This is the work of the Nuremberg artist, Viet Stoss, commissioned by the King of Poland in 1477. It took ten years to complete. The centre of the triptych shows the Virgin asleep, surrounded by angels. The side panels show scenes from the lives of Jesus and Mary. The predella” — he pointed to the base of the altar-piece- “shows the genealogy of Christ.”
Globus said: “Sturmbannfuhrer Krebs knows of these things. He is one of our brightest officers.”
“I’m sure” said Nebe. “Most interesting. And where did it all come from?”
Krebs began: “The Viet Stoss was removed from the Church of Our Lady in Krakau in November 1939—”
Globus interrupted: “It came from the General Government. Warsaw, mainly, we think. Buhler recorded it as either lost or destroyed. God alone knows how much else the corrupt swine got away with. Think what he must have sold just to buy this place!”
Nebe reached out and touched one of the canvases: the martyred Saint Sebastian, bound to a Doric pillar, arrows jutting from his golden skin. The varnish was cracked, like a dried river bed, but the colours beneath — red, white, purple, blue — were bright still. The painting gave off a faint smell of must and incense — the scent of pre-war Poland, of a nation vanished from the map. Some of the panels, March saw, had powdery lumps of masonry attached to their edges — traces of the monastery and castle walls from which they had been wrenched.
Nebe was rapt before the saint. “Something in his expression reminds me of you, March.” He traced the body’s outline with his fingertips and gave a wheezing laugh. “ ‘The willing martyr.’ What do you say, Globus?”
Globus grunted. “I don’t believe in saints. Or martyrs.” He glared at March.
“Extraordinary,” murmured Nebe, “to think of Buhler, of all people, with these…”
“You knew him?” March blurted out the question.
“Slightly, before the war. A committed National Socialist, and a dedicated lawyer. Quite a combination. A fanatic for detail. Like our Gestapo colleague here.”
Krebs gave a slight bow. "The Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer is kind.”
“The point is this” said Globus, irritably. “We have known about Party Comrade Buhler for some time. Known about his activities in the General Government. Known about his associates. Unfortunately, at some point last week, the bastard found out we were on to him.”
“And killed himself?” Nebe asked. “And Stuckart?”
The same. Stuckart was a complete degenerate. He not only helped himself to beauty on canvas. He liked to taste it in the flesh. Buhler had the pick of what he wanted in the East. What were those figures, Krebs?”
“A secret inventory was compiled in 1940 by the Polish museum authorities. We now have it. Art treasures removed from Warsaw alone: two thousand seven hundred paintings of the European school; ten thousand seven hundred paintings by Polish artists; fourteen hundred sculptures.”
Globus again: “We’re digging up some of the sculptures in the garden right now. Most of this stuff went where it was intended: the Fuhrermuseum, Reichsmarschall Goring’s museum at Carinhall, galleries in Vienna, Berlin. But there’s a big discrepancy between the Polish lists of what was taken and our lists of what we got. It worked like this. As State Secretary, Buhler had access to everything. He would ship the stuff under escort to Stuckart at the Interior Ministry. Everything legal-looking. Stuckart would arrange for it to be stored, or smuggled out of the Reich to be exchanged for cash, jewels, gold — anything portable and non-traceable”
March could see that Nebe was impressed, despite himself. His little eyes were drinking in the art. “Was anyone else of high rank involved?”
“You are familiar with the former Under-Secretary of State at the Foreign Ministry, Martin Luther?”
“Of course.”
“He is the man we seek.”
“Seek? He is missing?”
“He failed to return from a business trip three days ago.”
“I take it you are certain of Luther’s involvement in this affair?”
“During the war, Luther was head of the Foreign Ministry’s German Department.”
“I remember. He was responsible for Foreign Ministry liaison with the SS, and with us at the Kripo.” Nebe turned to Krebs. “Another fanatical National Socialist. You would have appreciated his — ah — enthusiasm. A rough fellow, though. Incidentally, at this point, I should like to state, for the record, my astonishment at his involvement in anything criminal.”
Krebs produced his pen. Globus went on: “Buhler stole the art. Stuckart received it. Luther’s position at the Foreign Ministry gave him the opportunity to travel freely abroad. We believe he smuggled certain items out of the Reich, and sold them.”
“Where?”
“Switzerland, mainly. Also Spain. Possibly Hungary.”
“And when Buhler came back from the General Government -when was that?”
He looked at March, and March said: “In 1951.”
“In 1951, this became their treasure chamber.”
Nebe lowered himself into the swivel chair and spun round, slowly, inspecting each wall in turn. “Extraordinary. This must have been one of the best collections of art in private hands anywhere in the world.”
“One of the best collections in criminal hands,” cut in Globus.
“Ach.” Nebe closed his eyes. “So much perfection in one space deadens the senses. I need air. Give me your arm, March.”
As he stood, March could hear the ancient bones cracking. But the grip on his forearm was steel.
NEBE walked with a stick — tap, tap, tap — along the verandah at the back of the villa.
“Buhler drowned himself. Stuckart shot himself. Your case seems to be resolving itself rather conclusively, Globus, without requiring anything so embarrassing as a trial. Statistically, I should say Luther’s chances of survival look rather poor.”
“As it happens, Herr Luther does have a heart condition. Brought on by nervous strain during the war, according to his wife.”
“You surprise me.”
“According to his wife, he needs rest, drugs, quiet- none of which will he be getting at the moment, wherever he is.”
“This business trip…”
“He was supposed to return from Munich on Monday. We’ve checked with Lufthansa. There was nobody called Luther on any Munich flights that day.”
“Maybe he’s fled abroad.”
“Maybe. I doubt it. We’ll hunt him down eventually, wherever he is.”
Tap, tap. March admired Nebe’s nimbleness of mind. As Police Commissioner for Berlin in the 1930s, he had written a treatise on criminology. He remembered seeing it on Koth’s shelves in the fingerprint section on Tuesday night. It was still a standard text.
“And you, March.” Nebe halted and swung round. “What is your view of Buhler’s death?”
Jaeger, who had been silent since their arrival at the villa, butted in anxiously: “Sir, if I might say, we were merely collecting data—”
Nebe rapped the stone with his stick. The question was not addressed to you.”
March wanted a cigarette, badly. “I have only preliminary observations,” he began. He ran his hand through his hair. He was out of his depth here; a long way out. It was not where to start, he thought, but where to end. Globus had folded his arms and was staring at him.
“Party Comrade Buhler” he began, “died some time between six o’clock on Monday evening and six o’clock the following morning. We await the autopsy report, but cause of death was almost certainly drowning- his lungs were full of fluid, indicating he was breathing when he entered the water. We also know, from the sentry on the causeway, that Buhler received no visitors during those crucial twelve hours.”
Globus nodded. Thus: suicide.”
“Not necessarily, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer. Buhler received no visitors by land. But the woodwork on the jetty has been recently scraped, suggesting a boat may have moored there.”