Chasing the Wind

by C. C. Humphreys

  The priest lifted the long rear panel, stood it upright against the back wall. Using the back of the hammer, he began to pry out some small tacks that pinned a black cloth, thick like dry canvas, against the wood. As he worked down, alternating sides, the material fell away. Halfway down, dark mahogany yielded to a sudden explosion of blue and green.

  “My, my,” muttered Sydney Munroe, the coolness of the expression belying the heat in his eyes.

  The cloth was gone in moments. The priest put down his hammer, then lifted and turned the panel onto its side.

  My, my, indeed, thought Roxy.

  The dullness of the surrounding wood brought out the colours more strongly—the emerald of the sea, the yellow of the billowing sail on the ship in mid-distance, the vivid red sleeves of the farmer in the foreground, his plowshare carving a terrace of lines in the green-brown earth; the fluffed whiteness of the sheep, the grey-blue of the shepherd’s shirt. In the distance, the sun had sunk halfway below the horizon. In the lower right, a fisherman with a scarlet belt jigged a line in the water.

  It would have been an everyday pastoral scene, country folk going about their business—were it not for what was occurring right in front of the oblivious angler: a pair of legs scissoring into the sea, as if a competitive diver had botched his attempt. That and the winged man flying in the top left corner, focus of the shepherd’s stare.

  Her mouth was dry. She got some moisture into it. “Herr Schlaben?”

  The art expert jerked, stepped forward, knelt. Put on different spectacles. Bent close until his nose was nearly touching the panel; leaned back to get a wider perspective. He muttered in German, nothing Roxy could make out.

  After a minute or so Munroe rapped the table with his knuckles. “Well, sir? What can you tell us?”

  The professor leaned away. “The light is poor here. And there are certain tests I would make were I in my own department—”

  “I realize the constraints,” interrupted Munroe, taking out his handkerchief again, sweeping it across his face. “But will you hazard, is the thing?”

  “It is almost identical to the one in Brussels. The one on canvas, thought to be the original. Except for these significant differences.” Schlaben pushed his spectacles back to the bridge of his nose. “In that one, Icarus is the sole figure from the myth. His legs, anyway. Ignoring his inventor father’s advice, he has flown too close to the sun with his wings held together by wax. The wax melts—phisht!” He made an odd sound accompanied by a downward motion of his hand. “He falls, he dies.” He nodded. “The painting has always been interpreted as man proceeding with his life—plowing, fishing, looking after sheep—ignoring the arrogant who strive for glory and fail.”

  “You hear that, Munroe,” Roxy whispered, loud enough to be heard.

  Schlaben blinked at the interruption, continued, “But look here.” He pointed to the figure in the upper left, wings raised behind him, gazing at the accident in the water. “Daedalus, witnessing his son’s death. Look at the shepherd seeing him. Daedalus is not in the original painting. What we called the original.” He rose, took a pace back. “This will make us reinterpret all we have thought to this date.”

  “So it is genuine?” Munroe stood, excitement clear in his voice, on his face.

  “I would need to do some further tests to be sure—”

  “Is this a lost Bruegel? Yes or no?”

  Schlaben took off his spectacles, put them in the top pocket of his suit. “If you force me to speculate, mein Herr, I would say…ja, it is.”

  “Well, that’s just dandy,” said Roxy, rising fast. She pulled the banker’s draft from her brassiere and held it out to the bishop. “Here’s your money. Have your friend put this cupboard back together. We have a truck—”

  Munroe’s voice came, all silk. “Whatever she is paying you, I will double it.”

  The bishop had reached a hand to the draft. Now he paused an inch away. “She is to pay me five thousand American dollars.”

  “I have ten here.” Munroe tapped the tan leather briefcase before him. “Cash.”

  “Wait a goddamn minute!” Roxy took a step toward the bishop, who took a step back, his hands rising as if she was about to strike him. She waved the paper. “We have a deal. You’re a bishop, right? Surely you keep your word.”

  “The church has suffered terrible depredations in this revolution. Fifty churches looted and burned in Madrid this week alone. The same atrocities across the whole of Spain. Surely what the church needs most now is to restore its glory.” Munroe’s voice vibrated with a preacher’s fervour. “Take double the money, Your Holiness. Rebuild God’s house.”

  Roxy was listening to the greedy American—but she was watching the wavering Spaniard. Saw doubt replaced by certainty. Saw the fortune in the briefcase work its magic. “Señorita, lo siento. But the church is needing.” He licked his lips. “I am sorry.”

  She was sorry too—but not surprised. Which was why, when Munroe first walked into the cellar, she’d opened the clasp on the holster inside her flying jacket, that she’d never removed despite the heat. Taking a step back now, she drew the Luger, flicked the safety off with a clearly audible click.

  “¡Madre de Dios!” exclaimed the bishop, at whose belly the weapon pointed.

  “All of you—move to that wall,” Roxy said softly. “Not you, Pedro. You’re going to do your magic act on the cupboard in reverse.” She looked at the young priest, who was staring in horror at the gun. “Ándale, amigo.”

  “I don’t think so.” Munroe’s voice was still as soft, as sibilant, as high-pitched. The only thing that might have given it a little more iron was the iron in his hand—a Smith and Wesson .38. “Drop it.”

  “Well, why would I do that?” asked Roxy, the Luger’s barrel now pointed at Munroe’s belly, just as his gun was pointed at hers.

  Munroe grunted. “Because I have shot someone before, Miss Loewen. Have you? It takes nerve. Do you have it?”

  Did she? If ever there was a man worth finding that out for, it was Sydney Munroe. Her eyes narrowed—

  And then an arm went around her body; a hand seized her wrist, jerked the Luger’s barrel up to the ceiling. A moment later she felt cold metal thrust into the flesh beneath her jawbone.

  “You will both give up your guns,” ordered the German voice, as steely as Munroe’s had been soft. Adding a shout of “Raus!”

  Schlaben held her hard. She’d underestimated him. His professorial softness was belied by the strength of the fingers crushing her wrist as much as by the pressure of the barrel in her neck. She put the Luger on the table. But he did not let her go, just swung her more fully in front of him, pointing his own pistol at Munroe. “Put it down,” he commanded.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the American obeyed. As soon as his gun was on the table, Schlaben threw Roxy forward. She braced herself on a chair, turned. The German took two steps back so he could more effectively cover the room. “Herr Munroe,” he said, “move away from the door. All of you to that far wall. Now! Not you,” he said, waving the barrel at the priest. “You do what the Fräulein said. Put back the cupboard.”

  What choice did she have? Like the others, she moved to the wall. Schlaben collected both guns, and dropped one each into the pockets of his suit jacket. Then, while keeping them covered, he opened the door, leaned out, put fingers to his lips and whistled.

  Footsteps on the stairs. In a moment two men, one large, one smaller, both blond with close-cropped hair and narrow-set eyes, came into the room. “Help him.” Schlaben gestured to the priest on the floor, who was shaking so much he was struggling to put together what he’d so easily dismantled earlier.

  It was the bishop who finally spoke, outrage in his voice. “You are robbing us? Robbing the church?”

  The faintest smile came to the German’s thin lips. “Consider it a down payment, Your Holiness,” he replied. “This country will soon be in a civil war. Mein Führer, Adolf Hitler, will wish to support those who se
ek a return to order, and an end to godless Bolshevism. He will send arms, men.” He nodded. “I will make sure that the proper departments are notified and that your contribution to a great cause is noted.”

  “Cause?” The bishop’s voice cracked in anguish.

  “Yes.” Schlaben’s eyes glimmered behind his steel frames. “In a few days the sixteenth Olympic games start in Berlin. And alongside the sport, the most cultured city in the world will mount a cultural Olympiad. This…discovery—” he gestured down to the cupboard, near fully assembled now “—will be a wonderful surprise for mein Führer, who is, of course, a great artist himself. A revelation to launch it.”

  “A…revelation?” The bishop’s reply came on a shout. Furiously he rushed forward.

  The gun’s crack, loud in the small space, set Roxy’s ears ringing. She raised her hands to them. The stench of cordite filled the cellar, as the bishop collapsed to the floor.

  “Foolish,” said Schlaben.

  “No!” the younger priest cried out, dropped to the floor, seized the bishop, pulled him onto his lap. The man’s head lolled, his eyes open.

  Roxy saw the light in them fading, fading…gone. Lightless eyes, like those of a man lying under a trolley car’s wheels on a New York street. The echo of pistol shot changed, transforming from bass growl to whine. It took away all other sound. She saw the young priest cry, could not make out the words he wailed. Schlaben spoke to her, and she did not hear him as she slipped down the wall. Shapes moved before her—the German’s two henchmen speedily completing their task, then lifting the mahogany cupboard. Schlaben swung the door open and they marched out.

  Their leader turned back and surveyed those who remained, the living and the dead. She saw his lips shape a familiar phrase. “Auf Wiedersehen,” he must have said, as he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Within the whine, the sound of the key clicking in the lock was so loud.

  The man beside her crossed quickly to the door; pulled at it, to no avail. Then he turned. His lips moved around more words.

  “You bitch.”

  The words, though she didn’t hear them, let her in. It took her only another moment to recognize him. To realize that he’d been there that other time, the first time, when she’d witnessed Death come and take someone.

  “Sydney Munroe.” His name, spoken in her head, was an “open sesame.” It brought her hearing back. The priest was rocking the bishop’s body, speaking some prayer through his tears.

  Munroe lurched toward her. “You stupid, stupid bitch,” he shrieked.

  She found her voice worked again. “Why is this my fault?”

  “You brought him.”

  “I was given a name. I wasn’t going to hang around for—”

  She broke off. He’d stopped right in front of her, his vast face crimson, his hands clenching and unclenching. Now he bent down toward her. “I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

  She recognized the moment. She’d been there rather too often in the last seven years—the Last Chance Saloon. There wasn’t much of a chance here. But she’d discovered that “not much of a chance” seemed to have become her middle name. Which was why, as the man bent, she’d already reached to her right ankle, into the fold of her thick wool sock. So now she drew out her grandfather’s derringer and pulled the hammer back. The pistol gave a loud click as she raised it and stuck it in Munroe’s face.

  According to the family legend, Grandpa Loewen had plied the gambler’s trade on the Mississippi riverboats and had once killed, with this gun, a man who’d cheated him at five card stud. Or who he’d cheated—the story was a little unclear. She’d believed it as a kid, though later she doubted, thought it could be just another of the tall tales her dad would tell her late into the night when she couldn’t sleep. But like her mother’s rabbit’s foot, she carried it for luck. The antique weapon worked; she’d made sure of that. The drawback was that it only had one bullet. Still, she’d always believed there would be a time when one bullet was all a gal would need.

  As now. “Back off,” she said.

  Munroe’s eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the tiny weapon in her hand. “That…that is a toy,” he blurted.

  “Not really.”

  “It couldn’t hurt a bird.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  The priest on the floor was still clutching his boss, dead now. He was intoning something; Latin, she thought. For a few long seconds it was the only sound she heard—unless you counted the distinct clicking of Munroe’s mind.

  The big man smiled, though she could see the effort it took.

  “Young lady,” he said, spreading his hands in a peaceful gesture, taking a step back. “I have underestimated you once again.” He gave a strangled chuckle. “You really are most formidable.”

  “Save it,” she replied. “And back off.”

  “Indeed.” He drew back the chair he’d formerly occupied, sat. “Is that better?” he inquired.

  She didn’t answer. Used the wall to lever herself off the ground. Keeping the gun on him, she moved around the men on the floor to the door and rattled the handle. The lock was rusted and old.

  “Ah, yes! I can see the way your mind is working, Miss Loewen. You hold the immediate solution to our problems in your hands. A, uh, derringer, is it, has only one bullet, yes? You could use it to shoot out the lock.” Munroe nodded. “Our German friend will be making straight for the airport. I have a car outside. We could catch him.” He held out a hand. “An alliance? I will play straight with you from now on. Pay you.” He tapped the briefcase still on the table. As she studied him, he continued, “Think how many of your father’s debtees you could pay off with ten thousand dollars. Especially if, perhaps, I lessen your debt to me?” He smiled. “Come. Shall we shake on it?”

  He held out a hand. She lowered hers, the one with the gun.

  His miscalculation was to mention her dad. The hand he offered had once shaken Richard’s. And her father had always put more faith in a man’s handshake than in the smaller clauses of a contract. Munroe was right about one thing, though. The derringer had only one bullet. Which meant she had one choice.

  She glanced at the lock again. A single bullet might spring her. This game wasn’t over. Far from it. Because wasn’t she being paid to get the painting to Berlin? Berlin—where Jocco waited.

  She looked at Munroe again. Hadn’t he been about to attack her? Mightn’t he attack her yet?

  Distant shouts came. Gunfire. People were being shot in Madrid every day. What was one more?

  Roxy “not much of a chance” Loewen had a single bullet and a choice. Though when she thought about it, it was not really any choice at all.

  “Roxy?” Munroe wasn’t smiling anymore. “Don’t do anything foolish now.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” She stepped forward. “On your knees.”

  “I—”

  “On your knees!”

  Munroe pushed back the chair, knelt. “Please don’t do this!”

  “Isn’t that what my father said to you that day on Fifty-Second Street?”

  Munroe’s lips moved. No words came out. It was like she was deaf again. And yet she wasn’t. Every faculty was clear as she stepped closer. Until the gun was six inches from her enemy’s head.

  “Please,” he begged.

  FIVE

  REUNION

  SOMEHOW, THEIR FINAL CRIES HARMONIZED. HIS BASS, HER alto a near perfect fifth above.

  Through the poverty-thin walls of the misnamed Hotel Superior, someone started to clap. A “Bravo!” came. “Take a bow,” she whispered, and they both began to laugh, the beard he’d grown during their separation tickling her neck. She suddenly went all sensitive, her nerves tingling. She shoved him away. He flopped onto his back and they laughed some more.

  Jocco rolled off the narrow bed, went to the window and pulled back the mesh curtains. “Hey!” she called. “We’re not in Africa. No scary beasts here.”

  He turned. “You are wrong
. The beasts in Berlin are scarier than anywhere else.”

  And he’s back, she thought, sighing, pulling herself up so she could lean against the metal bed frame. She reached for the roll-up cigarette that had gone out as they’d made love, lit it and regarded him. She just had to accept that with him she was not going to get any after-sex canoodling. Even after fabulous reunion sex. The short moment of laughter had been unusual—Jocco would always be a “get up and go” kind of guy. Business done, next business.

  He came back to the bed, took the cigarette, pulled in a deep drag, then breathed it out as he spoke. “So, Roxy?”

  “So, Jocco?”

  “You know what today is?”

  She sighed again. How many of their conversations had begun with that question? “Let me guess. Karl Marx’s birthday? No, wait! Of course. Silly me.” She struck her forehead. “It’s the anniversary of the storming of the Potemkin.”

  He shook his head, sat. “That was in June. Today is August 1. Today the Olympics begin here in Berlin.”

  “I knew that.” She did. That rat Schlaben had told her as much in Madrid. He’d stolen the Fall of Icarus to launch some sort of arts Olympiad to go with the sporting one. Then, after Madrid, sitting at Orly in France, she’d had nothing to do, and no money to do it with anyway because of what she’d paid to replace the piston pins that had finally burned out. Only when they arrived from London and were fitted was she able to fly on. So she’d read old newspapers.

  The press had been full of the story for what felt like years. She knew that they were controversial, these games. Many countries had wanted to boycott them, to protest Nazi Germany’s behaviour to its own people, especially their harassment of Jews. In the end, the boycotts all fell away when her own country, the US, opted to attend. Quite right, she thought, taking the cigarette back. Politics and sport had to be separate. She was pretty sure Jocco wouldn’t agree. Fortunately, he didn’t launch into one of his diatribes on oppression.