Back from the Dead (21 page)

Harry checked the phone book. The only name close to Vincent Chartier was V. Chartier in Antibes, a quaint little town down the coast. The address was a small house just out of town. The owner was a stylish fifty-year-old woman named Vivienne Chartier. She didn’t know a man named Vincent Chartier in Nice. All of her relatives were from Aix-en-Provence and Marseille.

She invited them in for coffee and pastries, Harry thinking this older broad was surprisingly attractive. Colette picked up the vibe and gave him a look that said she did too and he’d better watch himself.

After coffee and conversation with Mme Chartier they drove back to the hotel to get Cordell. He’d left a note in the room saying he was going to walk the beach, scope the topless sunbathers, Harry thinking at sixty-two degrees the locals were going to be wearing parkas, not bikinis.

The concierge had given Harry the name of a high-end real-estate broker who might be able to help them. His office was just down the street. They went there and met M. Gascon, a plump effeminate man with a little mustache who had been selling properties on the Côte d’Azur since the end of the war.

“Mademoiselle
is trying to locate her estranged uncle,” Harry said, referring to Colette. “Her aunt died recently and no one has heard from Vincent Chartier, Uncle Vince, for quite some time. His name is not in the phone book. How do we find him?”

“The property is registered in the uncle’s name?”

“As far as we know,” Colette said.

Gascon looked at her quizzically. “The system of land registration in France is
cadastre
. It is maintained by the French public land registry under the auspices of the tax authority, the Direction Générale des Finances Publiques.”

Gascon might as well have been speaking Chinese for all Harry could understand.

“To find the owner of a specific plot, you must consult the
matrice cadastrale.
You go to the local land registry, the Centre des Impôts Fonciers.”

Harry said, “Is it in Nice?”

“Yes, of course, Nice. On rue Joseph Cadei.”

They took a taxi to the office, waited an hour for the only clerk who spoke English. Gilles, a young longhaired Frenchman, escorted them to an office and sat across a table from them. Harry explained who they were and what they wanted.

“What proof do you have that M. Chartier is your uncle? How do I know you are related to this man? Do you have a passport? A birth certificate?”

Harry could see they weren’t going to get anywhere with this guy unless he took a chance. “I have something better than a passport.” He slid a wad of francs across the table. The clerk stared at the money, Harry wondering what he was thinking.

There was a long silence and then the clerk picked up the bills and put them in his pocket.

Harry said, “Where is the corniche des Oliviers? I don’t see it.” The concierge studied the map that was open on the mahogany hotel counter and pointed to an area north of the city. “You do not see the street name because it is not there. But here you see route de St Pierre de Féric?” The concierge traced the road with his index finger.

Colette leaned in close.

“This road becomes the one you look for.” The concierge pointed again to show Harry. “Right here, past the church.” Harry looked at the maze of winding roads. “How do we get up there?”

“You see boulevard Gambetta?” The concierge pointed to a heavier line on the map that went straight up from the Mediterranean. “Take this to boulevard du Tzarewitch, go left and follow this.” He highlighted the route in red marker.

Harry thanked the man and gave him a ten-franc note and folded up the map. He and Colette sat on a couch in the lobby that was always crowded, always full of people walking around. Harry said, “Are you ready?”

“What are we going to do?”

“Drive up and find the villa.”

“And then what? Are you going to ring the bell?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

Colette frowned.

“If you don’t want to come – ”

“I want to, I’m just nervous, wondering what’s going to happen.”

“Probably nothing. First we have to find it. Then we’ll decide what to do. How does that sound?”

“Okay, Harry. I’ll be your navigator.”

The valet brought the Peugeot and Harry drove along the promenade des Anglais, past the joggers and walkers and blue-and-white beach chairs lined up facing the water. “This is it,” Colette said, the map spread open in her lap. “Turn right.”

Now they were on boulevard Gambetta passing shops and cafes, markets and bakeries. He went left where Colette told him to turn and they climbed a steep incline in a residential neighborhood. He went left again and then right on avenue du Dauphine, climbing higher into the hills on a narrow winding road that didn’t look wide enough for two cars. Driving alongside a brick wall about five feet high added to his feeling of claustrophobia. Harry saw a bus approaching and got over as far as he could. The bus passed inches away. Harry let out a breath. They went around a blind 180-degree turn and through a one-lane brick tunnel, halting at a stop sign at the top of a hill. Harry looked at Colette. “You have any idea where we are?”

“Harry, this is it, this is the road, turn right,” Colette said, looking up from the map.

He turned and they drove up a steeper stretch of road. Out the right side he could look down the valley and see the city of Nice spread out stretching all the way to the Mediterranean. They were on route de St Pierre de Féric. Harry saw a church on the left, and according to the concierge, the road now turned into corniche des Oliviers. Fifty yards further on, Colette pointed to her right and said, “There, Harry.”

He hit the brake and saw number 26 on a black metal gate, the entrance to the villa. Driving by he could see the top floor set behind a six-foot wall made of stone. Harry wanted to stop but there was no place to pull over. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a truck bearing down on them and sped up. Just ahead they came to a small café on the left and pulled in.

“Harry, I can’t believe we’ve found him.”

They’d been lucky to say the least, lucky Anke Kruger had remembered the name Vincent Chartier, and lucky they’d been able to trace the property through tax records. But it didn’t prove Hess was living there, and if he wasn’t there, where was he?

Harry convinced Colette to drop him on the road near the villa.

“I want to go with you.”

“You can’t. There’s no other way to get close. Give me twenty minutes, I’ll meet you at the cafe.”

“I have a bad feeling about this. I think we should come back with Cordell.”

“I just want to see what the place looks like. If I’m lucky Hess will be sitting outside reading a book. I’m not going to take any chances.”

Harry got out of the Peugeot just north of the villa at 26 corniche des Oliviers, using the wall for cover. He walked to the entrance. Looking through an opening in the gate he could see the villa, built on the side of a hill on two levels. The upper level was where you entered. The lower level opened to a deck with lounges and a long dinner table and chairs on one side and a swimming pool on the other side.

Harry saw a stocky woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, cape and scarf come out of the house and walk toward a Fiat parked on the driveway just inside the gate. Harry moved north along the outside wall, walking on the road. He saw a car approaching and turned his back. He heard the gate open and saw the Fiat drive out heading south, and on impulse, he ran back and slipped through the gate as it was closing and ducked behind the garage.

From this vantage point, he could see across the valley, clouds resting on higher hills in the distance. Looking south he could see the red tiled roofs of Nice and beyond it the Mediterranean. Stone stairs led to another level of the property. There was a small shed or cottage at the bottom of the slope. Harry went down to the pool deck. The afternoon sun was slanting through the sliding glass doors and he could see into the house. It was a big room with a lot of furniture, and no one appeared to be in it. A wall overflowing with flowering plants ran north parallel to the villa. A man in a work shirt was trimming a palm tree on the far side of the property.

Harry went back up to the garage and followed the stone walk – looking down at the pool – to the main entrance, assumed the door was locked but it wasn’t. He opened it and stepped into a small marble entryway. Stood listening, but heard nothing. There were two bedrooms on his left. There were stairs that went up and stairs that went down. He went down into an office that had a desk, chair and typewriter. He could see the gardener through the window, wiping his brow and then drinking water out of a bottle.

He sat and opened drawers and found envelopes addressed to Vincent Chartier, a phone bill that listed calls – though nothing long-distance from Germany or the U.S.. He found a water bill, tax bills, bank statements. Okay, so Vince lived here, but he already knew that or assumed it. What was his connection, if any, to Hess?

Harry moved along a hallway that led to the back of the villa, kitchen on the left, wine bottles, fruit and baguettes on the counter, food in the refrigerator. The salon was next, with glass doors that went out to the pool. The gardener walked by, crossed the deck and took the steps to the lower level.

Harry went back upstairs to the main floor, and up to the master bedroom that took up the entire second floor. There was a bed and dresser, chairs and a table, and a sliding door that led to another deck with a view of the entrance gate, garage, and directly below him, the pool. He checked the closet, men’s clothes on hangers. There was a bright-colored painting on top of the dresser, leaning against the wall. He checked the drawers, moved his hand under handkerchiefs that were neatly folded, felt something and brought out a passport. It was a deep red color and said
Republique française
in gold type over a gold crest. Harry opened it, looking at a photograph of Ernst Hess, a younger version, taken many years before. Over the photo it said
Vincent Paul Chartier.

He heard something, looked out the glass door and saw the electric gate opening. The woman in the Fiat had returned, pulling into the short driveway. Harry put the passport back, closed the drawer, ran down the stairs to the front door, opened it and looked toward the driveway. The woman in the hat had a grocery bag in her hand and was leaning over the wall, talking to someone – probably the gardener. Her hat tipped forward and she fit it back on her head.

Harry went out the front door and unlocked a wrought-iron gate in the outer wall, opened it and walked out to the road, his back to traffic, cars zipping by, looking over his shoulder.

Colette was in the cafe parking lot behind the wheel of the Peugeot. Harry got in and looked at her. “Hess is Chartier. I saw his passport.”

“Oh my God. Thinking it is one thing, Harry. Knowing it is something else.”

Now they had to decide what to do with him.

“It smells wonderful in here,” Hess said, walking in the kitchen, putting the paper bag on the countertop and taking out the three bottles of wine. “Nothing like the smell of sautéed onions and garlic.”

“Someone was in the house,” Marie-Noëlle said, slicing mushrooms on a cutting board. “I was returning from the market.” She put the knife down. “Claude was cleaning the pool. I stopped to talk to him.”

“Who was it?”

“I have never seen him before.” Marie-Noëlle’s face was perspiring. She dabbed her cheeks and forehead with a dishtowel.

“Did you ask what he wanted?”

“No,
monsieur.
It happened quickly. I saw something out of the corner of my eye. And when I looked again the man was moving to the wall, and then through the gate to the street.”

“You did not follow him?”

“No,
monsieur.
I wanted to see if anything had been stolen.”

“Was he carrying anything?”

“I could not see.”

“You checked the house. Is anything missing?”

“I do not think so.”

“What did this man look like? Describe him.”

“He had dark hair. Not tall. Not heavy. I did not see his face.”

“Was he a laborer?” Maybe a man looking for work.

“I cannot be sure. I am sorry, M. Chartier. I looked over and saw him, the man surprised me.”

Hess thought there might be a reasonable explanation. The man had been hunting and came up from the valley chasing after his game. “Was he carrying a rifle?”

“I do not know,
monsieur
.”

More likely the intruder had been walking from villa to villa looking for work. No one could possibly know Hess was in Nice. Anke had been to the villa two years ago, but she didn’t know he owned it, and he doubted she would have any idea how to find it. Anke was pretty but not particularly bright.

Hess went out to the pool. Claude was skimming leaves off the surface of the water. The gardener noticed him and said,
“Bonjour, monsieur
.”

“Let me ask you something. Have you seen anyone on the property today?”

“No,
monsieur
.” He rubbed the reddish-brown stubble on his jaw. “Mme Despas asked me. I didn’t see anyone.”

Claude was sleeping with her but always referred to Marie-Noëlle in a formal way.

“Keep your eyes open and your shotgun close.”

“Is there a problem,
monsieur
?”

“If the man returns.”

Hess went back inside. He thought about the painting, ran up to the bedroom: there it was on top of the dresser where he had left it. So evidently the intruder was not an art aficionado. He thought about the passport, checked the drawer; it was there. The villa was owned by Vincent Chartier, Hess’ French alias. He had a forged French passport and French driver’s license, and spoke the language fluently. No one but Anke knew about the villa, and no one but Leon Halip knew that Vincent Chartier was Ernst Hess. All of the bills,
taxe d’habitation
and
taxe foncière,
electric, water and telephone, were paid by Marie-Noëlle from an account at Société Générale. Hess had opened the account with cash, making periodic deposits to maintain enough to cover expenses. The bank statements were mailed to the villa. There was no paper trail that connected it to Hess.

He went to the cellar, staring at the crates that had not been opened since he had purchased the villa, and inventoried the paintings in his head. He had another Van Gogh:
Still Life: Vase with Five Sunflowers,
a Chagall, two Matisses, a Kandinsky, a Klee and several dozen lesser works. He and Braun had taken them from what remained of Hans Frank’s collection at the end of the war, and divided them. Many had “ERR” stamped on the back, confirming they had been stolen by the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, most likely from private collections and museums in France and the Netherlands, and had ended up in Frank’s collection at the palace of Count Potocki, his residence in Krzeszowice.

Frank had been Hitler’s legal adviser and had been appointed governor general of occupied Poland. Hess had met Hans Frank over the years and they had become friends. Both were avid chess players and ardent anti-Semites. Hess and Arno Rausch had visited Frank on their way out of Poland in early January 1945. When they had arrived at the palace, Frank’s men were filling trucks with his collection of confiscated art. Frank was shipping everything to his estate in Tegernsee in southern Bavaria.

After dinner Hess walked Marie-Noëlle to her car. She was wearing the dark brimmed hat, red scarf and green cape, her trademark apparel. He thought she looked like a bullfighter. Hess said good night, opened the electric gate and watched her drive out. He went back to the house, locked the doors, turned off the lights and went upstairs. He loaded the Benelli shotgun and laid it on the bed, barrel pointing at the sliding door on the other side of the room. The Walther was on the table next to him – less than an arm’s length away. The drapes were open. He could see a three-quarter moon and the lights of Nice in the distance.