Loot

by Aaron Elkins

  "I'll transfer you to his telephone."

  "Please be brief," was Pirchl's typically cordial greeting, and I was.

  "Tomorrow?" he said acidly. "And you tell me about this now?"

  "I just finished talking to Stetten myself. Look, I'm trying to do the right thing here"—shades of Dulska—"and I knew you'd want to know about this. I'm willing to help in any way I can."

  "Have you informed Feuchtmüller?"

  "No, I, uh, thought I ought to call you first."

  A white lie, and it did seem to have some marginal effect. "All right, I'd like you to come in now, please. I'll see if I can get hold of Feuchtmüller."

  "I'm off to the police station," I told Alex. "Want to come? You'll love Pirchl."

  "No, I don't see what use I'd be. I think I'll just see a little of Vienna on my own for a couple of hours. Any recommendations?"

  "Sure, are you kidding? The Kunsthistorisches Museum, the Academy of Fine Arts, the Baroque Museum—"

  "Thanks, anyway. I think I'll go have a look at the Prater."

  "The park with the Ferris wheel? Why?"

  "Well, you don't have to say it like that," she said, laughing. "There are other things in this world besides art museums. But mainly it's because it's the only place in Vienna that my mother remembers with any affection. She still gets stars in her eyes when she talks about it, so I'd like to see it for myself. When should we meet?"

  "I'm not sure how long I'll be, so let's say two o'clock. I'll see you downstairs at the Imperial—unless Pirchl thinks of something to arrest me for."

  * * *

  I was ready for every conceivable reaction from Pirchl except the one he came up with: indifference.

  "There is nothing for us to do," he told me coolly after I'd been through what Stetten had said. "Even assuming that it is the Viennese mafia that has made this offer to Count Stetten, what exactly have they done that strikes you as requiring police involvement?"

  I was stunned. "What have they—they murdered Dulska right here in Vienna, they killed—"

  "I'm aware of whom they've killed. I am speaking now of the transaction that's going to take place tomorrow in Zurich."

  "Inspector, I'm telling you about a deal involving hundreds of millions of dollars worth of contraband art—"

  "Yes, and I'm asking you what's illegal about it."

  "What's—"

  "The answer is nothing." He leaned forward across his desk and reshaped his mouth precisely around the word. "Nichts."

  I hate to have to admit it, but he was right. As he cogently pointed out, it was the Nazis who had stolen the paintings in the first place, not the mafia, and who was in a position to say, after all these years, how they had come into the mafia's possession? What the mafia was now doing was no different from what Sotheby's or Christie's had done time and again since the war: "innocently" selling Nazi loot, the known background of which was obscure or non-existent. And nobody was threatening to put Sotheby's or Christie's in jail.

  "Well, yes, you're right about that," I admitted, "but doesn't the fact that they're asking only a tiny percentage of what they're worth on the open market tell you something?"

  "Yes, it tells me that something underhanded is probably going on. It doesn't prove it, and even if it did, how does it concern the Vienna police department? You should be talking to the Swiss—not that I would expect you to have any more success with them."

  It went on in this vein for another fifteen depressing minutes. Surely he didn't want to see the mafia get ten million dollars to add to their treasury, did he? No, he said, he certainly didn't, and if I would care to tell him the legal grounds on which it could be prevented, he would be delighted to act. Would Count Stetten care to swear out a complaint? No? And even if he would, even then . . .

  So I got no help at all. Alois, who came in not long after I arrived and sat listening in a corner of Pirchl's office, got up and left after ten minutes without having said anything, but when I was going out through the reception area, a police officer stopped me. Oberstleutnant Feuchtmüller would appreciate seeing me in his office.

  When I got to his fusty den—the same books seemed to be in the same piles—he was on the telephone, speaking in German. "Excellent," he growled happily. "We're greatly in your debt. I'll talk to you later today."

  He put down the phone with a look on his ruddy face that said he was onto something. "Let me make sure I have this straight, Ben. If the deal goes through, the paintings will be transferred on the spot from the one vault to the other, yes?"

  "That's the way I understand it."

  "But there won't be room—or light—enough in a vault for you and Stetten to examine them. They'll have to be brought out somewhere for you to look at."

  "I suppose so, yes. What are you thinking?"

  "If they don't want to bring them out to be examined, do you think you might insist?"

  "Sure. There's bound to be a viewing room or something."

  "Good. And most important, do you suppose you could arrange to see to it that all seventy-two paintings are out of their vault at the same time? At three o'clock, say?"

  "I don't see why not. Are you planning to let me in on what you're hatching any time soon?"

  He settled self-satisfiedly back, lit up one of his stubby pipes, and let out some billows of smoke. My olfactory nerves must have adapted because the smell didn't seem all that rank; no worse, say, than the lion house at the zoo on a muggy day.

  In a Swiss bank, he explained, the chance of seizing anything in a private vault was nil, absolutely out of the question. But if it was merely on bank property—between vaults, in other words—then, if the Swiss police were willing to cooperate and a Swiss magistrate could be talked into issuing the necessary warrant, then property—seventy-two Old Master paintings, to take an example—might be taken into police custody. And Alois had just finished talking to his old friend Captain Offler of the Zurich criminal police to arrange for both cooperation and warrant.

  So at 3:00 tomorrow, Alois, Captain Offler, and the rest of the Zurich criminal police, if Offler chose to bring them, would appear unannounced at the Banque de la Suisse Romande and take possession of the paintings, and what did I think of that?

  "That's great, Alois, but I'm not sure I understand. Pirchl just finished telling me there weren't any grounds."

  "I have a different view. Those paintings are stolen Austrian property, nein?"

  "Well, yeah, sure, they were stolen from Stetten, but that was over fifty years ago, and it wasn't the mafia that did it."

  "No matter. They're still stolen Austrian property, and the Swiss are perfectly willing to treat them as such, at least for the moment. These days, you know, they're very inclined to be accommodating in matters concerning the restoration of Nazi loot, especially if it doesn't cost them anything."

  "All right, so you confiscate the paintings. But can you make it hold up?"

  "Hold up where? Do you expect the mafia to take us to court?"

  I smiled. "I guess not, but I'm still not sure I understand. What's the point of seizing the paintings? They belong to Stetten."

  "Of course they belong to Stetten," he said, beginning to get a little nettled. "Can't you see the beauty of the plan? One, we prevent the mafia from getting the money. Two, we take the paintings out of their hands. And three, after all is said and done, Stetten gets his property back from us. Good public relations all around, justice is served, and Stetten doesn't have to give away his fortune. Now, tell me, is this a good plan or is this not a good plan?"

  "This," I said, "is a real good plan."

  * * *

  Alex thought so too. "But how is Stetten going to feel about it?" she asked over iced coffees at a sidewalk café across from the opera house.

  "I don’t intend to let him in on it. He'll thank me later."

  "Can you really arrange to have all those paintings out at one time?" she said. "I mean, without looking suspicious?"

  "Sure, I can te
ll them I need to have them all available for re-evaluating against each other."

  "What does that mean, re-evaluating against each other?'

  "Who knows? But they're not going to know either."" Ben, you won't take any chances, will you?"

  "Alex, there's nothing to take chances about, don't worry."

  She sighed. "I know, but—"

  "I'll be back on the eight-twenty plane, if not before. I'll tell you all about it then. And we can make some plans for the next few days. We don't have to stay in Vienna, you know, if it's bothering you, or even in Austria. How does Lake Maggiore sound?"

  "Fine, but I'd like to stay here at least a little while longer. I'm trying to work out my feelings about it. The Prater didn't do the trick; it must be seedier than it was when mom was a little girl. It's funny because I'm half-Austrian myself, so I shouldn't be so negative about them, but I don't seem to be able to talk myself out of it."

  An idea that should have struck me long before this finally did. "I know somebody you should talk to," I said.

  A few minutes later I was on a public telephone. "Mr. Nussbaum? It's Ben Revere. Listen, how would you and Wittgenstein like some company on your walk tomorrow? There's someone I'd like you to meet."

  Chapter 34

  The Banque de la Suisse Romande looked just the way you'd want a Swiss bank to look; that is, like a fractionally smaller version of Buckingham Palace, but every bit as stable, solid, and enduring.

  Fancier, though. Its three-story lobby, visible through glass doors from Zurich's toney, tree-lined Bahnhofstrasse, was all veined travertine limestone and gold-leaf molding, and at the ends of the white marble steps out front were heavy bronze urns thickly planted with Alpine flowers. At the top of the steps, a uniformed doorman—a doorman, not a security guard—manned the entrance. If Stetten had told me it was another one of his fancy hotels and not a bank at all, I would have had no trouble believing him.

  At the foot of the steps, watching us—Stetten, me, and Stetten's lawyer Leo Schnittke—as we got out of our taxi, was a chesty man of forty in a sharp, double-breasted blue suit, with a horsey, lantern-jawed face and a big, black mustache that drooped down around either side of his mouth all the way to his chin.

  "Count Stetten, I think," he said with a long-toothed smile (a lemon-sucker' smile, my mother would have called it). "My name is Adler." He spoke fluent English with an accent I wasn't sure of. On second look, the mustache didn't really droop around his mouth; it had been carefully shaved into that shape.

  "Yes, how do you do?" Stetten replied anxiously. "These gentlemen are Mr. Revere—I mean Dr. Revere—and Mr. Schnittke. You did say that it would be all right if—"

  "Yes, it's all right." Once we'd shaken hands—except, as usual, for Schnittke, who made do with a perfunctory bob of his head—Adler motioned us toward the bank. "Will you come with me, please?"

  We went up the marble steps to the entrance, where we were bowed in by the doorman, who greeted Adler by name.

  "Please wait here," Adler told us. "I'll get the manager."

  Inside, the Banque de la Suisse Romande was like any other bank, just swankier. There were people doing business at teller's windows and at desks, and carved marble benches were situated at intervals along the walls. I suggested we sit down while waiting, but Stetten shook his head.

  "I'm too nervous, I can't sit down." He was clutching his father's notes on the paintings with one hand, and had the other flat on his chest. "Ach, Ben, I can hardly breathe."

  That gave me a start. "Albrecht—"

  "No, don't worry, I feel fine," he said with a nervous laugh. "I only mean I'm a little excited this morning. I'm not sure I believe this is happening."

  I laughed too. "That makes two of us."

  "That makes three of us," Schnittke said, looking blacker than usual, possibly because one of the guards had told him to put his cigar away, despite Schnittke's reasonable objection that it wasn't lit. "Tell me, Revere, is it really possible to authenticate seventy-two paintings in four hours?"

  "Not a chance in the world," I said.

  "As I thought," he said with a venomous look at Stetten, who gave him a weak grin.

  Again I picked up that trace of an accent that wasn't quite an accent, that reminded me of . . .what?

  Adler came back with two sprucely uniformed guards—white gloves, oiled, flapped holsters, and lustrous Sam Browne belts and shoes—and a soft, pale, anxious man who bowed, clicked his heels together (or did I only imagine it?), and introduced himself to Stetten.

  "Excellenz, I am Herr Schönauer, the director of foreign accounts. Everything is at your service. May I say how honored we are to have your account?"

  The familiar kowtowing served to steady Stetten. "Very good, Mr. Schönauer," he said regally. "Shall we proceed?"

  "Yes, certainly, Excellenz. Perhaps first you would be good enough to sign for your vault?"

  Stetten signed a couple of papers and Schönauer handed him a key, bowing yet again (he did click his heels), then led the way to an elevator that took us noiselessly to a lower level. Then down a succession of carpeted, brightly lit corridors, and through several heavy doors that hissed respectfully closed behind us.

  "Here is your vault, Excellenz. Schönauer said, pausing to let us look through a floor-to-ceiling metal grille, much like the barred door of a prison cell, at what looked a lot like a large but ordinary safe deposit viewing room in an ordinary bank; that is, an anteroom maybe sixteen feet by sixteen feet, with three walls of deposit boxes, and a few stand-up viewing tables. The only difference was that one entire wall consisted of a single, floor-to-ceiling, polished-steel door with two eye-level keyholes a foot apart: Stetten's vault. "Would you care to examine it?"

  "That won't be necessary," Stetten said.

  Schönauer took up the march again, leading us, single-file, past some similar rooms, through another softly hissing door, and to another room like the one we'd just seen.

  One of the white-gloved guards used a key to unlock the barred door, then swung it open, bowing us into the anteroom. The other inserted a second key into one of the two keyholes in the door of the vault and stood waiting until Adler produced and inserted a similar key. They both turned their keys at the same time and the door went f-s-s-t, popped open a few inches, and stopped. Apparently the dim lights inside worked on a refrigerator-door principle, because they didn't have to be turned on. I tried to peek around the guard's shoulder but couldn't see anything.

  "If you would make them comfortable in the viewing room, Mr. Schönauer. . . ?" Adler said.

  The manager promptly obeyed, leaving Adler and the two guards at the vault and showing us to a brightly lit room with a small conference table and a few chairs. On the table were two short-legged picture easels.

  "You would care for some coffee?" Schönauer asked.

  "Yes," Stetten said, "that would be—"

  "No, thank you," I said, "we'd better not; not while we're looking at the paintings."

  "No, of course not, what was I thinking?" Stetten said. He was really nervous.

  When Schönauer had bowed himself out, Stetten licked dry lips and smiled weakly at Schnittke and me. "My friends . . . I know that you both have some scruples about the . . . the irregularity of this."

  Did I ever, but I saw no reason to raise them. Alois had telephoned first thing in the morning to reassure me that the Swiss warrants had been secured and the plan was a definite go. Less than three hours from now, the cavalry would come riding in, banners waving and bugles blaring, to seize all the paintings. My scruples would be moot.

  "We've already been through this, Albrecht," Schnittke said. "You've made up your mind, so let's not waste our breath going over it again."

  "But you won't do anything to endanger it, will you—either of you? Think of it—"

  But at that point Adler came in, sat confidently down at the head of the table, and began rattling off conditions.

  "You have until four o'clock. I will h
ave the pictures brought in for your examination, and you may have as much time as you wish with them. If you find them satisfactory, Count Stetten will have his bank wire the ten million dollars to our account. Upon Mr. Schönauer's verification that the transfer has been made, the paintings will be transferred on the spot into Count Stetten's vault and the transaction will have been concluded. Are there any questions?"

  "No, none!" Stetten practically shouted, trying to head Schnittke off.

  "Yes," Schnittke said. "Mr. Revere says he can't authenticate so many paintings in four hours. We'll need more time."

  "That may be so, but it's not the arrangement," Adler said. "You have until four o'clock to decide."

  "Well, I think that covers everything," Stetten said. "Shall—"

  "Mr. Adler, we need to know who we're dealing with," Schnittke said. "Are you a dealer yourself, here in Zurich? An attorney?"

  "That's of no importance," he said coolly. "I’m merely an agent of the current owner, who prefers to remain anonymous."

  Schnittke was starting to look like a man who knew his cause was lost, but he gave it another try. "Now, listen here. You know as well as we do that we have to know where these paintings come from. You can't expect—"

  "I'm sorry, you get no provenances."

  "Then how is Count Stetten going to say he came by them? How can he prove they're really his?"

  "Ah—excuse me?" Stetten said, raising a tentative finger. "But, ah, they really are mine, you know."

  He did have a point there.

  "You also get no bills of sale," Adler said. "You get no papers of any sort. What you do get are the paintings. Do you want to see them or not? Your four hours are now three hours and forty-five minutes."

  "Oh, in that case I think we'd certainly better—" Stetten began.

  But Schnittke hadn't quite given up yet. "And just how the hell is Count Stetten supposed to get them out of the country with no papers?"