TREVOR STIRRED, MOANING a little in his sleep.
“He’s starting to wake up. Run and get the doctor,” Shelby said. Lark left the room.
His eyes opened, fogged with sleep. His gaze unerringly found her. Something in his eyes relaxed. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty. You slept for thirteen straight hours.”
“Bloody hell.” He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Shelby watched for any telltale signs he was still in pain. Other than a slight hesitation before he put his weight on his leg, there was nothing.
Lark returned, Davina in tow. The nurse checked his bandages, took his temperature and pulse, and declared herself satisfied. “You can leave whenever you’re ready—that’s not a hint—but come back if you develop a fever or the wound starts to fester.”
“I will,” he said. “I know this is a terrible imposition, but do you have a car we might borrow? Someone might be looking for ours.”
Dr. Lowenstein came in on the tail end of his question. “You’re welcome to use my car, but only for today. I have a class I teach on Thursdays.”
“Thank you,” Trevor said, meaning it. “I owe you a huge debt.”
“Pay it forward,” the doctor said cheerfully.
The three of them were starting to look a bit ragged around the edges. They’d all slept in their clothes again, and, even using the clinic’s shower, were starting to ripen.
The car was an older model Mercedes. It had been well cared for, though, and the engine purred steadily as they drove out to Kingston upon Thames. The drive took about forty minutes.
Kingston University was beautiful in the way only an old English campus could be. They parked in front of a modern nine-story structure with a glass-enclosed staircase.
“I called ahead this morning,” Lark announced. “She’s in class until noon, but will see us over her lunch hour.”
They waited on a white stone bench under a grouping of trees. Students streamed in and out of the buildings, laughing and joking or grim and silent. Shelby sighed, allowing the peace of the place to seep into her bones. It felt like the first time in days she’d relaxed.
Trevor didn’t say much, but Lark was a fount of information. “I borrowed Dr. Lowenstein’s computer last night while you were out cold,” she told Trevor cheerily. “I might have happened upon a back door into Max’s computer.”
Trevor looked at her. “Why didn’t you mention this on the drive out?” he asked.
“I was sleeping.”
Shelby chuckled. When Lark slept, only an earthquake would rouse her. “What did you find?”
Lark hummed happily. “Tons of emails and browser searches for smuggled Nazi art and gold hidden in Switzerland between 1943 and 1946. He’s accessed databases and specialized search engines. He’s sent emails and arranged visits to people all over the world. Whatever he’s looking for, he’d dead serious about finding it.”
“World War Two again,” Shelby said. “We dismissed it earlier because it was ancient history. But put Max’s financial troubles alongside all the information we’ve heard about art theft during World War II—and I think there has to be a connection. Eric specifically targeted Shamblet works. Why? There are a million better ways to make money than to steal or destroy art.”
“Unfortunately, the book and the sculpture lost at the Jewish Heritage Museum weren’t done by Shamblet. And the PoB took credit for the bombing.”
“I have an idea,” Lark piped up. “But I need a computer. I want to see if I can find that ship manifest Nandi talked about. Her art collection that was stolen. What if Max is trying to track those down?”
Trevor thought it over. “And he’s mutilating them? Why, for heaven’s sake? If he’s the original owner, he can petition to have them returned to him. That would solve his financial problems. Sell them legally.”
“But it’s a process that can take years,” Shelby pointed out. “That might be too late.”
“Then we need to find his next target before he strikes again,” Trevor said. “We’re not going to run any more. This needs to end.”
It was a brave speech, but Shelby had her doubts. “He’s been searching for years. What makes you think we can find what he hasn’t been able to?”
“We don’t need to find it,” Lark mused. “We just need to make him think we have.”
“That’s incredibly dangerous,” Trevor said. “He’s proven he’ll kill for this, whatever it is.”
A church bell rang somewhere off in the distance, heralding a rush of students pouring down the glass-enclosed stairwell and out the front doors. Classes had ended.
“Let’s go talk to Dr. Berkowicz,” Shelby said, getting up to lead the way.
Dr. Berkowicz’s office was the stereotypical disaster. Piles of books, parchments, and stacks of papers littered every conceivable surface. More books rested on the carpeting. Three filing cabinets stood along one wall. Maps, charts, and photos were clipped to the walls, overlapping in a way that made her dizzy. She finally located Dr. Berkowicz, a tiny woman perched behind a large desk.
“Hello,” she said, her voice light and musical. She sounded decades younger than her probable eighty-plus years. “You’re the student who wants to know about stolen Nazi artwork?”
“Yes, I am.” Lark stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Hadley Larkspur.”
“Oh, my.” The woman hopped off her chair. She barely came up to Shelby’s shoulder. “You are a colorful one, aren’t you? Are you doing a thesis?”
“Yes,” Lark lied smoothly. “These are my friends, Shelby and Trevor. Simon Rosenfeld suggested you could help us.”
Shelby watched her for any sign she recognized them from the news, but nothing registered as she greeted them.
“Please, sit.”
Shelby sat in one of the visitor’s chairs, and Lark took the other. Trevor leaned against one of the filing cabinets. How was he feeling? He’d slept for a long time, but his bullet wound still had to hurt, right?
“So what is your focus, young lady?” Dr. Berkowicz asked, reseating herself.
Lark pulled a notebook from her back pocket and opened it to a fresh page, clicking her pen. “I’m doing my thesis on stolen Nazi treasure, but I’m taking a different tack than other people have. I know a lot of Englishmen who smuggled their own art, and sometimes money, into other countries—South Africa, for example—to safeguard it against the Nazis. I’m interested in those people.”
“That’s still a broad topic,” Dr. Berkowicz said. “A great many wealthy families did that. Are you researching anyone in particular?”
She couldn’t have offered a better opening.
“Yes,” Shelby said. “A family called Whitcomb.”
Dr. Berkowicz sat back abruptly and crossed her arms across her chest. “There are far worthier subjects. People who also smuggled Jewish children to safety, for instance. May I ask why that family in particular?”
“I’m approaching things from the other end,” Lark said. “I want to focus on the not-so-stellar families. You know the Whitcombs?”
The woman dropped her hands into her lap. “Humph. Then you chose a good one. Max hounded me for years about information on his grandfather. I must say he did not make it easy to help him.”
Shelby mentally groaned. “Of course he’s been in touch with you,” she said. “I should have realized.”
The woman sent Shelby a sharp glance. “Are you writing a thesis, too?”
Shelby’s gut told her to go with the truth. “No, ma’am. You’ve heard about the museum bombings, I assume? The Philosophy of Bedlam? I have reason to believe Max is funding them. I’m trying to figure out why he is searching for particular pieces of art, and then mutilating them.”
“Well, I can tell you that.”
Shelby’s heart leapt. Finally! Someone who could shed some light on things. “Please go on.”
“I collect documents from all over the world,” the historian said. “Strange things you wouldn’t think would be connected. Journals, receipts, personal accounts. In this case, I acquired a ledger. It was detailed accounts of valuables, including art and gold, that were smuggled out of England and into Switzerland between 1938 and 1944.”
“Did Max’s grandfather do that?” Lark sat forward, her elfin face full of curiosity.
“Yes, he did. This particular boat captain documented everything he transported. According to his records, twelve prominent English families sent one huge consignment of art and gold bullion to a bank in Geneva. He turned out to be an honest man, which is probably why the twelve families chose him. A lesser man would simple have stolen the cargo for himself.”
Shelby leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees. “And you have the names of the twelve families?”
“Indeed I do. Max Whitcomb’s grandfather was at the top of the list. The first of the twelve. He arranged for the other families to deliver their art collections and the gold to the cargo ship, and monitored that it was all stored properly to protect the artwork. He personally made the delivery and payment arrangements with the captain. He received confirmation from the captain that the cargo had been delivered, according to the ledger.”
“Holy shi . . . smokes. What happened then?” Lark asked.
“The captain delivered his cargo to the Banque Privée de Genève on schedule. Further, I have a receipt proving that those same valuables reached a particular banker at that bank. That’s where it all ends, though.”
“Why’s that?” Trevor asked.
“Because Swiss banks don’t open their records for anyone. Not unless you’re the name on the account. And none of the twelve families were on the account.”
“Do you know whose name was?”
“No one does. That’s the crux of the problem. Some suspect the banker put everything under his own name. We’ll never know, because he was killed before the war ended.” Dr. Berkowicz leaned forward, resting her clasped hands on the desk. “Without the account information—name, account number, and password—no one can claim that wealth. My theory is that Max’s grandfather, as the coordinator for the twelve families, received instructions on how to access their collective property. For whatever reason, he never acted on that information, because the contents of that vault have never been touched. That’s the one fact that the Banque Privée confirmed for me. Well, for one of my grad students.”
Shelby turned a palm up. “That explains Max’s interest in lost World War Two art. It doesn’t connect him to the Bedlamites, or explain why he’s funding the destruction of artwork.”
Dr. Berkowicz shrugged. “By the time I’d puzzled out all this information about his grandfather, Max became convinced that he’d hidden the account information inside one of the pieces he sent to Cape Town with his family.”
Shelby looked up, pulse racing. “Did Max give you some sort of list? Because we know that when Max and his mother fled Cape Town in 1977, the art collection shipped with them as part of their household belongings. But only a portion of it made it to England with them.”
“Mother? I had no idea. He claimed both his parents died during an uprising in Cape Town.”
“A bit of an exaggeration on his part,” Trevor said.
“Why would he lie about that?”
“We went to visit her. She’s a black South African woman.”
Understanding and disgust warred on the professor’s face. “I see. No, he never gave me a list.”
Shelby shifted around on the straight-backed chair, trying to get comfortable. “Do you think you might have documentation on works of art that came back to Great Britain after the war?”
“Yes, well, I might have some sort of ancillary data, but only if a claim was made against a piece as having been stolen. Max tried to pressure me to use my resources to search for some pieces, but I don’t remember which ones. Either way, I couldn’t help him. My focus is and always has been to find artwork stolen by the Nazis from Jewish families.”
Shelby cleared her throat. “So that was the end of it?”
“Almost. My knowledge is free for the taking, or was.”
Trevor straightened from the filing cabinet. “He threatened you?”
“Oh, he couched it in pleasant terms, of course. But he did mention how old this building was, how faulty the wiring. He mentioned that it would be discouraging if any of my records were lost. I have two interns scanning and collating, but I have over sixty years of research accumulated. The loss would be devastating. I gave him the names of some other art investigators who might be able to help him, but I still refused to stray from my primary mission. I’m only telling you any of this because Simon sent you.”
Shelby grimaced. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for sharing with us, though.”
Lark leaned around to look at Trevor. “If we can find out what’s missing from the grandfather’s collection, we could get ahead of Max and figure out what he’s going after next.”
Dr. Berkowicz frowned. “Unfortunately, I can think of only one way to find that out. But I’m assuming you can’t simply ask Max?”
“Uh, that would be a resounding no,” Lark said. “He’s the villain in this piece.”
“Yes, so I see.”
Trevor asked, “If you know all of this, why isn’t it in any of your books? Why isn’t it published anywhere?”
“Young man, my reputation rests on my being able to prove what I know. I verify everything through at least three sources. The information I’ve given you about the twelve families was pieced together from various bits of data, including the boat captain’s ledger, but I can’t prove any of it.”
“When the bombings started, why didn’t you go to the police with your suspicions?”
She gave Trevor a quizzical look. “And tell them what? Until you told me, I had no idea the museum bombings weren’t just the actions of raving lunatics. I stopped dealing with Max years ago.”
Shelby propped her chin on her hand. “So, in your professional opinion, the valuables are lost?”
“The twelve families thought so. They went on with their lives. You have to understand that what they thought they were safeguarding was only a fraction of their worth. Anyway, it’s pretty much all hearsay and innuendo.”
“And without the account information, there’s no way to know. So Max believes his grandfather hid that information in with his art collection, and is finding the lost pieces to search for it.” Shelby sat back, discouraged. “And we don’t know what he had or lost.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” Dr. Berkowicz said.
“Did you ever run across a set of numbers that didn’t make sense to you?” asked Lark.
Dr. Berkowicz gave Lark a smile of condescension. “No, dear, that never occurred to me.”
Lark pinkened. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“You understand this hasn’t been the focus of my work. I investigate theft claims from people victimized by the Nazi regime. This information has all been ancillary. I doubt I’d even have remembered it, if it weren’t for Max’s threats.”
Trevor slouched back against the filing cabinet. “So we still have no way of proving Max is linked to the Bedlamites.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t help you there.”
“Well, thanks for all the great info. I’m sure I’ll get an A on my thesis.”
Dr. Berkowicz smiled. “I might be an old lady, young one, but don’t take me for a fool.”
Lark grinned. “Never.”
Shelby asked, “Can I leave my number with you, in case anything else occurs to you?”
“Certainly.”