City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (21 page)

Her eyes drifted toward a tall, well-built man costumed as Robin Hood lounging against the banquet table. She hadn’t noticed him before. He caught her eye, stood up, and walked in the opposite direction toward the Civil War soldier, out of her line of sight.

Miranda frowned. Too goddamn familiar, but she still couldn’t place him …

She was still staring after him when Hans bent forward attentively, accent thick.

“Looking for someone, Mademoiselle?”

Beckoned by Stephanie, Wiedemann was now deep in conversation with an older woman named Olga Kraemer, some kind of nanny to the Nazis. She studied the young man, his eyes blue and clear, chin covered with the faintest blond stubble.

“Yes. A tall, thin man in an alchemist’s robe—I admired his costume. I was wondering who he was.”

Young Siegfried raised his left hand to adjust his mask, and nodded. “
Ja.
Dr. Jas-per. He advises the consul on art.” He gestured proudly toward the wall. “You see? Cranach. Dürer. Holbein. Great German art.”

The back of Miranda’s neck tingled, and she turned toward the banquet table. Ulysses S. Grant was watching her from the shadows. She placed a light hand on Hans’s brocaded sleeve.

“I am very interested in art. Show me, please?”

Hans smiled broadly and stood taller, face red with pleasure. “
Jawohl.
We begin with Cranach.”

He held out two hands to pull her out of the Empire-style chair, and they walked toward the back wall by the staircase. Wiedemann was talking with the others, voice too low to be overheard. The young man gestured to a yellowed oil painting on the wall.

“This painting is new. Study for a Nude. Cranach the Elder.”

Miranda brightened her smile and turned toward Hans.

“Did Dr. Jasper help you find this?”

Wiedemann’s heavy steps, followed by the coarse weight of hands on her shoulders.

“You like Cranach,
liebchen
? You not tell me before.” He growled, faintly accusatory. “Hans, help Frau Kraemer home. She is not so young.”

Goddamn it, just lost her best goddamn source so far …

Miranda held out her hand to Hans, who bit his lip and blushed scarlet at Wiedemann’s reproach.

“
Danke,
Hans. I hope to see you again.”

The consul barked “
Schnell,
” and the young blond marched hurriedly away. Wiedemann’s right hand moved across her back to her left shoulder. He smiled down at her benevolently.

“You like art? We have more upstairs in the library. I show you.”

Fritz and his fucking etchings. One way—maybe the only way—to get upstairs.

She opened her gold case, took out the second to last Chesterfield. The flames of Wiedemann’s silver-plated lighter licked the stick. She inhaled, while he showed it to her.

“You see? From Der Führer.”

The lighter sported an inscription she couldn’t read except for “A. Hitler.” She blew a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth. The orchestra launched into “Where or When.”

“You must hold on to that, Fritz. It’s quite a souvenir.”

He squeezed her shoulder and stared into her eyes with meaning. “I keep everything precious,
liebchen.
”

She forced a laugh. Gestured to the stairway with the cigarette in her hand. “Hans tells me a Dr. Jasper helps you with your art collection. I believe I saw him … a tall gentleman in a funny robe,
oui
?”

“
Ja,
Jasper is an art expert. He is probably upstairs, studying my Dürer prints. Let us go see.”

Wiedemann grinned, teeth showing, animal smell growing in intensity. He’d had too much to drink.

She was propelled forward by the huge, hairy paw on her back.

Miranda squirmed out from under his hand and climbed the stairs quickly. She glanced to her right, where the princess was following her movements, eyes venomous.

“Wait,
liebchen.
You are too quick for me.”

She waited on the dark landing and took a gulp on the burning cigarette, facing three solid oak doors, while Wiedemann strode up the stairs, heavy feet thumping through the brown-and-gold carpet.

He arrived slightly out of breath, extending his hand to her back and rubbing her skin. She repressed a shudder. He moved closer, staring down at her, arm making another barrier. She could smell the Scotch.

“Which door is the library?

His voice was thick. “You want to see art? I will show you art.”

She playfully—but forcibly—pushed his chest with both hands, and he took a step backward.

“I want to see the art and meet Dr. Jasper, Captain. I have heard of him.”

Wiedemann raised his eyebrows, blinked his eyes. “Jasper?
Ja,
I remember seeing him. He never stays long at parties. We will go in—here.”

He grasped the brass doorknob of the farthest door on the left and twisted it open. The room was dark, full of dusty volumes of Goethe and Schopenhauer and military exploits of the kaisers, collection predating the Third Reich and reflecting German history in San Francisco.

The tall man in the purple robe with chemical symbols was seated at a large wooden table, studying a book of engravings. The mask was off his face. He looked up when they walked in.

Jasper.

Wiedemann clicked his heels together and bowed.

“Dr. Jasper. Marion Gouchard—from the French consulate. She wants to meet you.”

Jasper raised his arched, matted eyebrows, skin mealy and with a yellow pallor. He looked older than fifty-three.

“You are interested in chemistry, Mademoiselle?”

She smiled and perched on the edge of a wooden chair, rubbing out the cigarette in a metal ashtray.

“Art, Dr. Jasper. I understand you help Fritz find treasures—like the Cranach downstairs. Our own poor consulate is in need of such help.”

Jasper looked from one to the other and shut the oversized book, dust flying out from between the pages.

“I am nothing but a small-time collector, Mademoiselle. I offer amateur advice, that is all.”

Wiedemann chortled. “You are too modest, Herr Doktor. We will soon be in need of more of your ‘advice.’” He turned toward Miranda. “Herr Doktor helps keep us close to Berlin. We here in America work at a—a disadvantage,
ja
?”

Jasper stood up from the chair, clearly uncomfortable. “A pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle. Enjoy the Dürers.”

He stepped toward the door, Wiedemann all too eager to see him leave. Miranda flung the words at his back, desperate chance.

“I do love art, Dr. Jasper. Particularly ‘degenerate art.’”

He froze under the heavy purple robe.

“Speak with someone at the San Francisco Museum of Art. There is a very fine Picasso exhibit showing.”

“But I hear that you are an expert—”

Ferocity, sudden and feral. “Who told you that? I am a professor of chemistry, not an art critic.”

Miranda’s hands were shaking. Wiedemann was too tight and too much anticipating a long night with Marion to take offense at Jasper’s distemper. He laughed, the guttural, deep-from-the-belly laugh of a man secure in his own castle.

“You are an expert, Herr Doktor, and we all know it to be true. Especially in what Goebbels has called ‘degenerate.’ How else do you make your bargains? Talk to the girl. She will not bite you.” He winked at Miranda.

Jasper slowly turned to face her, hands hanging stiffly at his sides.

“I am sorry, Miss Gouchard. Art is far too serious a subject to discuss so lightly, at a frivolous party given by the frivolous Fritz.” He gestured with his head toward Wiedemann. “If you are a serious student, you may call on me at the University of California.”

“
Merci,
Doctor. May I say I admire your costume? You are an alchemist, yes?”

Jasper was terse. “I am Faust, Miss Gouchard. Faust.”

The robe billowed behind him as he strode through the door, pulling it quietly shut. Wiedemann looked after him, shrugged, and turned back to Miranda, all teeth.

She stood up. He maneuvered gracefully toward her and leaned across the table, hands flat and splayed on the wood.

“And now, my
liebchen
 … now we will finally learn art.”

He stood up straight, arching his back. His hands moved to rest on his stomach. Keeping his brown eyes fixed on Miranda’s, he slowly lowered them to the the crotch flap of his costume.

Nineteen

Miranda took out her last cigarette, lighting it with the Ronson. Held on to the gold case, feeling the weight of the Baby Browning within.

Blown cover, career over. Not much of a detective, no, not when she talked herself into a Nazi party with the fucking Nazi party and shoots the fucking Nazi consul general …

She looked up at him, brown-green eyes cool and appraising.

“Fritz,
chéri,
it is not appropriate now for us to—to get to know each other better. Your Stephanie is one flight away.”

His neck was thick and red, Adam’s apple bulged and prominent. She’d heard about his kicks at Dianne’s, first a rape-and-pillage scenario followed by punishment for bad behavior. A girl named Lily wound up in a hospital bed for two weeks, Dianne graciously docking her future salary to pay for expenses.

“You like Fritz,
ja
?” The side of his hand drifted lower and rested alongside his prick, growing larger by the second under the lederhosen. He took a step closer, eyes unfocused.

“You like Fritz more.”

She backed away and picked up the cigarette case, eyes steady.

Sudden knock. High-pitched voice outside the door.

Thank God. Stephanie.

Fritz wilted.

Hübner and the princess stood in the doorway, Stephanie’s small black eyes taking in the scene with barely diluted fury. A few feet behind them stood the Robin Hood figure in green.

“Here you are. I’ve been looking for you, Fritz. Frieda wanted to know if we’ve heard from Putzi lately, wasting away in that horrid English prison—as if England weren’t prison enough—and I said I knew you’d had a letter from him. Come down this instant and read it to her.”

She turned on her heel, glancing back at Miranda as if in afterthought.

“And you, my dear, I had no idea you were interested in paintings. Hans told me you were asking after the Cranach.” Her eyes raked over Miranda’s dress critically. “I would have expected something more … contemporary.” She managed to give her voice a sneer.

Miranda’s lips curved upward. “I am interested in everything, Madame Princess. Modern, contemporary … even ‘degenerate.’”

Stephanie’s eyes narrowed. She grasped Wiedemann’s arm, pulling him toward the door. He stumbled toward her docilely.

“Come, Fritz.”

Hübner kept his eyes on the corner, started to say something that came out in a stutter, bowed toward Miranda, and left quietly.

She sank into a wooden chair. Puffed at the cigarette, forgotten between her fingers, and rubbed it out on the chair arm. Tossed the case back in her purse. Her eyes met the man in green still standing by the half-open door.

“You can come in now.”

“Thanks.” He bowed from the waist.

She stood up slowly, stretching her legs.

“Where did you pick up the costume? Goldstein?”

“It’s a family heirloom—”

“Can the act. I asked you to help—from the outside.”

His posture relaxed and the well-built man in green pulled off his mask.

Rick, complete with a fake mustache and beard. Blue eyes, familiar crinkle at the corners.

“I told you I’d watch over you, Miranda.”

“And you meant it literally.”

“My swan song. Thought I’d go out with a bang. Couldn’t find a knight costume … all the krauts got there first.”

“Did you send Hübner and the princess up here?”

He nodded. “I saw you go upstairs with Fritz. He’s got a certain reputation.”

“For good reason. Ever hear of Lily Cartwright? She worked for Dianne a couple of years ago. Wiedemann put her in the hospital. Split her open like a walnut.”

Rick turned red, ran a hand over his forehead. Muttered: “I’ve heard something along those lines.”

Miranda perched on the end of one of the tables, looking him up and down appraisingly.

“You look pretty good in tights. Don’t worry, I won’t tell the steno pool. So what’s the story? How did you sneak in here?”

He grinned. “Society column for an Atascadero paper, known to be pro-Nazi, and a half-faked press pass. When you didn’t come down with the creep in the weird robe, I figured I’d go ask Stephanie where you were. She noticed Fritzie was gone, too, and that was all she wrote.”

She sighed, hopped off the table. “Speaking of Stephanie, we’d better get back. I don’t want to make Wiedemann too jealous.”

Rick scratched an ear, forehead wrinkled. “You’re not angry.”

Miranda took his arm. “No. No, I’m not. You helped save me from, as they say, a fate worse than death.”

“I knew Wiedemann was up to no good, Nazi sonofabitch…”

She shook her head impatiently. “Not that. I can take care of myself.”

He paused just outside the door, voice a whisper. “What, then?”

Her mouth drew together in a hard line. “Shooting the bastard. I would have lost my license.”

*   *   *

They were almost at the foot of the stairs when Stephanie looked up, mouth a bitter, biting smile. The crowd had dwindled to twenty or thirty diehards, including Jasper, who stood in a corner sipping a drink.

“Ah, Miss Gouchard, our friend from the French consulate. Since you are obviously a champion of the Weimar epoch and its artistic and cultural license—everything from ‘degenerate’ art to cabaret shows and ‘free love,’ I should imagine—Fritzie has proposed moving the party to a more suitable locale … in your honor, of course.”

Wiedemann opened his mouth to say something and she preempted him, waving a bejeweled hand in the air, voice like ground glass.

“Our own little consulate is far too old-fashioned for a girl of your sensibilities, my dear. And Fritzie—shh, everyone, don’t tell the Fuehrer!—Fritzie rather enjoys his nightclubs too, don’t you, dear? Benda’s Fantasy Palace is too far—all the way to San Bruno. Fortunately, I understand there is a suitable locale nearby on Broadway. It’s called Finocchio’s!”