Disturbing the shadows

“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest clew.”
C. Auguste Dupin, Murders in the Rue Morgue, by Edgar Allan Poe

Louvre Museum
Executive Offices
Four o’clock p.m.

Diana released her hold on Max’s arm, smiling up at him warmly.  “Max?  Why don’t you go in and speak with Jean-Luc?  I have something I need to talk to Mart about.”  Max nodded his acknowledgement as he gave an amused sideways glance to Mart.  After kissing Diana’s hand, he trailed his hand slowly along hers before finally releasing it.  He stopped and gave her an affectionate smile before disappearing behind the double walnut doors to the curator’s office.

Mart admitted to himself that, under different circumstances, he might even like the guy – if Max wasn’t interested in his ex-girlfriend.  There was just something about him Mart found annoying.  Maybe it was his impeccable manners that contributed to the underlying charm in his personality; or, the way he angled his head, as if fascinated with what the speaker was saying to him.  Then there was his demonstrative display of affection towards Diana.  But Mart didn’t doubt Max’s respect and devotion he exhibited when he spoke of his grandfather.            

He and Nicole, Jean-Luc’s assistant, had been laughing at something Mart was saying when Diana and Max had arrived a few minutes ago.  Mart had been flirting with Nicole, attempting some conversational French on her, enjoying her giggling responses to his mispronunciations.    

While Nicole feigned interest in her computer, Diana fixed Mart with a level look, commanding him, “Come with me.”  Picking up his briefcase, he followed her a few steps to a small conference room off the wide, carpeted hallway.  The room also had a door at the back of it.  An oval walnut table occupied most of the space, its leather chairs uniformly arranged around it.  A wide-screen monitor took up most of one wall.  Small display shelves decorated the other walls, holding small pieces of sculpture.  Instead of sitting in one of the chairs, Mart propped himself against the table and looked at Diana inquiringly. 

Diana began the conversation.  “I thought it best to go over some things before our meeting with Natasha Meier.”

“Ground rules?”  Mart inquired, arching a sandy brow.  He placed his briefcase on the floor, and leaned against the table, crossing his arms.

“If that’s what you want to call them then, yes, ground rules.  You’re only attending this meeting because you gave us no choice.”

 “You had a choice,” Mart told her with a shrug of his shoulders.  “I could have written a story about the forgery, and how the Louvre was ready to unveil it as a priceless work of art; or, I could do my job while helping you search for the original.”

“Extortion.  That’s what it is, Mart Belden.”

He gave her a blue-eyed stare. “No, babe.  Not extortion; just a simple case of blackmail.”

Diana’s calm manner belied the underlying sense of frustration to her words.  “Mart?  Why are you doing this?  Jean-Luc already agreed to give you the exclusive rights on what we find – or hope to find.”

He dropped his arms, and gripped the edge of the table.  “I’m a journalist.  When I get a lead on a story, I try to learn more about it.  Just call it curiosity about a painting that disappeared almost seventy years ago.  Nothing threatening about it.”  He fixed her with a tight look.  “Why are you involved in this – other than your relationship with Max?”

“I already explained that,” Diana told him.  “Jean-Luc requested my personal assistance.”  She began to walk towards the rear door and turned back to him.  “Oh, and about this meeting?  Let Max, Jean-Luc, or I do the talking.  You might have been allowed a certain degree of participation, but I think if Ms. Meier finds out that anyone outside of the Louvre is involved in this matter, she won’t be forthcoming with information.”

Seldom did Mart become riled enough to lose his temper, but this time he felt his jaw working to suppress his angry reaction to Diana’s order.  He gazed narrowly at her, saying curtly, “No way.  No how.”

Diana’s words matched the determined set of her face.  “Way and how, Mart, or you will not be at this meeting.”

Standing, he put his hands on his hips, glaring at Diana.  “And how do you plan to explain my presence in this meeting?”

“We’ll think of something.  If someone asks you something ... there’s always the weather, or something equally innocuous to talk about.” 

Swinging back to open the rear door, Diana suddenly started when Mart spoke in her ear.  “At least that’s something Max will understand.”  

In a fluid movement, Diana faced him, and a small gasp escaped from her lips.  With only inches separating them, the air crackled with tension.  She forced a smile, telling him sweetly.  “There’s nothing worse than a catty man.”  In spite of the calm tone to her voice, Mart noticed the slight tremor to her hand when she opened the door. 

“Guys are incapable of catty,” he said to her back, appreciating the view.  “Next time try callused, frustrating, or irritating.”

Spinning back, she fixed him with a frosty look, and the expression on his face changed to one of chagrin.  Making sure to keep her voice low, she told him.  “Whatever.  And stop watching my butt.” 

She didn’t wait to see if Mart followed her.

Natasha Meier was beautiful. 

Jean-Luc Fournier and Max were smiling at their guest, all three exchanging pleasantries, when Mart and Diana entered the office.  Mart noticed that Natasha’s self-assured stance carried a certain confidence, further defined by the delicate bone structure of her angular face.  With graceful movements, she presented a poised presence when the curator introduced her. 

“Natasha Meier, this is my associate, Diana Lynch.” 

The other woman half-turned to face to Diana.  The green eyes languidly considered Diana for a second before she extended an elegant hand.  “Monsieur Fournier has been telling me of your expertise in art forgery.”  The compliment was expressed in a low, and throaty accented voice.

“…And this is Mart Belden.” Smoothly, the woman turned her attention to Mart.  She clasped his hand, measuring him with a cool appraising look, and smiled slightly in response to his approving glance.

“Nice spring weather,” Mart commented pleasantly, appreciating the smile he received from the lovely woman clasping his hand.

“You are American?”  Natasha tilted her head to the question, making her dark hair slide across her shoulders.

“Yes.  New York,” Mart told her, admiring the sight before him.  “It’s still snowing there.”  He ignored the glare Diana shot his way.

Jean-Luc interrupted with a sweep of his hand, leading them back into the area Diana and Mart had exited a few minutes prior.  “Shall we go into the sitting area?” 

Although elegant, it was a comfortably appointed room.  It was a mixture of styles that included oversize chintz-covered chairs and two love seats that faced each other across a short table of oak, pine and walnut.  Ornate serving trays held a china teapot, cups, and matching servers, along with a silver coffee urn.  The table’s veneered ebony surface mirrored the underside of the silver trays.  Mart noticed old cloth and leather bound books behind the glass doors of the bookcase.  He knew Jean-Luc’s hobby was first editions and surmised that the books resting against each other were probably from his own private collection.      

Mart and Jean-Luc sat in the chairs that faced each other, while Diana joined Max on one of the love seats.  Natasha Meier settled on the other, shrugging out of the off-white cashmere stole that matched her trousers and sweater, and placed her large off-white leather clutch on her lap.  The stole pooled softly around her as she looked with deference to the curator.

Jean-Luc’s speaking voice held a pleasant baritone timbre as he began the conversation.  “When you contacted me, you mentioned you have information pertaining to a forged Rembrandt.  Is it a possibility it might have something to do with one of your family members?”

The light from a nearby lamp touched upon Natasha’s high cheekbones.  “Yes.  It is true.”  Her emerald-green eyes swept her audience.  Her gaze was steady and serene when it returned to rest on Jean-Luc.  “This painting is from a story Grossmutter, or Oma is what I called her, told me, from when I was a child.” 

“Your grossmutter?”  Max inquired.

He received Natasha’s direct attention.  “Yes.  Her name is ... was ... Mitzi Krueger.  She raised me, from when I was small.”

Max nodded understandingly.  Natasha continued her story.  “My parents died when I was kleinkind...or baby.”  The stunning woman smiled in apology.  “You please pardon my mistakes of English?  Sometimes I forget and speak in words I grew up with.”

The men demurred politely. 

Diana noticed that Mart and Max were gazing at Natasha Meier, enchanted.  She resisted the impulse to roll her eyes.  Diana had known Natasha Meier would be beautiful, apparently accustomed to her effect on men.  The indolent way she moved, looking at all of them with her large wide-spaced eyes, under elegantly curved brows, signaled she knew her appeal. There was no doubt the woman could display moves that would take a cat nine lives to perfect.  Natasha accepted a cup and saucer of tea from Jean-Luc, murmuring a thank you in French.  Sipping it delicately, she placed it on the table in front of her, explaining.  “Oma was very strict about my learning languages, including that of English.” 

“Your grandmother is no longer living?”  Diana asked kindly.

“No.  She died about ten years ago.  It was just her and I.  I…I felt it best to meet with you, to tell you this story in person.  Oma told me many things about her life back then, during the war, and what the Nazis made people do for them.  The Boche gave people no choices if they wanted to survive.” 

She looked at the curator for confirmation of understanding, and Jean-Luc nodded in assent.  “There was much fear when the Germans occupied Belgium.  Oma lived in the city, working and attending the University.  She was studying to become an artist.  She was very talented.  About two years…after the occupation,  German officers come to the University.  They took students away with them.  Oma was one of them.  She say some try to escape...they were shot.  The officers tell them they now work for the Third Reich, and will work with the officers, to package German art to send to Linz, Austria, for the Fuhrer Museum.  All work not German would be destroyed, or sent to secret hiding places in the mountains.”

Mart listened in fascination as Natasha told her grandmother’s story. 

For almost a year, she traveled with the troop of students and army, going into the German-occupied countries looting museums, castles, estates, and homes of the once wealthy.  After a year, the troop officers were ordered back to Berlin, being replaced by a new group of officers.

One of the new officers was a young man by the name of Johannes.  Johannes had been part of the regime of Hitler’s children, and attended the University in Berlin.  He was well educated and appeared to have much knowledge of many artists and writers.  Mitzi – my Oma – was very pretty, and she became very nervous when he began to follow her around while she performed her tasks.  She always kept her head down, so he would not see the fear in her eyes.

One night, Johannes wakes her, and demands she follow him.  He tells her she will forge some paintings for him.  They will only be small paintings that are being cached to unknown locations.  If she tells anyone she is doing this, or whom she is doing this for, she will die.  Mitzi was familiar with officers and soldiers who stole art and other items of value for their own personal purposes.  No one in her group discussed with each other the stealing, aware that the penalty of talking about it was death.

She understood that if she were caught she would die.  But she had no choice.  Johannes found a small abandoned house nearby for Mitzi to execute the forgeries.  Once completed, Johannes would replace the forgery for the original and disappear with the excuse of reporting to Berlin.  This continued for almost a year, and was done infrequently so as not to arouse suspicion of his fellow officers.  Mitzi was ostracized by her fellow students, because they believed her to be involved with a Nazi officer.  She felt disgraced making the forgeries, and shame with her association of such a bad man.   

One day, Johannes took her to an abandoned winery across the German border into France.  He’d heard talk of a Rembrandt hidden by the former occupants of the winery.  They searched the building, finally finding it behind a poorly painted oil of the winery.  Mitzi had not been working on her copy for more than a few weeks when the sounds of planes and bombs in the distance heightened their awareness of the American advancement of troops.  It became critical that Mitzi finish the painting.  It was larger than the previous paintings she’d done, and required more time to complete.  She was almost finished, when she fell ill.  In spite of her illness, Johannes insisted she complete the forgery.  She persevered until it was done, finally collapsing into unconsciousness.

She wasn’t sure how long she was sick, but when she’d finally awakened, American troops had found her, and transported her to a camp for medical attention.  She stayed there until she was well, then found work at a farm not too far away working in the fields, and doing housework. 

Not too long after V-E Day, she returned to Belgium, traveling past the winery.  It was a bombed out shell, with most of the rubble in the collapsed cellar. 

There was a momentary silence; Mart quickly brought himself back to the present when Max cleared his throat.  “Did your grossmutter indicate to whom Johannes sold the original paintings?”

Natasha’s voice held an underlying tone of disdain in her reply.  “He bragged often how much money he made.  How he was almost as rich as Goering was.  He did not tell her how he sold the pictures only to laugh about how surprised the Third Reich would be when they found out they had stored forgeries.”  Her long hair fell in soft waves around her face, as she sadly shook her head.

“Did she ever mention Johannes’s last name?  Did she keep any papers or letters?  A diary?”

“Nein.  No diary.  When they made the trip into France, she left what little bit in possessions she had at the German camp.  Her family was dead.  There would be no letters.”  Natasha offered a shrug of her narrow shoulders.  “I do not recall last name of Johannes.  Maybe she told me when I was small, but I have no memory of it.” 

Diana leaned forward.  “If it’s all right, Jean-Luc, I would like to explain to Ms. Meier why we are interested in this particular forgery.”  At his nod of agreement, Diana returned her attention to Natasha.  “We came across a matrix of what appears to be some type of code.  We were hoping it would provide us a lead, a clue, to the original painting.  With this particular Rembrandt, if it actually is a Rembrandt, there is no record of it, nor has anyone come forward after almost seventy years, to claim it missing.  The forgery is the only form of proof that the original painting exists.  With your grandmother’s testimony, we’re certain the painting is hidden somewhere.  We’re hoping the code might give us some answers about its location.”     

“This ma ...trix?  It has little squares, and letters in them?”  Natasha asked.  Her calm demeanor gave way to a controlled excitement in her voice.  She opened the large clutch purse that had lain on her lap throughout her recital.  Opening the flap, she withdrew a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to Jean-Luc.  “It looks like this, no?”

Diana, Max, and Mart hurried over to Jean-Luc’s chair, looking over his shoulder while he unfolded the paper.  All four studied the box of squares.  Diana looked at Natasha, saying, “It looks exactly like this, yes.  The arrangement of the letters is different, but this is what it looks like.  We need some type of key word to determine what it says.” 

Jean-Luc handed the paper to Diana for further examination, asking their guest.  “Your grossmutter never told you what it meant?”

“No.  She did not know.  It reminded her too much of the war.  She put it away.  Seldom did she look at it.  Too many sad memories for her, she said; too much hardship, and death.  She told me it was in a book the American soldiers found when they discovered her.  They believed it was hers, and left it with the medical staff for her.”

“A book?  Is it possible the book might contain a reference to the code?”

“Is possible.”  Natasha sat silently for a moment, as if debating something, then opened the large clutch purse again. “I bring this with me.”  She withdrew a small, leather-bound book, and placed the purse against a leg of the table by her feet.  Natasha handed the book to Jean-Luc, telling him, “This is what the Americans find with the code paper.”

“Thank you,” Jean-Luc told her, his long fingers carefully turning the thin pages.  Finally, he handed it to Diana and Max. 

Mart joined Max and Diana.  The dusk of evening required they stand closer to the nearby lamp, turning the pages of the book, the creased paper of Natasha’s code blocks on the table.  “Stefan George.”  He heard Max murmur to Diana.  “German poet.”  Diana stopped at one particular page and held it closer to the light. 

From Mart’s position, he was able to see a poem titled “DANKSAGUNG”.  With his limited German, he believed it translated to “Giving Thanks”.  He noticed an indentation on the paper towards the spine as if bookmarked by some type of bulky strand like a piece of twine or thin rope. 

Diana leaned close to Max murmuring something too low for Mart to hear.  She pointed to some words.  Mart could see it, too.  Very light pencil marks underlined two words. 

“You find something, yes?”  Natasha inquired.

Diana and Max exchanged a glance, and then turned towards the room’s occupants, Diana saying, “We’re not sure.  Jean-Luc?  If it’s all right, I’d like to use your computer.” 

“By all means, Diana.  While you’re doing that, it will give us time to become better acquainted with Ms. Meier.”  The curator’s face creased into a smile at their guest.

Mart began to follow Max and Diana from the room, when Diana told him over her shoulder, “I would prefer Max to help me on this, Mart.”

Tamping his irritation, Mart was surprised to receive a sympathetic glance from Jean-Luc.  He returned to his chair, his foot accidentally coming in contact with Natasha’s purse.  The soft leather bag fell over, spilling out some of its contents.  He automatically bent over, apologizing, “I’m sorry, Ms. Meier.  I tend to be a bit of an oaf…”

Natasha quickly brushed his hands away.  Her graceful movement appeared agitated as she scooped up the contents scattered on the rug, dropping them back into the clutch.  Mart sat back slowly in puzzled surprise, watching her when she settled back against the loveseat.  Once again, she was composed when she looked at him under a thick sweep of dark lashes, and offered a moue of apology, explaining, “I am sorry.  When I travel, I take my jewelry with me.  Not very valuable to most, but is from my oma. It means much to my heart.”    

Mart schooled his features, giving a slight nod of acknowledgement.  “I understand.”  Although it hadn’t been one of the items that had spilled out, he’d glimpsed something peeking out from the flap of the purse when his foot tipped it over.  It was a clasped book of black, tooled leather, about the size of a large index card.  Faded silver lettering on the cover read “TAGEBUCH”.  He decided to look up the word after returning to his room later tonight.  He was only slightly familiar with certain words in German, not remembering if the word “tagebuch”, meant notebook, or diary.  Maybe it was an address book of some type; but if it was, it was very old, because the cover looked cracked and brittle.  He wondered if it was Mitzi Krueger’s book, and if so, why her granddaughter would deny its existence.     

Natasha’s accented voice broke through his thoughts.  “So, Mr. Belden, I do not know what your ... capacity ... is with the Louvre.”

Jean-Luc answered for him, calmly explaining.  “Martin and I have a personal association.  He is a trusted friend of mine.”

Mart flashed him a grateful glance, telling Natasha, “We met ... through a mutual friend of ours.  When I discovered Mr. Fournier was an avid follower of American sports, we became good friends.”  Raising his voice slightly, he hoped it would carry into the next room for Diana to hear.  “It’s baseball season in the states.”  Mart wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he heard a slight snort from the distinguished gentleman sitting across from him.

Max reentered the room, the three of them immediately turning their attention to him.  His face animated with excitement, he announced, “We have good news, but it’s best for Diana to tell you.”  Admiringly, he added, “Diana has a powerful search engine.” 

Mart folded his arms across his chest and tipped his head to one side.  His blue eyes twinkled at Diana, who’d come into the room during Max’s last remark.  She ignored Mart, and smiled up at Max as he pulled her into a one-armed hug to his side. 

“We broke the code and have a clue,” she told them, returning the small book of poetry to Natasha.  “It was one of the poems in this book.  Someone had underlined the German words for light and shadow.  When those two words didn’t work, I tried the name of the technique Rembrandt was famous for in his paintings.  It’s another word for light and shadow, called “chiaroscuro”.  Once I used that, we were able to decipher the message.”

Diana stood confidently by Max’s side, calmly explaining the discovery, almost as if she did this every day.  “The code.  Tell them what the code says.”  Max urged.

Diana giggled.  “Of course.” Sobering quickly, she told them, “It says, “Johannes Bauer, Deutsche Bank, Paris”.”

Mart heard Natasha’s small intake of breath, his voice inquisitive.  “Johannes Bauer.  Possibly the same person who made Natasha’s grandmother create forgeries?”

“Exactly,” Diana said, looking at Natasha, saying softly.  “Hopefully, whatever we find at Deutsche Bank will explain the relationship between this Johannes Bauer and Klaus Emmerich.” 

“Deutsche Bank?  My dear, there are so many branches of that particular banking house in the city.”  Jean-Luc stated.

“That was our concern.”  Max said agreeably.  “Fortunately, Grandfather has banked at Deutsche for many years.  Since his illness, I’ve become well acquainted with one of the Directors.  I asked him to look up Johannes Bauer, as a favor to me.  Herr Bauer is a customer of the Deutsche Bank close to where we live.  We have an appointment tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

Natasha had been quietly sitting in the love seat.  She finally spoke in a small voice, full of sadness.  “Please, would you let me accompany you?  Please.  Grossmutter felt much humility for the deceit that Nazi forced her to endure.  She carried much shame in her heart for many years.”  A shimmer of tears began to pool around her lashes, her voice breaking when she implored to Max, “I wish to honor my oma and to make her proud.”

Mart didn’t miss the beseeching look Max gave Diana, who hesitated before responding with a slight nod of her head. 

While Max approached Natasha, Mart saw the speculation in Diana’s eyes, as she watched Max place a hand lightly on Natasha’s shoulder to speak to her in a comforting voice.  “Please, we would like for you to join us.  Maybe the mystery of this Johannes will be solved at the bank, no?”

Natasha’s response was a watery smile and a light squeeze of Max’s hand.