Shark and Octopus Read online

  THIRTY-SIX

  July 4

  3:20 am

  Eventually Griffin and Annie gave up even pretending to try to sleep. They did not talk much; there wasn’t much that needed saying. The day was planned. Griffin knew planning would only go so far. Annie, he suspected, knew that as well.

  At quarter after four Annie told him, “Might as well get it over with” and they both got out of bed.

  Griffin and Kit drove in Griffin’s Malibu to the Rodgers Forge fields. Griffin carried the box stuffed with whatever Kit had put inside – it certainly was not the 1742 del Gesu violin. Griffin waited there for a sign from Roberto de Ruiz. The sign was a phone ringing by the softball field.

  On the phone, Griffin listened to Ruiz’s instructions about getting to Stevenson Lane with the box in less than sixty seconds. If not, “I keep driving. If the del Gesu is damaged in any way, there is no sale.”

  Griffin said, yes, he understood the terms. Roberto de Ruiz then informed him, “Put down the phone. Hold onto the box. Start running, Mr. Gilmore, You have sixty seconds.”

  Griffin did as instructed, though he did not put the phone down, he tossed it. It landed somewhere in the dirt of the infield. He headed back up the hill he had descended.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain in his legs from all that scraping in the basement, he reached Stevenson Lane. A pair of headlights went on and a voice called out for him to get into the car. From his suit coat pocket Ruiz pulled out a small box with four switches. With a push of each switch there was an explosion. Parked cars loudly blew up on both sides of the fields.

  “A bit of a distraction,” Robert Ruiz said. “Now you must be frisked.”

  The two men got out of the car. As he frisked Griffin, Roberto Ruiz said, “You moved more slowly than I anticipated, Mr. Gilmore. While crossing the fields.”

  “My legs are sore from scraping red paint and green paint from the walls in the basement of our house the last two days,” Griffin answered, at unnecessary length. “My hands took a beating too.”

  He showed Roberto Ruiz his hands, palms up. Ruiz stopping frisking to look at Griffin’s hands. Even in the uncertain morning light it was obvious Griffin was not exaggerating the toll the scraping had taken on his hands. Blisters and welts were visible, parts of several fingers were worn raw in places, and there were band aids on each hand.

  The frisking resumed. The beeper Sergeant Ahearn had taped inside Griffin’s armpit was smaller than a dime but this frisking was so thorough Griffin knew it was inevitable the beeper would be discovered.

  When he found the beeper Roberto Ruiz said, “A beeper in the armpit is standard procedure, Mr. Gilmore. I am afraid your law enforcement associates will hereafter be unable to track your whereabouts.”

  That, Griffin knew, was right. The feds, Sergeant Ahearn and Officer Fernandez, whatever personnel Grace had detailed – none of them would know where Griffin was going. He did not either.

  They pulled away from the curb.

  “Two more stops,” Roberto Ruiz said. “Then we shall transact our business.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  July 4

  5:40 am

  They drove west on Stevenson Lane down the big hill toward Bellona Avenue. Strange, the thoughts that occur under stress, Griffin decided. As they reached the bottom of the hill he remembered that the novelist Scott Fitzgerald had once lived very near this spot.

  No, Griffin ordered himself. You cannot allow your thoughts to bounce around right now. Focus.

  They arrived at Bellona as the light went red. Griffin heard another car explode behind him. De Ruiz did not wait at the light, but turned right immediately. He then took a quick left on Haddon Avenue, a shortcut only a block long and one that would be unknown to anyone who had not spent some time in preparation. Griffin guessed de Ruiz had been in Baltimore a couple days getting ready.

  When they reached Charles Street, de Ruiz turned right, then right again soon after. They entered the parking lot of a grocery store still closed for the night. They left the parking lot and crossed into a small area behind a nondescript brick office building. They were now hidden from passing Charles Street traffic.

  In all Griffin’s years of traveling on Charles Street, he had never noticed the building since it was set so far back from the street and was tucked behind a convenience store. In the rear of the office building were trees, a small lot for employees, and dumpsters. De Ruiz pulled into a space between the dumpsters. Griffin heard a pair of police sirens roll past on Charles Street.

  De Ruiz parked beside a new black SUV. The car the two men had been in was an old grey Tercel half the size of the SUV.

  “The authorities may have spotted the grey car we are now vacating. We shall be more comfortable in this vehicle. Make haste, please.” De Ruiz gestured for Griffin to step into the SUV. Pointing to the box, de Ruiz said, “And do be gentle with the del Gesu.”

  *

  De Ruiz drove the black SUV out of the parking lot and back onto Charles Street, as if he had all the time in the world. Griffin knew de Ruiz did. No more than seven minutes had elapsed since Griffin had staggered to Stevenson Lane, with his legs hurting.

  The police had no reason to stop this SUV, whose existence they could not even suspect. De Ruiz drove north on Charles Street. Somewhere to their right Griffin heard the siren of a fire truck. By now 911 calls must be pouring in from terrified Rodgers Forge residents. The cops there would have their hands full dealing with people streaming out of their homes screaming. There were fires to contend with and possibly more cars exploding. No one in law enforcement would be helping Griffin, even if they knew where he was. Which they didn’t.

  De Ruiz put on a CD. Griffin recognized the music from Miriam Freitag’s apartment.

  “Mozart,” he said. “Eine-”

  “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik. I knew you to be an American of some culture. A man like myself, Mr. Gilmore. Unlike that thoroughly disagreeable Cleve, whose services I required.

  ”I regret I was forced to engage Cleve these past days to obtain the needed vehicles and other chores. He was recommended me by an American woman working for me. Fortunately, after tonight I will never be required to deal with him again. Truly an unpleasant man. His aftershave is no substitute for regular showers. I have advised him so repeatedly. He would also be well-advised to reduce his intake of whiskey.”

  “Cleve would be Cleveland Dumont? He drove you from the Baltimore Museum of Art. Isn’t that correct? Mr. de Ruiz.”

  Roberto de Ruiz gave Griffin a long, appreciated glance.

  “You are truly a bright and no doubt persistent man, Mr. Gilmore.” De Ruiz reached over and touched the box resting between Griffin’s knees. “And if the 1742 Guarneri del Gesu is inside that box, then you are about to become a wealthy man as well.

  “And if it is not inside the box?” de Ruiz slid upward the right cuff of his white slacks to reveal an ankle holster.

  “A Makarov?”

  Another appreciative glance.

  “A weapon with which I have demonstrated some expertise in the museum, you must acknowledge.”

  As they drove north on Charles Street, Ruiz continued addressing Griffin: “Your reference to our time together in the Baltimore museum reminds me, Mr. Gilmore. I have been remiss.”

  He reached inside the pocket of his white suit coat and pulled out an object which he handed to Griffin, who recognized it immediately.

  “The Duke’s key.”

  “It is of no value to me,” de Ruiz said. “You might return it to its rightful owner.”

  Griffin promised he would, wondering if he’d survive this morning to get the chance.

  After half a mile de Ruiz turned off Charles Street, putting them back on Bellona Avenue. As they were completing the turn, in the side mirror Griffin spotted another police car hurrying down Charles toward Rodgers Forge. The siren faded into the distance.

  “You’ve been here a few days?” Griffin asked.

 
The morning had lightened enough Griffin could see de Ruiz’s face. There was an unmistakable look of expectation on that face. When he learned the box did not contain the del Gesu, de Ruiz would not be at all pleased.

  “Can I ask, Mr. de Ruiz? How’d you get to Baltimore from your villa in the Pyrenees?”

  “You know of my villa, Mr. Gilmore? Should you seek employment in the future? My organization can always use someone of your obvious talents.”

  “Thanks. How did you get here?”

  “Prior to my arrival here,” he replied, “I flew from Barcelona to Munich, then to Rome. From there I flew to Mexico City. From Mexico City I traveled Mexicana Airlines to Albuquerque. Another flight to Pittsburgh. Where I was met by Cleveland Dumont, who drove me here.

  “I wore lifts in my shoes, which rendered me almost six foot eight. It is possible to be so obvious no one notices, I have learned. Arriving in America I wore a false beard, like the beard of your beloved president, Abraham Lincoln. Who would question … Honest Abe, he was called? Getting here presented no insurmountable difficulties.”

  And, just like that, Griffin thought, in a handful of sentences Roberto de Ruiz described how he eluded the best efforts of Grace and the federal government.

  “Now, Mr. Gilmore. I must ask you.” They were almost down the long, winding hill of Bellona Avenue, the light rail tracks to their left. Ruiz was keeping strictly to the speed limit, neither too fast nor too slow. Griffin know no cop was about to stop the SUV. “I must ask. How did you ever obtain the del Gesu?”

  *

  Instead of answering, Griffin said, “You went into the dungeon in Arazzo Castle, Mr. de Ruiz. You needed the Duke’s key to open the door to the room in the back of the dungeon. The room proved to be empty.”

  They were stopped at the intersection of Bellona and Ruxton Road, where Ruxton Road humpbacks over the light rail tracks. While waiting for the light to turn green, Ruiz gave Griffin his longest look yet. The Mozart played on softly.

  “You continue to impress me, Mr. Gilmore.”

  “Mr. de Ruiz, going to Arazzo Castle made sense. The Special Task Force For Music had stayed there.”

  “True. The surviving record of their travels during the war is severely and tragically limited. Nonetheless, that much is known. I thought a del Gesu might have been kept in the unopened room all that time. Alas not.”

  Griffin said, “Arazzo Castle made particular sense because the Special Task Force went there within days after they were attacked in an American air raid at Ulm, Germany. It was in this air raid Hans Baeder was wounded. He was wounded trying to save the del Gesu. The del Gesu stolen by the Nazis from the family of the philosopher Wittgenstein. In exchange for the violin, the Nazis spared the Wittgenstein family from the death camps.”

  Ruiz turned off Bellona into the parking lot of Grau’s Market. The lot was empty except for a Hummer sitting in the far corner.

  “I recall Hans Baeder’s name. He is mentioned in the dissertation by Alexandra Webb. You know of her?”

  “We met, in New York.”

  “Alexandra Webb was the one who hired Cleve Dumont to assist us. In her dissertation Alexandra states that Herr Baeder was an acknowledged expert on the value of violins. Surely he recognized the greatness of the 1742 Guarneri del Gesu. You say he was wounded while protecting the instrument?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “He sounds a brave and impressive man.”

  “He must have been,” Griffin agreed. “Mr. de Ruiz? From your response can I conclude you did not order the break in of Hans Baeder’s house?”

  Robert de Ruiz parked the SUV next to the Hummer, which was a bright orange color.

  “I could not have done so. I have no idea where this Hans Baeder lives.”

  Griffin had no doubt de Ruiz was telling the truth. If de Ruiz did not order the burglary of Hans’ house, then it must have been Alexandra Webb.

  That would at least explain the Future-Ride business card with Hans’ address on the back in handwriting having both male and female characteristics. Alexandra knew Cleve Dumont was working for Robert de Ruiz; she was responsible for hiring Cleve in the first place. She must have imitated de Ruiz’s handwriting as best she could. With the card as evidence of de Ruiz’s intentions, she ordered Dumont – who Timothy Dean referred to as Dude - to break into Hans’ house. But the del Gesu was not to be found there.

  If events had played out as Griffin was now assuming, it meant Alexandra Webb could be playing a double game – working for commission on Robert de Ruiz’s behalf while pursuing the del Gesu for herself.

  “Mr. Gilmore?” de Ruiz was asking, eager for Griffin to resume his explanation. The Mozart kept playing.

  Griffin continued: “The Special Task Force was in Arazzo Castle on August 20, 1944. That much is, as you know, confirmed by the record. It is my belief Hans Baeder, either as part of the Special Task Force or on his own, then went to Paris. He must have gone immediately after Arazzo, since Paris was liberated by the Allies on August 25, 1944.”

  Griffin went on, “Hans went to Paris because he had a French classmate at the Dresden conservatory he had attended before the war. The classmate lived in Paris. In Paris the classmate had a shop which sold musical instruments.”

  “By any chance, Mr. Gilmore, was this the music shop which may have had the del Gesu after the war?”

  “The very same shop, I am convinced. During the war Hans helped out his old classmate, who was Jewish and living in Paris, with the Nazi authorities.”

  “How do you know this, Mr. Gilmore?”

  Thinking appreciatively of Miriam, Griffin said, “I have spoken to someone who knew Hans very well. I trust we can respect this woman’s privacy, since she herself never knew more than the most general details of the del Gesu. She certainly had no idea of its location.”

  “Of course.”

  “It is my belief that in his gratitude, Hans’ classmate agreed to keep the del Gesu Hans left with him in August 1944. The man ran the Paris shop with his brother. By 1950 both were dead. The man’s widow carried on the shop, though her knowledge of musical instruments was minimal. This is why her account of having the del Gesu is discounted. The assumption is that no one running a music shop could possibly be ignorant of the del Gesu’s extraordinary worth. I believe it was not only possible, it happened.”

  “How did the del Gesu get from the Paris music shop to that box you have now?” Ruiz asked next.

  “Hans Baeder immigrated to America in the summer of 1954. He may have wanted to get back to the Paris music shop before that, but in the wretched poverty of post-war Germany never got the chance. We will never know.

  “But in that summer of 1954 he went into Paris before coming to America. It is my belief he picked up the del Gesu at that time. The widow running the Paris music shop by then certainly would have remembered Hans’ aid during the war. She would not question his taking the del Gesu. If Hans Baeder asked her to remain silent about his getting the del Gesu, in her gratitude for his helping her husband, she would do so.”

  “How then did you come by the del Gesu you are holding?”

  “I found the violin where Hans, who died one year ago today, hid it.”

  “An amazing story, Mr. Gilmore.”

  And all of it true, Griffin was thinking, as best I know – except for the last detail that I have the del Gesu with me. De Ruiz could have been reading his thoughts.

  “Mr. Gilmore, I trust you understand my desire to inspect the del Gesu before arranging payment to your bank account. I will need more room to open the box. Let us step into the parking lot. After our transaction I will depart in this vehicle,” he pointed to the orange Hummer, “so huge and brightly painted no one will notice.”

  De Ruiz grabbed his Panama hat from the back seat. They climbed down from the SUV, Griffin clutching the box. Once they were standing in the parking lot he leaned the box against his legs and looked at his hands.

  “The box, Mr. Gilmore?”
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br />   Griffin looked at his hands some more.

  De Ruiz repeated his request, his gentlemanly tone ebbing.

  “The box, if you would. Now.”

  Griffin saw no way around handing de Ruiz the box. Thinking of the Makarov in its ankle holster, Griffin picked up the box and handed it to de Ruiz. De Ruiz held the box lightly, by the sides, judging its weight. He smiled and Griffin knew Kit had done his job well, stuffing the box with whatever to match the weight of the del Gesu.

  De Ruiz was beginning to open the box and in fact had torn open a few inches of the thick cardboard, when a car engine started up on the side street just outside the parking lot. By de Ruiz’s reaction Griffin knew this was not part of the Spaniard’s elaborate preparations.

  A car starting up on a Ruxton street a little after six on the morning of July Fourth could of course be a coincidence unrelated to the del Gesu. Griffin strongly doubted it. De Ruiz looked at him. Griffin shrugged.

  “I have no idea,” he said. He didn’t either. The car did not sound anything like his Malibu, which Kit was driving, or the Mini Cooper Annie, Saif and Bobby were in. This car could be a Ruxton homeowner off to work or to an early coffee. Griffin did not think so and could tell de Ruiz did not either. De Ruiz reached down to the ankle holster.

  The car was a small and sleek convertible, with a driver and passenger. Griffin and de Ruiz watched in silence as the car moved down the side street. The car turned left onto Bellona and then quickly left again into the Grau’s Market parking lot. Without looking at him, Griffin could sense de Ruiz’s growing alarm. De Ruiz slipped the Makarov into his right hand.

  The car went directly at the two men, headlights on high beam, leaving Griffin and Roberto de Ruiz shielding their eyes from the overwhelming lights. Twenty feet away, the car stopped. Still blinking in the headlights, the men heard a woman say, in the sweetest Georgia drawl, “Why Roberto. And Mr. Wales, didn’t you say your name was? Though I doubt it now. What a pleasant surprise.”