Murder Makes a Comeback

Prologue

Prologue

London, 1949:

He accepted his role as a killer, but he disliked being on the run again.

It seemed a lifetime ago. His native Germany was still at war. Army life had only given him the demeaning job of overseeing Jews bound for the extermination camps on the Greek coast. He recalled with disgust how, there, Helmut Mannheim, his superior, had tortured some wretched, rounded-up villagers to please his sadism. Usually, Helmut stayed in his office. He let others supervise. But, on one occasion, he took full authority. And on that day, Helmut had ordered him to stand watch as he had his “fun.”

He still had nightmares about those war years, though rarely. He sometimes dreamed of watching Helmut violate a young girl. Then, he would s***h her breasts with his dagger. He laughed as he threw her, bleeding, into the train. No, his dreams were often of his personal horror. It was ironic to learn that his mother, an American-born Lutheran, had been born to a Jewish family. Even worse, Helmut had found out. He waited until the last prisoner had boarded, then turned to him.

"And now, you may join your own, Herr Jew!”

Only by some miracle had he escaped. And, thank God, his deceitful mother had left him a legacy. He spoke English with a flawless American accent. He made his way to England. There, after the war, he dared to look up a childhood friend, Elliott Prosser. He was now a plastic surgeon with a practice on the outskirts of London. Not so much a true friend as one he had bullied back in school, but he didn’t mention that this time. Revealing little of his past to Elliott, he convinced the still timid man to alter his features. After applying the last bandage, Dr. Prosser conducted a thorough examination of him. He smiled, pleased with himself.

“Looks like a first-rate job, ol’ chum. Didn’t I say you could trust me?”

Prosser had little time to react when the gun muzzle exploded against his temple. Seconds later, his bloodied nurse fell beside him. Their bodies crashed onto the hospital bed. A bloody stream rushed down the canyons of mussed sheets.

From between the blinds, a cold wintry blade of dawn slashed its wound upon his eyes; time to leave. He dressed in haste and left, his heart beating with excitement. He'd only recently acquired a powerful contact. It promised a future, but it meant he'd kill again, risking traces of his haunted past. No, now he had a mission, a new purpose! He would have not only a new face but a new life in America! Again.

***

Vienna, 1949:

Helmut Mannheim paced the burgundy Aubusson carpet in his study. He chain-smoked his beloved gold-tipped black Sobrani while awaiting Baron Von Anhalt’s call. Had Leo actually found out something? Was that former eyewitness still alive? How galling! A man who might threaten his chance to enter the "political arena," as the press called it.” He liked that phrase. It made him sound like a warrior in the Coliseum, a true survivor of Imperial Rome. It was the fantasy behind many of Hitler's dreams. But, if he were honest, his tall, thin frame, sharp chin, and receding hairline gave him a scholarly appearance rather than a gladiatorial one. At last, the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“It’s Leo. He’s alive. He’s somewhere back in America.”

Helmut, of course, knew of the former soldier’s past, as one of Germany’s secret agents in America. He recalled the old saying: a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. He wondered, could his prey be so vengeful?

“Do you think…?"

“Tomorrow, noon,” interrupted the Baron. “The usual place.”

Click, dial tone.

He knew it would be time-consuming and expensive. But he would arrange with American sympathizers to flush the man out and then kill him. The thought of that made him smile. After all, it was destined.

California, 1950:Camelot, as any schoolboy knows, was Arthur’s domain. But, with the end of Hollywood's Golden Years, a smog covered the decomposing remains of that era. Yet, another Camelot and a different Arthur still lingered.

This Camelot was not the legendary kingdom. Its monarch ruled a band of knights with shining principles. And, this ruler could claim no blue-blooded current in his veins. No, more likely the inky black of the pressrooms. For, this Camelot was the home of Arthur Jefferson Brockett.

A.J., known to people as both a source of fear and an obscenely rich American publishing tycoon, occasionally financed movies. And Camelot, his overwhelming estate in Southern California, was the setting for a castle like no other. Sometimes, for those unfairly anointed few, life is so glittering, so extraordinary, it can out-magic the enchantment of storybooks. Such was the case here, for no novelist would have the audacity to invent such a place or such a man; they could only be real.

Privacy being maintained by its vast acreage, the castle itself was a bastardized fantasy of spires, columns, great wings of gilded rooms, and, predominantly, a 1920’s feel for Renaissance ornamentation, mixed in with the “Real thing.” A rich man's whimsy grafted all this onto what might be more kindly called the “core” of the house, which was once a lovely and gracious estate belonging to a bootlegger. It stood high among the cliffs, the sea crashing below where once pirates were said to roam.

And yet, people said that Camelot was "unfinished." Over his twenty years of ownership, A.J. had never dared to stop working on it. Superstitious, he believed that doing so would welcome death. Death was A.J.’s dreaded nemesis, as with old men everywhere.

He was always remodeling the house. He changed, extended, and twisted its already sprawling shape. An architect once said he was molding it into his own personal gargoyle. Other times, he amused himself by marring its grounds with the ongoing construction of useless guest cottages and outbuildings. He bought most of these intact at their original locations, like his Norman farmhouse and Tibetan shrine. They were then dismantled and reassembled on the estate. Such "enhancements" only further corrupted... pockmarks pitting a complexion that was once unblemished, even if only for a short time.

That’s not to say, however, there weren’t areas of exquisite beauty in that desert of excess. Indeed, there were – each an oasis of taste. Unfortunately, the estate’s effect was the victor. A.J. sought a grand palace. But those with keen eyes saw that the high standards for beauty, taste, and proportion had fallen. They lay defeated by a greedy, vulgar age.

Yet, to be fair, such criticism misses the raison d'être of Camelot. Camelot, after all, was an adult’s playhouse, nothing more intended. And, as with any spoiled child given free rein, taste and decorum were hardly priorities. And, more to the point, Camelot was fun! Robin Dumas, A.J.’s sweet-tempered mistress for the past thirty years, had seen to that.

Camelot had over 150 rooms, a bell tower, and a chapel. It had three swimming pools, two ballrooms, and a library. There was a cinema, hundreds of fountains, and a folly. It had woodlands, farmland, formal gardens, a maze, and a private zoo. There were hothouses of exotic blooms, a twenty-car garage of limos, and riding stables. The garage held a Rolls-Royce, Duesenberg, Packard, and Bugatti Royale. It had tennis courts, a golf course, a croquet lawn, a polo field, and guest cottages. It also had many world-famous statues. Some were originals. Some were mere reproductions of the unattainable originals. A.J. Brockett and his limitless fortune had subjected many of the world’s treasures to plunder. Yes, Camelot had everything …

but restraint.What could spoil such splendor?

Fear.Fear spoils everything.