It was dark and quiet when Hess dragged Max’s plastic-wrapped body through the garage and out the rear door, and rolled him into the hole and filled it in with dirt. When he was finished he went in the garage, locked the door, stripped off his soiled tee-shirt and dirt-caked shorts and walked naked through the house to the guest bathroom.
He showered and dressed in a pair of Max’s trousers and a blue cotton shirt, went in the kitchen and poured a much-needed glass of Macallan. He sat at the kitchen table, going through Max’s wallet, which held two $20 bills, a $10, a $5 and a $1. Hess studied Max’s face on his Ohio driver’s license. Max had a bigger nose and grayer hair but other than that they really did look remarkably similar. He practiced forging Max’s signature with its big dramatic flourishes, and finally wrote one that looked passable.
In the morning, Hess, wearing Max’s white terrycloth robe that had the faint smell of aftershave, walked through the garage, out the door, and surveyed his work from the night before. There was a convex mound where he had buried Max and filled in the hole with dirt. And now, despite the missing flowers, there was nothing suspicious about the garden.
Hess carried Max Hoffman’s wallet in his back pocket as he drove south down the coast in Max’s light green Chrysler New Yorker that was the size of a motor yacht and only had two doors, stopping at a restaurant in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. He ordered eggs over easy, sausage, toast and black coffee. He’d brought the Palm Beach Post with him and perused it while he ate. There was a small one-column article about the murder in Palm Beach and the same sketch and description he had seen in yesterday’s paper.
On the next page was a photograph of Tony and Denise Brank under a headline that said Hijacked Couple Back Safely in South Florida. A Bahamian fisherman had rescued the shanghaied American erotic film producer and his actress wife on a remote island in the Bahamas. U.S. Coast Guard officials said the Branks’ fifty-one-foot Hatteras pleasure yacht had been returned to them.
After breakfast, Hess stopped at Publix, bought enough food for a few days and went back to Max’s house.
Fifteen
Zeller had underestimated Harry Levin, sure he was in control of the situation when Levin walked in his house. Surprised when the man pulled a gun on him. It was embarrassing. This scrap-metal dealer had made him look like an amateur. Zeller wasn’t convinced Levin or the journalist knew where Hess was hiding anyway.
But that was all moot now after he had received a call from his answering service telling him Ingrid Bookmyer had the information he had been waiting for. Zeller flew back to Munich and was waiting in Ingrid’s apartment the next evening, sitting in an easy chair in the darkness of the salon when he heard a key in the lock and saw the door open, casting light across the foyer. Ingrid entered the apartment, dropped her keys and purse on a table and turned on a lamp. She moved toward him but turned right into the kitchen. Zeller saw a light go on and heard the rattle of utensils. He heard the refrigerator open and close, the sound of a cork popping.
Ingrid came out of the kitchen into the dark salon and now Zeller turned on the lamp that was next to him on an end table. Ingrid, startled, dropped the wine glass. It hit and shattered on the hardwood floor.
Zeller said, “Where is Hess?”
“All I have is a post-office box in Pompano Beach, Florida.” Ingrid glanced down at the broken glass and the spilled wine moving in a stream across the floor.
“What does he want you to send him?”
“Money,” Ingrid said.
“Where is it?”
“In the desk. I will show you.”
Ingrid crossed the room, opened a drawer and took out a manila envelope. She came back and handed it to him. The envelope was addressed to Max Hoffman, PO Box 3456, Pompano Beach, FL 33064. “Max Hoffman, is this an alias, or an acquaintance?”
“Herr Hess did not explain.”
Zeller undid the clasp, tilted the envelope and out came five bundles of $100 bills held together with rubber bands. He picked up a bundle and shuffled one of the ends to make sure there were $100 bills all the way through.
“Why would Hess have fifty thousand U.S. dollars?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do.” Zeller reached behind his back and drew the silenced Makarov, training it on her.
“He did business with American companies and traveled frequently to the United States.”
Zeller could see in her eyes there was something else. “Where did Herr Hess get the money?”
“From an art broker in New York,” Ingrid said. “For the Durer.”
“It was a painting?”
“No, I think an illustration. I never saw it.”
“Where did Herr Hess get it?”
“All I know, it was during the war.”
This was getting interesting. He knew the Nazis had stolen thousands of paintings and artwork from occupied countries throughout Europe, from private collections and museums, from churches and synagogues. Zeller was intrigued by the possibility that other stolen paintings might exist. He thought of the Van Gogh that Hess’ wife had mentioned, and it occurred to him — this is what Braun was after. Hess’ alleged war crimes had nothing to do with it. Hess being on the run gave Braun the opportunity.
Zeller had searched Hess’ estate in Schleissheim, his place of business and his apartment. There were no paintings. Where would Hess store them? He would need a place with controlled temperature and humidity. The Nazis had hid their stolen treasures in caves and salt mines for that very reason. “Does Herr Hess own property in the country?”
“I would have no idea.”
“Does he own a chalet or a summer home? Is that where the other paintings are stored?”
Ingrid fidgeted with her hands. “I don’t know anything about other paintings. I only know Herr Hess had the Durer and brought it to a broker in New York. It was authenticated and sold.”
“Who is the broker?”
“A man in New York named Mauer.”
Zeller had seen the name in Hess’ address book. He glanced at the bundles of money in his lap and noticed there was something else in the envelope. It was a copy of Der Spiegel. Of course, she was sending him the article. “Does Hess know about this?”
“I told him,” Ingrid said. “Herr Hess wants to read it for himself.”
Zeller was trying to think if there was anything else he needed from Ingrid, and decided there wasn’t and raised the Makarov.
“I think I misjudged you,” Gerhard Braun said, “You are obviously the wrong man for the job.
“I will have Hess on the twenty-seventh of October,” Zeller said. “I’ll put him in a crate and mail him to you if that’s what you wish.”
“Well, you are confident, I’ll give you that.”
“It has nothing to do with confidence. It’s assurance.”
They were sitting on a stone bench in the English Gardens. Braun wore a long coat buttoned to the neck and leather gloves, smoking a cigar, the smoke mixing with clean cool late October air. Braun could see stands of tall trees that had lost their leaves, stretches of leaf-covered lawn and people scattered about on the walking paths. His driver sat behind the wheel of a black Mercedes sedan twenty meters away, watching them, smoking a cigarette with the window down.