The Midas Murders (13 page)

Both his father and the bishop had been under the illusion that they had saved the city from an inferno. The truth, however, was something else. Himmler had never planned to spare the city, with or without the
Madonna
. The naval captain who ignored his order only just escaped court-martial. His heroic actions remained a secret, and he died without recognition. The actual events surrounding the theft of the statue also never saw the light of day.

Creytens's father kept silent for the obvious reason that in those days fraternizing with a highly placed German official and an SS officer would have damaged his career, to say the least. The church at the time answered to no one.

Edgar Creytens was appointed public prosecutor in 1951 and was promoted four years later to prosecutor general at the Court of Appeals in Ghent.

Ten years later, Joris Creytens graduated from the University of Leuven. It took him seven years to get his law degree, and without his father's prestige he would never have reached the finish line. His short career as a criminal lawyer could be summed up in a single word: pathetic.

Edgar Creytens renewed his efforts, throwing all his weight into the balance. His youngest son was appointed Belgium's examining magistrate on his thirty-second birthday, an office he still held almost thirty years later.

When Edgar died, he left his incompetent heir an enormous fortune. Creytens knew where his father's money had come from, and that is why he was obliged to sweep the Fiedle affair under the carpet.

He closed the file and dialed Georges Vandekerckhove's private number.

“Hello, Joris.” Vandekerckhove automatically grabbed the TV remote and pressed the
mute
button.

“It's about Fiedle. Complications, I fear.”

“Nonsense, Joris. No one will try to connect us with Fiedle. I have a watertight alibi and you're unimpeachable.”

“But I'm still concerned, Georges, and not just a little. That Van In has a nasty reputation.”

“So what? We didn't kill Dietrich, did we?” Vandekerckhove laughed loud and hard. “And don't forget we have Leitner on our side. Dietrich was a risk factor. He drank too much, and that idiotic story about Michelangelo's
Madonna
might have had a damaging effect on the Polder Project in the medium range. He blabbed about it right and left the last couple of months. We're a respectable organization, Joris. Dietrich was a threat to the organization, a threat we couldn't tolerate. The sucker really believed that I had fallen from grace and that he had to lure me to Bruges.
He
was the one who had to die, not me.”

“So it was a planned operation,” said Creytens, carefully sounding his friend out.

“Of course, Joris. Don't let it worry you. Take care of the file and I'll do the rest.”

“I can only hope it all works out, Georges,” Creytens sighed. “We're already up to our necks in it.”

“Apropos, now that I have you on the line. I was zapped last week by a traffic cop on the E40. My chauffeur was in a hurry. He was doing 120, I believe.”

Creytens took a bone-dry cigar from the box on his desk. “I'll see what I can do, Georges.”

“I appreciate it, Joris. See you next week at the club.”

V
ERSAVEL ALMOST HAD A HEART
attack when he opened the door to room 204 at eight-thirty that morning.

“Is Carton dead?” he asked, acting the fool.

Van In was staring at the word processor, playing its keyboard like an amputee concert pianist.

“Nothing of the kind, Guido. Life is a beautiful thing and I'm enjoying every minute.”

Versavel hung his jacket neatly on the coat stand and stared at the commissioner with suspicion. “Did Vandekerckhove offer you a job?”

“You'll never guess,” Van In laughed.

Versavel stroked his moustache.
He'll be depressed again in a minute and I'll have to pick up the pieces,
he thought. “Good news?”

“Excellent news, Guido. I've been to the doctor.”

“
Now
I get it. When you didn't come back yesterday, I figured you and Vandekerckhove had gone on a spree.”

Van In grinned like a satisfied baby. He saved his document with the F7 key and folded his arms.

“There's nothing wrong with me, Guido. My heart's okay and my lung capacity is six liters, no less.”

“Smoke or air?” Versavel sneered.

Van In got to his feet and crossed to his desk. He had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt for once in his life.

“Shame I can't offer you a drink to celebrate this joyous moment,” he said in an upbeat tone.

Versavel pulled a face when the commissioner hauled a bottle of rum from a secret drawer.

“So there's nothing wrong with you?” asked Versavel incredulously.

Van In opened a bottle of Coke and mixed himself a lukewarm cocktail.

“I have an ulcer, Guido. Can you believe it? A stomach ulcer! The doctor prescribed pills.”

He pointed to a bottle of Logastric on his desk.

“If I stick to the pills, there's almost nothing I have to give up.” Van In lit a cigarette and a took gulp of rum and Coke.

“Every drunk has his guardian angel,” Versavel muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“That doctor of yours must be pretty special. Anyone who can diagnose a stomach ulcer without X-rays deserves a Nobel prize,” said Versavel sarcastically.

“You're right, Guido,” said Van In elatedly. “And if I win the lottery tomorrow, all my problems will be solved.”

“So you don't mind if I start a pot of coffee?”

“According to the doctor, the only things I need to avoid are coffee and tea,” said Van In, still upbeat. “But don't let me stop you. Your health, your risk!”

Versavel rolled up his shirtsleeves and switched off the word processor. The likelihood that the commissioner was going to need it any time soon was nonexistent.

“I still haven't heard from our German colleagues,” Versavel said in passing. “I bet my little finger Croos has something to do with it.”

Van In used the remains of the Coke to add a little color to a couple of ounces of rum. “Plus the fact that Jerries are unreliable by definition,” he added with a scornful slur. This clearly wasn't his second drink.

“Anything on Die Scone?”

Versavel had checked them out at city hall the day before. “Nothing to write home about. According to the clerk, the firm has an excellent reputation, but he did confirm that they were keen on historical buildings.”

“Who isn't?”

Van In propped his feet on his desk and yawned. He had celebrated his common or garden-variety stomach ulcer with fervor and had made his way directly to the station at seven-thirty that morning.

“And Frenkel?”

“Shit,” said Versavel. “I completely forgot to tell you. Fifteen minutes after you left yesterday, we got a fax from Groningen. Commissioner Jasper Tjepkema is looking into the case. He promised to contact you sometime today. The military police have been charged with tracking him down.”

“That's good,” Van In mumbled.

He had hit a wall. The hastily consumed rum-and-Cokes and the agreeable temperature in the room were beginning to take their toll. He felt his chin bounce a couple of times against his chest.

“Wouldn't it be better if you went home, Commissioner?”

“Under no circumstances, Guido,” he responded, each syllable delayed.

“I'll think of an excuse,” said Versavel, refusing to take no for an answer. “Let me take you home. Have a good rest and we'll pick up again tomorrow where we left off.”

“On one condition, Guido,” Van In protested tamely. “Call Hannelore. Tell her the good news and tell her I want her in my bed tonight.”

“At your command, Commissioner.”

Sic transit gloria mundi,
he thought.

Commissioner Croos of the Judicial Federal Police blew his nose with an already-soaked Kleenex. His head was pounding, and he had been sneezing like a dog with chili on its snout. The brand-new air conditioner pumped more dust into the room than it extracted, and the pile of moldy dossiers on his desk produced about as much pollen as an average forest.

Croos wadded up the dripping Kleenex and placed it beside him on his desk. Unlike so many of his colleagues, he refused point-blank to use toilet paper.

The sniveling commissioner took a swig of lukewarm coffee and popped a peppermint in his mouth to neutralize the bland taste of roasted malt.

He had received a second detailed report from the German federal police that morning. Was it because the Belgian prime minister and the German chancellor were such good buddies, or did those guys always work so fast?

Germans relate to creativity like pineapple trees to the North Pole, but you can never accuse them of sloppiness,
he thought to himself with a sneer.

In less than a week, they had managed to reconstruct Dietrich Fiedle's life, get it down on paper, and have it translated into Dutch by an overpaid interpreter. They had even included a summary of his correspondence.

Croos sighed and submitted to yet another fit of sneezing. Fiedle's letters and personal notes contained explosive information, and while he had never been much interested in art history, the evidence was extremely convincing. Solving the German's murder paled into insignificance against this new background. If the press got ahold of it, Bruges would be shaken to its very foundations.

Croos wiped his nose with the back of his hand, pulled the telephone closer, and punched in Creytens's number.

“Good morning, sir. Commissioner Croos.”

“Good morning, Commissioner.” Creytens's voice was cold and thin, as always.

“I'm calling about the Dietrich Fiedle murder.”

“Yes!” Creytens did his best to show at least some degree of interest. He had received a memo the day before from Commissioner Van In. That piece of shit was screwing around with one of the younger deputy magistrates. This interloper,
nota bene
, had informed him that he had traced a potential witness.

“New information has arrived from Germany,” Croos said. “I'm afraid we have a serious problem.”

“Is that so, Commissioner?” Creytens examined the photos lying in front of him on his desk.
Fucking Germans and their fucking efficiency
, he cursed under his breath. He could suppress the photos, but a hefty dossier and a memo from a smart-ass like Van In was a different matter altogether.

Croos sensed the investigating magistrate's almost physical disgust. Creytens was a dangerous man. He would have to tread carefully.

“Dietrich Fiedle states in writing that his father had Michelangelo's
Madonna
transported from Bruges to Germany immediately before the liberation.”

The investigating magistrate fell deliberately silent. Croos hated imposed silences.

Creytens took an audible gulp of coffee. It was precisely to his taste. “Surely you don't see any relevance in such information, Commissioner,” he said condescendingly. “I don't understand all the drama. Everyone knows that the Germans evacuated the statue to Altaussee on Himmler's command.”

He used the word “evacuate” as if it was a humanitarian action.

“Of course, sir, but….”

“But what, Commissioner?” Creytens bit his bloodless bottom lip. His angular mouth was twisted with rage. He searched feverishly for an answer that could muzzle Croos.

“According to Fiedle, his father had the statue copied by Jewish forced laborers,” said Croos, pushing away his half-full mug of coffee and reaching for his soaked Kleenex. “According to Fiedle's notes, the Americans found a
copy
of the statue in the salt mines there in—”

“Altaussee,” Creytens snapped, completing the sentence.

Creytens was both shocked and relieved at one and the same time. The
Madonna
had adorned the Church of Our Lady for no fewer than fifty years and no one had noticed the difference. And if he said nothing, it would stay that way. He didn't give a crap about the original.

“A
copy
, my dear Commissioner? Surely you don't believe such nonsense? The statue was examined by experts on its return, the best in the business. Michelangelo only made a couple of statues. Even a layperson wouldn't have been fooled by a copy.”

As he did his best to overwhelm Croos with words, he grabbed one of the photos. It was the snapshot with the pokeweed in the background.

“Listen here, Commissioner. Every year, a handful of weirdoes claims to have seen the Loch Ness monster. There are at least five different heirs to the Romanov dynasty wandering the streets; and if you want, you can buy tickets next week in Brussels for the late Frank Sinatra's farewell concert. Give me a reason why the musings of some elderly German should be treated as authentic.”

Anne Frank's diary is just the same
, Creytens wanted to add, but he put the brakes on just in time. Croos may have been on the political right, but he was no revisionist.

“Fiedle's notes appear to be accurate all the same,” Croos said. “He even mentions the name of the Jewish prisoner who made the copy of the
Madonna
. Such facts can easily be verified.”

“Don't let it worry you, Commissioner,” said Creytens in an unexpectedly honeyed tone. “You've done an excellent job thus far. I give you my personal word that no stone will be left unturned until we get to the bottom of the affair.”

“The sculptor's name was Frenkel.”

“I'll have it checked out, Commissioner.”

“According to a police report, Adriaan Frenkel was one of the last people to see Fiedle alive,” Croos courageously pressed his point.

“A remarkable coincidence,” Creytens laughed nervously.

That fucking Van In must've passed on a copy of the memo to Croos.
The bastard was going to pay. “Frenkel is a common enough name,” he said dismissively. “But you're right, of course, Commissioner. It's our duty to follow every lead.”

“No problem, sir. I'll do whatever is necessary.”

“Croos,” said Creytens, adopting the tone he liked to use with minor criminals. “I'll be taking care of things from here on. Is that clear?”

“Of course, sir.” Croos had been in the business long enough to know that you didn't lock horns with a senior magistrate. Their “unimpeachable” status always gave them the last word.

“Shall I put the investigation on hold, or would you like me to shelve the file indefinitely?” Croos continued. He did his best to make the question sound subservient. It was a daring move, and he expected the magistrate to explode at any second.

Creytens felt the blood boil in his calcified veins. His first instinct was to cut the commissioner down a peg or two, but he spotted the trap just in time. Croos was no fool, and his question had been cunningly posed.

“Out of the question, Commissioner. I'll examine Fiedle's diary in person.”

“At your command, sir.”

“And I want to see all the documents, including copies.”

“Copies, sir?”

Creytens perked up. The evident consternation in the commissioner's voice seemed genuine. “Excellent,” he said, almost purring. Creytens considered treating the commissioner to a compliment. The rank and file liked that sort of thing. “You clearly have everything under control, Commissioner. It would save me a great deal of time if you would … I mean … if you would tell me what that ‘explosive' diary of yours has to say,” he fished in a friendly tone of voice.

Croos took a mouthful of lukewarm institutional coffee and was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. Inspector Vermeire popped his head in.

“Commissioner, the deputy public prosecutor is—”

Croos signaled angrily that he should get lost, and Vermeire reluctantly did what he was told.

“Dietrich Fiedle was born on April 20, 1935 in Hallstatt,” Croos began his diary-report to Creytens.

“Isn't Hallstatt in Austria?” Creytens interrupted.

Croos had put together a synopsis of the diary and counted his lucky stars that he had made the effort to check a number of details.

“Fiedle took German citizenship after the war,” he answered with pride.

Creytens leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar.

“He was the son of Franz Fiedle and Ilse Weiss. Franz Fiedle was a professional soldier who experienced the hell of World War I in Poperinge in West Flanders. He was awarded the Iron Cross first class and made a career for himself in the
Sturmabteilung
in the early nineteen-thirties. He miraculously escaped the Night of the Long Knives and transferred to the SS in 1937. Two years later, he was promoted to the rank of major. As head of a special military unit, he scoured Europe during World War II in search of valuable works of art. On Himmler's command, he ransacked museums and private collections and had trainloads of art transported to Germany. Franz Fiedle performed his duties with considerable diligence. He was a cultivated man with the allure of a true-blue aristocrat. He was also extremely ambitious. When he got his way, he was the most civilized man in the world. But those who crossed him were treated with exceptional brutality. He had more than a hundred people executed in Russia because he narrowly missed confiscating a Fabergé egg.”