Heim, incidentally, refused to refer to Hitler by name, as if he were afraid to take his name in vain—in much the same way that very religious people will not pronounce the name of their god. Instead, he referred to Hitler as “A. H.,” pronounced in German, “Ah-hah!”

After a time, the old Nazi produced a sheaf of papers and an envelope of small photographs. He showed the photographs to us. They were all small black-and-whites, about two inches on a side and each depicting a painting. All the paintings were Stahl’s and all were inventoried on a sheet of paper Heim handed to me. The paintings, he said, had disappeared, having last been seen in Zurich just before the fall of the Third Reich. He wouldn’t say exactly when they had last been seen or by whom.

He gave me one of the photographs and the inventory after I promised to look for the paintings and let him know through Werner if I had made any progress.

From Munich, I went to Zurich to learn if there were any remaining traces of the Stahl paintings. After checking into my hotel room, I made inquiries and obtained the names of several art galleries that had been in existence during the period of the paintings’ disappearance.

I went to the oldest of the galleries and spoke with the owner. I showed him the picture Heim had given me and said that I represented a wealthy collector who was interested in acquiring the Stahl painting.

The man threw me out of his gallery and threatened to call the police if I did not leave the neighborhood quickly.

He said he had nothing to do with the paintings of which I spoke and furthermore did not want anything to do with them or with the people who might be interested in them. I had a difficult time determining whether he was frightened or angry. Probably both. I was certainly frightened.

In the course of my investigative reporting, I had had my life threatened before and had managed to press on, undeterred until I had gotten my story. But that was in the past and I was now committed to staying healthy and hearty; ending up missing in Zurich was not my idea of how to spend the holiday season.

Thus it was that I washed down a rosti with a liter of beer that night, went to bed, and took the first train back to Munich the next morning. To this day I remain ignorant of where the Stahl paintings are, and what’s more, I don’t think it would be healthy to know.

There are many other things in this book that are true. For example, the stories of how escaping SS troops used looted art to buy their freedom. You can rest firm in the knowledge that many of the artworks lost during the war are hanging on the walls of chateaux in the Alps. Many more rest beneath the streets of Zurich. As I learned firsthand, many of these artworks are fantastically valuable, worth much more—in the estimation of some—than the life of someone asking the wrong questions.