Not good. Not good at all. Jason tensed, waiting for her to name that commanding officer. If she said Emerson Harley… It was not proof, but it certainly did not help Jason’s case, given that in all of de Haan’s copious research, Emerson Harley’s name was only referenced once, and that notation question-marked.
Jason had known the reference was correct because he knew his grandfather had, for a short time, been in charge of the recovery and restoration of the art stockpiled by the Nazis in the tunnels of Engelshofen Castle. It wasn’t information readily available to someone trying to build a cover story after the fact.
Quilletta continued, “I remember Uncle Roy saying the paintings were being stored in damp and dirty conditions. There was all kinds of thieving and pilfering going on. And the Russians were coming.”
Jason glanced at de Haan.
They had expected to hear justification—that the art had been moved for its own safety—but until now Jason had assumed potential accusations against his grandfather would be of omission, negligence, or, worst case and the least likely scenario, willfully turning a blind eye to war-weary soldiers claiming war trophies. There was precedent. A few allied commanders had done that very thing despite Eisenhower’s strict instructions that WWII would be different from all others in that no looting, no theft, no to-the-victors-go-the-spoils would be tolerated.
Quilletta’s version of events was especially alarming because, if you didn’t know Emerson Harley as Jason had, it might even sound plausible. A dedicated and desperate Monuments Man had violated his code of ethics and sworn duty because it was the only way to protect these priceless works.
Of course, on closer examination, such a claim made no sense because the whole point of Grandpa Harley being at Engelshofen Castle was to protect and preserve that discovered cache of art and oversee its return to its rightful owners. He had the knowledge and resources to accomplish his mission. Dispersing priceless works to troops with vague directives to ship them home and keep them safe would have been, at the least, counterproductive.
There were other problems with Quilletta’s story. Some crazy and alarming things had happened in Bavaria after the war, that was true, but a Soviet invasion had not been one of them. The Russians had occupied Eastern Germany.
It sounded like maybe Quilletta was confusing her uncle’s war stories with a viewing of the movie The Monuments Men. That didn’t mean she was lying. She could inadvertently be quoting someone else’s lies. Or she could just be confused. If there was one thing he had learned in this job, it was that people were very often confused in their facts—and just as often reluctant to admit it.
He said, “Mrs. McCoy, do you have proof your uncle was instructed to remove these items from where they were being guarded—”
“Proof be damned!” de Haan broke in. “No one had the right to disburse these paintings to anyone, nor bequeath them. What is of importance now is the itemization of the treasures in her possession.”
Jason snapped, “We have to know what happened.”
“We know enough! Assigning blame is secondary to our main concern.”
“There is proof,” Quilletta put in timidly.
De Haan was surprised into silence.
“By proof, do you mean you have written documentation?” Jason demanded.
She cast a nervous look at Corliss, who nodded. “I-I don’t have it. It does exist. Or it used to. I did see it.”
“Where did you see it? What documentation was there?”
He was trying to keep his tone noncommittal, but she must have heard something that further alarmed her. She licked her lips. “All the time he was overseas, Uncle Roy wrote letters home. I remember seeing them.”
“Was the name or rank of this commanding officer mentioned?”
“Yes. I think so. I believe so. I don’t remember what it was. It’s been years since I saw the letters.”
De Haan opened his mouth. Jason said quickly, “What happened to the letters?”
He could feel both de Haan and J.J. staring at him. Or maybe that was just his guilty conscience. His question was valid. Maybe not priority in the ordinary way of things. Priority for him.
“I-I don’t remember.”
Bert said suddenly, “Doc has them, doesn’t he?”
“Does he?” Quilletta looked blank.
“Who’s Doc?” Jason asked.
“Doc Roberts. Edgar Roberts,” Bert said. “He and Uncle Roy were…friends.”
What did…friends mean?
“I see. So, to your best knowledge, this Edgar Roberts has possession of the letters which you say prove your uncle was ordered by a commanding officer to take these items and ship them back home?”