The Lady in Black and Other City Tales

By Graham Sykes

The short story should enlighten, excite and above all, entertain the reader from an early stage. It is the skill of grasping interest from the outset and retaining such that remains the aim of any writer. THE LADY IN BLACK and Other City Tales collects fourteen short stories set in a different city at a time of particular interest in each chosen destinations history. When better to visit Venice than at the time of Casanova (BECKFORDS VENETIAN AFFAIR) or Vienna in the dying days of the belle epoch of Emperor Franz Josef ? In THE LADY IN BLACK , the mystery of Gustav Klimts last missing portrait is solved in a thrilling journey through the battlefields of the second world war to the present day (and where a particularly chilling twist is revealed at the storys conclusion!). In DUPONTS REVENGE, the French Resistance is reactivated in 1970s Nice to deal with a troublesome neighbour, and in present day Liverpool, a journalist discovers to his cost the consequences of meddling in the affairs of THE TOXTETH VAMPIRE. The futility of Britains celebrity obsession is evaluated in all its puerile glory where, in FALLS ROAD DON JUAN, a Belfast lothario accepts a sexual wager which if won, will see him fifty thousand pounds better off.
It is common knowledge that the invasion of Britain by the German war machine seemed inevitable in 1940, but few appreciate the even greater threat to the security of the nation which occurred twenty three years earlier when Winston Churchill ordered tanks into a major British city on the verge of Bolshevik revolution. THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN tells the story of Brennan, the charismatic anarchist who came dangerously close in bringing the worlds greatest Empire to collapse. Britain is again under threat in THE LAST TARGET. Set in a future London on the brink of civil war a young intelligence operative hunts the worlds most elusive assassin on the eve of the reopening of the House of Commons destroyed by Islamic terrorists. Join three middle aged men in a touching tale of lost youth in THE INTERESTING ACCOUNTANT as they attempt to relive old times in modern day Cuba, and in DIET, a young Calgary lawyer finds success in her endeavour to loose weight but at a terrible cost. In FRANKIE AND BENNY a young Scots entrepreneur lives the American dream at the dawn of the twentieth Century in New York and gives the Marx Brothers their first break in entertainment along the way.

If the purpose of the short story is to seek a response from the reader, to make them laugh, cry, sulk, shudder, frown or wince, THE LADY IN BLACK and Other City Tales delivers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Aug 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465303530

Graham Sykes

Glasgow born Graham Sykes loves art. He exhibited at the British Embassy in Kuwait in the late 70s and has painted in Indonesia, Venice, Paris and Berlin. He produced eight tramcar scenes of Glasgow in the 80s which sold in large numbers in many High Street stores (and for which he received no royalties, having sold the copyright to supplement his meager income as a legal trainee). A graduate of the Glasgow University’s Faculty of Law, Sykes established a successful legal fi rm of his own which practiced for 16 years until staffing problems brought about his decision to pursue an alternative career path. Graham recently published a book of short stories entitled The Lady in Black and other City Tales, one of which is currently being developed by a respected Hollywood scriptwriter. He is currently researching material for his next book, A Brush with Manhattan.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Graham Sykes.

Cover painting by: Vincent DeFalco after Gustav Klimt 

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011912412

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4653-0355-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4653-0354-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-0353-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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The short story should enlighten, excite and above all, entertain the reader from an early stage. It is the skill of grasping interest from the outset and retaining such that remains the aim of any writer. THE LADY IN BLACK and Other City Tales collects fourteen short stories set in a different city at a time of particular interest in each chosen destination’s history. When better to visit Venice than at the time of Casanova (BECKFORD’S VENETIAN AFFAIR) or Vienna in the dying days of the belle epoch of Emperor Franz Josef? In THE LADY IN BLACK, the mystery of Gustav Klimt’s last missing portrait is solved in a thrilling journey through the battlefields of the second world war to the present day (and where a particularly chilling twist is revealed at the story’s conclusion!). In DUPONT’S REVENGE, the French Resistance is reactivated in 1970’s Nice to deal with a troublesome neighbour, and in present day Liverpool, a journalist discovers to his cost the consequences of meddling in the affairs of THE TOXTETH VAMPIRE. The futility of Britain’s celebrity obsession is evaluated in all its puerile glory where, in FALLS ROAD DON JUAN, a Belfast lothario accepts a sexual wager which if won, will see him fifty thousand pounds better off.

It is common knowledge that the invasion of Britain by the German war machine seemed inevitable in 1940, but few appreciate the even greater threat to the security of the nation which occurred twenty three years earlier when Winston Churchill ordered tanks into a major British city on the verge of Bolshevik revolution. THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN tells the story of Brennan, the charismatic anarchist who came dangerously close in bringing the world’s greatest Empire to collapse. Britain is again under threat in THE LAST TARGET. Set in a future London on the brink of civil war a young intelligence operative hunts the world’s most elusive assassin on the eve of the reopening of the House of Commons destroyed by Islamic terrorists. Join three middle aged men in a touching tale of lost youth in THE INTERESTING ACCOUNTANT as they attempt to relive old times in modern day Cuba, and in DIET, a young Calgary lawyer finds success in her endeavour to loose weight but at a terrible cost. In FRANKIE AND BENNY a young Scots entrepreneur lives the American dream at the dawn of the twentieth Century in New York and gives the Marx Brothers their first break in entertainment along the way.

If the purpose of the short story is to seek a response from the reader, to make them laugh, cry, sulk, shudder, frown or wince, THE LADY IN BLACK and Other City Tales delivers.

For Lauren, Natalie and Suzanne, my nice little hat trick.

Contents

The Lady in Black Vienna 1917

A Painting for Rosie Barcelona 2007

The Don Juan of the Falls Road Belfast 2010

The Omega Challenge Boston 2008

Diet Calgary 2010

The Most Dangerous Man Glasgow—Edinburgh 1919

The Interesting Accountant Havana

The Toxteth Vampire Liverpool 2010

The Last Target London 2030

The Circle of Life Manchester 1970

Frankie and Benny New York 1895

Dupont’s Revenge Nice 1975

Beckford’s Venetian Affair Venice 1780

The Man with Laser Beam Eyes Washington 1964

The Lady in Black

VIENNA 1917

Gustav Klimt sat on the edge of the leather captain’s chair within his beloved studio in Josefstadterstrasse. One of the Imperial city of Vienna’s most famous sons busied himself with the mundane Friday ritual of cleaning his brushes and tidying his studio prior to the evening drinking session at the Café Tivoli. The artist had acquired his reputation not only for the notoriety of his paintings, but his endless battles with the Viennese establishment. Klimt was quintessentially Viennese, living and working his whole life in his native Vienna. A champion of free expression, the artist took some satisfaction in the fact that his work often provoked controversy. Klimt was not interested in plaudits or adulation—he shunned publicity and talked little of his work, which he felt would, if effective, make its own statement.

Klimt was pleased when the strain of completing the Stoclet Palace frieze was brought to a conclusion, and whilst some had noted the reduction in artistic output, he was happy to turn his talents to the easel studio based painting that allowed him to work at his own pace. But it became increasingly apparent that the artist’s years of high living, alcohol consumption and devotion to his relentless pursuit of the fair sex now began to extract their toll on the fifty seven year old. Klimt was exhausted and no longer able to commit to the extravagance of his former Bohemian ways, albeit that he continued to enjoy the company of a small group that he regarded as his close friends.

As he slowly placed each brush within its container, the painter observed the scene around him—the libidinous sketches piled at the edge of the stained wooden bench, the two black and white cats slowly preening their claws in the corner of the studio and outside, the gathering mass of black cloud heralding the arrival of a full assault by mother nature. The painter felt a sense of unease descend upon him, something that he had never experienced before in his place of work. In an instant, Klimt became aware of a presence within the room as he noticed the cats sitting upright, staring transfixed behind him. Klimt looked over his shoulder, and was confronted by a tall, thin sinister looking gentleman in full evening wear. Startled, the artist demanded an explanation from his trespasser:

How did you get in here? State your business.

The stranger approached slowly and clicked his heels. Prussian, thought Klimt.

My most profound apologies Herr Klimt, it was not my intention to startle. The door was open, and I have some . . . business to discuss.

Klimt strained to conceal his irritation at the invasion of his privacy, but was intrigued by the Gentleman’s appearance and demeanour. Who was this aristocratic undertaker? The first rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance as the Artist enquired of his uninvited guest;

What Business? Who in hell are you?

The stranger bowed humbly.

Forgive me Sir. I am Count Rheinhart von Hohenzollern. I bring instruction for the commissioning of a portrait which will offer substantial remuneration if the conditions of instruction are adhered to strictly. All that I am prepared to say at present is that your subject will be a lady of some breeding and will expect . . . nay, demand, total discretion

Von Hohenzollern had mention the two magic words that form music to the artist’s ears: commission and remuneration. Certainly, Klimt was no longer struggling financially, but his income had reduced in line with the reduction in commission occasioned by the turmoil of combat with the Viennese establishment, not to mention the deterioration of his general health due to hedonistic excess. The artist had become notorious for the erotic content of a neurotic and often morbid subject matter that many found shocking. As a relentless pursuer of the female form in all guises, the Count’s reference to this rather mysterious woman was too tantalising not to pursue. Klimt was hooked. Wiping his hands on his soiled blue monk’s smock, Klimt opened a bottle of red wine and offered his guest a glass.

As the heavy Autumn rain began to pelt loudly against the glass of the studio windows, the painter’s sinister guest unfolded the proposed terms of engagement, all of which would require to be adhered to in the strictest fashion. In return for a substantial remuneration, Klimt would paint a portrait of a woman whose identity was to remain a secret at all costs. The artist would not make any enquiry of the lady unless directly related to the work itself. All preliminary sketches, if any, were to be destroyed at the conclusion of the piece. Klimt accepted the commission with a mixture of burning curiosity and slight trepidation. As he indicated his willingness to comply with the conditions of his new instruction, he was aware of studio door being brought to a close in the hallway.

Entering the main work area, an exquisite lady of dark complexion made her way towards the painter. Klimt could not prevent his quiet almost instinctive sharp intake of breath as the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen removed her black velvet glove and raised her right hand. Klimt had dedicated a substantial portion of his life in the pursuit of the female form in all its wonderful and beautiful manifestations, but the natural beauty of this particular specimen had left him almost paralysed. The painter observed that she was impossible to age with any certainty; was she twenty five or forty five? As he accepted her hand and gently placed his lips on the soft skin, he became aware of her natural perfume, which even over the smell of turpentine, oil and cat urine, left him in a state of intoxication. This was one commission that he would not wish to refuse. Klimt had already forgotten the large purse on offer as he drank in every soft fold of her facial form, the moistness of full crimson lips, the allure of her large, dark almond eyes, and, as she dropped the hood of her long velvet cloak, the ebony sheen of silken hair.

The artist had been engaged.

Three weeks later, Egon Schiele, Klimt’s protégé, friend and fellow painter of the female form (some described him as the Pornographer of Vienna) sat, head bowed, in a state of blissful intoxication within the elegant Ringstrasse. Schiele shared his mentor’s love of the Viennese way of life, its coffee houses and meeting places, its parks, carnivals and ornate architecture. Vienna, at the outset of the twentieth Century, was as advanced as any City in Europe, but the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, the Emperor’s nephew and heir to the throne on 28th June 1914 provided the spark that was to ignite the First World War and extinguish forever, the belle époque of Franz Joseph. The Hapsburgs rule ended in the upheaval following the War, but in 1917, Vienna remained the lively, charming Capital that enchanted those of its occupants fortunate enough to experience all the majesty, style and opulence that its entertainment venues could offer.

On this particular evening, Egon was celebrating the sale of his latest painting. His companions, his lover and model Valerie Peshka, and fellow artist Oscar Kokoschka joined the convivial early evening atmosphere within the Café. Bejewelled ladies dressed in flowing evening gowns sat upright, sipping coffee, hands gloved to the upper arm, their Gentlemen engaged in more intense debate, pausing only to pout and draw deeply from large cigars which enveloped the diners in a thick film of smoke. In the background, a street organ grinder filled the air with a quiet carnival atmosphere which outwardly, gave no indication of the horrors that continued to the West. For some, however, there was forever present, the premonition of impending disaster forming a mood which one writer of the time described as a Gay Apocalypse. Such was the mood at the table of Gustav Klimt’s entourage that Friday evening, an evening that under normal circumstances, would have involved the usual wine fuelled artistic and political argument well into the small hours. Egon and his drinking companions sensed that all was not well with Gustav Klimt.

If he is in his studio, he won’t answer.

Egon took another mouthful of red.

He’s become increasingly withdrawn, but I’ve never known him to be this reclusive. He could be lying dead!

Oscar shook his head.

He is in the studio. I saw him a week ago, and I’ve noticed the lights on late at night. I met him outside after he had collected his supplies. He certainly wasn’t his old self, but you know how he protects his privacy. That damned Stoclet commission took too much out of the old bastard and he won’t admit it. God alone knows what he’s working on now. Wouldn’t tell me anything, the miserable swine.

Valerie said nothing. Prior to her relationship with Egon, she had for a number of years, fulfilled the requirements of one of Klimt’s muses. Valerie still cared for Gustav deeply, and resolved to discover the reason behind her former benefactor’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

Klimt lay resting on the chaise longue, and regarded the form of his sitter before him. The perfectly formed naked body of his female patron seemed to emit an iridescent glow as she approached and sat on the edge of the chair. The whole scene seemed surrealistic to the artist, who found difficulty in moving.

I have always admired your independence of spirit, Gustav. Every society honours its live conformists and dead troublemakers.

Klimt lay motionless on the bed unable to respond. The beautiful woman appeared to float towards him.

A happy and contented man may be a successful bishop, cheesemonger or dogcatcher, but no happy man ever produced a first rate painting, or piece of classic literature or sculpture. By necessity, with artistic brilliance comes misery. That is the price you must pay, my dear tortured soul.

The unnamed object of his concentration and obsession for the last three weeks laid her hand on Klimt’s balding forehead. He was aware that she was cold to the touch, and as she moved towards him he felt an immense feeling of apprehension. He wanted to cry out but remained agonizingly paralysed. As her head moved slowly towards his, he noticed a malicious expression upon the woman’s face which caused great fear. Still unable to move or cry out, the artist began to panic, when he awoke and became aware of a loud banging noise;

Gustav, open the door! It’s Valerie. Please Gustav, I know you’re there.

Startled and disorientated, Klimt rose to his feet. The loud banging on the door continued.

Gustav! We are all very worried. Please, open the door!

Klimt moved towards the hall and the front door.

Go home Valerie. I’m busy and cannot be disturbed. Please respect my privacy. I’ll be finished by Wednesday of next week.

Are you unwell? If you are ill, we can help.

Please respect my wishes. I’ll explain all next week, but I beg of you, leave me in peace. Please!

Klimt felt a deep sadness as he heard the sound of the girl slowly making her way out to the back court, the garden door gently closing behind her. As he moved back into the studio, a chill ran down his spine as he scrutinised his latest work of art. He had never experienced such emotion during the preparation of any previous painting, and whilst he was happy with the work, he simply could not fathom his sense of unease about the whole affair. Who was this woman, and why did he feel as he did? Was this the consequence of advancing years after a debauched existence, or was he suffering from some alcohol based form of dementia? Whatever the matter, he was gratified that he had produced something that had satisfied himself and his patron, but was also relieved that this particular contract was to be brought to a conclusion on the forthcoming Sunday evening.

At precisely ten pm on Sunday evening, the subject of his commission arrived in the usual theatrical way, accompanied by her sinister male servant. Klimt offered a glass of wine, which they refused, and he thereafter directed them to the main studio area where they observed the easel upon which rested a large canvas covered in cloth. Klimt removed the covering, and both visitors stared without emotion at the painting for what seemed like an eternity. The artist was desperate to know whether they were satisfied with his part of the contract.

As the beautiful woman scrutinised the artwork through eyes strained in concentration, Klimt thought that he noticed the faint suggestion of a smile.

You have surpassed yourself this time, Herr Klimt. I am most pleased.

The scrutiny continued. Klimt was relieved at the positive response and thought of the various stages of piecing the composition together. He recalled the strange and uncomfortable sittings in his closed studio, the bizarreness of which had from early on, destroyed any thoughts of a romantic approach with this most attractive of woman who both captivated and intimidated him for the first time in his own studio. As he observed the artwork, he noted that the style was unmistakeably his, with the trademark ornate gold and ebony patterned forms interacting with the depiction of the darkly clad female figure of the main subject. Klimt felt that for the first time in his life, he was not totally in control of the process which had created a work which although admittedly as good as anything he had produced technically, felt in some way different from all of his other artwork. Even the artist was perplexed to find himself mesmerised by the combination of beauty and cruelty which the painting had taken on.

The client had expressed her satisfaction, and Klimt felt a weight lifted from his life. The beautiful woman gave a nod to her servant who clapped loudly, twice. In an instant, two well built gentlemen appeared in Klimt’s studio, crated the painting and departed. The patron took one last look at Gustav, smiled from the nose down, bowed her head slightly, and to the artist’s relief, made her way out of his life forever.

Gustav returned to his normal routine, but his friends noticed that he had changed in some way. Despite their best persuasive efforts, their distinguished and notorious friend would not reveal even the slightest detail nor give any explanation regarding his absence for that month in the Autumn of 1917. All that they could discover, was that Klimt’s vitality had somehow been sapped.

On 11th January 1918 as Klimt was dressing for his breakfast stroll to the Café Tivoli, he experienced a massive stroke. Within three weeks, the artist was dead. Within a very short period of time, both Klimt and the Vienna that he had known were to disappear forever in the turmoil and upheaval occasioned by the collapse of the empire after defeat in the Great War.

A quarter of a Century later, Oberleutnant Hans Richter stood emotionless with his back to the wall of a dank basement within the Wermacht command centre in Hofburg Square. The Officer adjusted his Iron Cross, hard won at Stalingrad, pulled his tunic straight and stood to attention. There was a loud crack. After the bullet had entered the right ventricle of Hans Richter’s heart, his body collapsed and lay motionless on the wet stone floor.

That evening, the mood was sombre in the Officer’s mess of the Viennese headquarters of the German war machine. The tide had turned and the Reich was imploding. Colonel Jurgen Wagner could not contain his grief at the loss of his Oberleutnant with whom he had shared so much of the horrors of war. He motioned to the bar staff to bring him more brandy. If the Colonel could not bring the pain of his grief to an end, he would use his best endeavours to dull it. His trusted fellow Officer and friend Dieter Klemperer offered a sympathetic ear.

"When you consider what we had come through together Dieter. Poland, despite what they say, was no pushover, and you know as well as I do that those Russian fiends are not human! I cannot believe that Hans is gone. And for what? A painting! It would have been easier if he had been blown to bits or shot in the field. But to be shot by our own! How have we come to this? Dear God.

Klemplerer scanned the room, for eavesdroppers were listening.

Lower your voice Jurgen! Hans knew the importance of his instruction. He received specific orders from the Fuehrer to have the painting destroyed. He failed when he allowed the artwork to be taken. His instructions were clear and the damned thing should have been torched immediately.

Wagner sat bolt upright in his leather chair, his battle scarred face unable to contain his wrath.

Clear as used Panzer oil after that fat morphine addict had interfered in the whole affair. Hans was made a scapegoat to hide Goring’s duplicity, and you know it! If Fat Stuff applied more resources to the art of warfare rather than the pilfering of art treasures for his own gain, . . . ..

The Colonel was interrupted by the approach of the steward who filled his superior’s glass, bowed and left the Wermacht Officers to their post mortem analysis.

If that shitty arsed little Austrian Corporal had spent less resources killing Jews, Gypsies and queers, had he properly equipped us in Russia!

Wagner was aware that he was gaining an audience but didn’t care.

I don’t give a shit about this missing painting—what is a piece of canvas to a loyal soldier? We lose heroes every day Dieter, but for this to be brought about by a German bullet!

The Colonel lowered his tone, and buried his head in his hands.

I’m tired Dieter. Sometimes, I wonder who the real enemy is. Terrible things happen in war, for sure. But when I observe the things that we do. . . . Defeat is inevitable.

Colonel Wagner of the Fifteenth Eastern Panzer Division was quite correct in his assertion that Riechsmarschall Goring was well aware of the full circumstances surrounding the discovery and destination of Klimt’s painting. The Fuehrer had passed a clear edict that the mysterious last, unseen Klimt, if located, was to be destroyed immediately. Klimt was an artist of dubious character whose work did not reflect the purity of mind and body which the German Propaganda Ministry had worked so hard to inflict upon its brainwashed masses. Klimt’s Beethoven frieze had already been destroyed, and Herr Hitler had made no mystery of the intense hatred which he had harboured for both his fellow Austrian and his pro-Jewish, morally ambiguous garbage.

Of all the major figures in the Nazi Party, Goring was perhaps the least enthusiastic about his contribution to the Final Solution. Whilst no doubt guilty of complicity, The Reichsmarschall preferred to devote his not insubstantial resources to the pilfering the art treasures of those nations unfortunate enough to be subjugated by the Reich. And pilfer he did, with great skill and enthusiasm. Goring had heard the rumours of the missing Klimt, and when the work had been located in a crate within the basement of a Prague Art Collector, he could not hide his unbridled delight. Goring immediately concocted a suitable scheme which would allow him the luxury of retaining both the work, and the favour of the Fuehrer, a jealously guarded commodity within the upper echelons of the National Socialist Party. Hans Richter was to supervise the transportation of the artwork, but was left in an impossible position when the Riechsmarschall claimed that he had no knowledge of the whereabouts of the painting taken, purportedly with his authority. To protect his good name and to serve as an example to others, the Officer in charge of this botched operation would be arrested and shot for gross negligence and wanton dereliction of duty. Richter’s protestations of innocence fell on deaf ears. Having suspected his superior’s intentions, what chance did a relatively junior Army Officer stand against the second most powerful man in the Reich? As for Goring, like so many in authority within the Reich, he had developed an almost casual disregard for the sanctity of human life. An extra casualty of war was justified for the preservation of this masterpiece, which to him, was every bit as important as the discovery of a lost Mozart manuscript.

And so the missing Klimt remained within a hidden Viennese vault not far from where Klimt himself had enjoyed the pleasures of his home city years before. The crate within which the painting was packaged, had been left at the time of the German panic retreat. The Soviets, who had already overrun most of the Eastern States, were making no secret of their intention to expand into Austria, but the Americans had sent a clear message that this was Allied territory. By the time that the US 102nd Airborne Division’s shell had exposed the painting’s latest storage location, Goring and his staff had matters other than artwork on their minds as Germany was being enveloped by invading masses from all directions.

The painting itself was brought to the attention of Captain Dexter Williams by his trusted quartermaster and friend, Sergeant Robert Kowalski. Natives of New York City, both soldiers were associates prior to the war, and as chance would have it, Kowalski had a special interest in art. The Sergeant was well aware of the potential value of this latest item of booty. A meeting was discretely arranged between