A Brush with the Enemy

PROLOGUE

THE DAY WAS ALMOST over and the evening had come. The remains of a bonfire that would go down in history glowed in contrast to the darkening skies.

A jackboot pushed at the ashes, sparks flew like fireflies.

Five hundred paintings, judged by a Nazi appointed panel of experts to either be of little artistic value or degenerate, were incinerated. Works by luminaries such as Picasso, Miro´, Léger, Ernst and others were now nothing but ashes.

Not quite all the paintings in the catalogue were destroyed. In defiance of the  order, three works by Miro were sequestered under a false premise by a Sicherheitdienst officer, Standartenfuhrer Otto Dieckmann. Since the SD were the intelligence arm of the SS, nobody raised an objection.

These chosen works, typical Surrealist examples were stored in a basement of a house in the sixth Parisian arrondissement for later collection. The SD man secretly admired Miro’s use of bright colours, geometric shapes and semi-abstract objects. He was at odds with his peers on the Kunstschutz Committee (the body responsible for safeguarding the nation’s works of art in times of war). But circumstances conspired against the SD man and the works never left Paris.

Word of the pyre had gone round Paris’ art community. These were the dark days in the Paris of 1943.

Chapter 1

YES,SHE REMEMBERED him alright. Even twenty years later.

In her panic,she tripped over the dog and fell against the hall table before crashing on to the floor. 

Hired help for the abduction held Yvette down. She made no noise, because she simply didn’t have that capacity. A shot was administered to put her to sleep.

Her body was dragged into the back of a van waiting in the alleyway at the side of her beloved art studio. A place, almost a sanctuary, that had been her home in Amsterdam’s Prinsengracht, since the end of the second world war. Yvette woke up with a view of the Aegean and made a silent scream. Behind her sat the ex SD man.

Back in Amsterdam, Yvette’s daughter Maxine arrived to open up the Gallery as usual, she noticed the side door to the flat was ajar. She pushed it open and walked in to find the dog whimpering. In a state of panic she rushed round all the rooms calling her mother’s name. Distraught, she phoned the Police and then her Aunt Monique in Paris. That was three months ago, no progress on the investigation, Yvette had gone missing before, the case was grinding to a halt.

ISLAND OFF TURKISH COASTLINE

A PAINTING IN A HEAVY frame smashed against the picture window. The view across to the Turkish mainland was marred by a lightning shaped crack working it’s way down the glass.

The canvas should have been the latest addition to Dieckmann’s private collection. Except he was now called Rutger Dahl, a necessary name change on his return from exile in South America.

His aide and wartime subordinate, Hans Gottemeyer, stared in disbelief at the wreckage. The  downward line in the window grew and Dahl started to rant.

'Scheisse Scheisse Scheisse!’ he screamed as he kicked the painting around the room.

To Hans,a cynic in most things especially art, the treatment of the work seemed justified. It was just a jumble of juxtaposed images of dogs, ladders and half moons. But he'd handed over some two hundred thousand dollars for the work in Paris the day before, so what he wondered had possessed Dahl to trash the work.

Red in the face and unable to verbalise at all, Dahl clutched his chest. Hans moved a chair under him and grabbed his employer’s medication from the table. The maid, Ferah, came into the room oblivious to the melee that had just occurred. She saw the smashed painting on the floor and Dahl in some distress. She looked across at Hans who smiled but then jerked his head to indicate she should leave. Wary of Dahl, she didn’t need to be told twice.

Some minutes went by and the medication started to work. Dahl began to calm down. He started to speak, but in a whisper. Hans had to get close to hear him. Something about a forgery, did he say? Yes, definitely a forgery and not his fault, good. Dahl blamed himself. Better. Hans started to feel less uneasy, to his dismay, he was ordered back to Paris.

But he was due holiday and had made plans to sail down the coast with Ferah. Out of the question to raise an objection. It put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day. He was Paris bound again, the holiday would have to wait.

Dahl had told him to make contact with Sabine Berthon an ex-member of the much hated paramilitary Milice from the Vichy era. A double blow. He would have to do more than pay the lip service he was intending to his quest. Hans did not want an audience.

After booking into his Left Bank hotel, he went in search of Jules Lourenco the dealer who had tricked him. Hans retraced his steps to an artisan studio unit in the Marais.

As Hans expected to be the case, he was out of luck when he returned to the scene of the con. The heavy archway door was locked and A Vendre sign was in the window.

He made his way to an adjacent unit. Inside, he was hit by the smell of leather hides hung from almost everywhere. He rang the bell on the counter. A minute and another three rings later a Bohemian man in his sixties appeared.  He  wore a purple and yellow badge that invited customers to call him Juno.

‘Oui?’ Juno said in a whisper.

Pointing in the general direction of the former Gallery:

‘Jules Lourenco?’ Hans queried.

Juno treated him to a Gallic shrug and for full effect raised his arms.

Hans pulled out a thick wad of Francs. He noticed the appearance of the cash had raised an eyebrow.

‘Lourenco wo ist?’

Juno scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Hans.

Café Voltaire, Rue des Arts 8 Arr - Lucille

Hans threw some money on the counter and set off to find the Café.

He ordered a Café Crème and took a seat. He reflected that his lack of French language skills reduced the chances of finding his quarry. He would have no choice but to call Mademoiselle Berthon.

After his third coffee he called her from the phone across the road. She would be there within the hour. He saw her approaching, Hans placed her in the early sixties. She had a heavy squat frame, wore her hair up in a bun and a dour two-piece as she all but marched into the Café. He thought that by the look of her, she didn’t do small talk. 

After the briefest of acknowledgements, the hunt was on as Sabine got to business straightaway. She approached the counter. The waitress asked for her order.

Sabine asked for Lucille and found out immediately that was whom she'd addressed. At the mention of the name Lourenco and a request for his

whereabouts she was told he had rented the flat above. However, he’d disappeared suddenly; in fact as Hans worked out later, the day after he had left with the forgery.

Lucille said that Lourenco had expensive tastes. A passion for horse racing and heavy gambling. It was suggested he might be found at the Chantilly racecourse, or at the most expensive nearby hotel. Sabine was pleased with this progress, an enthusiasm not shared by Hans. They went to the racecourse the next day.

It was a fruitless search. They started the rounds of the local hotels. Sabine would make the enquiry at the reception desk and Hans would scout around, to all intents and purposes with his eyes shut. 

There were two more establishments left to try. They entered the Hotel Auberge through the imposing revolving doors. The lobby area was sumptuous, marble floors, ornate mirrors and well-heeled patrons. Waiters either hovered or swept past. A formidable looking Concierge stood behind a desk martialing his staff.

Sabine went to the reception desk and Hans had a walk round.

In the Orangery of the hotel, sat their quarry talking to a woman, his back to the door that Hans would enter through. Lourenco saw him the instant he entered the room, the full-length mirror had supplied him with Hans’s reflection.  Lourenco stood bolt upright up and turned.

Hans greeted him:

‘Guten Tag mein Herr.’

Lourenco started to make for an adjacent exit that led to the gardens. Hans saw Sabine and pointed at Lourenco, she grabbed his arm as he passed and to the horror of guests put him in a restraining hold.

Hans indicated Lourenco should take a seat. Hans with Sabine translating, came straight to the point. All the money back, plus ten thousand dollars for the deception in cash. Failure to comply wasn't an option; Lourenco was made only too well aware retribution would be severe, if not terminal. Also required was the name and location of