The Forger (26 page)

*   *   *

W
E DECIDED TO WALK
home rather than take the car. There was a curfew, but we had been given a pass to show to any police who might stop us.

“People will see us as collaborators,” said Fleury. “Going to embassy parties. That’s why we left in such a hurry.”

“Once they found out what we were really doing,” I told him, “that would change their minds.”

“What makes you think you’ll have a chance to explain?” Fleury asked. “This man Tombeau,” he went on. “He’s going to look after us, isn’t he?”

“You can ask Tombeau yourself,” I replied. “We’re meeting him tomorrow.”

The way we got in touch with Tombeau was to call a taxicab company called Moto Fabry and ask to be taken to 100 Rue Voisin. There was no such address, but a cab would come along and Tombeau would be driving it.

I made the call the following morning and sat with Fleury at my kitchen table, which was the only table in my apartment. I tried to teach Fleury how to play poker. I was left with the feeling that once he’d learned it, if I were foolish enough to gamble with him, he would rob me blind.

Finally, the buzzer rang. Tombeau announced himself with gruff impatience.

When Fleury and I reached the street, we were surprised to see that Tombeau’s taxi was in fact only half a car, with the front seats and the engine taken out. In place of these parts of the car was a small motor scooter, which was attached to the rear with two welded metal pipes. Tombeau sat on the scooter, wildly revving its little engine. His shoes were wooden-soled, which had become a fashion of necessity now that leather was scarce.

“What is this
contraption?
” asked Fleury, his nose in the air.

Tombeau was in no mood to explain anything. “Just get in!” he shouted over the shrill, pathetic buzzing of the engine. “There’s plenty of room.”

There was not plenty of room. Fleury and I clambered into the back, shoulders hunched to make space. The exhaust was hot and rude in our faces. We moved almost at a walking pace down the road. People stopped to watch us crawl past.

“It’s sort of a motorized rickshaw,” said Fleury, trying to sound jolly, but at the same time arching his back with discomfort.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” shouted Tombeau. “It’s what’s left of my damned cab! I got in an accident last week and this was all they could salvage. Besides, gasoline has gotten too expensive. This is more economical.”

Tombeau wore a floppy cap. His big square head craned forward. One enormous fist gripped the wheel. The other yanked the gearstick around so viciously that I felt sorry for it. Tombeau was a hopeless driver, almost as bad as Pankratov, and swore almost as colorfully. His obscenities flowed together in one long incantation of rudeness. Tombeau explained that he had resigned from the French police before the Germans arrived, giving an excuse of ill health. Then he went to work for Moto Fabry. “The Moto Fabry company,” he explained, “is run by a group called Fabry-Georges. They’re gangsters. They run gambling and protection rackets. Fabry-Georges have businesses all over Paris. Now that the Germans are here, they’re hiring themselves out to do any dirty work the Germans don’t want to do themselves.”

“So what are you doing working for Fabry-Georges?” I asked.

“It’s the safest place to be,” he shouted over the whine of the straining engine. “Who’s going to question which side I’m on now?”

Fleury asked him to explain why Dietrich and Abetz seemed to be in competition with each other for paintings.

“Dietrich works for the ERR,” said Tombeau. “That’s a completely different organization from the embassy. The ERR have already taken over the Jeu de Paume and are stockpiling paintings there.”

I asked Tombeau where these paintings were coming from, since Dietrich had told me the Germans promised not to raid the property of French citizens.

“It’s from Jewish collections and galleries. The Rothschilds. The Wildensteins. The Jews have been designated enemies of the German state and anything they own is considered stolen property. They’ve already raided the Jacques-Seligmann Gallery on the Place Vendôme.

“The ERR comes under the protection of Hermann Göring himself,” continued Tombeau. “So far, he’s made two trips to the Jeu de Paume and has bought over sixty works of art—sketches, paintings, statues, furniture. Whatever he wants.”

“Why is he bothering to buy them? Why doesn’t he just take them?” I asked.

“Göring might as well be stealing them,” replied Tombeau. “He brings in his own appraisers to the Jeu de Paume. They undervalue whatever painting he wants. Then he knocks the price down even further. No one lifts a finger to stop Göring and Abetz wants the same kind of deal. That’s why he wants you to work for him instead of Dietrich.”

“Which one should we choose?” asked Fleury.

“Choose neither,” ordered Tombeau. “Just get them both to trade you as many paintings as you can before they get shipped off to Germany and we never see them again.”

“How long do you expect this to last?” I asked him.

He glanced at me with his big, deep-set eyes and then snapped his head back to the road. “It depends on how good you are. A lot of German buyers are getting the artwork back to Germany as quickly as they can and stashing it away in warehouses. They don’t have time to examine the pieces as thoroughly as they should.” Now we were going in circles round the Place de la République. “Nevertheless, I hope you’re as good as Pankratov says you are.”

“I’m more worried about your driving than his painting,” said Fleury.

Tombeau laughed through his clenched teeth with an intermittent hissing sound, like air being squeezed out of a ball.

We hurtled through the intersection of Rue des Pyrénées and Avenue Gambetta. The traffic was being directed by a caped gendarme with long white gauntlets on his hands. The gendarme stared bug-eyed as Tombeau’s taxi passed by only a few inches from him. The policeman’s cape wafted up in his face, and by the time he had pulled it down, we were already far away. His white-gloved hands waved madly as he cursed us.

Tombeau stopped the cab at the beginning of the Rue de Lille, about ten houses down from the German Embassy. The red banners hung limp in the still morning air.

It was time for our meeting with Abetz.

Tombeau turned to face us. His forehead was pebbled with sweat. “Now go kiss some arses for the glory of France.”

*   *   *

A
N EMBASSY STAFFER DIRECTED
us around to a door at the side of the building.

The only signs that there had been a party the night before were black smudges on the sidewalk, where cigarettes had been stamped out.

We had our names checked at a desk by a pretty but stern-faced woman whose hair was knotted in what looked to be a painfully tight bun at the back of her head. The hammering clatter of typewriters filled the little rooms that we passed by. We were shown downstairs to a basement office, and told to wait.

Fleury sat down and closed his eyes with a catlike smile. He didn’t seem the least bit nervous.

I wanted to ask how he managed to stay so calm.

Only a few seconds had gone by when a man in military uniform stepped into the room. He looked younger than I was and had several medals on his chest. I noticed the motto on his belt buckle:
GOTT MIT UNS.
He sat behind the desk and drummed his fingers on the pale green blotter as if giving himself some imaginary fanfare of introduction. “I am Leutnant Behr,” he said. “I am a military attaché with the embassy. I’m responsible for purchasing works of art for Ambassador Abetz.”

“What’s the army got to do with art?” Fleury talked to the young man like a schoolmaster speaking to a boy who couldn’t remember his lessons.

From the glazing of the soldier’s eyes, it was clear that Fleury had already struck a nerve.

I found myself staring at the small eagle and swastika done in silver thread that was stitched above his right chest pocket. With each breath, it seemed to spread its wings and let them fall again.

“Before the war,” said Behr, “I was apprenticed to Mr. Hasso Dietz of the Dietz art gallery in Berlin.”

“The Dietz Gallery.” Fleury drawled out the words. “Oh, yes.”

“I joined the army, but after the fighting in Poland they sent me here.”

“Lucky you,” said Fleury.

“Luck nothing,” replied Behr. “That stint at the gallery was just something my uncle found for me as a summer job. I didn’t give a damn about art before I started at the gallery, and when I was finished, I gave even less of a damn. I signed up to fight. Not to sit here and do nothing. I’m getting out of here as soon as I can.”

“Where is the ambassador?” asked Fleury.

“The ambassador is busy,” said Behr, straightening his back. “I will be acting as the ambassador’s representative in all future dealings with you. Now.” He spun in his chair to face the notice board, ripped a document off the cork with one sharp motion and then spun to face us again, leaving one white triangle of paper still tacked to the board. “Here is what I would like from you.”

“Tell you what,” said Fleury. “Let me tell you what I can do for the ambassador. That will save us all some time.”

Behr glared at Fleury for a moment. Then slowly he eased his chair away from the desk. He tilted it back on two legs, until he was resting against the wall. He flipped the document onto the blotter. Then he folded his arms across his stomach. “Fine,” he said.

“You’re looking for works by artists such as Rembrandt, Vermeer, Correggio, Hals, Titian, Dürer, Brueghel. Is that right?”

“Yes, yes,” droned the young man, “and Velázquez, Holbein, Cranach and Van Dyck. All of them.”

“And,” continued Fleury, “you have no interest in artists such as Dufy, Sisley, Corot and the like.”

“I wouldn’t even say their names out loud in here if I were you.”

“Very good,” said Fleury. “But you have a stock of paintings by these artists. Confiscated from the Rosenberg Gallery, the Wildenstein Gallery, the Bernheim-Jeune Gallery. Am I right?”

Behr raised his chin almost imperceptibly. “You might be.”

“For exchange perhaps.” Fleury picked Behr’s pen off the desk. He turned it around in his hand.

“Possibly.” Behr watched his pen, as if he were going into a trance.

“I’ll get you the paintings you’re after,” said Fleury. “This gentleman here is my”—he paused—“my field agent. Yes.” He liked this title he had given me and he said it again, as if to make it official. “Field agent. His particular skills are useful in this difficult time.”

“I don’t need to know where they come from,” said Behr.

“Naturally.”

“Everything will be paid for,” said Behr. “We will open an account in your name and will make deposits in Reichsmarks. It’s all here.” He tipped forward and tapped his index finger on the document. “It will all be typed up once you have agreed.”

“Ah,” said Fleury. It was a slow and cautious word that he breathed out, to show there would be no agreement yet.

Behr looked up. “‘Ah’ what?”

“Payments will be in gold bullion,” Fleury told him, “or I’ll take other paintings in trade.”

“I’m not authorized to give you bullion!” snapped Behr. He had gone red in the face. He picked at the iron cross that was pinned to his chest pocket, as if the pin had gone through to his flesh. “Who do you think you are?”

“I’m someone who can get you a painting by Cranach. I can have it by this time next week.”

“Cranach.” Behr repeated the name quietly. Three creases crumpled the skin of his forehead. “Lucas Cranach?”

Fleury nodded.

Behr swiped a thumb across his chin. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Why don’t you see about it now?” Fleury smiled at him patiently.

Behr’s shoulders slumped momentarily as he gave up being in charge. The name of Cranach had worked on him like the trigger of some long-ago hypnosis. He left the room without a word.

I stared at Fleury in amazement as he reached across to a wooden box on Behr’s desk. He opened it and held it out to me. “Would you like one of this little man’s cigarettes?”

I declined, so Fleury lit up on his own. He puffed contentedly until Behr returned.

“All right,” said Behr. He stopped and smelled the smoke. Then he seemed to dismiss the idea that anyone could possibly have swiped one of his cigarettes. “As long as you agree to exchanges of paintings as a preference to bullion.”

“Done,” said Fleury, “as long as you have paintings to trade.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Behr leaned across the desk. He wanted to have the last word. “You’d better have that Cranach and it had better be the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen or I’ll kick your pompous arse all over this city. I told you I didn’t want this job and people like you are the reason why. This isn’t the kind of war I should be fighting.”

Fleury’s lips had gone a little crooked, as if he were trying to stop himself from laughing. “You’ll put up with me, Mr. Behr,” he said, “because I’ll make your bosses happy. And they’ll make you happy. Promote you out of this mausoleum of an office. Get you back to killing people, or whatever it is that you were born to do.”

*   *   *

“T
HAT POOR LITTLE MAN
,” said Fleury, as we made our way down the Rue de Lille. “He’ll work as hard as he can now, in the hopes that they’ll reward him with a transfer back into
action.
” He said the word sarcastically. “The trouble is that the better he does, the less likely they are to let him go. I wonder if he’ll ever figure that out.”

I walked beside him in a reverential silence.

“That gold bullion bit was a nice touch,” I told him.

“It was no touch at all,” said Fleury. “All those Reichsmarks aren’t going to be worth anything if these Germans lose the war.”

“I take it you plan on getting rich,” I said, trying not to sound disgusted.

Fleury stopped and spun on his heel. He eyed me with curious amusement. “If my own country is going to turn me into a collaborator, I intend at least to profit from the experience. Besides, they need me.
You
couldn’t have done what I did in there. There’s a secret to dealing in art that none of you artists ever seem to figure out. It always amazes me how you manage to get anything done without people like me to look after you. What’s true or false or valuable or worthless all comes down to this”—and he pointed one finger directly at his eye—“whether I blink before you do.”