Back from the Dead (20 page)

“They’re gonna be lookin’ for us and we’re gonna be easy to spot,” Cordell said. “Police know what we look like, know what kinda car we’re drivin’. Probably sent our pictures to immigration. Where we goin’?”

“France,” Harry said, holding the Mercedes steady on the dark highway, heading west to Baden-Württemburg.

“What about Austria, isn’t it a lot closer?”

“We think Hess might be going to Nice,” Colette said. “He has a friend who owns a villa outside the city.”

“You’re not wanted in France, are you, Harry?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll cross over somewhere along the Rhine,” Harry said, glancing at Colette. “Do you know a place?”

“Kehl. It’s across the river from Strasbourg.”

“Never been to France,” Cordell said.

“Listen, I appreciate everything you’ve done. But you don’t have to come with us to Nice. If I was you I’d take a train to Paris and catch a plane back to Detroit.”

“I got nothin’ to go home to. You don’t mind, I’ll hang with y’all for a while longer. You never know, you may need some help.”

“We don’t even know if we are going to find Hess,” Colette said. “And if we do, who is he going to have with him? No offense, Harry, I think we need Cordell.”

Harry wasn’t trying to get rid of him. “All right, come with us.”

Harry stopped for gas on the way to Ettlingen, bought a cup of coffee and a map of Baden-Württemburg, opened it at a table in the cafe and drew a circle around Kehl. The guy who worked in the gas station thought it was about 160 kilometers.

When he went back to the car Cordell was asleep in the front seat, and Colette was stretched out in back, snoring. Cordell opened his eyes one time and said, “Yo, Harry, where we at?”

“Just passed Rastatt.”

“Oh yeah? Rastatt, huh?” Then his eyes closed and he was snoring in cadence with Colette, Harry thinking they were a lot of fun to travel with.

He arrived in Kehl a little before 2:00 a.m., drove south through town and west toward the river. He could see the lights of Strasbourg in the distance. Getting a hotel would attract too much attention, so Harry parked in a municipal lot near the Rhinepromenade, turned off the car, rolled the seat back and closed his eyes.

In daylight Strasbourg looked enormous spread out across the river. Harry could see the spire of a church rising above medieval buildings. He woke up Colette and Cordell and drove through Kehl. Approaching the bridge to Alsace-Lorraine, Harry saw German police stopping cars, checking IDs and pulled over. “Got any ideas?” he said to Colette.

“Go back to the docks,” Colette said. “We’ll take a sightseeing cruise into Strasbourg. The ship stops in the old town and you have a couple of hours to see the city.”

Harry bought three tickets for the Kehl-Strasbourg Scenic Cruise. They were on the top deck, sitting in chairs – every seat taken – getting ready to leave when Harry saw the police car creeping through the parking lot past rows of cars, stopping behind his Mercedes rental. He felt a vibration as the engines started. Two cops got out and looked inside his car. One of them said something to the other and pointed at the boat. Deck stewards released the mooring lines.

“Harry, they’re coming this way,” Colette said.

“Stay calm and stay down.” Saying it as much to himself as Colette and Cordell. What happened from here was out of their control.

The cops were moving through the parking lot almost to the dock when the ship started to move, engines laboring then picking up speed, chugging up river.

They cruised north past Strasbourg, passing ships and barges and spectacular views on both sides of the river. Thirty minutes later they crossed over to the French side and came back, taking a canal into the city, docking in the old town. Harry, Colette and Cordell got off the ship with the other passengers and showed their passports to immigration officials.

Harry rented a Peugeot sedan at Hertz, got in behind the wheel and unfolded a map of France, tracing a line with his finger straight down from Strasbourg to Nice. They’d have to go through Switzerland and the western edge of Italy. Harry didn’t like it. He wanted to stay in France, avoid any more foreign borders.

He plotted a course that took them through Mulhouse, Besançon, and Lyons straight south to Avignon, Aix-en-Provence, and then east along the Côte d’Azur. Harry drove eight hours to Aix. Colette directed him to Les Deux Garmons, a brasserie on the Cours Mirabeau. It felt good to get out of the car.

They crossed the street and went in the restaurant. Harry ordered sole
meunière
; Colette
, fruits de mer,
and Cordell, fillet of beef. They drank a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and ate without saying much, had profiteroles and coffee for dessert, and got back in the car.

Cordell took it the rest of the way, found a radio station in Marseille that played Motown, singing along with Stevie Wonder and the Temptations.

“Harry, check this out,” Cordell excited as they passed through Cannes, the city lit up and alive on one side of the car, the Mediterranean on the other – pleasure yachts outlined in lights, anchored in the harbor. “I might like this better than Palm Beach and there ain’t no Colombians tryin’ to blow my head off.”

“Just Germans.”

Traffic was heavy in Nice, people on the street partying, Cordell taking it all in, eyes lit up again. “Might like it here even better.”

Harry directed Cordell to the Hôtel Negresco on the promenade des Anglais, woke Colette up, gave the Peugeot to the valet and checked in, getting a two-bedroom suite at 12:20 p.m., three people and no luggage.

In the morning, Hess went to a men’s shop and tried on clothes. He purchased three white dress shirts, grey trousers, a tweed sport jacket and a black overcoat, the salesman looking at him quizzically. “I’ve waited on you before, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I have never been in your shop, but I can assure you I will return.”

Even in the electrician’s uniform, the salesman thought he knew him.

Hess also purchased socks, underwear, shoes, a belt and a fedora, paid in cash and walked out carrying the new clothes in a shopping bag. He signaled a passing taxi. He noticed a newspaper on the front passenger seat as he opened the door and sat in the back and told the driver take him to his daughter Katya’s school in Oberschleissheim, arriving at 2:53, cars lining the street on both sides, mothers standing in groups in front of the building.

“Here you are,” the driver said.

“I am waiting for someone.”

The driver seemed annoyed. Hess, in the rear seat, could see the man’s eyes watching him in the rearview mirror. He put the window down and smoked a cigarette, seeing schoolgirls in their plaid skirts and blazers coming out of the building. He saw Katya, his only child and the only person he loved, with two friends, laughing, enjoying themselves. Katya was a lot like him, she had the same sense of humor, and the same intolerance for fools. Hess was sorry he had to leave her, regretted that he wouldn’t see her grow up. But he knew that like him, she was self-sufficient. When Katya put her mind to something she did it. This was his last opportunity to see her for a long time, maybe ever.

Hess removed the cap, rubbed his forehead and noticed the driver looking at him again, eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Take me to the railway station.”

“You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

On the way to the station, Hess saw the man glance at the passenger seat, reach over and unfold the newspaper. The driver looked over his shoulder. “Excuse me, I have to stop and make a phone call. I’ll deduct it from the fare.”

They were driving through the village of Schleissheim. He pulled over to the curb next to a small park with a fountain in the center and a bench occupied by an elderly couple in hats, gloves and overcoats. There was a phone booth at the entrance to the park. “I have a train to catch.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

Hess drew the silenced Walther and shot the driver twice through the seatback, the man falling against the steering wheel. He reached between the seats and grabbed the newspaper and saw his face on the front page. He pulled the man away from the wheel, tilting his body sideways across the seats. The train station was at the far end of town. He got out, glanced at the couple on the bench and started walking.

Hess changed in the men’s room in the terminal. The train to Stuttgart arrived at 5:27. He kept to himself, hiding under the fedora and behind a newspaper in a nearly empty second-class car. He disembarked and boarded the 6:12 train to Karlsruhe, across the Rhine from Alsace. It was a quick trip, only about forty kilometers. Again, no one looked at him except the conductor asking for his ticket and that exchange was fast and impersonal.

Hess took a tram into the city, walked around and checked into a small hotel. He was a businessman from Essen on his way to Geneva. He had dinner and two superb glasses of Mosel-Saar at a bistro in Ludwig Square, then he walked back to the hotel, retired to his room and went to bed early.

In the morning he checked out and took a cab to the port. There were dozens of ships and barges being loaded with heavy equipment. He went to the docks and rented a twenty-foot boat with an outboard engine, paid forty Deutschmarks for two hours and set out, heading down river trailing a barge, looking across at Alsace-Lorraine on the other side. The Rhine was crowded, boats going in both directions, faster boats passing him. He stayed on the tail of the barge for an hour under a perfect blue sky, autumn sun warming the chill out of him, and by eleven o’clock he was hot and removed the overcoat.

When the river traffic lessened he crossed over to the French side and took a series of canals into a village. Hess steered to a dock, got out and tied up the boat. The village was small. There was no taxi service or rail line. Hess offered money to a truck driver for a ride to Besançon. From there he took a train to Nice.

Hess opened the sliding door and walked out to the terrace, looking out at homes dotting the hills. He could see Nice in the distance and beyond it the bright blue Mediterranean. He sat at the table drinking coffee, sun coming up over the hills behind him. There was a slight chill in the air, the temperature about sixteen degrees.

The Van Gogh had arrived before he did and was waiting on the desk in his office. He removed it from the crate and carefully unwrapped the canvas, the painting beautifully intact. He had taken it up to his bedroom, leaned it against the wall on top of his dresser.

The sliding door opened. Hess glanced over his shoulder at Marie-Noëlle Despas, the housekeeper born on Christmas Day, coming out with a tray. She served him a croissant stuffed with ham and cheese, pain au chocolat from a bakery just down the road, and more coffee.

“Anything else I can bring you,
monsieur
?”

Hess shook his head and watched her walk back in the house, a stocky farm girl with heavy legs and small breasts, and yet there was something sexy about her. He was sure she was having an affair with the gardener, Claude D’Amore. Hess had seen Marie-Noëlle sneak out of his cottage down the hill at first light. He hadn’t been able to sleep and had been standing on the deck outside his second-floor bedroom. Marie-Noëlle was married to a truck driver who was on the road for days at a time, and Hess could only imagine she was lonely.

Hess had purchased the villa, La Citronneraie, on August 22, 1948, when property in Nice was relatively inexpensive. Between construction projects he would retreat here to drink wine and relax.

He was certain he could live here indefinitely without attracting attention. His only problem was money. His account at Société Générale was down to 1,700 francs, and the
taxe foncière
was due in less than one week. Of the money he had withdrawn from Max Hoffman’s Florida bank account only $9,870 remained. Sooner or later he would have to sell one of the paintings, and it would take time to find a qualified buyer.

Hess showered and dressed, wearing an ascot and a sport jacket. He had a Renault in the garage, a basic car that wouldn’t attract attention, and drove to Galerie Broussard on avenue de l’Hermitage in Monaco. Hess was acquainted with M. Broussard, the owner, who had been with the French Resistance. Mention the war and Broussard would talk about the Nazis plundering art from galleries, museums and private collections. He had lost dozens of paintings from his gallery, which had been in Nice, moving to Monaco after the war.

Hess had stopped by the gallery over the years, planting the seed that he had masterworks by Picasso, Klee and Matisse in his collection that might one day be for sale. “Please keep us in mind,” Broussard had said.

He was thinking about selling the Van Gogh that was in his bedroom. Present
The Painter on the Road to Tarascon
to Broussard and observe his reaction.

Hess was studying a Chagall, remembering his fellow Nazis had described Chagall’s art as full of: “green, purple and red Jews shooting out of the earth, fiddling on violins, flying through the air … representing an assault on Western civilization.”

Hess saw Broussard coming toward him. “M. Chartier, it has been too long. I see the Chagall has caught your eye. This is one of my favorites. You can feel the emotion.” Broussard paused, out of breath. He was overweight and walking across the gallery floor had exhausted him. “Picasso once said, ‘When Matisse dies Chagall will be the only one who knows color.’ ”

“It is magnificent,” Hess said. “But I am here to sell, not to buy.”

“What are you selling?”

“A Van Gogh.”

Broussard blinked with excitement. He rubbed the tip of his long Gallic nose. “When can I see it?”

“I will bring the painting to you.”

“At least tell me the title if you wouldn’t mind.” Broussard could hardly contain his excitement.

“I’ll surprise you.”

“I can’t wait. How about tomorrow morning? Will that be convenient?”

Hess drove back to Nice and had lunch at a restaurant overlooking the harbor. Ordered a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet and a bowl of mussels to start, followed by grilled sea bass, enjoying a leisurely lunch, watching the pleasure boats motor in and out.

On his way to the villa Hess stopped at a cafe on boulevard Gambetta for coffee, sitting outside, the sun on his face, drinking the bitter double espresso in three sips, feeling that surge of caffeinated energy. He paid for the coffee and walked down the street, stopped in a wine shop and bought a Chablis for the cheese, and two bottles of Bonnes-Mares, thinking an earthy Nuits would be perfect with the coq au vin Marie-Noëlle was preparing.