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.
Thirty-seven
“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.
Thirty-eight
“I think we should follow him,” Harry said, looking out at lights on the promenade, the night sky and the Mediterranean dark behind it. They were sipping evening cocktails in their suite at the Negresco. “See what he’s up to. Make sure he’s at the villa before we go after him.”
Cordell said, “Look for a place to grab him.”