Murder Doesn't Figure. Fred Yorg
grand. I was just passing the old Borden carriage house, one of my favorites. It was built in the late 1880’s and was designed by a major New York architect named Thomas Hastings. Rumson was full of magnificent estates and manors designed by many of the great architects of their day. Architects like Brunner and Tyron, Bruce Price, E. Harris James, and the renowned Stanford White. Yet, this unique old house with it’s Shingle Style architecture with Richardson Romanesque elements had always been my favorite.
I was pulling into Briody’s, time to get a quick burger and a drink. One should never go to a business meeting with an old Nazi on an empty stomach.
After inhaling my hamburger and finishing my bourbon, I raced to the car. Lunch had taken a little longer than I had anticipated. At this point there was no sense getting upset, if I was late I’d just make up some excuse. I turned on the tape player in the car. It was a Stevie Ray Vaughan tape and it had been a while since I had listened to it. I wasn’t sure, but if my mind served me correctly, the tape was titled Double Trouble. If ever there was an omen, this was it. How many times are you going to see a black cat named Trouble and then randomly play a tape called Double Trouble. Of course I never believed in omens, I was much too smart for that.
I continued my joyride over the Oceanic Bridge, listening to the tape with the guitar licks of Stevie Ray Vaughn serenading me as I entered into the Locust section of Middletown. I took a right hand turn over the Locust bridge and then onto Navesink Avenue, past the old stone church. At the end of the road, I made the hard right that led up to Monmouth Hills. The main road was quite aptly named Serpentine Drive. But the snake like road presented no problem to me. I raced up the hill and the Triumph hugged every corner. About half way up the hill, I suffered a minor set back. An old gray pick-up truck was blocking my path. There was no way I could safely pass him, so I was forced to lay back.
As I approached the summit, I was feverishly looking for the house numbers, the last one I saw was number 425. Pam said the number was 1889, I hoped in her state of confusion she gave me the right number. The gray truck mercifully pulled off the road into one of the estates, kicking up dust and stones in the process. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Pam did say Von Klamer’s place was the last one on the point, but the house numbers just didn’t jive. In fact that damn truck had pulled into the last house on the point. No reason to panic, I’d just circle around till I found number 1889. Unfortunately the highest number that I spotted was 1327. I raced around and made my way back up the hill. Somehow I must have missed it.
There it was, number 1889, just were Pam said it would be. Had the name Von Klamer, right on the big iron gates. Damn truck, I’d have been here earlier if it wasn’t kicking up so much dust. I pulled the Triumph into the driveway and backed into a spot over on the right side. Von Klamer had enough parking spaces to accommodate at least twenty cars.
I turned off the car and sized up the house. The house was huge and in pretty good repair. I thought to myself that the architect who designed this house had to be deranged. I guess you would have to categorize the style of the house as Gothic. I really wasn’t sure how to describe it, the mansard roof was a complete contradiction to rest of the house. It certainly wasn’t Victorian, but if Von Klamer liked it, that was all that counted. Maybe in his own mind, he thought of it as a medieval German castle. Hell for all I cared, he could put a damn moat around it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I popped out of the car and checked my watch, it was exactly 12:58 p.m., I was right on time. I’d always prided myself on my punctuality and I felt rather proud of myself under the circumstances. Even though I had to contend with insane numbers, and old pickup trucks getting in the way, they still proved no match for me and the Triumph. As I walked up to the front door I noticed the driver of the pickup. He appeared to be a man of medium build around fifty years of age. Everything about him was average. He was the type of man that would be hard to describe but easy to remember. He seemed to be lurking about on the side of the house. I got the strangest feeling that he was trying to hide from me. I was probably just getting a little paranoid. Why should he be hiding? I had no answer, and quickly convinced myself that he was probably the gardener innocently checking some plant or shrub in the beds that wrapped around the sides of the mansion.
I was at the front door now. Since I couldn’t find any doorbell I knocked on the door. After about a minute’s wait, I knocked on the door again, only this time a little harder and with a little more urgency. From inside the mansion, I could hear someone on the other side of the door unbolting the latch.
The hinges desperately needed to be oiled, as the door creaked open.
An elderly woman in a maid’s uniform with a stern presence now stood before me, she appeared to be well into her seventies, from the look on her face she could also use a good oiling. I spoke first.
“Good afternoon, I’m Fred Dansk. I have a one o’clock appointment with Mr. Von Klamer.”
“Hello Mr. Dansk, I’m Hilda, Mr. Von Klamer’s housekeeper. Mr. Von Klamer is expecting you. Unfortunately he’s currently tied up on a long distance phone call. Please come in and have a seat in the hallway. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
I entered through the door into a massive hallway. To the left was a closed doorway and on the right side of hall there was an arched doorway that led to a pristine formal dining room. The hallway must have been more than sixty feet in length. At the end of the hallway there were eight-foot high French doors leading to the backyard of the estate. From my vantage point, I could actually see the view through the back doors and it was a breathtaking view of the Navesink River. The walls, were a deep walnut and were lined with pictures and drawings presented in a most professional manner. I had the feeling I was in the corridor of an art museum. Hilda knocked and then entered through the closed doorway, undoubtedly to announce me to Von Klamer.
I took a seat and waited for Hilda’s next direction, she quickly returned from behind the closed door and asked in her German accent if she could get me anything. I declined and asked her if she would mind if I took a closer look at the artwork.
“Of course, are you a collector Mr. Dansk?”
“A very modest collector of sorts, but I do enjoy it.”
“Then please enjoy it. If you change your mind and need anything, please call me. I’ll be in the kitchen right in back of the dining room.”
“Thank you.”
I walked along the right side of the hall and checked out each picture, I didn’t recognize any of the artists. I was somewhat surprised at Von Klamer’s tastes. Most of the artwork was modern. Finally, after about ten paintings I finally found an artist that I was familiar with, Karl Schmidt-Rottluff. Rottluff was an expressionist painter who along with Bleyl, Hechel, and Kuchner used their artwork as a form of social protest in the early part of the twentieth century. Rottluff’s work was strongly influenced by early African sculpture. His shapes over time became simpler and more exaggerated. The colors he used were exceedingly bright, almost jarring to the eye. It reminded me of the colorful primitive art you could get these days from Haiti. During his time in the twenties and early thirties, his work was explained as a protest against the middle class. Hitler would never have approved of this, I’m sure he would have considered it decadent. I continued my walk down the hall. Just before the French doors, I found another artist I was familiar with, Otto Dix. Dix had painted a picture, titled Portrait of Dr. Glaser, that I had seen, in some gallery, many years ago. As I recall it was a portrait of a Dresden lawyer, but I actually found it to be more of a caricature. Dix was known for his ironic approach to art, and was a socialist artist of the same period as Rottluff. His work was noted for standing out in opposition to the middle class structure of German society and served as a whimsical judgement of the period.
As I reached the back of the hallway, I stopped and admired the view through the French doors.
Von Klamer didn’t have any artwork hanging on the walls that could compare to the view from his own back door. As I was enjoying the scenery, I couldn’t help but reflect on Von Klamer’s odd choice of art.
No real self respecting Nazi would ever have this type of artwork