car was parked two doors down. Even though her street was already abuzz with early morning shoppers and bicycling commuters, no one seemed to notice them. Zelda walked along silently, resisting any temptation to try and make a run for it, only hoping the lawyer would be true to his word and leave Friedrich alone if she did as he asked. She w
ished there was some way to warn her friend, to let him know what was happening and where they were going.

  After they settled into his Audi R8, Konrad asked, “Where to?”

  “Frans Halsstraat 14. Take a left onto Stadhouderskade and then the fifth left. Her house is in the middle of the block,” Zelda answered in a resigned tone.

  As Konrad Heider pulled into traffic, she prayed Eva and baby Cor weren’t home.

  FORTY-SIX

  June 27, 1942

  The streets were dark and empty thanks to the evening curfew, already in force when Philip Verbeet pulled the door to his apartment shut. Together he and Arjan set off on their short walk over the cobblestone streets and metal footbridges connecting his home in the Pijp district to Van Heemsvliet’s mansion across from the Museumplein. There were no street lights to guide them. No lamp light spilt out of the many homes and offices they passed, not since blackout regulations went into effect, requiring windows to be covered with thick paper or curtains after sunset, so as to devoid the Allies bombs of any visible targets from the air. White chalk lines marking the sides of the canals, glowing in the moonlight, assisted them along the blackened waterways connecting the two neighborhoods.

  Arjan unlocked his front door and waved Philip inside, automatically glancing around to see if any of his neighbors were watching him return so late at night with a disheveled stranger. No matter, he thought, they wouldn’t be here for long.

  After following the older man inside, he stepped around their packed suitcases and switched on the hallway lamp. He looked into his sitting room, comforted that nothing seemed out of place. Because his gallery had been closed all week, Arjan half-expected to see his house torn to shreds when they returned from their last thirty-hour stint in the shed.

  “I’ll show you to the guest room,” he said, relief in his voice as he began climbing the wide marble staircase leading to the bedrooms on the third floor. How he wished he could take a long hot bath and soak the grime and weariness out of his bones. There was no time to heat the water, he realized, their train to Venlo left in two hours. Not that he’d be able to relax and enjoy a bath anyway. Now that the artwork was safely hidden away, all he wanted to do was get as far away from Amsterdam and Drechsler as he could. There would be plenty of time for rejuvenating dips in the sea once he’d reached his summer home in Marseille.