Spoils of Victory

by John A. Connell

  Mason nodded and rested his head on the cushion back. He stared up at the cracks in the ceiling as he thought. His headache flared when he thought about nearly having Volker in his grasp after all this time, only to lose him because of his temper. And there had to be a way to get to Schaeffer. Pritchard had warned him that he’d need hard evidence to go after a decorated major. The army protected their own, especially officers, and a war hero at that. Not to mention the probability that Schaeffer had a web of powerful yet secretive men behind him. Running a major black market operation required logistics, transportation, military passes, and travel orders, plus cooperation from the various security and law enforcement agencies. The army had branches serving all Schaeffer’s needs, and with the unwieldy and chaotic occupation forces lacking top-to-bottom communication, each one operated autonomously and with ultimate authority. But which branches, and how many officers were involved?

  A tangled web, indeed.

  “Hey, are you awake?” Adelle demanded from the kitchen.

  Mason raised his head and saw Adelle standing in the kitchen doorway. “Food’s ready.”

  Mason hauled himself off the sofa, entered the kitchen, and sat at the small table. The scent of the cooking piqued his appetite, and he took in bites with barely a breath in between. After a few moments, he noticed Adelle staring at him.

  “Did you love him?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does to me.”

  She took a few moments before answering. “He was kind and gentle to me, but I could never get past what he did. I never liked politicians or cops.”

  “And here you are . . .”

  “I didn’t think this was romance.”

  “You just do what you must to survive.”

  Adelle hesitated, looking into Mason’s eyes. “Yes.”

  “Maybe in another time. Another place . . .”

  “I suppose so,” she said and rose from the table. She walked up to Mason, her body pressing into him. “I know that’s the best you can do when talking of romance. I’m tainted, but so are you. Both of us came out of this war damaged.”

  She cupped his chin and leaned his head back. She leaned over and kissed him deeply. Mason responded and stood. They never broke their embrace as he led her to the bedroom.

  * * *

  A howling wind stirred Mason from a troubled sleep. Adelle was awake and sitting up with her back against the headboard. She was naked with the bedcovers pulled up only to her waist.

  “You’re not cold?” Mason asked.

  “I got used to it living at the labor camp. Besides, I like the cold.”

  “Not surprising coming from the Ice Queen.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  Mason fluffed up his feather pillows to prop up his head. He lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

  Adelle took the cigarette from Mason’s mouth and took a drag. “You were making quite a racket in your sleep, talking and moaning. Bad dreams?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “The war?”

  “That, and my time as a POW. What’s your excuse? Why are you up?”

  “Other than fearing for my life? I couldn’t help thinking of how Hilda suffered. We seemed to fight constantly, but I still love her and miss her.”

  Mason took a long drag on the cigarette, trying to burn away the thoughts of Hilda’s cut-up face and his friend forced to swallow the results. “Sometimes I dream about the victims in my murder cases. An occupational hazard. I got used to seeing dead soldiers during the war, but the civilians, the ones that were in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . like your sister. I never really get over those.”

  “Hilda knew what she was getting into. It wasn’t exactly the wrong time and place for her.”

  “She’s not as innocent as I made her out to be?”

  Adelle became pensive as she helped herself to one of Mason’s cigarettes. “What I mean is, she knew being with Winstone had consequences.”

  Mason turned to face her. “Was Winstone into something I don’t know about?”

  “That night, at Winstone’s villa, I could tell what you were thinking, looking at all those things in his house.”

  Mason suspected the answer, but he asked it anyway: “That wasn’t to make him appear as a black market kingpin for his cover?”

  Adelle laughed. “He was covering his cover, then. With real gusto. His cook, Otto? He was Winstone’s go-between with certain German royalty and industrialists, who are rolling in money. For astronomical prices, Winstone would certify them as denazified, or he helped place some in the new German local governments. He then used that seed money to finance some of Herr Giessen and Bachmann’s schemes. Winstone was swimming in it. He and Hilda were planning to go to Switzerland just as soon as he cleared up some loose ends.”

  “What kind of loose ends?” Mason asked.

  “I have no idea. I know that Giessen being murdered shook him. He seemed to know who was responsible, but he refused to tell Hilda. All he would say was that as soon as they were safe in Switzerland, he was going to release some documents as revenge on the killers.”

  She stopped when she saw Mason’s furrowed brow. “Look, I know he was a friend, and he was a good guy. I’m sure he was like all the rest; Garmisch has too many temptations for even a good man. I think releasing those documents was also his way of making amends. Even while he planned to sneak into Switzerland with a king’s ransom. He was good for Hilda, though loving him and being involved with his schemes was her undoing.”

  “What exactly was her involvement?”

  Adelle shrugged as she puffed on her cigarette. “She was Winstone’s original contact with Eddie Kantos and Herr Giessen.”

  “Why are you telling me all this now?”

  “Hilda made me swear to secrecy. She’s dead now, isn’t she?”

  “Do you know where Winstone stashed all that money?”

  Adelle smiled. “You want it for yourself, don’t you?” She rolled toward him, pressing her bare breasts against his arm. “If you find it, then we can take it and go to Switzerland together.”

  If the documents still existed, Mason hoped that Winstone had stashed the money in the same place. And he saw an opportunity to buy Adelle’s questionable loyalty, and her secrets, with a promise of a pot of gold.

  Mason said, “Let’s just say that if I find it, I’m not about to throw it in the river. Or hand it over to the U.S. government.” And though this ploy was to persuade Adelle, he wasn’t so sure what he would do with the money if he found it.

  Mason got out of bed, fished through his pants pockets, and pulled out his CID badge. Inside the badge case, and tucked behind his photo ID, was the piece of paper he’d found in Hilda’s suitcase. He brought it back to bed with him and showed it to Adelle. He knew he was taking a risk, but he didn’t know anyone else who had been closer to Hilda. At least, the only one still alive.

  “Does what’s written on this paper mean anything to you?”

  Adelle studied it for a moment. “No. Should it?”

  “I found this concealed in Hilda’s suitcase in her apartment. Very carefully concealed. Are you sure you don’t know what this means?”

  “I have no idea. Do you think it has to do with where the money is hidden?”

  “Possibly. Or where Winstone hid his documents.”

  “Then why would Hilda have it?”

  “It might not have anything to do with Winstone at all.”

  “I can tell you one thing about it: That’s not her handwriting.”

  Mason looked at the figures neatly written on the paper.

  Adelle continued, “She never wrote in block letters like that. And she was left-handed, so everything sloped to the left.”

  “Then someone gave it to her for safekeeping.”

&
nbsp; “But if Winstone and she were going to Switzerland, then why would she have left this in her suitcase at her apartment?”

  “Maybe he gave it to her in case he had to get out of town in a hurry or was arrested. Or she secretly kept a copy for the same reasons. Could be anything.” He put the paper back in his CID badge case, making a show of it, letting Hilda see. When he got up to put the case back in his pants pocket, he deftly lifted the paper out of the case and palmed it. He went to the bathroom, ostensibly to pee, and rolled up the paper into a tight scroll and wedged it in a gap between a mounted shelf and the tiled wall.

  Mason felt an attraction to Adelle, but he wasn’t about to trust her. And sometimes he wondered if he felt a deeper bond with the murder victims than the living. So be it.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Mason rose early. He woke Adelle and offered to take her someplace safe, though he was unsure where he’d take her if she accepted. Instead, she opted to stay, so he left her with the same instructions: Keep the Walther pistol close, don’t answer the door, and stay away from the windows. His stomach still felt bruised, but that didn’t stop him from downing a large breakfast at the officers’ mess. He then used one of the mess hall phones to call Laura to arrange a meeting for later that afternoon.

  From his billet to the officers’ mess, then to headquarters, he had kept a constant lookout for gun barrels sticking out of car windows or figures lurking in shadows, but he made it to the Rathaus auxiliary building without ducking for cover. Not that he felt totally immune from an ambush even at the MP headquarters. . . . Finding Densmore waiting for him in his office, staring at the chalkboard and corkboard, made him all the more uneasy.

  Without turning around, Densmore said, “Lots of names and lines on here, but are you any closer to figuring it all out?”

  Densmore had every right to be in his office, but it still made Mason suspect he was there for more than a quick review of his progress. Oddly, Densmore seemed unfazed by his name being listed among the suspects.

  Mason put his satchel on the desk and saw that the papers laid out on the surface were still in the same order as when he’d left. “Suspicions. A few leads to follow.”

  “I want you to gather what you have and write up a final report. I’m taking you off the Winstone case.”

  “You’re what? You can’t do that.”

  “As your supervising officer, I can.”

  “You had no interest in it beyond proving Winstone committed suicide, and now you’re taking away a case you considered unwarranted?”

  “When were you going to tell me about the autopsy?”

  “If you’d been around, I would have told you last night.”

  “Well, now it’s officially a double homicide, and since you’re the only suspect, I can’t very well let you conduct the investigation.”

  “Oh, come on, Patrick, you know I didn’t do it. Until this moment, I’m the only one who’s pushed for murder.” Mason strode over to Densmore. “You wanted to file it as a suicide, despite my reservations. Tried to ship off Winstone’s body without an autopsy. Release that Italian and anyone else that might have any connection to the killers. And now you’re taking me off the case?”

  “Those weren’t my fingerprints in the victim’s house. I wasn’t there the evening of his death. I wasn’t the last one to see him alive. And why are you so desperate to find his supposed missing documents? Is there something in there that might implicate you? You see? It goes both ways, buddy.”

  “Then you’re doing all this because you’re afraid. Afraid for your career or your life, I don’t know.”

  Densmore said nothing, but the anger had dissipated from his face.

  Mason saw an opportunity to persuade Densmore and brought his tone down a notch. “You saw the hits on the three German gang leaders. You saw the hits on Kantos and his family. His wife, his kid. I got back the ballistics report on the two shootings, and the bullets match one of the guns used in both. The killers have been careful up to now, but they did make this slipup. And Winstone was connected to both parties. He was bankrolling Giessen, and he had dealings with Kantos.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “A couple of informants. The point is, I’m making real progress. I’m getting closer, and that’s why someone tried to gun me down last night.” He told Densmore about his experience at the Casa Carioca the previous night, that Schaeffer refuted nothing. About Volker, and how he’d been there chumming it up with Schaeffer. The mysterious Abbott, and how all three were most likely the ones doing the executions.

  Densmore said, “After the shit you stirred up last night, I’m surprised you’re still walking around.”

  “Is that why you’re afraid to get involved?”

  Densmore marched over and shut the door. “You’re damn right, I’m afraid.”

  “The one thing going for me is that General Pritchard and Colonel Udahl are behind me. Someone has been sending my reports to General Clay, and he’s instructed them to back me up. There are too many eyes on me right now for them to make a stupid move like that.”

  “I’m the one who sent Clay the reports.”

  “You did?”

  Densmore nodded.

  “Why? Did you suddenly get a conscience?”

  “Fuck you, Mason. It’s because you and I were city cops. Both of us screwed up when we were on the force, and we deserve a second chance. I didn’t want to see you go down in flames.”

  “We both screwed up? What do you mean?”

  “I know you ratted on fellow cops in Chicago.”

  “Yeah, for running a dope ring and killing my partner. What about you?”

  Densmore avoided Mason’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter what I did. Either way, we both got burned, and we both deserve a second chance. After what I saw in the Kantos house—the wife and little boy . . .” He balled his fists as if struggling with an internal conflict. “I have to take you off Winstone. There’s no way to justify letting you stay on when you’re too personally involved. It goes against every procedure in the book.”

  “Then let me keep the German murders and the Kantos case. The crime rings. It’s all the same case, really. I know if I can get to the bottom of those, it will lead me back to who killed Winstone.”

  Densmore thought a moment, then nodded. “I’m going to make you a deal. I’ll take the case, but in name only. That way it looks like we’re following procedure, and it’ll buy you a few days before the provost marshal in Munich figures out what we’re doing.” He pointed his finger at Mason. “But as soon as any heat comes my way, you’re out. You understand?”

  Mason was surprised by Densmore’s offer, but he maintained a neutral expression. Densmore never did anything for altruistic reasons. Either he was truly shaken by the brutal murders or this was a way for him to maintain control of the investigation. “Okay, we’ll do it your way,” Mason finally said. “Then first thing we should do is get a team of MPs to pick up Winstone’s chef, Otto Kremmel. He was helping Winstone shake down wealthy Germans for denazification papers.”

  “That pompous kraut,” Densmore said. “I’ll take care of it, and then I’m going to personally nail him to a wall.”

  Mason took a pad of paper and a pencil from his desk and began writing. “Look, here’s what I need, and I need it fast. Wiretaps on the Casa phones. A bulletin sent to all MPs to look out for Volker. MP surveillance on Frieder Kessel and Schaeffer around the clock. And if we can find him, the apprehension of one Lester Abbott.”

  “We don’t have the resources for all that without help from the Munich detachment. If you want to keep this case, we can’t attract any undue attention.”

  “Then make it our two junior investigators for surveillance: Wilson and Tandy.”

  Densmore nodded.

  “The bulletins?”

  Densmore nodded again. “If he’s really a
war criminal, then I don’t care who signed him off. And I’ll write up the orders for the Casa wiretap.” Densmore started to leave as he said, “Remember, this only gives you a few days. You’d better get results soon.”

  After receiving Densmore’s written orders for the wiretap, bulletins, and surveillance, Mason had a sketch artist draw up a likeness of Volker, then had Wilson and Tandy get the sketch printed and distributed to the various MP stations and post commanders in the area. Once the bulletins had been distributed, Wilson and Tandy began their vigil outside the Casa Carioca. Meanwhile, Mason coordinated with the surveillance techs to patch into the Casa Carioca telephones through the main switchboard.

  By midafternoon, Mason felt satisfied that things were finally falling into place. That is, until Densmore and the two MPs returned to headquarters empty-handed. Otto had disappeared. Either his wealthy friends were hiding him or he’d eventually end up on the growing list of corpses.

  * * *

  At four P.M., Mason made the twenty-minute drive down to the Eibsee Hotel. The sprawling three-hundred-room hotel sat on the shore of the impossibly beautiful Eibsee Lake at the foot of Germany’s highest mountain, the Zugspitze. The American army had taken over the hotel and designated it a recreation center, so the herds of guests were a mix of American soldiers, their guests, and military government administrators. Mason crossed through the lobby and exited onto the broad terrace. There were couples or groups standing at the railing, admiring the lake and the surrounding snow-laden mountains, but only a few hardy souls braved the frigid temperatures to sit at the thirty-plus outside tables. Laura was among them.

  A teapot, two cups, and a plate of bite-sized pastries sat in front of her. She had changed out of her reporter’s outfit and now wore an ankle-length coat of navy blue velvet and matching hat. The blue ensemble, her red lipstick, black hair, and blue eyes—a kaleidoscope of sensuality that conspired to beguile Mason.

  Mason came up to the table. “My butt’s going to freeze to this chair.”