Dead drop, p.13
Dead Drop, page 13
‘I don’t think so, but everyone else loves him. I keep a distance.’
Franz turns the tap off and looks up. ‘They’re nice to his face but I heard some of the other girls saying he was too flirty and they’ve heard him saying different things to different people. Word is he hasn’t been to Graz at all. He’s all talk and charm.’
‘So where did he go?’
‘Don’t know,’ says Franz. ‘I think he’s been trained in London. Alice heard him when he was drunk one night. Talked about finding stolen art.’
‘What?’
‘Art. You know? Tracking down lost paintings. Detective stuff.’
I can hear my heartbeat. I have to get out, figure out what to do. I need to think fast. ‘Franz, can you tell the boss I’m not feeling well. I’m going home.’
He wipes his hands on a towel, eyebrows raised, hair falling across his face. ‘All right. Are we good? Everything OK?’
‘Yes. I can feel a migraine coming on.’
‘You don’t get migraines.’
‘Can you just tell him?’
He nods. ‘You would tell me if you were in trouble or something?’
‘Of course. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. See you tomorrow.’ I lean in towards him, put a hand on his shoulder, squeeze gently and I turn to go to the back room to take off my uniform. I feel my cheeks flush, which is unusual. My head is fine, but I have to get out. I hang up the tunic, grab my bag and walk down the stairs. I clutch my chest as I reach the street. Why would he tell me he went to Graz? And if he didn’t go, what was he doing in London? The only place linked to stolen art is the Art Loss Register. They wouldn’t have trained him. The Art Loss Register prevents the handling of stolen art through database searches, they report and register the stolen pieces and recover work, using specialist teams. The FBI have a National Stolen Art File database and investigate organised crime, but they’re based in the States. Unless he worked for a crime squad. I can’t figure out what kind of training he would have received, or whether the story is even true.
The breeze on my cheeks reminds me how stifling it is trapped inside a building. I don’t like being contained in the same space for too long. I crave the city air. The gallery is the most suffocating space although the thrill of being surrounded by paintings outweighs my neuroses. The windows are usually open during lectures, keeping me awake, and there’s good reason to fall asleep in some of the lectures.
I have to see Maria. I wonder what she might know about Hans. For the first time, I feel out of the loop and wonder if I ever had control. The job is addictive, but I’m starting to feel real fear. I have to press on, push through it, return the works. I have to outsmart Albert and, maybe now, Herr Schneider, to get the paintings back to their original owners. I imagine flames engulfing the canvases and soldiers laughing like a pack of hyenas.
I arrive at Schönbrunn, the sun beating down on the yellow apartment buildings, a glow that only comes with sunset. Temperatures have dropped from the mid-summer highs of forty-three degrees but the heat is still enough to disrupt the day. There are beads of perspiration on my neck. I slide the bag from my shoulder to allow my skin to breathe and notice Maria’s curtain fall loose as I cross the road from the station. She has been watching, waiting. The door opens and her face appears.
‘Liesl, how nice to see you. Hot, isn’t it?’
‘The summers always catch me off guard. Could I have a glass of water?’
‘Of course. Come in, sit down.’
I think of Herr Schneider’s last question. Why would I remember what his brother was wearing? How does he know that I found his body? Why did Albert send me to Schneider’s brother? The mystery of the body in the apartment is still on my mind. Am I working for Albert? Schneider? Someone else?
‘Maria, can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, dear. What is it?’ I find the term, dear, irritating. She passes me a biscuit and pours a cup of coffee. I add some cream and nestle the cup in the palms of my hands, despite the heat.
‘When I went to Herr Schneider’s house, he knew it was me who found his brother’s body.’
‘His brother?’
‘Yes, didn’t you know?’
‘Who is his brother? You’ve lost me.’
‘The body at the station? It was his brother.’ Her eyes widen. She rests her cup down on the table without pouring the cream, leans in towards me, stares into my eyes.
‘The body with the note and the brooch?’ she asks. I nod. ‘Why? Why would Albert send you to his brother if he knew?’
‘That’s what I don’t understand. They didn’t have a good relationship. He didn’t show any emotion when we talked about him. He was more concerned with the note and whether there was anything else on his body.’
Maria leans in further. ‘And what did you say? This isn’t good.’ She shakes her head.
‘I didn’t know what to say. I told him there was just the note, but I’m afraid he knows I took the brooch.’
‘Liesl, Albert has put you in dangerous situations. I hear Her Schneider has contacts in Berlin. From what I’ve heard, he was a Nazi sympathiser. I wouldn’t be surprised if you find out he has links to the art you are trying to recover. Be careful.’
‘He has Klimt originals hanging in his hallway. Sketches,’ I say.
‘Why would he hang them in view?’
‘That’s exactly what I wondered. He seemed keen for me to notice.’
‘Liesl,’ her eyes widen. ‘I know a man in Berlin, a dealer. He might be able to help. He battled to survive during the early forties. You can trust him.’ She reaches down into the fabric box by her chair which is stuffed with folded newspapers, the inside pages turned out, half read. Her fingers feel their way into one of the inside pockets and she pulls out an address book. She thumbs her way through the pages until she reaches the middle.
‘Knaus,’ she says. ‘Peter Knaus. He specialises in Picassos. The Führer hated them, of course. Knaus hid them away so that they would not be destroyed. He might be able to tell you more.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. I can’t help noticing a sadness in her eyes as she tucks the address book back, as though burying a part of her life.
‘Liesl, I know it must be difficult to understand, but it was a painful time for those who loved art and culture, those who cherished the works that were lost. The newspapers only covered the political changes, land occupation, leadership, that sort of thing, but art was all some of us knew and taking it away was like removing oxygen from the air.’ She looks out of the window, gazes into the distance. ‘The fact that families were torn from their homes was only ever a part of the story. The pain for many was in leaving their cultural heritage, the great works handed down through generations, many holding memories of portraits hung on the walls of grandparents’ homes. It wasn’t just the monetary value, it was these memories. They stole memories which held the very essence of family life and which held stories about the people and about the paintings.’ She clasps her hand over her lips and hands me the number.
‘Thank you, Maria. Thank you.’ We drink coffee in silence. There are no words that will comfort her, not for something like this. It’s not really my forte, either. I hear the sound of coaches as they park outside and unload crowds of tourists. We are used to seeing foreign visitors rolling off coaches in shorts and t-shirts with single-lens reflex cameras draped around their necks. Vienna guide books crumpled at the edges and pushed into pockets, anticipation in their eyes. I hear the click of the cameras. Maria smiles as I look up. I look again at the photographs of her family. ‘You must miss them,’ I say, aware that this can’t match the gravity of her loss.
She nods. ‘I do, but I have to let the past go. You can’t be bitter. Holding on to a wrongdoing only drives a knife into your own soul. You push and twist until you bleed dry. You have to forgive, Liesl. Anger doesn’t hurt the perpetrators. I refuse to see myself as a victim. When I knew that you could retrieve some of the art, I felt a sense of justice. I admire you, Liesl, I really do, but don’t expect the journey to be smooth. And you need to think about the other work you do. You have been following the orders of a corrupt man.’
‘If I stop now it will make Albert suspicious. I have to keep moving and work the two alongside each other until I can pull out. If he finds out, I’ll be dead.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She knows the danger.
‘I’ve already been attacked and I might have been the body in the apartment or at Stephansplatz.’ I get up and walk towards the door. She follows close behind.
‘Make sure you contact Peter Knaus. I’m sure he can give you some information that will help.’ She clasps my hand as I leave and closes the door swiftly, but I know her eyes are still on me.
Chapter 25
I jump off the tram outside the Belvedere. It’s only 9 am. There are fewer guards earlier in the day. The sunlight catches the statues surrounding the palace roof. I cross the road and head in through the main gates, lions above the wrought iron watch those who enter and exit. The gardens are a sweeping display of greens, reds and yellows. The Lower Belvedere lies in the shade with its cascading, tiered fountains, the roof casting long shadows across the path. This is the most serene of Vienna’s palace buildings. Latticed roof patterns and oval-shaped scenes of the life of Apollo are reminiscent of the life of Prince Eugene. I enjoy the city at this time of year; the low, early morning light and the scent of bloom, without the bustle of tourists. There are fewer here in late summer than before the Christmas markets begin. July and August are almost void of locals, most favouring the cool mountain air. My work keeps me here in the city.
I slip in through the entrance and wait until the woman at the desk is distracted before making my way up the marble staircase. Statues watch me from behind, possibly aware of the theft about to take place. I glance at the expanse of water in the gardens behind the palace. I should feel fear, but I no longer feel anything. I turn my back towards the entrance and notice the guard walking towards the shop to the right hand side. I make my way to the first floor and drift through the Kimts with an irreverent ease. Viewers in the gallery linger by each piece with obvious appreciation. I don’t have time for this. Instead, I find the Klimt Albert has requested and slide it off the wall and out of the frame. It becomes easier each time. I take it to the lift with my coat thrown over the front. This gallery is smaller, making an operation like this more difficult. I think about the numerous paintings I need to return to their owners. Fulfilling Albert’s wishes frustrates me now. I’m wasting time but I have no choice. He’d become suspicious if I suddenly stopped following orders. I already have Schneider on my case.
‘Morning.’ A visitor nods as he passes.
I nod and keep moving. He probably thinks I work here. I’m moving too fast to view the paintings. I press the button but the lift continues to the first floor without stopping. I feel tense. I wait for it to come back down. The ropes stop moving and start up again. The number one flashes on the screen as it reaches my level. The doors open, I step in, and breathe out slowly as they close behind me.
Be careful. Maria’s words replay. The note telling me to leave the city warned me to be careful. The notes can’t have been from Maria. I’m sure I can trust her. They could be from anyone. Albert may not even exist. I have to pretend that nothing’s changed. I have to get the art back into the hands of their rightful owners but for now, I must get this painting to the dead drop in the library. Albert asked me to drop it in the map section. I’ll get a taxi instead of the tram. It’s less obvious and safer for now. The driver offers to put my ‘parcel’ in the boot, although all he can see is the coat draped over it. I shake my head, clutch it tighter, bow my head and slip into the back seat.
‘Library, please,’ I say, avoiding eye contact. I’ve already put on my sunglasses. I don’t want him to remember my face. The thud of the base from the radio stills my thoughts.
The driver pulls up outside the library. I hand him more than the fee and wave my hand. He can keep the change. Without looking at him, I get out of the taxi, clutching the painting. I race down a side alley and tear the painting off its frame. I’m beginning to loathe this part. I can see the horror of the risks involved and I wince as I take off the last corner. I look both ways and discard the frame in a large bin, then roll the canvas up and into my bag. For the first time, I feel disgusted with myself for what I do, and that it’s become second nature. I have no idea where this one is going. I never do, but this time it matters.
I should go into the library and follow instructions to leave it in the map section but I can’t. I see Martha’s face as I gave her the painting in the park. On that morning in Stadtpark, I felt a rare sense of doing something right. It was a strange sensation and replaced the shame I feel each morning when I enter the side chapel in the cathedral, knowing something’s not right, that I took a wrong turn somewhere and can never turn back. Sometimes, Omama had said, you have to take a path into darkness before you are pushed to find the light. When I was a girl, I’d climbed into a tunnel, my curiosity drawing me further in, taking turnings I could never remember until I couldn’t find my way out. The light had vanished and I hadn’t noticed the darkness. I wonder if this is what she meant. I know I lost sight of daylight long ago. The darkness has always felt familiar, but since that day in Albert’s apartment, and then in Maria’s, it feels less comfortable.
I walk in the direction of the cathedral, turn right along Fleischmarkt and left into Laurenzergasse. The police station is on the right, before the Danube. I reach the entrance, pull the painting from my bag and leave it on the doorstep. I feel relieved as I walk away. There are no cameras that I can see, but I’ve pulled my hat down over my eyes and turned up my jacket collar. I keep my head down and walk swiftly to Swedenplatz, then wait for the next tram. I get on and find a seat at the back. I imagine the taste of vodka in the back of my throat in anticipation of the glass I’ll pour when I reach the apartment. Narrowly missing my stop, I jump off before it pulls away and disappears into the haze of the street. I turn the key in the main entrance door and head up the spiral stone staircase. Reaching my apartment door, I put the smaller key into the lock and turn the key only once. The door opens. I should be able to turn it twice. I re-lock the door, then turn the key again. Once. Twice. I’ve checked it carefully every morning since the disturbance. The kitchen looks undisturbed but my mug sits in the sink. I left it on the draining board. A second mug is in the sink next to it. I touch the coffee jug. It’s still warm but switched off. Someone’s turned on the machine and made themselves at home. There’s a sound in the living room. I walk slowly towards the door. Papers are strewn across the sofa. The windows are closed and the radio is playing. Whoever disturbed the apartment helped themselves to my coffee and radio.
A quick check of the bathroom and bedroom shows that the apartment is now empty. I pour a vodka and knock it back, clear the papers, slump onto the sofa and light a cigarette. There’s one left and I toss the empty pack onto the floor. It lands on top of the papers. I’d usually put it neatly on the table. The words Smoking can kill, emblazoned across the packet sit neatly on top of the information about the burnt artworks that didn’t survive. I walk over to the window and struggle to lift it up. Something is jammed into the frame. I pull, and a piece of folded card drops out. The window shoots up. I pick up the card, flip it over and toss it onto the pile of paper on the floor. Smoke fills my lungs, my fingertips tingle. I look back at the pile of papers, the empty Memphis packet and the folded card. I’ll be dead before I figure out who wedged it into the window frame. Dead.
Chapter 26
I rub one foot over the other, a movement that soothes my nerves. The case on my wardrobe is easy to reach and it lands with a thud on my mattress. The straps are worn, but it still holds together. I throw in enough clothes for a week or two and gather up my wash things from the bathroom: a toothbrush, toothpaste, a fresh tube of shower gel, a razor and a flannel. Inside the cabinet above the sink I find painkillers. Sleeping pills go into the side pocket, just in case. I don’t take them every night. The doctor prescribed them when I was too stressed to sleep after Oma died. It was easier than seeing someone. It works faster than alcohol, although less enjoyable. The effects lasted longer but not so long that I couldn’t function the next day. Don’t get hooked, he said. So I only take them when I really need them. I took one last night.
I watch my hands shake as I turn on the tap. I hold them out and try to keep them still but I see my fingers jumping like salmon swimming upstream. I cup them under the cold water and splash my face. It’s cold enough to cause a shock of pain, but it feels good. Nothing else feels good at the moment. I remember Maya’s face when I handed over the painting, forcing me to keep moving. I pull the drawstring, throw the bag into the case, go over to the antique cabinet with the clear bottles and open a fresh one. This one’s a Jura Whisky, bought in Edinburgh a few years ago. The flavour’s clean and sharp. It burns at the back of my throat. I tip my head up and swallow.
The train to Berlin should get me in at 7:20am with a change at Mannheim. I can sleep for a few hours first. I pick up the papers, throw the cigarette packet in the bin, the words Smoking can kill still facing me, refusing to turn away. I lift up the rug in the living room, wrench the floorboard free and slide the papers into the darkness between the beams. The board and rug fall back into place and I wonder, for a moment, where I would hide, if I had to. There’s no place that would accommodate an adult body, only some papers and a few paintings, items thin enough to disappear.
I turn off the radio, half draw the curtains, and take one last look around the apartment before stepping outside and closing the door behind me. The lock turns. Once. Twice. I turn back to look at the door as I reach the stairs, then head down with my backpack slung over one shoulder. I feel its lightness compared to the weight of the canvases and relief that I’m not carrying anything of value. Warm air rises up from the cool stone steps and caresses my face, reminding me of stepping off a plane onto hot tarmac.
