Treasure of Saint-Lazare (31 page)

Every fifteen minutes or so a single man would leave, but replacements came only half as often and most of those stayed less than a half hour. At eleven-thirty a thin man wearing a white taguiya came out from under the awning and began to raise it, using a crank he fitted into a socket in the wall. As it rose, they saw the tables and chairs under it were empty, except for one against the wall next to the entrance. Two bearded men sat talking, one with a wine glass of the distinctive balloon shape used for Bordeaux, the other — also wearing a white lace prayer cap — with a small coffee cup.

The two stood, then went into the restaurant. Seconds later, a light came on in the window above the awning. Paul and Eddie ducked instinctively until they realized at the same time that their window would be just another dark rectangle viewed from a lighted room across the street. “Jumpy, aren’t we?” Eddie said with a chuckle.

The men came into view as they walked across the room, then sat down at a table in the center of the room under a bare bulb. The man wearing the taguiya carefully counted ten green 100-Euro notes, then picked up the stack and handed it across the table. The other man counted them again carefully before putting them into a wallet he extracted from the pocket of a brown jacket. He extended his hand across the table for a perfunctory shake, then rose to leave. As he turned away from the window they saw the notch prominently missing from his right ear, starkly silhouetted against the white wall.

“Now’s the time. We’ll never have a better chance,” Eddie said. His voice was as calm and cold as Paul remembered it in Kuwait. “We’ll watch from the lobby to see which way he goes, then take him at the corner. If he goes to the right all the scaffolding around the building down the street will be the perfect place.” A large apartment building fifty yards away was shrouded in scaffolding and netting for the cleaning and surface repairs the city mandates every ten years.

They watched Erich leave the café and turn to their right. He moved without haste, seemingly satisfied with his money and the wine. When he was thirty paces away they left. Eddie crossed the street to come up directly behind him while Paul stayed to provide cover from the other side. He walked fast, a man on his way to an important rendezvous, and quickly pulled abreast of Erich, who glanced at him once and then ignored him as he moved away.

Eddie’s rubber-soled shoes enabled him to catch up with Erich almost silently, so by the time he reached the corner opposite the scaffolding Eddie was only ten yards behind, then five, as Erich headed for the covered sidewalk beneath the scaffolding. He became alarmed when Paul began to cross toward him, and as he put his hand into the right pocket of his trousers Eddie’s hand gripped his wrist like a vise. Paul immediately grabbed his other arm and together they hustled him into the inky shadow of the scaffolding.

“And now we meet the famous Erich Kraft. Or Erich Wetzmuller. Or is it something else?” Eddie asked in English, tightening his grip on Erich’s right arm.

“Fuck you.”

Eddie’s voice dropped an octave to a menacing growl. “Understand this,” he said. “This is not about me. This is about the people you’ve killed and injured. Roy Castor, most recently. My father. My wife and son. The innocent desk clerk at the Hôtel Chopin. God knows who else.”

“I don’t know anything about any of that.”

“Think about something before you take that line. Did you know I killed Dmitri? With my hands? I could do the same to you and sleep like a baby.

“I could turn you over to the Paris police and you’d spend forever in their rat-infested prison system. Or I could take you back to Florida and turn you over to the Sarasota police. That might be the best. Florida still has the electric chair, and I understand they like to use it. Or you can answer my questions and walk away and deal with your own nightmares in your own way. Which will it be?”

Erich sat silently.

“What do you want to know?” he finally asked.

“Everything, from the first time you met Albert Sommers.”

He thought again. “And you mean you’ll let me go? I can look out for myself.”

“You can walk down this
street, go back to Germany, wherever.”

Then, without prompting, Erich confirmed most of what Eddie had picked up from Philippe and Carole Westin. He told how a man in Paris, whom he wouldn’t name, had told him that Al Sommers had a lead on some leftover Nazi treasure and was looking for help in finding it. He knew Erich had an American green card and offered him expenses plus wages and part of the profits for finding out what Sommers wanted and leading the project.

“I thought Sommers was nuts, but he did seem to have some good information. He knew about this old fellow in Paris who knew about the painting, and he knew how the top Nazis had thought, so he was pretty sure there would be hard goods with it, maybe even gold bullion. Al told me his friends Sonny and Dmitri would help me when the time came.

“While I was there I got Jennifer to vouch for me and help me get citizenship. She was pissed that I took her name, but I didn’t have much choice. The Krafts were too well known to Interpol. I’d been visited once or twice by German intelligence. They were trying to make sure I hadn’t linked up with any of the guys my father had run in his Stasi days.”

“Is she part of the gang?” Eddie asked.

“Her? She’s just a woman. She just wanted the money. Al told her he’d give her $100,000 of the proceeds if she’d help with my citizenship and a few other errands. I never knew exactly what. And she liked what I had to give her, too.”

He told of returning to Paris and telling his boss he needed a safe house to question the man Sommers wanted targeted. “He was old, so we figured he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. My boss gave us part of a warehouse he rented in Rennes. That’s after I found out this Mr. Grant went out there every month. Was he your father?”

“He was.”

“I’m sorry he died. It shouldn’t have happened that way. We took him at the Rennes station, in the car rental parking lot, and tied him up in this warehouse. We’d lined the floor and walls with plastic just in case. He just wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t tell us anything. We questioned him a couple of hours until he passed out. Then I went outside for a smoke and to figure out the next step. I told Dmitri and Sonny to watch him, but he waked up and that Russian idiot decided he’d scare him by putting a plastic bag over his head. The idea was to threaten to suffocate him. But just after I got back he had a heart attack and died. We ran his car into a tree in a park nearby and burned it.”

Erich told how he’d reported the death back to his boss, who was furious about it. He was angriest at Dmitri and Sonny, whom he hadn’t wanted to use at all, preferring his own Russian or German muscle, but he was also furious at Erich for leaving the room.

He told Erich that when he reported Artie’s death Sommers already knew about it from Sonny’s telephone call.

“He called the whole deal off. I didn’t hear another word about it until my boss sent me to Sarasota to snatch Roy Castor. But this time our men went with me. He wasn’t about to take the risk of Al’s amateur hour again, and told him so.”

Eddie asked, “Then tell me about my wife and son.”

“I knew it happened after, but I wasn’t involved in it, God help me. I’d never even heard of you until Al called me a couple of weeks ago. All I knew was when my boss told me he’d had a couple of
noirs
killed. It wasn’t nothing to me.”

Before the sentence ended, Eddie struck him violently with the back of his left hand, breaking his nose, which bled copiously through his beard and down the front of his shirt. Erich didn’t flinch or complain.

“Now tell us about Roy Castor.”

“Al called my boss and said he wanted to try again on another old geezer who’d worked with your father. He told us where to be and called when the mark was on the way. I didn’t figure he’d be strong enough to get loose, much less that he’d run straight into the car and get killed. We got out of town as soon as Sonny could take us to the airport.”

“And the next step?” Eddie asked.

“Pick up that semi-sister of mine in Paris, and you as well if we could. The idiots working for me reached for the wrong woman and got the timing all off, and they sure didn’t count on you knowing hand-to-hand like that.” He looked up with grudging admiration.

“Why did you have to stab the hotel clerk?”

“He tried to stop me. I was following my guys until that happened, but I knew the cops would be there soon so I just left the car. Some of the Frogs beat me up pretty good but I finally managed to get away before the police got there. I know they’re still looking for me, which is why I’m in this part of town. Don’t worry — I’ll be somewhere else tomorrow.”

“One more question. Who’s your boss?”

“That’s the one thing I’ll never tell you. I don’t think you’ll kill me, but he would if I told you anything that could lead back to him. I won’t tell you.”

Eddie thought for a moment, then said, “That’s all, then. Walk north up this street and we’ll go the other way. Before you leave, give me one of those 100-euro notes you got back above Le Stop.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t I’ll hogtie you with your own belt and carry you to the police myself. And if you do I’ll give you the 100 euros back. I just want one of those bills.

“Paul, can you give him the cash?”

“Sure.” Paul reached into his wallet to extract two orange 50-Euro notes and held them out to Erich, who pulled one of the 100s carefully from his pocket. Eddie kept his grip on Erich, but with his other hand reached for his own handkerchief, which he folded around the note without touching it and carefully returned to his pocket.

Then he pushed Erich away from him just strongly enough to keep him from pulling the knife in his pocket. Paul stepped aside as Erich staggered past.

“You should hope you never see me again,” Eddie told him in a level voice.

They waited until Erich was 50 yards away, then started back down Rue de Suez toward Le Stop.

“I’m going in to see the owner,” Eddie said to Paul. “You wait on the street just in case. It won’t take long.”

The bearded man in the prayer cap was sweeping the floor when they arrived. Most of the lights were off but the door opened to Eddie’s push.

“We are closed, monsieur,” the owner said.

“I have something to show you.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief, opening it so the man could see the banknote.

“You gave this note less than an hour ago, in the room directly above us, to a man with the first name of Erich, and several last names, and he gave it to me. It has both his fingerprints and yours. In fifteen minutes it will be in the hands of the security police. That is all I wish to say to you, other than good night.” He backed away from the shocked owner, pulled open the door, and walked into the night. At the métro he bade Paul good night and picked up his iPhone to call Philippe who, he suspected, would not be pleased.

Philippe exploded. “You let him get away? What kind of idiotic thinking was that?”

“Before he got away I was able to get from him a 100-euro note with his fingerprints and the prints of the man who gave it to him, the owner of a café called Le Stop on Rue de Suez. I suspect they will lead you where you want to go. Would you like me to bring the banknote to you now? It’s pretty new, so you should be able to find the prints easily.”

“No. Take it to the
préfecture
. I’ll call them about it. I’m sorry he got away. I’m sure you are, too.”

“I hope you can catch him. He deserves even more than you can do to him.”

“We can do a lot to his type, but the fingerprints are all we can do tonight, I suppose. Take the note to the
préfecture
right away, and I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow night. Margaux will decide where we go. Check with her.”

He took the métro to Châtelet then walked the two blocks to the
préfecture
. At the door two uniformed policemen stood guard. He approached the older one.

“Monsieur l’agent,” he began politely. “I have just spoken to Commissioner Cabillaud and he has asked me to bring this evidence to you. He will call the appropriate officer with instructions.” He held out his handkerchief and the 100-euro note so the befuddled policeman could see it. “He has asked that I meet him immediately, so may I ask you to deliver this to the senior officer on duty tonight?”

The policeman was suspicious that Eddie could not deliver the note himself and resisted, but his younger colleague finally said, “I’ll take it in.” He held out his hand for the handkerchief, then turned and went into the building.

Eddie turned and left, relieved. He did not think Philippe would order him questioned but he didn’t want to take any chances, so he went home as quickly as he could.

Jacques had hinted
strongly that the treasure might never have left the Count’s house, that the SS contact was imaginary. Even though he was an enthusiastic and well-known collaborator he would have been suspect, especially among the anti-Frank contingent in the German Army, which was strong. And the Germans were scrambling like rats trying to find a way off their sinking ship. The odds were high that he had never called the SS.

Aurélie found that the house had been sold in 1979, then almost immediately torn down and replaced with an apartment building. But the new building was built on only part of the property. The Count’s ancestors had assembled several parcels between 1770 and 1775 and added more just as the legal system was changing to the Code Napoléon. In 1865 a strip of the property was sold to the French government for installation of new tracks into Gare Saint-Lazare. As a result of all the purchases and sales, title to part of the lot was no longer clear. An additional disadvantage was that the grand townhouse overlooked the deep trench housing the railroad tracks.

The buyer decided to build the new apartment building on the part to which he had unquestioned title, which happened to coincide with the cellar, so he built the building over the existing two-story basement, reducing his construction costs substantially. The upper level he subdivided into storage for his tenants, the second he held in reserve. He had planned to build a restaurant on the other part of his land as soon as he received clear title, but by the time that happened France was deep in the recession of the 1980s and there was no appetite for financing a restaurant. Before the recession ended he died and his widow rented the lot to a restaurant across the street, which paved it for parking.