In South America, too, darkness had fallen over the little cove outside of Avellaneda where the captain of the U-boat was playing skat with the first officer. He said, “What the devil is the matter with that fellow Von Schleuder that we did not hear from him? Why can’t we get that damned bric-a-bràc ashore and get out of here?”
The first officer took a trick. “We will probably hear from him tomorrow.”
The captain spat. “Tomorrow—tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Some day tomorrow will be too late for Germany.”
* * *
—
It was shortly after seven o’clock when Mr. Swinney emerged from the warehouse on the Calle Garibaldi, still tenderly lugging a square bundle under his arm. But now the two sides of the heavy carved and gilded frame peered out from heavy swathings of burlap that Mr. Swinney had wrapped around it to keep it from harm or damage.
He had to walk a block or two before he found a taxicab. He gave the driver the address of his apartment, No. 17 Avenida Manuel Quintana, and was more than a little impatient of the heavy traffic in the central part of the town because he was expecting visitors. He was rather anxious to arrive before his callers.
At that, he just did. Gabino, his houseman, let him in.
“Anyone call, Gabino?”
“No, señor.”
“Very well. I am expecting some visitors. I will answer the door myself. If I should need anything I will call you.”
Mr. Swinney lived in a modern three-room apartment on the sixth floor. The large multi-paned windows of the living-room looked out on the quiet, tree-lined avenue. A small vestibule led from the outer door to this room. Beyond was a small dining-room and a bedroom.
Mr. Swinney placed his package on the chrome mantel over the modern, decorative, but nonfunctional fireplace facing the entrance hallway, but he did not remove the protective burlap wrapping. The bright gilt of the frame showed up like pirate gold against the severe stainless steel of the mantel paneling.
Thereafter he had only time to light a cigarette and go to his bookshelf and briefly examine a small volume before the door buzzer rang. Mr. Swinney replaced the book and opened the door. It was, as he had expected, Dr. José Calderriega, Sub-Minister of Culture of the Argentine.
Dr. Calderriega came through the vestibule and into the living-room with a quick, nervous step, but he paused on the threshold for an instant as his gaze fell upon the mantel. He said, “Ah.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Swinney. “Won’t you sit down?”
Dr. Calderriega sat on the edge of a chrome fauteuil, a perfection of a man in every small, icy detail, from his polished shoes to his faultless head. Age had not altered his appearance or the smoothness of his skin; it had merely frosted him. There was also frost in his voice as he inquired:
“You are Mr. Augustus Swinney?”
“I am.”
“May I inquire before going any further, Mr. Swinney, whether this was a practical joke?”
“No,” said Mr. Swinney softly, but definitely. “It was not a practical joke.”
Dr. Calderriega’s lips relaxed and he nodded slightly. Mr. Swinney thought, Now that he has ascertained that I am neither drunk nor a maniac, he has had to back off and begin all over again. I must be careful to keep this conversation on a high diplomatic plane or he will be shocked and disappointed. Well, we shall see.
“Mr. Swinney, we will overlook your indefensible behavior if you will permit me to leave with the picture and restore it to Señor de Paraná.”
“That is generous, Dr. Calderriega. I regret I cannot permit it.”
“I see. And what do you intend to do with it?”
“Secure it until I am able to restore it to its owner.”
“The owner is Señor Alfonso de Paraná.”
Mr. Swinney rose with a small sigh. “Under those circumstances I can no longer discuss the matter with you, Dr. Calderriega. Stealing is a matter for the police. I suggest that you call them. I will notify the American Embassy that I am ready to submit to arrest.”
Dr. Calderriega sighed also, but like a dried leaf blown on ice. “Sit down, Mr. Swinney. There is—ah—no question of the police—at the moment. What is it you want?”
“To return the picture to its actual owner, Mynheer van Schouven.”
Dr. Calderriega coughed. “You are certain of your ground? Supposing no proof of previous ownership exists?”
Mr. Swinney nodded. “I understand the Germans have shown their usual thoroughness in destroying all records, indexes, and proofs of ownership in connection with their national thieving expeditions. Well—” He paused, but he was not looking at the Sub-Minister. His eyes had wandered to his bookshelves across the room. He then tried very hard to suppress a grin, but was unable to and let it happen. He went over to the shelf and plucked out a small red volume, the one he had examined previously.
“The Germans, Dr. Calderriega, should have liquidated one of their most prolific cataloguers before they undertook their tour of looting. The evidence of their own uncle Karl Baedeker will yet brand them as the most shameless nation of thieves the world has ever known.”
He thumbed through the little book. “Do you remember these little guidebooks clutched to the breasts of Americans rushing about Europe? Baedeker’s Belgium and Holland, 1930, page 257, Amsterdam—the Rijks Museum. I quote: ‘First floor…third room…on the right is hung Rembrandt’s masterpiece Old Woman of Haarlem, parenthesis, on loan for five years by its owner, J. van Schouven, close parenthesis. This magnificent head, in the warmest tones of the master, depicts—’ Well, the canvas is quite well described. Any court of law would recognize this as evidence.”
Dr. Calderriega exhaled slowly and correctly. A single glistening bead of water no bigger than a seed pearl appeared beside the close-clipped gray mustache. Finally he said softly, “Do you really believe, Mr. Swinney, that you will be able to remove this picture from Buenos Aires?”
Mr. Swinney considered the question for a moment before he replied, “Yes, I believe I will.”
“Permit me to say that you are playing a dangerous game, sir.”
“Permit me to say that you are too, doctor. Your name appears upon the invitation as sponsor to the exhibition of Señor de Paraná.”
A second bead, in perfect balance, appeared on the other side of the Sub-Minister’s lip. Mr. Swinney wondered whether they were both congealed there.
For the first time Dr. Calderriega’s voice took on an edge, like a figure skater grating a blade on a turn: “You understand, sir, that the Government is not officially involved.”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Swinney with a slight bow. “It is obviously beneath the dignity of the government of Argentina to assist in—ah—the disposal of purloined articles. Still, publicity would be regrettable. The Argentine people might not understand.”
The shudder that Dr. Calderriega gave at the word “publicity” was almost human.
“However,” continued Mr. Swinney, “it seems to me that no publicity is necessary, if—”
Dr. Calderriega leaned forward slightly. “If—?”
“If the art market in Buenos Aires were closed to—foreign export, the subject would never come up, I feel certain.”
“Ah. It is perhaps fortunate that the Ministry of Culture has the final say in—such matters.”
“As you say, it is most fortunate.”
Dr. Calderriega rose and gazed for a moment at the object on the mantel. Something approaching a groan burst from him. “It is impossible! Impossible! Do you realize that there will be other—forces interested in the repossession of that picture, forces that will stop at nothing—absolutely nothing?”
“That,” said Mr. Swinney succinctly, “is your worry as much as mine, Dr. Calderriega. I wish you luck. Good evening.”
Shortly after the Sub-Minister had left, Mr. Swinney went
to the window and looked down into the street. He saw two policemen in their dark-blue uniforms with black leather puttees, Sam Browne belts, and peaked caps with red bands. They strolled fifty yards up the street, then stopped and strolled back again.
Mr. Swinney smiled. He thought, I’d give a lot to know whether they’re there to keep me in or to keep others out.
He did not trust Dr. Calderriega. When a man walks the thin crust of such scandal, disgrace, and disaster as the Sub-Minister trod, he might also be tempted to join those forces that would stop at nothing.
He wondered when those would begin to arrive.
It was nearly nine o’clock before Baron von Schleuder let himself out of the self-operating lift at the sixth floor of Number 17 Avenida Manuel Quintana and pressed the button outside Mr. Swinney’s door.
Upon being admitted, the Baron entered briskly and with an air of busy determination. He was a large man with one of those large-featured faces which look as though they had been fashioned roughly in putty. His tawny, leonine hair was slicked back from his forehead and he wore his monocle. He, too, paused at the living-room threshold, stared stonily at the exhibit on the mantel, and said, “So.”
Mr. Swinney made no comment, nor did he invite the Baron to sit down. Instead he remained silent, waiting for the conversation to open. The Baron permitted his monocle to drop into his left hand and said, “Mr. Svinney?”
“Yes?”
“Von Schleuder! Cherman Embassy!” His sentences came out curt and harsh, like military commands. “We will speak about this picture.”
Mr. Swinney replied, “Very well. Whom are you representing? Señor de Paraná?”
“Certainly not!”
“I see. The German Government, then?”
Baron von Schleuder opened his large lips to reply and then closed them firmly and glared at Mr. Swinney.
“It is not a question of whom I represent. The picture must be returned immediately.”
“I don’t recognize your authority.”
“By what right you presume to keep this picture?”
“Well,” said Mr. Swinney reflectively, glancing at the gilt-edged bundle on the mantel, “let us say the right of immediate possession. You had it. Dr. Paraná had it. Now I have it. I might add that I got it the way your Government did. I took it.”
Von Schleuder’s thoughts playing over his heavy face were as transparent as a newly washed window.
Mr. Swinney said quietly, “Are you thinking of trying to take it from me physically? It would raise the most awful row. People would come….”
“Ach!” said the Baron, “don’t be ridikelous. That kind of extravagances is for romances.” He suddenly made an elephantine gesture that was supposed to indicate change of attitude, good-fellowship, and a new-found understanding. “Let us play all the cards on the table, Mr. Svinney. We wish the picture returned of your own will. What is your price?”
Mr. Swinney looked as innocent as a newborn child. “I would have to get in touch with the owner, Mynheer van Schouven, from whom the picture was originally stolen by the Germans. I doubt whether he would wish to sell it to you.”
The Baron was not amused. He abandoned his jovial air as quickly as he assumed it. “Ah so! Well, you have ask for trouble. You will have only yourself to blame.”
“That’s better,” said Mr. Swinney. “That’s how we love you.”
The Baron gave Mr. Swinney a measuring and even slightly quizzical look in which he raised his brows a full inch, like a tenor on a high note.
“Well,” he said at last in the conversational tone of one who is about to take his departure, having concluded his business, “at least we understand one another. I hope you do not get hurt, Mr. Svinney. If you attempt to remove this picture from this room, much less from Buenos Aires, you will do so at your own risk, is that not so?”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Swinney. “I’ll let you know when it gets to New York. Then you and Calderriega both will be able to relax. And, ah—I usually shoot at burglars.”
The Baron smiled a quiet, lemony smile, replaced his monocle, glanced once more at the object on the mantel, and departed. Mr. Swinney went to the window and saw the Baron emerge into the street. Three men climbed out of a car parked at the curb. The Baron spoke to them briefly, entered the car, and drove away. The three remained standing in the shadows. Mr. Swinney was under no illusions as to what their presence meant.
Mr. Swinney was also under no illusions as to his position. He was in a fix and he knew it. If because of circumstances Calderriega and Von Schleuder were unable for the moment to avail themselves of normal procedures to recover the painting, neither was Mr. Swinney in any position to ask for protection. Once he succeeded in getting the picture out of the country, the game would be won. But Mr. Swinney gave a kind of rueful snort. He would have given much at the moment for an idea as to how that was to be accomplished.
Augustus Swinney was a businessman with a strong sense of justice, and not an adventurer, even though his quixotic impulses and deep-seated hatred of his country’s enemies sometimes landed him in strange situations. Nevertheless he took natural precautions.
From a drawer he secured a small .32 automatic, tested its action, saw that it was loaded and a shell in the chamber, and slipped it into his pocket. He then wrote out a list of groceries and canned goods and summoned Gabino.
“Vaya al bodega. The one on the corner of Vincente Lopez is open until ten. When you return, knock and call out. It will be locked.”
From the window he watched the houseman emerge from the service entrance down the street. The three Nazis in the shadows did not budge, but one of the two uniformed policemen detached himself from his post on the other side of the street and strolled after him.
“Damn!” said Mr. Swinney.
When an hour passed and the houseman had not returned, he knew. He reflected that they would not hurt him. The servant had probably been arrested on some trumped-up pretext, thoroughly searched, and held.
Then it was to be a siege. Mr. Swinney locked and bolted the rear service door, fastened the short chain to the front door leading to the lift and stairway, and inspected his larder. With careful rationing there was enough food—cereals and a few items of canned goods—to last him for quite a while. He was glad to note a plentiful supply of coffee. He would need that to keep awake. He set about brewing himself a potful at once.
In the living-room Mr. Swinney sipped the thick, strong drink, considered his situation and his chances, and tried to figure from whence the attack would come. The procession of polite diplomatic visitors he knew was over. The next parties to ring his doorbell would mean business. And if they came in force—well, even a dead American refrigeration engineer in a burgled apartment could be hushed up in a dictatorship.
Shortly before midnight Mr. Swinney heard the humming of the automatic lift and the click and thump as it stopped at his floor. After a moment’s pause the buzzer sounded.
Polite of them! he said to himself. Well, it’s about time. As the Baron put it, I asked for it.
He slipped the safety catch of the gun in his pocket and went to the door. “Who is it?”
No reply. Mr. Swinney wondered whether he was being a fool and whether the next move would not be a fusillade through the door. Nevertheless, leaving the short chain on, he opened the door to the width it permitted.
He smelled, not gunpowder, but the sweet, exciting fragrance of perfume, caught a glimpse of white skin and bronze hair and a drape of fur.
“Amalie!” said Mr. Swinney, and took the chain off the door.
The Countess Amalie was framed magnificently by the doorway. She wore an evening sheath of black satin without a single ornament to distract from the immediate form beneath it. The fur drape of chinchilla made a background for the wide cat-eyes slanting into the high cheekbones.
S
he said, “Am I terrible? If you misunderstand, I shall hate you to the day I die.”
“My dear Countess,” said Mr. Swinney, “won’t you come in?” He understood very well, and her presence thrilled him to the core. He had met many women of the genre of the Countess Amalie in Europe and had invariably found the experience stimulating and enchanting. They made practically no demands.
He had recognized the type immediately the first time he had seen her. The meeting in the salon of Señor de Paraná had confirmed it to him. He had read the answer in the first glance they had exchanged. In a masculine and quite unrefined manner, Mr. Swinney had entertained great hopes for the development of a beautiful friendship with the Countess Amalie Czernok. Mr. Swinney had not traveled extensively for nothing. Then the somewhat florid events he had precipitated had quite driven thoughts of her out of his head.
Misunderstand indeed! That was how the game began.
She crossed the threshold and faced the steel and chrome mantel and the gilt-edged, burlap-wrapped object that reposed thereon. Her gaze never left it as Mr. Swinney removed the downy, feather-light, exquisite fur from her shoulders.
“That is why I had to come,” she said—“to tell you what I felt. For no other reason.” The sensual mysteries of centuries lay behind her cat-smile.
“I have thought of nothing else since it happened—your courage to do this thing for our people. I thought that I had seen and known brave men. I am European. I have seen what our people have suffered and I have met courage, but until today I have never known the meaning of pure…”
Mr. Swinney’s nerves were badly jangled by what he had been through. He felt suddenly like a soldier who knows that on the morrow he returns to the firing line and, because time as well as desire is of the essence, is impatient of delay.
He faced her, put his hands to her shoulders, and said, “Amalie—for God’s sake—stop talking.”
The Big Book of Espionage Page 48