A Brush with the Enemy

A Brush with the Enemy.

A Novel

By Sam Sparks

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

Copyright © 2017 Sam Sparks. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

To contact the Author email: info@samsparks.net

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Other books by Sam Sparks

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 in the catalogue were destroyed. In defiance of the order, three works by the Surrealist Miró, were sequestered under a false premise by a Sicherheitdienst (SD) officer, Standartenfuhrer Otto Dieckmann. Since the SD was the intelligence arm of the SS, nobody raised an objection.

These pieces 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 the SD man. Even twenty years later.

In her panic to get away, she fell against the hall table before crashing on to the floor.

Hired help for Yvette Dufour’s abduction pinned her 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 that had been her home in Amsterdam’s Prinsengracht, since almost the end of the Second World War.

Yvette woke up with a view of the Aegean across to the Turkish mainland and made a silent scream. Behind her sat the ex SD officer.

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 her mother’s Dachshund under a table whimpering. In an increasing state of panic, she rushed round all the rooms calling her mother’s name. She phoned the police and then her Aunt Monique in Paris. That was three months ago. No progress on the investigation was forthcoming. As Yvette had gone missing before, but this was different. The case was grinding to a halt.

A work of art 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 and 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 one hundred thousand dollars for the work in Paris two days before. So what, he wondered, had possessed Dahl to trash the work.

Red in the face and unable to verbalise, 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 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 his friend Abdul. However, it was out of the question to raise an objection. It put Hans 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 lip service to the task, as had been his intention. 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 hanging 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 her 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 wouldn't entertain small talk.

He was right. 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, but he’d disappeared. For the second time that day, Hans had to pay for information.

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.

They started the rounds of the local hotels. Sabine would make the enquiry at the reception desk and Hans would give her the impression he was scouting around.

Hans and Sabine entered the Hotel Auberge through the imposing revolving doors. The lobby area was sumptuous with marble floors, ornate mirrors and