Spoils of Victory

by John A. Connell

  “So, she just shows up, dances, skates, you hand her some cash, and she goes home.”

  “Something like that.”

  “She must have shown you papers that allow her to work at a U.S. Army club.”

  “My responsibility is the smooth operation of this establishment. If you have questions about any of the employees, you will have to take that up with the manager.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “Actually, there are several. Two from the Army Corps of Engineers, one from the special services branch of the military government, and one from the civil administration branch.”

  “Okay, the principal one, then.”

  “That would be Major Schaeffer of the special services branch.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  “I’m afraid not. He, along with the other managers, comes in from time to time; however, I have been entrusted with the daily operations.”

  “Daily operations? Like hiring and firing?”

  “The bandleader is responsible for the musicians and the director-choreographer for the dancers and skaters.”

  “And the waitstaff?”

  “I have some authority in that regard, but the final decisions are up to Major Schaeffer.”

  “I want to talk to all of them, but we can start with the choreographer.”

  “By all means, Mr. Collins.”

  Kessel’s smugness was getting on Mason’s nerves. “You have a very good command of English, Herr Kessel.”

  “I studied law at the University of Oxford before answering my family’s call to come back to fight against Bolshevism. I, among many Germans, was puzzled why you Americans and the British didn’t join with us to stop the Russian Bolshevik menace. It is something I believe you will regret—”

  “What did you do during the war, Herr Kessel?”

  “That is hardly relevant to your investigation.”

  “I like to know who I’m dealing with. Barely ten months ago we were trying to kill each other. Now here we are, together in a cozy office, talking about the murder of one of your employees, with one of your gorillas standing at our backs.” Mason heard a slight rustle from the troll standing behind him. “Were you a commandant at a concentration camp? Did you dress up in an American uniform and kill U.S. soldiers behind our lines?”

  “Now you’re getting personal. If I had performed anything deemed a war crime by your army, do you think I would be working here?”

  “You tell me. I’m beginning to think that in this town the wolves were left guarding the henhouse.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. Now, if you gentlemen will please excuse me, I must return to my duties. . . .”

  “I see a lot of money changing hands. Who collects the money? This club’s supposed to be run by the army.”

  “You would have to direct those questions to my supervisors.”

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, you’re pretty slick.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Take it any way you want.”

  Mason and Abrams started to leave, but Mason turned to the muscle-bound bodyguard instead. “Next time you stand behind us like that I’ll break your legs.”

  The bodyguard moved a fraction of an inch toward Mason, but Kessel barked, “Boris!”

  Boris gave Mason a carnivorous smile and backed away.

  When they reached the door, Kessel said, “Mr. Collins, some friendly advice: I’d step carefully before stirring up more trouble than you can handle. In this city, your friends could be your enemies, and your enemies your friends. You might be alone out there.”

  TWELVE

  As Mason and Abrams descended the stairs, Mason could pick out the club’s waiters and busboys moving among the patrons. Every one of them stole glances at him and Abrams as if some coded message had been transmitted exclusively to their ears: Their VIP status had been downgraded to enemy combatant.

  The spectators broke into applause with the last strain of a tarantella. The skaters left the rink and the curtains closed. The retractable floor transformed from skating rink back to a dance floor. As patrons came out to dance, Mason and Abrams wove through them and slipped behind the curtains.

  The backstage security guard didn’t blink an eye when the two investigators passed through the bustle of stagehands moving props and lights. They found a door leading to the dressing area, where a small common room serviced hallways in both directions. The bandleader was talking to a man Mason assumed was the director-choreographer—tall and lithe, an aging ex-dancer by all appearances with angular, outsized facial features and theatrical gestures. Mason and Abrams showed their CID badges to the two men. “Do you know why we’re here?”

  The choreographer nodded and looked at them with glassy eyes. “Yes. One of Mr. Kessel’s human rottweilers just told us. She was such a sweet girl, and a real talent.”

  “What’s your name?” Mason asked.

  “Arnie Sobel. I’m the director and choreographer.”

  Mason pulled out the photograph of Hilda with the other skaters. “We’d like to start with the girls in this photograph.”

  Sobel examined the photograph. “This was taken four months ago. Four of these girls are no longer here.”

  “Then we’ll talk to the two who are.”

  “Can’t this wait? They’re due to perform in another set.”

  “No, it can’t.”

  Sobel hissed his impatience. “Come with me.” He led them down the left hallway reserved for the female performers and past several large dressing rooms packed with women in various states of dress.

  Mason noticed Abrams ogling the girls with an open mouth. “Steady there, soldier.” Then to Sobel, “We need a couple of quiet rooms. Then bring them out one at a time.”

  Sobel stopped at an open door and stood aside for the two investigators to enter the small office. Framed photographs of skaters and dancers, and snapshots of Sobel with army brass and celebrities, hung on every wall.

  “This is my office,” Sobel said.

  “Yeah, I figured that,” Mason said.

  “I just ask that you not be too hard on them and scare them with tales of murder. It’s hard enough keeping good performers. Half of them are on the lookout for rich husbands or lovers.”

  “Is that what happened to the other four girls?”

  “Two of them, yes.” He turned to his wall where he had the same photograph as Hilda’s and pointed to a brunette with a crooked smile. “That one liked her dope too much. I took her back once, but never again. The fourth one’s husband was a German soldier, and as soon as he was released from a POW camp, he came back here and dragged her away.”

  “As long as the girls are being cooperative, I’ll be gentle.”

  Before Sobel left the room, Mason said, “The second room is for my partner. He’s going to talk to you.”

  “Me?”

  “If Mr. Abrams finds you uncooperative, he has orders not to be so gentle.”

  Once more, Sobel expelled a hiss of irritation and exited the room.

  Abrams said, “You get the girls, I get the choreographer?”

  “One of the perks of rank, my boy.”

  Abrams imitated Sobel’s hiss and left.

  Mason took a tour of the room while waiting for the first girl. Sobel had dance and design books, sketchbooks and photo albums. Nothing out of the ordinary. The pictures on the walls included Sobel posing with a galaxy of one-, two-, and three-star generals, from Third Army and up to USFET, the supreme headquarters of all U.S. forces in Europe. There were military government officials and USO celebrities, including Bob Hope and Judy Garland.

  The door opened and Sobel led a young woman into the room. He introduced her as Margareta and left them alone. Margareta’s frayed terry-cloth robe contrasted with her black nylon sto
ckings and flashy stage makeup. Mason invited her to sit in Sobel’s chair. Instead, she nearly slithered over to Mason and sat on the desk, inches from where Mason stood. She crossed her legs and leaned back on her hands in what Mason figured was a much-practiced pinup girl pose.

  “You wanted to see me?” she said in her Greta Garbo best, though it lacked the same allure in German. “Could I have a cigarette?”

  Mason offered her one and lit it for her. She was all smiles as she took a puff and exhaled as if auditioning in a Hollywood screen test.

  “Did Herr Kessel tell you why I’m here?” Mason asked in German.

  “He told me to cooperate,” she said with half-lidded eyes and parted lips, a parody of the seductress. “Give you anything you want.”

  “That’s kind of Herr Kessel. Is every girl here as cooperative as you?”

  “It depends.”

  “How about Hilda Schmidt?”

  Margareta’s sultry gaze faltered for just a moment. “She could cooperate, but you’d have to make a bigger noise than being a cop.”

  “Really? Her latest boyfriend is an intelligence agent, John Winstone.”

  “It’s not the rank, it’s the muscle behind it.”

  “Mr. Winstone’s a powerful guy, is he?”

  “Maybe not to you.”

  “Meaning, he could make life easy or hard for Germans?”

  Margareta shrugged. “One hears things. Denazification papers, work permits, better ration cards.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, Mason thought, though he got no pleasure from it. He knew she could be lying, either out of vindictiveness or under instructions to do so. “What else does one hear?”

  “Nothing I’ve had anything to do with. I like to stay out of trouble. I come to work, do my job . . . maybe make a little on the side. I sleep at night. No problem.”

  “What can you tell me about Hilda?”

  “Whatever you’ve got on her, it won’t stick. She’ll get out of it.”

  “Probably not this time. Hilda was murdered last night.”

  Margareta maintained her smile, but it went crooked on the ends.

  “Agent Winstone’s dead, too. It could be that he killed her then committed suicide or, what I’m inclined to believe, that someone or some group murdered both of them. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted them dead, and why?”

  Margareta just shook her head. The cigarette hovered near her mouth, but she seemed too breathless to take a drag.

  “Did she mention having any trouble, or an argument, with Agent Winstone?”

  “He was like a puppy dog around Hilda.”

  “Do you know of anyone who threatened her or would want to do her harm?”

  “Nothing I heard of. Could be one of her jilted lovers. She had quite a few of those.”

  “Was Hilda involved in anything illegal?”

  “Like what?”

  “Con games, gambling, prostitution?”

  “Nothing like that she ever told me about.”

  “What about the black market?”

  “Everyone uses the black market.”

  “I take it she wasn’t a friend of yours.”

  “She only had men friends.”

  “Can you name any of them?”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “Are you sure?”

  Margareta played with the collar of her robe. “Are you sure I can’t help you another way?” She pulled back her robe enough to show she wore little underneath.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. What about Germans or DP friends?”

  Margareta closed her robe. “Is this going to take all night? I’ve got another show in an hour.”

  “This will take as long as it takes to get some information.” Mason leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette as if he were ready to wait all night.

  Finally Margareta stubbed out her cigarette and let out a heavy sigh. “Eddie Kantos. A Greek. He owns a nightclub, the Havana. I’ve seen him with Hilda a few times.” She poked her finger at Mason. “But don’t you go saying I told you.”

  “A tough fellow, is he?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that.” She slipped off the desk. “Are we done yet? I don’t have anything more to tell you, and I’ve still got to change for the next performance.”

  Mason handed her one of his cards. “If you think of anything else, give me a call. You might not have liked Hilda, but no one deserves what happened to her.”

  Margareta took the card. She looked at him for a moment, and her eyes told him what he needed to know: She was frightened. She left without another word.

  Next Sobel brought in a perky blonde with curly hair, who clumsily tried the same seductress routine, but she turned out to be Margareta’s exact opposite: dull witted and fragile. When Mason informed her of Hilda’s death, the girl burst into tears and continued that way until Mason finally gave up, letting her flee the room.

  Sobel entered shortly thereafter with Abrams, and Abrams looked close to tears after what must have been a soul-destroying interview. “Please tell me you’re finished,” Sobel said. “I’ve got a final show to run, and you’ve traumatized one of my principal skaters.”

  “Adelle Holtz is one of your performers, correct?”

  “If you want to talk to her, you’ll have to come back another time. She never showed up tonight, and not a word—”

  Sobel stopped in midsentence when Mason rushed out the door.

  THIRTEEN

  Adelle occupied the basement apartment of a three-story pink stucco building just off Ludwigstrasse. Abrams pulled up the sedan and parked it on the opposite side of the street. Since it was after midnight, the street was quiet.

  “You said you’ve been here twice already,” Abrams said. “Maybe she’s skipped town.” He started to get out of the car, but Mason grabbed his arm to stop him.

  “Wait a minute.”

  With a puzzled look, Abrams obeyed. Mason scanned the street.

  “What are you looking for?” Abrams asked.

  “I’ll know it when I see it. From now on, you and me, we’re going to watch our backs. Check the corners and the shadows before you move.”

  “Now you’re just trying to scare me. If you want me to stop being your partner, just say so.”

  Down the street a block and facing them, a car engine started. The headlights came on and the tires squealed. Temporarily blinded by the bright lights, Mason could only make out two silhouettes of men wearing fedoras as the car sped past. Mason jumped out. The car had no license plate, but Mason identified the make, a German-made 1938 Horch, unfortunately a fairly common vehicle. He then rushed across the street with Abrams in tow. He bounded down the six steps and pounded on Adelle’s door. A dog barked, setting off a chain reaction of other dogs. A few lights came on in other houses.

  Mason pounded again. “Adelle, it’s me, Mason. Open up.” He felt the door. “It’s pretty solid. Help me kick it in. You hit under the latch, and I’ll hit high.”

  After two hard kicks, the wood around the latch gave way, and the door flew open. Inside, the apartment was pitch-black.

  “I told you she wasn’t home,” Abrams said.

  Mason put his finger to his mouth and flicked on his flashlight. He then pulled out his Colt .45 and clicked off the safety. Abrams did the same. They moved slowly down the corridor that led to doorways on both sides. The living room came first. Mason signaled for Abrams to move forward and check the bathroom. He scanned the living room with his flashlight and his gun. He swept the beam across the entire floor, while hoping he didn’t discover Adelle butchered the same way as Hilda.

  Mason rolled out of the living room and met Abrams just as he exited the bathroom. Abrams shook his head. They moved down the final ten feet of corridor, side by side, flashlights and guns up. Abrams
split off to the left to check the kitchen, and Mason stopped at the bedroom’s open door. As before, Mason scanned the left side of the bedroom with his flashlight and gun. The bedcovers had been pulled down; coffee cups and a tray with scraps of food lay on the bed stand. The odor of cigarettes lay thick in the still air. He rolled around to view the opposite side, and just as he began his sweep, he heard the click of a gun’s hammer being pulled back.

  Mason ducked low and swung the flashlight around to the sound. He braced himself for the explosion of gunfire. His finger squeezed lightly on the trigger, but the flashlight found her first. Adelle stood trembling in a corner. She held the gun out straight, but aimed at nothing. Her eyes were wide and tears slid down her cheeks.

  Mason illuminated his own face with the flashlight and spoke in a soft voice. “Adelle, it’s Mason. We’re here to help you.”

  Adelle let out a soft sigh, but continued to point the Walther P38 with the hammer locked back and ready to fire. Mason slowly straightened and stretched out his arms so both the flashlight and gun were aimed to the side. He took a step forward.

  “Put the gun down, Adelle.”

  Abrams popped in the room behind Mason, and Adelle took aim at him.

  “This is my partner. Another policeman.” He turned slightly to Abrams. “Put your gun away.” He took another step forward.

  “How do I know you’re not here to kill me?” Adelle asked in a haunting voice.

  “Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t have pounded on the door and announced who I was to the neighborhood.” He smiled. “I hope you give me more credit than that.” He laid his gun and flashlight on a high-backed chair.

  Adelle’s whole body shuddered, then her arms dropped. Mason stepped over and gently removed the Walther from her hand. He returned the hammer to its resting place. Adelle collapsed into his arms and took deep gulps of air.

  Behind Mason, Abrams let go of the breath he’d been holding and said, “Jesus Christ.”

  “I’m sorry,” Adelle said. “I thought you were . . . were . . . Oh, God, poor Hilda.”