Chapter 1
Behind Enemy Lines, February 12th 1945
The wailing sound of air raid sirens filled the air above the blackened, historic city of Dresden. The smell of cordite filled the night sky as plumes of grey smoke and dust mingled in the cold night air, drifting in between the narrow streets as if searching for a way out of the burning city. In the distance cannon fire arced up from anti-aircraft guns into the night sky as spitfires and hurricanes continued their relentless attack in the distance. Pockets of fire raged on the horizon where allied planes had dropped their deadly payloads. In the near distance along the riverbank, a number of buildings were alight, the reflection of flames caught in the still waters of the River Elbe. The view up and down the river, across the night sky provided a light show that would surpass any 5th November celebration, but this was anything but a celebration. It was the beginning of one of the bloodiest periods of World War 2.
An allied plane suddenly appeared careering across the city, skimming the rooftops like an incoming meteor, its pilot now parachuting to safety. It impacted the river between the old and new sections of the city, sending great swathes of oil, kerosene and fuselage across the water where it sat burning freely. A tremendous explosion, at least a mile away up river, preceded the collapse of one of the city’s major road bridges, not a casualty of further bombing raids, more as a result of German forces trying desperately to halt the progress of allied troops from marching into the east German city.
The view from the stone steps of the Albertinum museum gave the whole episode a surreal look as if the old building was being spared what the rest of the city had to endure. Despite the carnage all around, it stood tall and strong dominating the moonlit landscape. It gave the impression of a building designed to withstand such punishment, but fortunately for now it hadn’t been called to. Still each night the noise of plane engines grew ever nearer toward the old building. In truth, the museum was always warned by telephone well in advance of any enemy air raids by the German high command, enabling lights to be dimmed much sooner. The elderly museum curator had often wondered why the old building should receive such special treatment, but then dismissing the thought just as quickly, thankful that the museum and its contents had been spared, at least for now.
In the darkness, parked below the pedestrian footway that was Brühl's Terrace, sat a column of German trucks, parked beneath low hanging Willow tress, each engine idling, waiting for the signal to move forward. A few moments later and the lead truck made its way up the winding approach road, toward the museum’s main entrance, quickly followed by the rest. The curator, a man in his late 60s, emerged, animated, pointing inside the building and then back at the trucks. The dozen or so German soldiers entered the building following the curator’s lead and immediately began to ferry out large wooden crates, loading each truck one-by-one by moonlight, keeping a wary eye on the mayhem around them. It was time to evacuate the museum’s world famous collections, a necessity as it became apparent that Germany was now officially losing the war.
The order had been given by Heinrich Himmler himself, Commander of the much-feared Schutzstaffel (SS) in an attempt to keep the contents of the museum from the advancing Russian army from the east and the alliance to the west. It was February 12th, 1945 and the fall of Germany was only a matter of time. It was inevitable by then and Hitler, Himmler and his Generals, responsible for plundering some of Europe’s most famous treasures, were determined to keep them. For some their share would pay for an escape route, a ticket to South America to live out their days in the style that they had become accustomed to over the last 6 years. Post-war Jewish activist would later be convinced that the lost treasure would be used to finance a future second Nazi uprising.
The soldier’s footsteps were hurried now, only the size and weight of there burden hampering a speedy conclusion. Paintings by Van Gough, Rubens were individually crated and placed carefully inside the Swashsticker emblazoned canvassed roofed trucks. The contents of the famous Green Vault collection were sealed in larger boxes, each item protected from the other by copious amounts of sawdust and straw.
The first plane caught them unaware. Its deadly cargo hit the east wing with alarming accuracy or maybe it was just bad luck. Priceless frieze and large sculptures too large to transport were destroyed instantly on impact. The explosion must have ruptured a gas main and within seconds more loud explosions followed and the night sky was alight with a searing orange glow that made the museum an even clearer target.
The deafening noise and intense heat promoted a greater sense of urgency to the soldier’s movements and they brought their activities to a premature close. It was time to leave and take whatever priceless cargo they had loaded to a secret location, one that could never be found by any invading force once Germany had fallen or equally by German traitors to the Nazi cause. The driver of the first truck ignored the angry objections of the curator over the half-filled trucks. For the curator the treasures had been a life’s work. Initially it was a modest collection before the war, but now one to rival any other around the world. He didn’t mind the sudden swelling of his responsibility, given that it now housed many priceless works from beyond Germany’s borders, works stolen as the Nazi’s swept through occupied Europe. It was enough that he could gaze in awe daily at treasures he had previously only read about in books.
He wasn’t about to leave no matter what these cowards did. He cursed and shook his fist in defiance first at the departing trucks and then at the enemy aircraft overhead. Another explosion in the grounds brought his animated gesturing to an abrupt halt and he hurried back inside to salvage what he could of the remaining collection. A short distance away parked in the shadows of a side road observing proceedings was another single German army truck. The engine erupted into life quietly and it pulled forward, as the last truck from the column departed around the corner and out-of-sight. The driver took no chances though choosing to keep the headlights off, as it emerged from the moonlit shadows moving toward the museum. The truck took a wide sweep just outside the entrance, its wheels mounting the pavement briefly until it came to rest facing its direction of approach. As with the previous trucks it sat waiting, its engine ticking over.
The passenger door opened after a few minutes and a German Major of the Gestapo stepped out on to the pavement. His hat was pulled down so that the peak almost rested on the bridge of his nose. One hand held a cane, which he had tucked under his right arm. The other hand grasped a pair of black leather gloves, which he flicked against his thigh every now and then as he paraded back and forth along the pavement. He scanned the front elevation of the building without a word, seemingly oblivious to the carnage all around him and then motioned to his driver to stay with the truck, before heading up the steps toward the main door. His progress slowed as both doors burst open and a rather excited curator reappeared.
The old man had seen the truck arrive from one of the sash-like windows, peering through the blackout curtains and quietly rejoiced at the opportunity to save more of his beloved antiquities. The truck could have been larger, he thought, as he greeted his new guests and then his focus changed subconsciously back to what he might consider a priority for saving. They could always come back for more, he convinced himself. The instruction he had received from General Reinhard Heydrich had not been specific about what should be saved from the museum, but that was probably borne out of ignorance than any knowledge of genuine antiquities. As far as they were concerned it was a case of grab what you can, what looked valuable, easily transported and could be sold or broken down into its constituent parts, like gold and precious stones. He couldn’t control that in recent days, but he could control what left in this last truck. “Yes!” he said to himself triumphantly, he would get them to pack what he wanted to save this time. Soldiers were so ignorant of culture and history, they wouldn’t know the difference anyway he convinced himself.
“Sir please, you must hurry. There isn’t much time,” he called back to the man in the uniform, before pointing to the general mayhem over the centre of the city. “Bring your men. I have the items already crated and ready to load. Please, you will follow me?” He hurried back inside, between the huge stone columns that flanked the entrance to the museum. The Major followed him without a word, into the great hall with its Italian renaissance style columns supporting vaulted ceilings high above the pair as the sound of their footsteps echoed across the marble floor. The Gestapo officer paused as if mesmerised by the sheer scale and beauty of what lay inside. Although some disarray was apparent with packing crates strewn across the wide expanse of ground floor, he couldn’t help but marvel at what the old museum must have looked like before the war.
To his left, a bust of Plato, Napoleon in carved ivory, even Hitler in bronze. To his right display cases housing rare coin collections, the age of which he could only guess from where he stood. A number of suits of armour in what appeared to be silver lay face down discarded, some blown over by the force of nearby explosions evident by missing window panes that now allowed the cold night air in. The man in the uniform eyed several works of art, at least one by Van Gough and another by Rubens, he thought, both no doubt originals and priceless. He left the cane that he was carrying between his arm and chest, choosing to reach for a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He dabbed at his brow feverishly.
The old man, who seemed to glide across the polished marble floor, his cassock hiding the swiftness of his feet, came to an abrupt stop as he realised that it was only his feet that he could hear now. He motioned to the man in the uniform.
“Please,” he said waving him on, “we need to hurry. Leave those for now, they’re of no importance.” Even as the words left his mouth the curator couldn’t believe he had said them. All the exhibits were important, of course they were, but time was now dictating a hierarchy of choice and importance. Even the man in the uniform reacted oddly to his comment, but still said nothing, he merely gestured with his hand for the old man to continue. The momentary stillness and quiet was disturbed by more footsteps from the entrance behind them, as another 4 soldiers of the Gestapo appeared. They to froze at the sight, one soldier leaping, fisting the air in jubilation, unable to contain his delight. The curator eyed the spectacle curiously. It was unusual to see an art lover amongst the ranks of any army, let alone a non-commissioned officer. His attention switched to the major, who had stopped just as quickly as he had moments earlier and was now sending a steely glare of annoyance at the antics of his soldiers. Another explosion nearby rattled what was left of the window frames in the great hall and each man cowered expecting more to come, save for the curator.
“Please gentlemen, the aircraft, they are getting closer. Part of the museum has already suffered severe damage. We have already lost priceless exhibits,” he called out desperately. He continued his progress deeper into the great hall into what the major guessed was the centre of the museum. The curator busied himself around several wooden crates positioned strategically in the middle of the room. “You must help me safeguard these first,” he gestured at the crates with his open hand,” and then we can think about other exhibits.” Again he pointed at what appeared to be more priceless paintings lining every wall, some leaning against the wall, others still hanging.
A stout looking table some two yards square, located slightly off centre from where the crates sat, displayed unimaginable antique treasures. For that was what they were for common soldiers. Diamond encrusted and mother-of-pear snuffboxes sat prominently at the fore, with more behind them in gold and semi-precious gems set inside black marble and jasper. A silver-gilt casting bottle embossed with sprays of foliage stood close by, beside a silver-gilt cup and cover decorated with gold, scrolls, vines, masks and flowers. Several silver wine coolers decorated with swags of vines and poodle handles covered the remainder of the table and inside rare coins of various denominations, ages and made from precious metals. On the marble floor, propped up against the table were a number of equally rare and valuable paintings. The quintet of army officers stood transfixed at the sight, a look of greed and malevolence spreading across each of their faces.
A loud bang in the museum grounds outside brought them back to reality and the nearest of the four soldiers made a dash toward the table. “No you must leave those. They are of little value compared to what is in here,” the curator said patting the nearest crate.
“I will be the judge of what is of value, financially or otherwise,” the Major finally spoke with authority, in flawless German. He gestured at 2 of his men and they both pulled pieces of folded paper from their tunic pockets. “Don’t just stand there, start searching,” the major’s second in command demanded. The old curator looked on bemused at their antics, but more so at the second demand given in English. The Major cursed angrily, but it was no use, there was no point continuing with the deception. He fixed his stare momentarily on his lieutenant, then on the curator, before electing to speak in English himself, his native tongue.
“Corporal, remind the Lieutenant and I just what your Jew friend told you about the shield.” He turned slowly, this time his attention switched to the smaller overweight man, sporting a thin pencil-like moustache and round wire rimmed glasses, standing behind them. The curator was suddenly pale and worried, fixing his weary eyes on the same man. The corporal had been busying himself checking out the delights of the museum as soon as he had set foot inside, like a child in a candy factory. He continued his own impromptu tour responding to the question as his eyes fixed on a display cabinet housing rare 18th century coins. He lifted the lid, fingering the contents eagerly.
“I told you on the way here, inside the truck. Were you not listening? The story is a myth, a piece of folklore. It made no sense to me at the time. I learned of it quite by accident. The man who told me about it was a prisoner of war, a recent escapee from Belsen, weak and confused,” the corporal replied, slipping several coins into his trouser pocket.
“And he confided in you about the shield because you are of the same faith?” the lieutenant interrupted mockingly. “Well you look like a Jew.” The corporal ignored him, addressing his major.
“How the hell do I know? I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when my old unit picked the poor bastard up. I’m only here because of this,” he held out both hands gesturing at his surroundings, “magnificent building and these treasures, treasures that have been well documented in the past. The talk of a shield is frankly foolhardy as far as I’m concerned.”
`”That is not what I asked,” the Major interrupted. The corporal sighed irritated at being distracted.
“Okay, okay, the Jew rambled on about a golden shield, he called it the Array, the Schutzstaffel Array. He described it as pentagon shaped, about the size of a large dinner plate and that around the edge of the shield at each straight section were inserted 5 golden daggers, the hilts of which were encrusted with precious gems.”
“Gold, gems, eh?” the lieutenant repeated, the only words to catch his limited imagination. The major gestured for his corporal to continue.
“He said the blades of each dagger were housed inside the shield,” the corporal explained holding yet another coin up to one of the museums wall-mounted candles.
“Go on,” his superior prompted him.
“Very well, he said once all the dagger blades are in place the front of the shield acts like a door and inside is a map, a map that supposedly shows a secret place somewhere in the mountains hereabouts where countless other treasures like these have been hidden by the Nazis since the war began.” The curator looked on mesmerised by the exchange. His heavily lined ashen face took on an increasingly worried look and the lieutenant observed him inquisitively and then with an air of realisation.
“And this shield…its here somewhere?” the lieutenant questioned eagerly, switching his attention away from the man in the black cassock.
“I said the story was a myth. It doesn’t exist, only in the mind of some delusional Jew prisoner of war,” the corporal replied dismissively. The major looked on unconvinced and his corporal knew that he had to do better. “The old Jew said the shield was with Hitler and his generals, but Hitler is in Berlin, dead now by all accounts along with most of his generals, so how it could it possibly be here?”
“But your man also said this shield was in a place called the Albertinum did he not? You conveniently left that part out,” the major replied. The corporal nodded. He knew it was useless trying to play things down, even though the planes outside were getting nearer. “In your opinion, how many Albertinum are there in the world, never mind in Germany?” The Major snapped.
“One,” the corporal said realising he was wasting his breath.
“Yes and we are finally standing inside it,” the major pointed out. Just then another sortie by allied aircraft dropped their deadly cargo close by blowing out the remaining glass from the surrounding window frames. The blackout curtains bellowed inwards under the force blowing several candles out and everyone hit the ground without invitation. The last impression in the lieutenant’s mind was the look on the curator’s face as the corporal spoke, the look of a man who knew more than he was telling and he was about to have some fun extracting it out of him. He leapt to his feet, pulling the old man up close, his cassock crumpled under his bearded chin where the soldier gripped it firmly.
“Now then grandpa, I’ve had one eye on you since we arrived. You reacted as if you knew something that you were reluctant to share, twice now to be accurate. Once when the corporal here mentioned about the shield and again when he spoke of Nazi hidden treasure,” he screamed at the old man shaking him violently. “Now tell me what you know?” The curator shook his head defiantly. The lieutenant brought his freehand down swiftly across the old man’s face and he let out a whimper, jarring him sideways under the impact. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. His tormentor pulled him upright bringing the back of his hand back across his face again and he fell crashing into more crates and boxes hidden beneath a dustsheet beside the table. The lieutenant was just warming up and beginning to enjoy himself. He dragged the old man to his feet again. “Now let’s try harder this time shall we?” He barked. ”Where is this shield? You know don’t you?”
“Lieutenant!” His major called out forcefully and with some authority. The lieutenant grit his teeth angrily, showing his contempt for his apparent superior ranking officer then letting the old man fall to his knees. “I think we do not need your heavy-handed tactics.” The major walked across to where the two men had been struggling with each other and pulled at the dust sheet further until it dropped at their feet. What had become partially visible during their struggle was now there for all to see. The corporal quickly realised what his major was referring to, following his stare. Their attention was fixed on a painting propped against the nearest crate. It wasn’t a classic and probably of little value, but significantly it was a portrait of Adolph Hitler holding counsel with several of his generals.
“What were you saying about Hitler and his generals?” The major asked the much smaller corporal who was standing beside him now. The corporal said nothing, choosing to kneel slowly, using the lens of his glasses as a magnifying glass to inspect the painting at closer quarters. The lieutenant looked on mystified at the pair. “So, we have Hitler and his generals and the Albertinum, all together, just like your Jew friend said,” the major reminded them all. By this time, the 2 remaining soldiers had rejoined them.
“Well?” The major shouted. Both men shook their heads, indicating that they had been unsuccessful during their search to find the golden shield.
“So it’s a painting of Hitler and his arse wipes,” the lieutenant growled, ”so what?” The corporal pulled the painting forward leaning it on to his chest, spinning it around on its base so that the back of the portrait was visible to everyone in the room. He smiled with satisfaction, while the old curator beyond them looked on in abject horror, stemming the blood flow from his injured mouth.
“It is quite a deep frame for a portrait of this size wouldn’t you say?” The corporal said cryptically out loud and then he attempted to lift it clear of the marble floor, “and quite heavy as well, too heavy in fact for what it appears to be I would say.”
“No!” The curator screamed, finding his voice through his cut, swollen lips. His voice was suddenly quietened by the lieutenant’s size 10-army boot as he brought it up and under the old man’s chin. The curator crashed backwards, unconscious against the wall. The lieutenant switched his attention back to the painting, withdrawing a large bayonet from a sheath strapped to his right calf. He’d eventually realised what all the fuss was about.
“I never did care for Hitler,” he said sneering. This time it was the corporal’s turn to shout his objection at the inevitability of what was about to follow, the unnecessary destruction of yet another piece, but to no avail. Pushing the blade in through Hitler’s face, the lieutenant pulled the blade right then left and down each side of the frame to the bottom of the portrait and returned the bayonet to its sheath. The painted canvas flapped forward out on to the floor revealing something with a golden lustre set further back into the shadow of the frame where it was held in place. It was exactly as the corporal had described, how it had been described to him a month or so ago by a dying Jewish prisoner-of-war. The lieutenant propped the frame back against the crate to get a better view of what lay inside.
“The Schutzstaffel Array I presume,” the corporal announced excitedly. The lieutenant reached inside the frame, feeling around its edges, his eyes sparkled as his fingers ran over the hilts of each dagger still housed inside the shield. Central to it the infamous SS symbol was denoted by hundreds of small diamonds set in an ebony surface. He stopped when the central section came away in his hands, a door of sorts, revealing a hidden compartment, approximately 18 inches in diameter and 2 inches deep, again as the corporal had described.
“The map!” The major called out sharply. The lieutenant grimaced visibly as he pulled the door wider allowing limited light inside.
“There is no fucking map,” the response came back just as fast. The lieutenant held the door open now wide for all to see. “It’s empty, you’ve been had.” He turned in a crouching position, anger on his face, as he looked first at his colleagues one-by-one and then at the stirring curator several feet away. “Maybe someone removed the map before we arrived?” Pulling one of the priceless daggers from its housing he stood and marched toward the museum guardian, pulling him up by the scruff of his neck again. “Okay you old bastard, where is the map?” He snarled, the dagger-point only a fraction of an inch from the old man’s right eye.
“I…I…know nothing about a…m…ma…map,” he stammered. In the background, each soldier raced forward helping themselves to a dagger each, leaving the shield in tied to the frame. Another volley of allied bombs arrived and a distant section of the museum took a direct hit. Everyone dived for cover once more, everyone that is except the curator. He took off back along the hallway, toward the main exit, staggering at first then managing a brisk pace.
“Stop him,” the major’s order echoed throughout the great hall, but the curator was oblivious to it and filled with defiance.
“I must get the real soldiers back here at once,” he mumbled to himself determinedly. Unfortunately for him, it was the lieutenant who recovered the quickest out of the British mercenaries. Standing upright he flipped the ornamental dagger in mid-air so that he held the tip of the blade between his fingers and thumb.
“Knife throwing is all about force, trajectory and knowing the feel and weight of your weapon. A little heavier than my old trusty bayonet, but with a little compensation,” he said out loud and to no one in particular.
“No!” It was the corporal again guessing his intention. It was too late though. The dagger was already beside its new owner’s head and in the lieutenant’s line of sight. He threw it in one swift movement. The dagger began rotating several times in mid air, whistling as it made its progress towards its fleeing target. It hit the old man at the base of his neck, dead centre, an inch or so above his shoulders. He cried out in agony, his progress now more of a stagger, as if in slow motion, his breathing laboured and gasping. His gnarled hands clawed desperately at the alien object at the back of his neck while copious amounts of blood poured through his fingers. His movement slowed further with each step and he grabbed out at the approaching doorframe in front of him, the demarcation between the end of the Great Hall and the museum entrance. He slid to his knees, his dull eyes looking out through the open doorway beyond. Light afforded by fires raging elsewhere around the museum partially lit up the grounds outside and for a few seconds he knelt as if frozen. Slowly he slumped forward landing face down coughing violently, blood splattered the marble floor with each convulsion.
The lieutenant grinned at his own skill and accuracy while his colleagues could only look on stunned by his manic cruelty. He was the kind of man who was brutal and sadistic. It was in his nature and the war had given him the means by which to realise those qualities.
“I have no use for this now,” the lieutenant said to himself, pulling his own bayonet out from its sheath again. He threw it at one of the flaying curtains, pinning the fabric to the wooden frame behind it. There was an audible yelp that everyone heard. It was the corporal who reacted first holding his machine gun at waist height before him. The lieutenant ignored the unwanted distraction, choosing to pursue and recover his own golden dagger from the ailing curator. As the corporal approached the curtain, a small Siamese cat ran out from behind it and out between the soldiers into the adjacent room.
“Shit!” The corporal called out pulling his glasses from his face. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped the condensation from the lenses. At the hall entrance, the lieutenant stood leering over the dying curator.
“Mine I think,” he said grinning and then withdrawing the golden blade with a twist. There was an audible crunch and the curator was dead. He wiped the blood off the blade on the old man’s black gown, just as there was a huge explosion inside the museum. It rattled the very foundations of the old building.
“Quickly, anything else we can carry then out before it blows altogether,” the major shouted, from back inside the hall, snapping them all into action. Lifting the crates that the curator had already packed they were outside loading the single truck within minutes.
“The shield,” the corporal called out looking at his own dagger and then back at the museum door, but it was too late. The museum entrance was a raging inferno. The central portion of the Array was lost. The truck headed off reluctantly into the night the way it had arrived, leaving the museum and the rest of Dresden burning.
Chapter 2
Stasi, East Germany, 1958
“Remove the bandages,” Colonel Ivan Dietrich demanded. The head of Stasi espionage in Western Europe stood in the private room at the foot of the hospital bed, arms folded eyes fixed on the sedated patient before him. Dr Dietmar Krankel was already peering cautiously beneath the swathe of bandages around his patient’s head. He neither replied nor acknowledged Dietrich’s command for his mind was on the welfare of his patient. “Krankel, you are not indispensable. I can have a plastic surgeon here within the hour to replace you.” The man in the white coat continued his examination, but he knew all to well that Dietrich wasn’t in the habit of making idol threats. He suspected that his patient was part of a Dietrich operation, some poor sod under his command conned into having facial reconstruction for some espionage operation that he wasn’t privy to. He no doubt had been promised promotion and all manner of rewards and of course that he would be doing his country a great service. Listening now to Dietrich’s impatience the mission must have been imminent, but Krankel was more concerned about the health of his patient, as any doctor would be.
“General Dietrich as this man’s physician I must put his health above all else,” Krankel said, lifting the bandages around his patient’s mouth tentatively, “if I remove these too early he is at risk from infection and the skin grafts may not take.” Dietrich moved around the opposite side of the bed, his mood unchanged, until Krankel could do nothing but look at him.
“Doctor your point is well made and noted, but it is absolutely imperative that he is available 3 weeks from today, fully prepared for his assignment. He has other preparation work to do during that period. He knew the risks when he agreed to carry out the assignment, so please, the bandages,” Dietrich replied, gesturing at the patient. Krankel sighed heavily, head bowed. He knew it was useless arguing. Dietrich would only bring in his own surgeon and he would be sent back to Leipzig general hospital to look after routine hospital cases.
“Very well, but I cannot be held accountable if he fails to meet your expectations,” Krankel said as he began cutting.
“Doctor, we have a window of opportunity, 3 weeks from now. If we miss it, we will not get another and it will not matter anyway.”
Slowly and carefully Krankel began unwrapping the bandage while Dietrich looked on eagerly. Minutes later, Krankel gently lifted the gauze from his patient’s face. The scars were well healed, although the face was swollen, the skin redden. Krankel observed his handy-work like an artist, pleased with himself. Dietrich placed his briefcase on the table at the end of the bed and took out a photograph. His eyes moved to the man in the bed, until his rounded craggy face erupted into a broad grin.
“Excellent work Krankel, you are good at your profession, a worthy recommendation. Now, give him whatever he needs for the pain and wake him up. We have a lot of work to do and very little time to do it.”
Chapter 3
Sotheby’s Auction House, London, 1960
Mike Butterworth paused outside Sothebys adjusting the drooping red carnation in his lapel. He glanced at the pamphlet in his hand. The start time said 3:00pm and it was already 3:10pm. He leapt 2 stairs at a time flashing his entrance pass at security as he entered into the main auction room. He wasn’t a collector, more of a seller, the reason he was there. He needed cash and he needed it quickly. Selling his nest egg would give him the second chance in life that he craved for, an opportunity to put his chequered past behind him. Butterworth is a recovering alcoholic. His addiction had ruined the best part of his life. He was unemployed, had been for 2 years. Grace, his wife, had left him after his fourth attempt to kick the habit. Now he was convinced he’d done it. The one thing of monetary value that he had left he had buried in his back garden soon after coming home after the war, some 15 years earlier. He’d never had call to dig it up until now.
The sudden interest in World War 2 memorabilia by collectors couldn’t have come at a more fortuitous time. Oh, he’d had money after the war, more than he could have hoped for, but excessive spending, bad investments, crooked accountants and his booze fixation had all eaten away at his sizable ill-gotten gains. He had one throw of the dice left and he was using Sothebys, the auction house, to maximise interest and hopefully the price. With any luck he could expect anything from £30,000, the reserve price, up to £50,000 for this little item and he intended to be there to witness the transaction. A cash deal was a prerequisite of the sale.
He adjusted his shoestring tie against his shirt collar, smoothing down his one and only suit and his teddy-boy hairstyle as he entered the auction room, taking in the scene before him. Almost every seat was taken in the room and he smiled inwardly at the increased chance of a highly, profitable sale. As someone selling that day he had acquired a seat, the only one free in fact. He double-checked his ticket and moved toward it excusing himself as he disturbed several people already seated. The auctioneer didn’t seemed to notice and continued his description of the latest item before him, a 17th century painting of a small boy and his dog by Rembrandt. The auctioneer stood, gavel at the ready scanning the room once more.
“Will someone start me off with a bid for this classic by Rembrandt?” He asked. “Thank you sir,” he continued motioning to the back of the room over Butterworth’s right shoulder. Butterworth turned out of curiosity, but it was impossible to see who had made the bid. It was pointless anyway. Many bidders used representatives at auctions to maintain their anonymity and keep the competition guessing. “I have £200,000 bid. Do I have an advance on £200,000?” The man with the gavel asked. Butterworth kept his hands tight inside his jacket. Even if he could afford it, Rembrandt was not his cup-of-tea.
Nearly an hour later with several objects sold ranging from oil paintings to sterling silver dinner services, the proceedings finally reached Butterworth’s object of interest. He tensed as he watched the item brought into the room by one of the auctioneer’s assistants. The assistant paraded up and down the room amongst the isles ensuring that all potential buyers could see what was on offer. In reality, any serious bidder would have visited Sotherbys earlier in the day and viewed anything of interest, but if there was a chance that any last minute display might increase the price, Butterworth was in no hurry. He’d left the auction house less than an hour later £35,000 richer thanks to a mystery buyer. He stood outside on the steps plotting his movements inside his head for the hours ahead a grin permanently fixed on his face. It wasn’t wise to wonder around London at night inebriated with £35,000 in cash on your person. It was the most money he had had in a long time though and he wanted to enjoy one more night out before he gave up the booze for good.
It was 10:00pm, a full 6 hours later when he arrived at his cellar bed-sit in Fulham, having been thrown out of his local, the Prince of Wales pub finally. It wasn’t the lateness of the hour, rather the level of alcohol in his blood and his raucous behaviour toward one of the barmaids. It wasn’t the most salubrious parts of the neighbourhood, but he didn’t care anymore. He had money now and plans to relocate, plans he’d been hatching over several pints of bitter and whisky chasers since 7:00pm that evening. Fumbling inside his jacket pocket he pulled out a Yale key trying at least 4 attempts to engage the door lock, before he dropped it. It bounced on the paved floor back into the shadows behind him. He slumped against the doorframe defeated waving his hand at it.
He tried to straighten as much as his drunken stupor would allow, his slightly out-of-focus eyes concentrating on where he thought the key had landed. In his present state he’d be lucky to find the key in daylight hours and then the strangest thing happened. The key remerged from the shadows and into the subdued amber streetlight that shone down from street level above. A gloved hand held it. Throughout the evening, travelling from pub-to-pub he’d managed to keep his £35,000 windfall from becoming public knowledge he was sure, having the presence of mind to keep the bulk of his money deep inside the pocket of his wax jacket. Understandably, the jacket had never left his person all night. Now he was arguably at his most vulnerable, alone, but he was oblivious to any threat, other than he might freeze to death without having the chance to spend any of his cash windfall. If anything, he was a little too delighted to see, quite literally, a helping hand at that precise moment.
“Can I be of assistance?” A voice announced from inside the shadows. Butterworth made a number of attempts to grab hold of the key, each time missing it by some margin. “Perhaps if I open the door for you?” The voice added. Butterworth tapped the side of his brow with his open palm as if saluting.
“Verrrry hosssspital of you squire,” he slurred, turning to face his front door again. He grabbed the door handle to stop it moving, when in actual fact it was he who was swaying from side-to-side. The same-gloved hand appeared over his shoulder and this time the key found the lock without any hesitation. “Got you that time,” Butterworth slurred, addressing the door rather than his Good Samaritan. “Well done mateeee!” The perpetual grin of a drunk was suddenly replaced by painful anguish and then his face was forcefully pushed against the windowpane of the door. The pain was excruciating, even the presence of high levels of alcohol couldn’t begin to dull the mounting agony. Any attempt to scream was stifled as the gloved hand returned, this time wrapped around Butterworth’s face and mouth. Blood poured from the back of his throat as the pain increased, out through his mouth and between the fingers of the gloved hand. He gagged, choking on his own blood, his eyes were becoming fixed and dilated as if he were staring through into his own flat through the half-frosted glass, half-wood door. His voice was now strangely quiet, his bodily convulsions ebbing with each second. There was a loud crunching noise and Butterworth’s lifeless body sagged under its own weight against the door.
His murderer stood directly behind him, one hand still pinning his victim to the front door. Satisfied that the job was done, the mystery man pulled a blade from out of Butterworth’s neck, wiping any blood on the body and then slipping the blade inside a plastic bag and back inside his overcoat pocket. With one hand still pinning Butterworth’s body to the door, his other hand then turned the key in the lock. The door flew open and inwards and Butterworth’s body followed it. It hit the linoleum floor with a dull thud. Butterworth’s murderer picked up the trailing feet and legs and dragged the body inside, spinning it as he did and closing the door behind him. A brief search of Butterworth’s coat produced the bulk of the £35,000 he’d received in payment for his sale.
It had been a long night for his killer. He’d spent the day tailing Butterworth from various public houses wary that the drunken fool might lose the money before he had a chance to relieve him of it. Now his patience had paid off and as the buyer at Sotherbys, he now had the money and the item. He smiled down at the body before him at his own sadistic self-satisfaction then he left, disappearing back up to road level and into the night.