City of Knives

by William Bayer

  He opened his room copy of the Buenos Aires telephone book. There were many listings beginning with JOYERÍA. He looked it up in his Spanish-English dictionary. Joyería meant jewelry store.

  Now I'm getting somewhere!

  But there were hundreds of joyerías. He needed more information. Perhaps he could discover more in the next two photographs.

  He held each one up in front of the mirror, trying to decipher the letters in the line beneath JOYERÍA.

  In the second picture he found the letters _ O _ E. In the third he found _ S E _ _ G L _.

  Putting all his information together, he came up with:

  J O Y E R Í A

  _ O S E _ _ G L _

  Hard as he tried he couldn't make out additional letters, and even the ones he found were a stretch. But perhaps he had enough. He dug out the business directory, opened it to JOYERÍAS, and began methodically going through the listings.

  It took him half an hour to make a match, and even then it wasn't perfect. But it was close enough to excite him. By placing an R in front of the letters he'd deciphered, and replacing the G with an E, he came up with JOYERÍA ROSENFELD, with an address in the residential neighborhood, Colegiales.

  He was in front of the store at eight a.m. It was shut, the grill screen down, but he made out the lettering on the plate glass behind: JOYERÍA ROSENFELD in two bowed lines, positioned exactly as in the reflections on the blade.

  The store, he noted, would be open at ten o'clock, leaving him time for a two hour stroll.

  When he returned, a little after ten, the roller screen was up, lights were on, and he made out a bald middle-aged man sitting behind the rear counter speaking into a phone.

  Hank took a deep breath and entered. The man noticed him and nodded. When the man finished his call, Hank moved closer.

  "Do you speak English?"

  "Yes, certainly," the man said, "How may I help you?"

  "I'm here about the dagger."

  "Oh!" The man's face brightened. "I'm Max Rosenfeld, the proprietor. And you, of course, are from the Embassy."

  Hank, playing along, nodded vaguely.

  "I know you've already reported the incident," he said. "But I'm new to the case, so I'd appreciate hearing what happened directly from the source."

  "My pleasure," Max said, launching into his tale, a detailed recounting of a morning the previous spring when a woman brought a Nazi dagger into his store. And though Hank asked Max several questions about the physical state of the dagger, it was the jeweler's description of the woman that struck him most.

  Max described her as "middle-aged, elegant, well-dressed a typical Barrio Norte type, very 'grande dame' too."

  No way did this match up with Hank's impressions of Luisa Kim. The woman he'd met was Asian, young and scared.

  "You're saying she was a little arrogant?"

  "Very!" Max said. "And when she brought the dagger out of her purse, it was wrapped in a Hermès scarf!"

  "What alerted you?"

  "The coat of arms! I recognized it instantly. My family emigrated from Germany. As soon as I realized what I was holding, I felt this awful chill. Göring's dagger! My God! I nearly dropped the damn thing on the floor!"

  "Then what happened?"

  "I asked the lady if I could take it to my back room to give it a close examination. She refused. 'It mustn't leave my sight!' So I did the next best thing—went out back, focused in my security camera, then came back out and turned the dagger every which way so it would be thoroughly documented."

  "I understand she wanted you to replace the stones."

  "Only if they were valuable. When I gave her my estimate, five thousand dollars, she shook her head, said that wasn't nearly enough. She shook her head again when I told her I'd pay her a very handsome price if she'd sell me the dagger complete. 'Out of the question!' she snapped. Then she picked it up, gave it a look of contempt, rewrapped it in the scarf, and stuffed it back into her purse."

  Thanking Max for his help, Hank asked that he keep their conversation to himself.

  "Of course! I understand. Hush-hush," Max whispered, making a zipping motion across his mouth.

  No wonder DiPinto didn't want him to speak directly to the jeweler: he'd find out it wasn't Luisa Kim the maid who brought in the dagger, but someone else.

  Why did DiPinto lie? And why did Max think I was " from the Embassy?"

  He was angry, ready to confront DiPinto, demand an explanation. In a taxi, en route to the Barolo Building, he prepared his demands. He'd have to be told everything now, shown everything, permitted to communicate directly with Mr. G, or he'd take the next plane out. But by the time he reached the Barolo, he'd calmed down.

  If I walk out now, I'll lose any chance of being in on the greatest Third Reich dagger find in a generation. I'm a poker player. I now know things they don't know I know. Is there some way I can parlay this into a winning hand?

  DiPinto's office was closed, no sign of Laura or the detective. Glancing around, Hank noticed a creepy looking guy eyeing him through a glass office door across the hall. Thinking the man might know when Laura and DiPinto would return, Hank crossed the hall and knocked.

  "Yes, yes, come in," the man said in English. He had sharp, crafty avaricious eyes and a little dusty grey brush mustache.

  "You can tell I'm American?"

  "Of course! I'm an investigator. It's my job to be observant." The man stood and stuck out his hand. He was a short guy, and he stood too close. "Piglia," he said. "Ignacio Piglia Scaparelli. And you, sir?"

  "My name's Hank. I'm working with the investigators across the way."

  "I know." Piglia smiled. "I have seen you here several times. Looking for them?"

  Hank nodded.

  "They're rarely around. An hour or so a week at most. We all wonder what they do. I doubt it's matrimonial work, the bread and butter of most of us with offices here." Piglia showed a knowing grin. "Who knows who they are? Or what they're up to? That could entail an investigation in itself. Personally, although I have my suspicions, I've no idea what they're about." He stared cunningly into Hank's eyes. "Do you?"

  "Probably something hush-hush," Hank said, imitating Max Rosenfeld's zipping gesture. Then, disliking the little man, he strode quickly back down the hall.

  He purchased a detailed street map of the city, then stopped at a car rental agency he'd passed on his walks. He rented the most inconspicuous car in the garage, a grey four year old Fiat. After the rental clerk marked the way to Koreatown, he drove to a grocery store where he bought a jar of peanut butter, packages of crackers, bottled water, paper plates, plastic forks and knives, and a pack each of garbage bags and napkins. Then, because he knew he'd probably need to urinate during the mission, he bought a large plastic container with a liquid-seal top.

  It was noon when he reached Koreatown. It had been dark when he and DiPinto had visited before. He drove about the area for half an hour before locating Luisa Kim's building.

  He set up inconspicuously a few doors down and across the street, angling his rear-view mirror so he could keep a watch on the front door. Then he slumped down in his seat to wait.

  It was after 8 p.m. when, finally, she showed up. A reasonable time to be returning home, if, in fact, she was a maid. But the way she moved tonight was different. She walked with pride and confidence, not with the mousy domestic servant's demeanor exhibited before. Her clothes also suggested a different type—close-fitting jeans and a stylish sleeveless top, clothing one might expect to see on a student.

  Hank waited a while, was about to drive back to the city, when he saw her emerge from her building. She'd changed clothes, was now wearing a martial artist's uniform tied with a dark sash. This is getting weird....

  After she turned the corner, he got out and followed her on foot. Reaching a commercial street, he saw her enter a building a few doors down. He waited, crossed, then passed the building on the other side. It housed a storefront karate dojo with large plate glass windows
. Even from across the street, he could see her confidently taking part in a class.

  Jesus! She's a martial artist!

  He spent the night parked in front of her building. If she was a maid she'd probably leave early for work, in which case she'd lead him straight to the Pedraza residence.

  It was eleven a.m. before she appeared, carrying a tote bag, dressed in jeans and a cropped top exhibiting a nice slice of abdomen.

  He followed her on foot to a bus stop, returned to his car, drove around the block and watched her as she waited.

  When a bus pulled up, she boarded it, took a window seat in the rear. Hank followed the bus for several miles, stopping each time it stopped, waiting patiently each time as passengers boarded and disembarked.

  When she got off, he pulled over, watched her as she waited for a second bus with a different route number on its front. When she boarded, he followed this one into the heart of Buenos Aires.

  After forty minutes of careful observation, he saw her disembark, then walk swiftly up the street. He quickly parked, then followed her on foot, tracking her to an institutional building. A crowd of young people were milling about in front.

  After she entered, he approached to see what kind of institution it was. He didn't need his Spanish/English dictionary to understand the plaque: Academia d'Arte Dramático.

  Christ, she's a fucking acting student!

  Furious at DiPinto, yet intent on learning more, he decided to wait until she emerged from her class, then confront her on the street.

  But as he waited, he considered an alternative plan. The smart move was not to reveal what he'd learned. If he let Luisa know he knew she was a fake, she'd tell DiPinto. In a game like this, knowledge was power. Why dilute his power now by tipping DiPinto he was on to him?

  Luisa emerged two hours later, accompanied by a group of friends.

  Several of the girls exposed pierced navels. One young man sported a nose ring. Luisa looked quite sure of herself among them, flushed and confident as if she'd done well in class.

  Probably nailed a scene playing a maid!

  He continued to observe as she glanced at her watch, embraced several of her friends, waved goodbye to the rest, then headed up the street.

  He followed her to an outdoor café. He stood back to watch as she approached a table, greeted a woman, bent to kiss her, then sat down.

  It was only after Luisa had ordered and the waiter moved away, that Hank recognized her companion. It was Laura, DiPinto's red-haired secretary-receptionist. She and Luisa were deep in conversation. From their gestures and the way they smiled, it was obvious they were friends.

  Now it's coming clear....

  He returned the rental car, wandered the city for a while, then treated himself to a steak dinner.

  Max the jeweler thought I was from "the embassy." What embassy could he have meant?

  That night, on the hotel roof, beneath a star-studded sky, Hank pondered his next move.

  The dagger exists. I've seen pictures of it. The jeweler confirms a woman brought it in. Whether it's real or not has yet to be determined. What game are these people playing?

  Early the next morning DiPinto phoned.

  "Time to get off our butts, Hank. Meet me for breakfast. Mr. G's made a decision."

  He met DiPinto at Café Congreso near the huge Congress building, a café with marble pillars and floors and an atmosphere that suggested another era.

  He found the detective at a corner table appropriate for a confidential chat.

  "The politicians come here," DiPinto told him, sipping his cappuccino. "Lots of dirty deals have been made in this corner."

  "Okay, this is the-dirty-deal-table. What's the dirty deal?"

  DiPinto laughed. "I think you're going to be surprised, Hank. Mr. G doesn't want us to approach Señora Pedraza about staging a robbery."

  "Good! I didn't like that idea at all."

  DiPinto gave him a sharp look. "It was just a thought." He edged closer, lowering his voice. "The plan is for you to call Señora Pedraza, introduce yourself as who you are—Hank Barnes, expert appraiser and militaria dealer from the States. You're to tell her you've heard she has a very interesting dagger which you'd very much like to authenticate. You're to tell her that if the dagger proves to be authentic, you're authorized to make her an extremely attractive offer. If she asks for details, you're to tell her: 'First things first, I must authenticate before discussing money.'"

  "And if she refuses to show it to me?"

  "She won't. I checked her out. She's leaving her husband. She's desperate for cash."

  "She'll think I'm a scam artist. That's what I'd think."

  "You've got great bona fides. Show her your clippings. Believe me, she won't be able to resist."

  "Suppose the dagger is authentic—then what?"

  "Mr. G's authorized you to strike a deal. You can offer her up to a hundred fifty thousand dollars cash, plus here's the best part! an exact replica of the dagger so her husband won't know the original's been sold. If at some later date he happens to find out, that'll be a matter between the two of them."

  DiPinto sat back, a smug expression on his face. "Now is that a brilliant plan...or what?"

  It was brilliant, Hank thought, also crooked as hell. But how could it be brought off? It would take months to create a first-rate replica.

  "Here's the kicker," DiPinto said. "The replica exists. Mr. G had it made from the jewelry store photos. Seems this was his plan all along."

  "Can I see it?"

  "Of course! It's at my office. It came in by FedEx last night. Mr. G insists you look it over, make sure it's good enough to pull this off."

  Hank was amazed. Then it struck him that the months it would take to fabricate a duplicate explained the long delay between the time he met Mr. G at MAX and Marci's call dispatching him to Buenos Aires.

  In the Barolo, walking down the hall with DiPinto, Hank noticed Piglia observing them, a caustic smile on his face.

  That guy's up to something. I wonder if he's part of this.

  Laura, red hair glowing, greeted him with a broad grin. "Enjoying yourself in Buenos Aires, Mr. Barnes?"

  "Yes, thanks," Hank said, meeting her eyes straight-on.

  DiPinto hustled him into the inner office, shut the door, worked the combination lock on one of his filing cabinets, extracted a sealed FedEx pouch and handed it to Hank.

  "I didn't open it," DiPinto said. "Thought that honor should belong to you."

  The object Hank pulled from the package was as good a high-end Third Reich replica dagger as he'd ever seen. He weighed it in his hand, then pulled the knife from the scabbard. The dagger slid right out. Moreover, the gleaming blade perfectly matched the blade in the jewelry store photos. He inspected the scabbard and the cross-guard. The gemstones sparkled. The stone in the pommel looked like a fine two carat diamond. The garnets and tiny diamonds in the eagle were expertly mounted. The silver swastika with black obsidian background was exquisitely crafted. The fluted ivory handle was properly tapered.

  Feeling the dagger for balance, his first thought was: Could this be the same dagger I saw in the photos?

  "A magnificent copy," he said. "I can't believe how well-made it is."

  "If you didn't know it was a copy, would you think it was the original?"

  Hank shook his head. "It looks too new. It has to be aged a bit. Also, the balance is slightly off, and the weight doesn't seem right. There're a few small flaws in the workmanship. I'm sure I'll find more when I examine it closely. Still, considering it was made from photos, I'm very impressed. Obviously a skilled craftsman put in months of work. I guess that's why Mr. G kept putting off my trip."

  DiPinto shrugged. "I didn't know about this till yesterday afternoon. Mr. G kept me in the dark as well."

  "Once I see the Pedraza dagger, I'll be able to tell you how much fixing up this one needs. If it does need work, do you have someone here who can handle it?"

  DiPinto shook his head. "If
it needs fixing, Mr. G wants me to send it back along with your detailed notes. But of course that must wait until you authenticate the Pedraza dagger."

  Hank nodded. "If it turns out that one isn't real, then Mr. G's spent a lot of money for nothing. A copy this good would have cost thousands."

  DiPinto shrugged again. "I don't know anything about that. Clearly he's invested a lot—my fee, yours, this replica, various expenses and bribes. My impression of Mr. G is that he's a man with a very strong will. When he decides he wants something, he doesn't let anything stand in his way."

  There was a cybercafé on Calle Florida. Hank had stopped there several times to check on email.

  He went there directly from DiPinto's office, accessed his account, then his email address book.

  He believed there were only two people in the world capable of fabricating so fine a replica: Sam Bailey in College Station, Texas, and Pieter Trinkvel in Rotterdam. He wrote each craftsman, inquiring whether he'd done the job, and, if he hadn't, whether he'd heard rumors about a replica Reichsmarschall dagger. After sending off his emails, he set out on a long walk.

  As much as he struggled to understand what he'd uncovered, he couldn't make sense of it. Why, he asked himself, commission such an elaborate replica, send Woman A into a jewelry store with it, then bring him down here and introduce him to Woman B on the pretext she was the one who'd taken it in for appraisal?

  There was no logical explanation. But, of course, there had to be. If this was all part of an elaborate scam to persuade a prospective buyer that the replica was authentic, then Mr. G would surely know that of all the militaria dealers in the world, Hank Barnes was the least likely to certify a dagger unless convinced of its authenticity.

  Since this line of thought left open the question of "Why?" he examined the problem from another angle.

  Suppose the dagger in the photos was real, and the replica fabricated for the sole purpose of facilitating its purchase? Then why switch women on him? Why try to confuse him by taking him to a fake interview with a fake maid? That only made sense if the plan was to use him in some way.