The Manhattan Deception

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  ‘That’s the whole point,’ said James. ‘It’s the question of what happened to the rightful owners that worries me.’

  His uncle looked down at the floor. ‘The rightful owner of the gold was probably the post-war German government and to be honest, at the time I wasn’t feeling particularly well-disposed towards the Germans: nobody was. Different story with the paintings of course – don’t think I’m not ashamed about those,’ he said quietly, his voice starting to quaver. ‘I’ve done a lot of research into them and every single one is on a register somewhere, along with the name of the rightful owners. Promise me once I’m dead that you’ll find them – probably their grandchildren by now – and give them back.’

  James leaned over and gently took his uncle’s hand. ‘I promise,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Then, for the next twenty or so years, I made an annual trip to Lausanne with one or two bars. Your Aunt Pat and I even had our honeymoon there. But over time, things changed; my friend the goldsmith died, the Swiss authorities started getting a bit more observant and when there was a big clampdown on numbered accounts, I decided not to push my luck any further which is why there are five bars left. The firm did well, we were able to buy this house and all because I stole what someone else had stolen first –’

  ‘And you couldn’t give the paintings back because it would’ve drawn too much attention to you.’

  ‘Selfish, wasn’t it? I suppose you must hate me now, and you’d be right to,’ said the old man, almost on the verge of tears. ‘But you had to know, I had to tell someone. At the end of the war we started to hear things about the camps and what the Nazis had done, but none of us even guessed at the scale: it was something beyond human imagination – it’s still hard to comprehend even after all these years.’

  A tear rolled down Todd’s cheek and James gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. In an unsteady voice he continued. ‘And all this time I’ve been sitting here, leading my fat, comfortable life in safety, but with millions of Pounds’ worth of art in the cellar that rightly belongs to the families of all those murdered people. Don’t think I’m not aware of what I’ve done, the moral cowardice. I looked the other way just like all those oh-so-bloody-decent, God-fearing Germans during the war, who never laid a finger on the Jews, but never once thought to ask where their neighbours had gone and why all the freight trains were leaving for the east. I’m no better than them; worse in fact because I know what happened. It’s been eating me away for so long now and I had to tell someone.’

  ‘So you didn’t even tell Pat?’

  Todd wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘About the paintings? No, not even Pat. And, by the way, there are other things in those tubes that I didn’t show you. Four Red Cross letters of transit with pictures of the bearers on them. I’ve no idea who they are; the names don’t mean anything to me. They might even be the people who stole all this stuff in the first place and were trying to get away with it. I wouldn’t get too excited though. I’m pretty sure they’re forgeries because the signatures on them are supposedly those of Churchill and Roosevelt.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem very plausible.’

  ‘No, that’s what I thought…’ His voice trailed away to a mumble and eventually Uncle Bill fell silent, his head drooping slowly onto his chest. James carefully released his grasp on the wizened hand and sat upright, trying to make some sense of what he’d just heard. A jumble of emotions cascaded through his mind: how to resolve his affection for the man against the feelings of revulsion at what he’d done, a revulsion tempered by an understanding of the all too human frailty that had led his uncle to paint himself into such a corner. He stood up. ‘Shall I make another cup of tea, Bill?’ The British answer to all life’s misfortunes.

  His uncle awoke. ‘Would you? That would be lovely, thanks.’ He managed a faint smile. The tears had stopped but the voice was barely a whisper as though the effort of his revelations had brought him to the point of exhaustion.

  Chapter Five

  Aircraft noise all night so feeling wretched this morning. R. and S. have gone, R. still fussing over his boxes. Visit from German-speaking officer – says he studied chemistry at Leipzig University before the war. Very polite and correct. Gave him written list of things we need. Promises to do his best. Says we’ll be allowed to write to R. and S. which is something. Don’t know which is worse, the boredom or the fear.

  *

  Washington DC

  She was used to New Horizons sending her to cover political stories in some of the remoter corners of the US, but twenty-nine-year-old Cathy Stenmark wasn’t happy. She should have been home three hours ago and a long tiring day had run into an even longer tiring evening. If I never have to fly again, it’ll be too soon, she thought as she drove home from the airport through the deserted streets of north-west DC. At last she turned into her road. It was well past midnight and the final effort of putting the car in the garage was too much so she left it on the short drive in front of the townhouse, built, like its neighbours, in imitation of the bigger and grander row houses of Georgetown.

  As she unlocked the front door she noticed a light from one of the first-floor windows. This told her two things: one, Steve was home and two, he’d probably fallen asleep in front of the TV again. She closed the door behind her and deadlocked it: in the small kitchen to her left a single glance was enough to tell her that he’d been there for a couple of days and had probably completely emptied the fridge. Dumping her coat over the banisters she made her way upstairs towards the tell-tale flickering light. Sure enough, her boyfriend was asleep on the sofa in front of the TV, which for some strange reason was showing children’s television at half past one in the morning. For a moment she said nothing, did nothing, merely stood and looked at what had been a pristine living room not seventy-two hours earlier. The smell alone told her he’d been smoking in the house, something she’d rowed with him about countless times before and which he’d promised not to do. On the sofa were piled half a dozen empty pizza boxes and around his feet was a collection of beer cans.

  The first time it had happened and every time since, she’d felt the anger rising and an almost overwhelming desire to hit him with something, but this time was different. No emotion came and in its place was a sense of resignation and indifference as though something, long sickening, had finally died.

  She walked over to the wall and turned all the lights on. Steve sat up and stared at her as though trying to bring the world into focus.

  ‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ she said, without the trace of a smile. ‘Did you have a good time while I was away working? Did you go for that job interview? Did they tell you when you can start?’

  He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘There was a screw-up.’

  Her pale blue eyes narrowed and she remained standing, hands on hips. ‘What do you mean, “a screw up”?’

  ‘I went along at ten but they said the interview was scheduled for nine. They said they’d told me, which was a pile of crap, so I’m like “hey I’m here now and, you know, let’s do the interview” kinda thing.’

  ‘And then?’

  Steve blinked at her owlishly. ‘And then, well, it kinda went downhill. They said if I couldn’t even get the time right they weren’t sure I was right for the job. I said it was their screw-up and it well, just like I said, kinda went downhill from there. I told them where to stick it.’

  ‘So no interview and no job?’

  ‘Sorry, babe.’

  ‘So you decided to come back here and trash my house.’

  ‘Our house, babe, ours.’ He stood up and tried to kiss her. His breath stank of beer, cigarettes and garlic: she pushed him away. ‘Hey, don’t be like that,’ he said. ‘I got some good news. We’ve got three nights in LA.’

  She looked at him disdainfully. ‘So where are you playing, the Hollywood Bowl or the usual low-rent club?’

  Standing up was obviously too much effort and he flopped back down ont
o the sofa, toppling the pile of greasy cardboard containers onto the fabric. She snatched them up and threw them onto the floor at his feet.

  ‘No, actually. It is a club, I grant you that but it’s a place where record companies go scouting for new bands and the owner gave us a list of the ones who’ve been picked up there. There’s some big names – this could be the break.’

  Cathy rolled her eyes. ‘How many times have you said that and how many times has it fallen flat? Most of the places you play at can’t afford to pay you and in case you hadn’t noticed, probably while you were asleep, but the world now has free music downloads and MP3 players. Record companies are losing money and the day they sign you and your loser buddies is the day I get drafted as starting quarterback for the 49ers.’

  He reached up to her but she remained immobile, arms folded. ‘This time it’s different,’ he said. ‘You’ll see, and when we get a recording contract I won’t need to go crawling on my hands and knees to some bunch of uptight assholes, begging them to give me some lousy, underpaid job.’

  ‘Well before you go anywhere, I want you to clean this place up and restock the fridge. Those of us with jobs to go to have an early start tomorrow and if I come home and find my house – ’

  ‘Our house – ’

  Her patience snapped. ‘Until you start contributing financially, it’s my house. Now shut the fuck up and listen to me for once.’ Anger seemed to have the desired effect and he fell silent. ‘Good, now get this, Steve, and I am not joking. If you don’t clean this place up so it’s just like you found it, replace all the food you’ve eaten and then show me that you’re making a serious effort to find a job, I’m putting you and your belongings out in the street: for good. Have you got that?’

  ‘Sure, babe, but if this gig comes off…’

  ‘Screw your gig. I want my house back how I left it. If you care for me, show it for once.’

  ‘C’mon, babe. I haven’t seen you for three whole days, let’s go to bed.’ She’d experienced the pleading routine far too often to be taken in by it.

  ‘When I said show you care for me that didn’t mean show you want to screw me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t be like that.’

  ‘I am going to be like that. Maybe that’s the only way to get through to you – I should’ve thought of it ages ago – you aren’t getting any until you clean up my… this house and show me you’re serious about finding work.’

  He sniffed at her disdainfully. ‘Well, if you insist, but it’s going to be your loss too.’

  She rounded on him angrily. ‘Don’t kid yourself, lover man. I’ll get myself a cat and a vibrator: the cat’ll be more intelligent company and the vibrator will last a damn sight longer than you do these days.’

  The alarm went off at six am. From several fathoms down Cathy couldn’t work out what the noise was – as she struggled to the surface it sounded like her alarm but she’d only just closed her eyes so it couldn’t be. She stared at the merciless green numbers in disbelief; someone had stolen four hours from her life and she felt even worse than when she’d crawled into bed what felt like thirty seconds ago. Steve lay snoring by her side and didn’t even stir as she showered, dressed and got ready for work. His snoring was still audible as she went out through the front door.

  That evening, switch problems were causing delays on the DC Metro’s red line and Cathy had to stand all the way as the train stop-started its way out to Van Ness station. She walked the ten minutes home and let herself into the house – a place where she seemed to be spending very few of her waking hours. Flicking on the kitchen light, she looked around in dismay and saw it was in the same state as when she’d left, although not exactly the same because on the table was a note from Steve. He was sorry that he hadn’t had time to clean up more – any cleaning up would’ve done, she fumed – but he’d goofed over the flight times and had to dash to the airport .See ya Monday, Babe, xxx.

  It had been another long, tiring day during which every press office on the Hill had joined in the conspiracy to jerk her around while they panicked over their candidate’s crappy approval polls or other such trivia. All she needed right now was to put her feet up in front of the TV and watch something nice and unchallenging prior to having an early night. But no, she was going to have to go out and buy food, then come back and spend the next God knows how long cleaning the place up. She felt no anger, none of the plate-throwing fury that his failings so often provoked in her, just a cold, determined resolution that she was finally going to do what her mother had been telling her to do for the last year. Maybe that was the reason she’d held out for so long – anything but admit her mother was right.

  By the time she got the place straight it was almost midnight and she collapsed into bed, exhausted.

  Even after having slept for ten hours Cathy still felt oddly detached from reality when she awoke on Saturday morning, but the anticipation of the task ahead just felt so good. Before starting, she checked her e-mails – thirty-five unopened work-related messages since leaving at 7 PM the previous evening. They can wait till tomorrow, she decided. Then she logged into her bank account and what she saw left her sat staring at the monitor in disbelief. She rubbed her eyes and refreshed the screen in the hope that the numbers would look right, but no, the bottom line balance was still the same. Picking up the phone, she dialled the bank’s call centre: no there was no mistake, the credit card had been added to her account six weeks ago and yes, it did require a signature and yes, the letter would be on file. To remove the card, she’d have to write a letter or attend a branch office in person. She thanked the operator and hung up. It was beyond belief: four round-trip flights to LA and the hotel booking for Steve and his band had been charged to her account. Not only that, but he’d forged her signature to do it.

  It was late in the afternoon when she taped shut the last of the cardboard boxes. His stuff almost filled the garage and it would have to stay there until he came back to collect it. She’d thought about cutting his laptop in half with a saw and had very nearly given in to the temptation.

  The locksmith charged triple time to turn out on a weekend but at least there were only two external doors with three locks to be changed between them: the garage lock could stay as it was for now. That way she wouldn’t even have to see him.

  Returning to her PC, she deleted every one of his files and applications and then ran the shredder over them, deleted his VOIP account and blocked him as a user on hers. His mobile phone number got the same treatment and his POP3 e-mail address was removed and then added to her “blocked senders” list. For good measure she changed the security password on her wireless modem just in case he tried to help himself to her bandwidth from out in the street. God, this felt good.

  The call Cathy had been expecting came on Monday afternoon just after she’d returned to the New Horizons office from an interview with a member of the Senate Homeland Security Committee.

  Ice ran in her veins as she picked up the phone from her desk. ‘Yes, I know you can’t get into the house,’ she said. ‘I changed the locks.’

  ‘Why? Because you moved out over the weekend. If you take a look in the garage, you’ll find I’ve crated everything up for you, including your collection of pizza boxes and empty beer cans – I take it you wanted to keep them since you left them in the living room.’

  Her colleague sitting opposite looked at her and raised his eyebrows. Others in the office pricked up their ears. She couldn’t have cared less who was listening; this just felt so damn wonderful.

  ‘How the hell should I know where you’re going to sleep tonight? That’s your problem, as is the fact that forging my signature to pay your credit card bills from my account is going to cost you every last cent you stole.’

  All eyes and ears in the office were on her now, and in a funny sort of way, she was enjoying being the centre of attention.

  ‘Well, that’s entirely up to you,’ she continued. ‘But I think you’ll find that taking mon
ey from other people without their consent is what my lawyer friends call “stealing”, and the last time I looked, I seem to recall that’s a felony. You can pay me back by the end of the week and we’ll forget about it, or I can call the police. Your choice, Steve. Oh, and by the way, have a nice life.’

  No flourish, no histrionics. She gently replaced the handset and tried to return to the piece she was writing on a Republican Party spoiler aimed at Senator Pauli. It was the silence in the usually noisy office that gave the game away. She looked up. All eyes in the office were still on her and everyone was grinning. Dave Newman who sat opposite her broke the spell.

  ‘Say, Cathy. Did you boil his rabbit as well?’

  Her efforts at keeping a straight face fell apart and she joined in the laughter. One of her female colleagues came over and hugged her. ‘Way to go, girl,’ she said. ‘You were wonderful. I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.’

  Chapter Six

  No music on radio today. Think something has happened, maybe war is over but A. says too soon. Found out later that Roosevelt died yesterday afternoon. Seems no one knew how ill he was and now they’ve gone into a state of national mourning.