by Alp Mortal
“Did you conclude your business?”
“Oh yes; everything’s in the bag now … Are we still meeting tomorrow?”
“Yes, at ten o’clock at the office as arranged,” he replied.
“I have a surprise for you,” Hannah said.
“Generally, I don’t like surprises but I feel sure I am going to enjoy this one.”
“You will … Shall we dance some more?”
They danced again but Hannah was in demand and soon lost in the crowd. When she judged the moment to be right, she left the floor and headed back to the bar, pulling more flowers out of her costume for the girls working there and she disappeared again into the stock room, changing quickly, returning to the bar and managing to hide her bag before anyone was the wiser. She worked on until two in the morning. Receiving her pay, she left and took a taxi back to the room in Montmartre.
Chapter Five – Pay off
She left the room spotless and grabbed a coffee in Rue des Abbesses before heading to the Le Marais and Boehme’s office. The court jester outfit and the waitress’s uniform found their way into a clothing bank en route, and in Hannah’s holdall were the two chalices, the original and the copy. She arrived at the office and rang the bell because the door was closed. Boehme appeared at the door and let her in, escorting her upstairs.
“You left the Ball without saying goodnight,” he said a little piqued.
“You wanted a surprise didn’t you?”
“Yes … may I see it?”
“Do you have the bond and the IDs?”
He withdrew both from his desk drawer and placed them on his desk in front of her.
“As agreed ...”
She unzipped the holdall and pulled out one of the chalices.
“As agreed,” she replied, inwardly smiling as she handed it over, scooping up the bond and the IDs, and putting them in her bag.
“And the surprise?” he asked, looking quite childlike.
She withdrew the other chalice and placed it on his desk.
“The original and the copy …”
“How …?”
“Don’t ask,” she replied, “and in return, I want the name of your associate from whom you obtain the IDs and the name of someone I can apply to for work ... if you follow me.”
He eyed her intently for a full minute.
“I have to admit that I did not expect you to accomplish the task. In my wildest dreams did I dare to imagine you might get the original ... but both; that is very impressive. I will give you the name of the associate from whom I obtain the IDs ... as to a prospective employer, I’m not sure I want you to work again. There are other ways to make a living …”
“Your concern is touching but if you thought we had a future then you are mistaken; I will be no one’s mistress …”
“Would you consent to be my wife?”
“If you weren’t already married, Boehme, I might.”
He sat back and smiled.
“My receptionist told you, didn’t she?”
“One should be more careful with the things you entrust your receptionist to keep in her desk drawer; particularly when she fails to lock it when she goes to lunch …”
“Ah …”
“Insurance, Boehme; in case you felt the urge to become ‘honest’ in your dealings, particularly our dealings … the names please …”
Boehme wrote two names on a piece of paper and handed it to her. She put it in her bag and got up.
“Goodbye, Boehme; a million thanks.”
“Goodbye, Mademoiselle; until the next time.”
Hannah left and walked smartly in the direction of Châtelet and grabbed a Metro to Montparnasse. Within the hour, she had boarded her train for the South. In her view, a little holiday was called for whilst she contemplated her options and the small fortune she carried in her bag.
Crime Three - Rites of Passage
Chapter One – High Tide
Flushed from her dance class, Hannah sat down at one of the tables at her favourite café; the one on the harbourside, and watched the yachts gently sway on the incoming tide. She was “holidaying” in Saint Tropez and feeling quite relaxed; then she did have somewhere in the region of 1.4 million francs.
Unsure of just how dishonest Boehme was, she’d ditched the fake IDs he had obtained for her and had purchased new ones, directly from the associate who worked out of Nice. Not having paid for the ones which Boehme had obtained for her, they represented no loss. This was something she was beginning to understand better; this trading account in crime.
Hannah guessed, rightly, that Boehme both admired her confidence and was jealous of it. Only the threat to expose some of his secrets kept him from giving the names on the fake IDs to his friend at the police headquarters. She didn’t trust him and had dumped the fake IDs, promising herself that she would avoid “go-betweens” in the future; they had the least amount to lose in her opinion. It also reminded her that this was no game. The career - if that was the right word - provided the adrenalin rushes she craved. In some respects, the money was a bonus, especially now.
Hannah’s strengths lay in her impeccable memory and in her confidence. She also saw things which others didn’t, and made acquiring skills and picking up information, habits of a second nature, spending three hours a day scouring the international press. Attended classes and perfected her disguises, the daily pain beurre.
When she got up in the morning, it could very well be that she said, “Today, I am a German student” or “an English teacher” or “a Spanish journalist”, and for the whole day, she would live and breathe the persona.
Rigorous study was resulting in exceptional language skills; she spoke English and French like a native, German and Spanish to an advanced level, and Japanese and Russian to an acceptable level. She could make herself look twenty years older, and looked just as comfortable in haute couture as she did in M&S off the peg. Dancing and working out sought to counteract the terrible habit of smoking twenty cigarettes a day.
Hannah had arrived in Saint Tropez in late August. The season was dying a little and it had been easier to find a room than she had expected. A car allowed her to drive frequently to Nice and occasionally to Toulon and Marseille. Itching to test all of her skills, she had decided that she’d needed a job that sealed her reputation as a professional thief of priceless art treasures.
Her choice of café seat had been deliberate; it gave her full view of the yacht Aristotle, owned by the German industrialist Gerhardt. He was currently hosting a lunch party for some close friends. After half an hour, Hannah left the café and made her way to a gallery in town where she had a “friend”; they took lunch together. The young woman was in Hannah’s dance class and Hannah had made Sophie’s acquaintance pretty quickly after she had found out where Sophie worked.
To Sophie, Hannah was Madeleine or Maddy.
“Sophie; I need your advice.” Hannah opened up the conversation at lunch.
“What is it, Maddy?”
“I want to buy a painting, something of an investment for the future.”
“I have just the painting for you …”
They lunched and all the while, without making it obvious, Hannah pummelled Sophie for information about up and coming artists, local collectors, how the gallery business worked and who was spending the real money. In return, she gave away very little but did an excellent job of turning a few bare facts into a colourful tapestry. Sophie was a little awed by her and sat basking in the glow. They left and went back to the gallery to see the picture which Sophie had suggested might be the ideal investment.
“It is a minor work but that is also reflected in the price. All the major works are being snapped up by the Japanese banks and it won’t be long before the minor works see their value ... in the end, there simply won’t be anything else left to buy.”
Hannah was standing before a Paul Scholar; a minor Impressionist painter from Holland. The piece was a self-portrait and about the size of a large
cornflake’s packet.
“His major works have begun to attract a lot of interest. I would say that soon you could not buy this for less than two hundred and fifty thousand francs. At one hundred and fifty thousand francs, it is a real bargain ... and if you promise not to tell anyone, especially the owner, I can tell you that the gentleman moored in the harbour, Gerhardt, is very interested …”
“Is he? It would be a sound investment and I simply adore the Impressionists; I’ll take it!” said Hannah with real joy in her voice; not that the picture was her object because Gerhardt was her quarry this time.
“If I sell it then I’ll earn the commission too.”
“Excellent! Where is Amelia?”
“Marbella, with Godfrey; due back at the weekend.”
“I’ll have the money on Friday; will you still leave it on display?”
“Oh yes; that’s policy. But I can take it down if you prefer.”
“No; leave it on display. Please don’t sell it to anyone else …”
Hannah left the gallery and skipped back to her room to fully hatch the plan. Her research thus far on the industrialist Gerhardt had been very illuminating; a self-made multi-millionaire, German by birth, married and divorced twice; currently wooing a French actress who lived in Saint Tropez. He owned the yacht Aristotle and had an extensive collection of Impressionist paintings, many of which were displayed on the yacht.
“I need an invitation to get aboard,” she said to herself and started to practise her German while she memorised the auction prices of all of the lots in the last three Impressionist sales ... and painted her nails.
Chapter Two – Accidents will happen
Hannah drove a smart little Alfa Romeo Spider, bearing Liechtenstein plates. She owned the vehicle but under a different name to Maddy or Hannah, and it was registered to an address in Liechtenstein where her bank account was also registered. It had been one of those things which she’d always wanted, the Liechtenstein bank account. The bearer bond from Boehme for eight hundred thousand francs had been deposited in it as soon as she’d had the ID from Eckhart; the ID for a thirty year old Swiss National by the name of Ruth Wald. The car had been a prop at the time but she’d fallen in love with it so had bought it outright.
Two days after the lunch date with Sophie, Hannah dressed up in her chic Saint Tropez outfit - the white linen suit, fuchsia pink headscarf and very dark sunglasses - and drove the car down to the harbourside, timing her arrival with the departure of Gerhardt in his rather ostentatious Maserati. They pranged; a minor scrape which left a mark on her bumper and scratch on his front wing. He got out as did she.
“Mademoiselle; I believe you were at fault,” he said peevishly.
Hannah dropped into her polished German and admonished him for his negligence and even suggested that he might have been eyeing something else rather than his bonnet. He laughed and practically slapped her on the back for her audacity in suggesting anything like it. He was a goat, shall we say and a little uncouth.
“If we call it even, how can I make it back into your good books?” he asked, eyeing her figure without any attempt to hide his lust.
“They say the Aristotle has an interior by Versace; I should like to see that,” she said.
“Then come to dinner this evening …”
“I accept.”
“Come aboard at 7…”
“Thank you! I’m sorry but I have to run; I’m expected on board Lady May for lunch. Amelia has the prettiest Paul Scholar which she wants me to see.”
“You know Amelia?”
“Yes; do you?”
“Not well; I’ve seen the Paul Scholar; a fine example. I was hoping to add it to my collection but the price is a little high for a minor work.”
Hannah rattled off the prices of similar works from the last three auctions by way of establishing her credentials as a collector and suggested that the price could only go up.
“Let me know at dinner what you decided.”
“At 7 then ...”
She sauntered off to the Lady May to accompany Sophie as her guest for lunch and both were expecting Amelia to announce her engagement to Godfrey ... and they were not disappointed.
Hannah confirmed her desire to purchase the Scholar and handed Sophie a cheque for the one hundred and fifty thousand francs.
“Gerhardt invited me to dinner this evening on board the Aristotle; shall I tell him I bought the picture?”
“How did you manage that?”
“He hit my car and felt duty bound to make amends for his carelessness.”
“Perhaps he’ll offer to buy the painting from you. He is due to lunch with Amelia on Monday and she was sure he was going to make an offer for it.”
“Let’s see what happens …” was all Hannah said in reply and they dined on lobster and paid Amelia all the compliments a ten carat engagement ring was duty bound to receive, silently mourning the probable loss of Godfrey’s millions in the next divorce settlement.
Dressed a la mode and looking like she deserved to be wearing an engagement ring of quail egg proportions, Hannah arrived at the Aristotle at ten minutes past seven that evening, and was welcomed aboard by Gerhardt. He was dressed as Captain Birdseye thought Hannah secretly and her silent mirth illuminated her face so that even the goat put a leash on his tongue in the presence of a real beauty. He paid her a rather sweet compliment and she elevated him out of uncouth and into unrefined.
She accepted the glass of champagne which a steward brought on a tray, and they watched the sun sink towards the horizon.
“Did you enjoy your lunch?”
“Immensely and I purchased the Scholar. It is a sure fire winner after the results of the next sale ... I expect to turn a handsome profit by the end of the year.”
“If you sell, please give me first refusal,” he pleaded.
“I agree; but first you owe me a tour of the interior …”
He held out his arm and began his diatribe into the fitting out of the yacht and the cost of everything. Hannah murmured appreciatively in all the right places and memorised every single one of the paintings displayed on the walls. They dined by candlelight, and for the second time that day, she enjoyed lobster!
Chapter Three – Fish fingers, chips and peas
Hannah spent Sunday thinking very hard; she was at a turning point. Events over the past year had proved to her that she had a gift and, whereas the theft of the Degas had been more opportunistic and largely without an exterior motive, the acquisition of the chalice for Boehme had certainly been pre-meditated once she’d overheard his conversation on the telephone that day.
The name of the prospective employer, which Boehme had given her, along with Eckhart’s, was the name of a very serious criminal and one she knew it would not pay to play games with. If she was to embark on this career, then this man was the type of person she would have to deal with, and it increased the stakes of the games exponentially. Confidence she had in spades, and some experience, but it was beginning to feel like tightrope walking over the Niagara Falls without a safety net.
If she pulled off the job this time, she promised herself a period of retirement. The theft of the Degas had not been reported to the police; the theft of the chalice most certainly had made the headlines. This latest commission, as she liked to call it, would put her on a wanted list for sure. But it would also earn her kudos; invaluable in getting herself more work, if she wanted it, and considerably larger fees.
Gerhardt owned five major Impressionist pieces and all were on the yacht; she’d seen them, in the dimly lit library, during her tour.
Her commission was to steal all five, with handover in Cannes; the fee, two million francs. The theft of the chalice had convinced the client that she was capable. Merely thinking about it gave her a cold, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“I can do this!” she repeated to herself as a mantra as she worked out the finer details of the plan. Getting back on board was easy now; leaving with f
ive paintings, a little more difficult. Sophie came to her rescue in the most unexpected way.
“Amelia wants to put on an exhibition and raise money for the Red Cross; she’s asked Gerhardt to loan his collection and she would like you to loan the Scholar for the evening. Please say you will.”
“Of course I will; especially if Gerhardt is there.”
“Are you angling for a proposal?”
“Heavens no! I want him to see the Scholar and be reminded that his hesitation has cost him a hundred thousand francs ... maybe more.”
“Will you sell it to him?”
“No; not yet at least. Maybe after the next sale when the estimated value will approach five hundred thousand. When is the exhibition?”
“On Friday; from six until nine.”
“There’s no point taking the Scholar away for five days; keep it at the gallery until after the exhibition … Amelia’s engagement party is on Saturday, isn’t it?”
“Yes; we must get outfits.”
“Come with me to Nice tomorrow and we’ll shop.”
On Tuesday, they drove to Nice and purchased outfits; Hannah paid for Sophie’s.
“Why, Maddy? I’ve already earned my commission on the Scholar thanks to you.”
“For being such a good friend and for putting the Scholar my way; I’ll make a fortune out of it in the end.”
On Wednesday, Hannah researched the paintings which Gerhardt owned. The thing she wanted to know most of all were the paintings’ dimensions. She got those from auction records and hoped he hadn’t had them reframed. She bought five Impressionist prints; good quality ones, printed on canvas, and had them mounted on thin, light-weight insulation board. On Thursday, she took the prints, secreted in a portfolio bag, to the gallery on the pretence that she would collect the Scholar in it on the Saturday after the gala.
On Friday, she met Gerhardt for coffee in the harbour.
“Are you taking the actress to the engagement party tomorrow?” she asked, without batting an eye.
“That was my intention, yes; why do you ask?”
“No reason … when are the pictures coming back on board; are you using a security firm?”
“This evening, after the show; I trust my security more than Amelia’s.”
“The Scholar is at the gallery and I don’t want to take it home tonight after the exhibition; the flat will still be in turmoil following redecorating. Can you collect it with yours and I’ll collect it from here on Saturday morning?”