The Manhattan Deception

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  Cathy and James stared at her, open-mouthed with disbelief. ‘But it doesn’t look anything like him,’ said James.

  ‘I promise you it’s him. Do you know when this was taken?’

  ‘March or April 1945, we think,’ he replied.

  ‘From the way he’s tried to change his appearance I think you’ve found evidence that he was planning to escape from Berlin. What disgusts me is that he stole the identity of a man he murdered in order to do so.’ James could see that she was having trouble controlling herself. ‘At least we have the consolation of knowing he didn’t succeed. And as for that black wig, it would take more than that to make Eva Braun look Jewish,’ she said.

  Cathy caught James’s eye and gave him an “I told you so” look. ‘It doesn’t look like any pictures of him that I’ve ever seen,’ she said. ‘Could the photograph have been tampered with?’

  ‘It’s impossible to tell without seeing the original but I would say 99% not. Listen, as a junior curator I studied under John Szarkowski at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, so believe me, I know what I’m talking about when it comes to photography. The face may’ve been altered – a surgically altered nose was possible even in those days – add a pair of glasses, a beard and a shaven head and that’s what you get. I’m sure it’s him. Can you tell me where you got these pictures?’

  James hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. They belonged to someone I knew. Before he died I promised I’d find out more about them.’

  The curator’s tone softened a little. ‘Well, if you have the originals then they’re documents of immense historical significance. It’s not for me to tell you what to do with them, but I think they belong in a museum.’

  James smiled. ‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said. With peace once more restored and after several more minutes’ conversation with its curator, Cathy and James left the little museum, promising to let her know the final resting place of the photographs. Both were in a state of shock.

  Still reeling from what they’d just heard, they were walking up the narrow street towards the main road when the sound of a car engine at high revs caused James to look back towards the synagogue. With no time to speak, he grabbed Cathy and dragged her to the left, pushing her to the ground behind the angle of a wall that jutted a little way into the road. As he did so, the left hand corner of the bull-bars on the front of the speeding SUV grazed the masonry inches from his head, causing a shower of sparks and stone fragments to rain down on them. He looked up in time to see the vehicle disappear from sight as it turned right into Kazimierza Wiekiego, tyres squealing in protest.

  ‘You’re squashing me,’ said Cathy from beneath his prostrate form. ‘What the hell was that all about?’ He pulled her to her feet and with shaking hands they brushed the dust from their clothes.

  ‘I think someone just tried to kill us,’ he said, trying and failing to sound calm. ‘Are you all right?’

  Her voice trembled. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did you get the number?’ asked James.

  ‘All I saw was a set of tyres go past at eye-level. How about you?’

  ‘Silver SUV – think it was a Toyota but I’m not even sure of that. And it definitely wasn’t a coincidence this time.’

  Cathy’s voice was almost breaking. ‘James, I want to go home,’ she said. ‘I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.’

  Taking great care as they crossed the road and looking out all the time for the silver SUV that had nearly run them down, they walked back to the Rynek and then on, past the university and over the Piaskowy Bridge to the islands.

  On reaching their hotel room, another surprise awaited them. In the middle of the bed lay a piece of paper on which was written “GO HOME. IT IS NOT SAFE FOR YOU HERE.” Thirty minutes later, they were on their way back to the airport.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Another delivery from the faithful Marina Higgs. Letter from Meissner via Köcher confirming aircraft never arrived. A. in another rage – now convinced they have stolen everything. Don’t know what to believe. Cannot give up hope – only thing keeping us alive – but whether aircraft lost or contents stolen, the result is the same: we are stuck here with no money and no prospect of escape. Seriously considering suicide.

  *

  When they returned to the London flat late that night, nothing seemed to have changed other than the pile of unopened bills and junk mail, which had got a little higher. Cathy had remained edgy and monosyllabic throughout the journey and for both of them, their brief and wonderfully happy time in Devon seemed a lifetime ago.

  The following morning James fetched Cathy breakfast in bed which helped cheer her up a little. He looked at her fondly. She was sitting up in bed, wearing one of his t-shirts and even with no makeup and her eyes full of sleep he was struck once again by her beauty and by how much he enjoyed just being with her. ‘I’ve just been having a look on the web,’ he said. ‘And I’ve downloaded heaps of stuff about facial proportions that might be some use. I’ve also got more pictures of Hitler and Eva’s ugly mugs than I ever want to see in a lifetime.’

  They worked steadily throughout the morning. Just after midday Cathy looked up from the heap of print-outs on the desk in front of her: pictures of Hitler taken from every conceivable angle, digital images of herself and James, random images of faces from magazines and newspapers, all criss-crossed with ruled pencil lines and annotated in the margins with calculations and ratios. ‘I’m going cross-eyed looking at this,’ she said.

  ‘Me too,’ James replied. ‘Let’s take a break.’

  ‘Just five more minutes. I’m positive we’re nearly there.’ Cathy held the photocopies of the identity photos up in front of her. ‘I’m pretty sure about her,’ she said. ‘It’s him I’m worried about. The bridge of his nose is wrong and the face shape’s all lumpy even though the rest of the ratios are right.’

  ‘The woman at the White Swan seemed to think he might have had a nose job. If his face was still bruised and he’d stuck cotton wool or something in his mouth to pad out his cheeks, that could explain the inconsistencies.’

  Cathy brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and sighed in exasperation. ‘The trouble is though, none of this constitutes proof that the people in the pictures are Pauli’s parents; nothing we can slap in front of Pauli to get him to back off.’

  James frowned. ‘That’s assuming he’s the one behind it all. The more I think about it the less likely it seems. The policeman at the airport, maybe; even a word in someone’s ear at Hérisson Capital and the Imperial War Museum, but trying to get us killed? I can’t think he’d take the risk.’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Cathy. ‘There’s still a good news story to be made out of this. If those pictures are Hitler and Eva Braun, then the revelation that they were trying to get out of Berlin in disguise using forged documents is going to be one hell of a scoop. And as for the letters themselves, they’ll be worth millions.’

  ‘So well worth killing for,’ he said.

  ‘But who else than Pauli knows they exist?’

  ‘Nobody, so far as I know – I mean, he’s hardly likely to tell anyone, is he?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Which brings us back full-circle to him being the only one with a vested interest in turning the house and the flat upside-down and then having us run-over.’

  ‘Neatly contradicting what you said two minutes ago about it being too big a risk for him,’ said Cathy with a sigh.

  James shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ he said. ‘Maybe Pauli’s parents stole the paintings and the letters at the same time and used them to get themselves out of Germany.’

  ‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘We could still be having this conversation this time next year the way we’re going. Until we get more information, then everything except the probable identity of the people in the mugshots is pure speculation.’

  Suddenly, James clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Unless�
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  ‘Unless what?’ she asked.

  ‘Unless we can get DNA samples,’ he said, a look of triumph spreading across his face.

  Cathy wrinkled her nose and looked at him indulgently. ‘And then what, Einstein? If that’s really a picture of Hitler, he died in April 1945 and the Russians destroyed the body so that kind of rules him out by my reckoning. Pauli’s parents are dead too, so unless you fancy a spot of grave-robbing, they’re not much use either. And his DNA? You going to lie in wait for him armed with a cotton bud? And if you did get it, what would you compare it with?’

  ‘Sorry. I think I was getting carried away,’ he said.

  It was Cathy’s last day in the UK so they decided that their detective work could wait and spent the afternoon in bed. Their last few precious hours together rushed by and, as he stood at the end of the road waving and watching her taxi disappear into the traffic, he felt an unexpected pang of emotion, something that went way beyond the physical attraction he felt for her.

  James felt uncharacteristically gloomy that evening and initially he put it down to Cathy’s departure. His head ached, he felt vaguely nauseous and so, deciding he was coming down with something, went to bed. At just after ten o’clock a shrieking, pulsing noise intruded into his dream. Half awake now, he lay there trying to work out why it wouldn’t go away. It sounded like a cross between a police siren and a smoke alarm and it was so loud that he thought for a moment that it was coming from inside the flat. He tried to sit up but his head span and he fell sideways, aware now that his headache was ten times worse and that he was about to throw up. He rolled off the bed and managed to grab the waste paper bin, which saved him being sick on the carpet. The pain and nausea were now almost unbearable and he staggered through to the kitchen, ricocheting off the walls, as he tried to locate the source of the noise. Somehow, despite the throbbing in his head, he managed to switch on the kitchen light. All the familiar units and furniture were there but in blurry outline only; none of it would come into focus and still the wailing continued. As he clutched at the doorway for support, the realisation hit him – the noise, it was the carbon monoxide detector.

  Stumbling as if in a dream, James half fell, half staggered to the window and flung it open. Then, using the kitchen worktops for support he levered himself along as far as the gas boiler, opened the flap covering the controls at the second attempt and turned it off. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled along the hallway and wrenched open the door to the landing: by the time he reached the bedroom, his peripheral vision was going and he took two tries to find the window catch. Gasping and retching, with his head clamped in a vice of pain, he hung out of the window above the street, gasping in lungfuls of air. How long he stayed like that, he couldn’t subsequently remember, but gradually his breathing returned to normal, his racing heart slowed and the pain in the front of his head subsided to a dull ache. At some point, the level of toxic gas must have fallen to a more tolerable level because he was aware that the noise from the detector had stopped. Retracing his steps, his head throbbing at every footfall, he closed the front door, opened every other window in the flat and returned to bed.

  He awoke the following morning with what felt like the worst hangover in the world. Not daring to touch the boiler, he took a cold shower and then called the maintenance company. The repairman arrived just after eleven and his diagnosis was chilling. ‘There’s your culprit,’ he said, holding up a paint-covered rag. ‘Some joker stuffed this into the flue. I’d call the police if I were you – you’re bloody lucky to be alive.’

  Later that evening, still feeling ill, he phoned Cathy and told her what had happened. She let out a gasp. ‘Promise me you’ll go to the police,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the point? Whoever did it is long gone by now.’

  ‘James…’ her tone was severe. ‘Call the police. Don’t be stupid. They need to know you’re in danger.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s the only incident we’ve got evidence for. They’ll take a statement, file it somewhere and that’s that. I told you, there’s no point.’

  What they’d both hoped would be a tender conversation to remind them of the happy times they’d spent together slowly degenerated into bickering, leaving both angry with the other and at the same time feeling guilty for arguing.

  Still feeling ill at ease, the following afternoon James returned from the shops to find a voicemail from Mick Cuthbertson asking him to ring back.

  ‘Have you seen the papers today?’ he asked James when he called.

  ‘Only the FT and The Times. Why?’

  ‘Because you’re in the shit, mate, that’s why. They’re saying that you kept back “valuable artefacts” from your uncle’s little collection – although you can be sure they didn’t call it that – and that you held on to cash that you said would go to the hospice.’

  ‘But that’s libellous,’ said James. ‘Where’s it all come from?’

  ‘It’s in all the red-tops and they’re quoting “reliable sources”.’

  ‘Fuck. That’s all I bloody need.’

  ‘What you do need,’ said Cuthbertson, ‘is my help. If you pop round at half three we can have a chat.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  The stairs up to Cuthbertson’s office were still as sticky as kitchen lino the morning after a party, and the bad smell that clung to the place was now overlain with a cloying odour of air-freshener. In the tiny reception area, the same bored secretary sat reading a celebrity magazine, and as he came in, she looked over the top of it and gestured with her head towards the office. Cuthbertson rose to greet him and showed him to a seat in front of his cluttered desk. ‘Not good, not good at all,’ he said, passing him a pile of newspapers. A picture of James looking smug, dating from his trip to the States, was captioned: “You can take the man out of the City but you can’t take the City out of the man”. Another led with: “Millionaire banker in inheritance tax scam” and the most wounding of the lot said: “Cancer victims could be robbed of millions”. ‘Your bit of American crumpet is in the guano as well.’

  James’s jaw fell. ‘Cathy? What are they saying about her?’

  ‘All the major US papers are saying that she’s breached confidentiality agreements by supplying the Republican campaign with damaging information about Eric Pauli’s private life.’

  ‘But that’s rubbish. She’d never do that: it’d be professional suicide.’

  Cuthbertson spread his hands out in a fatalistic gesture. ‘Throw enough mud, James. You know how it goes.’

  ‘It’s just so bloody unfair. Who’s doing this and why?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was rather hoping you’d be able to tell me. I can always ask around the bazaars to see what I can pick up, but I don’t hold out much hope. If I were you, I’d get out of town and let me put out a statement that you deny all the allegations, that you’re considering libel action and that all questions should come through me.’

  James heaved a sigh. ‘All right. Where do I sign?’

  Half an hour later he was out in the streets of west London once more. With a heavy heart he phoned Cathy to break the news and to try and make his peace with her. When she answered, he could hear she was close to tears. ‘I could lose my fucking job over this,’ she said. ‘It’s all so unfair.’

  ‘What does your editor think?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s supporting me, thank God. I gave him a brief outline of some of what we found about Pauli’s parents before the smear story broke – you know, about them coming to the US under assumed names – but no mention of who’s in the mugshots. And I think he believed me.’

  ‘That’s one bit of good news. Any word from Pauli himself?’

  ‘Oh, nothing major: just a whole bunch of pompous crap from Vince Novak and Pauli’s press secretary about how disappointed they are. And after that, radio silence. They won’t talk to me, won’t answer my calls and if I stay locked out then I’m no use as a political correspondent. Game over.’
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  Without going into the worst of the details he told her about the smears in the UK press. ‘So who’s doing this to us?’ he asked. ‘I know you like and respect the guy, but there’s only one person with a motive and when it comes down to it, he’s a politician.’

  ‘I hate to say it, but I think you’re right.’

  ‘And who else has motives for the murders? You’re the one who needs to go to the police, Cathy, not me.’

  ‘But I’ve got no proof,’ she said. ‘I can’t go to them with allegations like that. After what’s been said about me they’ll think I’m being malicious.’ He could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘What can I do, James?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll come to the States if it helps.’

  ‘Would you? I know it’s one hell of a big ask…’

  ‘You didn’t ask. I offered and I meant it. Mick said to get out of town so I think DC would count, don’t you? Dunno what use I’ll be, but I’ll come.’

  ‘James, just shut the fuck up and get your gorgeous ass over here, OK? But before you do, please call the police.’

  In the end he relented and did as Cathy asked, an action he deeply regretted the moment they arrived at the flat.

  After he’d finished recounting his brush with death to the bored Metropolitan Police sergeant and an equally bored constable, James showed them the rag that had been stuffed into the flue. The sergeant shook his head and recoiled from it as though it were toxic. ‘Can’t use that in evidence,’ he said.

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked James.

  ‘Because you’ve touched it and the heating engineer you called has touched it. If it ever came to court, any half-decent brief would argue that you could’ve put it there yourself, sir.’

  ‘And why would I want to do that?’

  ‘I’m strictly neutral, sir, but given the bad publicity you’ve had, the argument that you did it to deflect the criticism and go for the sympathy vote would be pretty compelling.’