Montezuma’s Revenge

“Very nice of you to come by and see an old man, seeing how you are so busy these days. Our Italian friends are very hurt by your actions and say you stole some money from them.”

“I did not! It was freely given—and how do you know about that anyway?”

“Word travels. We help each other. There are a lot of Nazis they have no love for either. I hear also you bumped off this Davidson because of a feud between the CIA and the FBI!”

“That’s not true!”

“I thought not, nice fellow like you would have a better reason.”

“Listen, Goldstein, let us get one thing clear. I did not kill Davidson. He was knifed while I was in the other room. I have no idea who did it or why. I have been framed.”

Goldstein nodded benevolently as he sipped his tea, spoon in glass threatening his eyeball. “You been pretty busy, like I said.”

“That is all beside the point. I’m here because of what you have done. You told me you weren’t interested in the paintings at all, yet you had one of your muscle-bound sabras steal it from us. Why? Or are you going to deny the whole thing?”

“Me, deny? Of course not. A very nice painting and it is put away in a safe spot.”

“Give it back, you crook.”

“Crook, surely, return painting, perhaps. That depends upon you.”

“I had that feeling all along. What can I possibly do for you?”

“We’ll get to that in good time, but first I have a little story to tell you.”

“Could you tell it to me while I’m eating? It is lunchtime.” Rich odor of pastrami, salami, corned beef, pickles, peppers, salad, rye bread, onion rolls, gave sweet torture to his nostrils. Goldstein nodded with sympathetic understanding and called out a rapid order to the girl behind the counter, then sipped his tea until a great sandwich had arrived, and Tony had worried a delicious corner off it, looking on with appreciation at his healthy appetite. The girl called for assistance as another table filled and by the time Goldstein had returned the plate was empty and Tony dabbing the last crumbs from his lips.

“I’m glad you ate first, because what I got to tell you won’t help your appetite, young and healthy as it is. It’s not a nice story about a man by the name of Hochhande.”

“So it is a man, the name I mean, I wondered.”

“Perhaps man is too nice a word to apply to Hochhande, you will judge when I am finished. I ask you to turn your mind back to a period that, to one your age, is becoming a part of history. Except that all the players have not yet vanished from the stage. The time is during what we call the Second World War, which the English more personally refer to as the Hitler War, in the south of Italy, the province of Salerno. There was a prison camp there outside the city of Sapri, commanded by one Kapitan Hippolyt Hochhande, known as Hippo to his close friends of which he had very few. Hochhande did such admirable work in this camp that toward the end of the war he was called back hurriedly to Germany by none other than the Fiihrer himself, with whom he had a slight acquaintance due to a mutual interest, and was given the immense responsibility of running an extermination camp. You have heard of these camps? I see by your complexion that you have.

In Gelsenkirchen, as in the other camps, the civilized Germans did their best to preserve the cultural world image of their nation by killing off all the victims who knew better. Hochhande, ever the efficient man, did away with over three hundred thousand people before he fled ahead of the advancing Allied armies. Most of the dead were Jews which explains, in case you are interested, why I have come here and now labor in the guise of a smiling delicatessen man. Enjoyable in many ways, except I am putting on weight, and far better than the time in Argentina when for three years I worked out of a hay, grain and feed shop.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t see the connection between Gelsenkirchen and Mexico.”

“I’m coming to that. The mutual interest that Hochhande shared with Adolf was art, Hochhande having been the operator of a Munich art gallery before the war. It is known that Hochh; actually obtained some paintings for Adolf, and for Goring as well. It is also recorded that he visited Monte d’Capitello many times to admire the paintings there, it is just a few kilometers from Sapri.”

“I’m beginning to see ...”

“I thought you might. The museum is destroyed, the pain vanish, presumably destroyed with it. Now strange things begin to happen. A Matisse painting from the Hitler collection reappears on the world market after many years. The Capitello paintings also come to light. I detect the spoor of Hochhande here. I will sniff him out.”

“But Kurt Robl is the man who is doing everything, that is what I was told. Is he Hochhande?”