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.
Thirty-six
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?”