Spoils of Victory

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Spoils of Victory Page 24

by John A. Connell


  “I found this hidden in Hilda’s suitcase the day we searched her room.”

  “You’re just showing this to me now? You sure have some trust problems.”

  Mason shrugged by way of apology. “It may not have anything to do with this case.”

  “Then again, it might.”

  “I know that now.” Mason pointed to the figures on the paper. “That letter and numbers are the same as Yaakov’s concentration camp tattoo.”

  Abrams furrowed his brow. “Why . . . ?”

  “I wasn’t sure why Hilda had hidden it so carefully, but it was something obviously important to her. But it’s not her handwriting, according to Adelle.”

  “Winstone’s?”

  Mason nodded.

  “But why Yaakov’s tattoo?” Abrams asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m showing it to you. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure it out.”

  “I’ll summon all my analytical power and get on that.”

  “Just drive, Sherlock.”

  * * *

  Abrams exited the parking lot of the Alpspitz Supply Company and turned onto Alpspitzstrasse. Abrams struggled to see past the snow smeared across the windshield while Mason checked an unfolded city map.

  “We’re going to have to put chains on the tires if this keeps up,” Abrams said.

  Mason turned the map around several times to get their orientation. “Okay, turn left on St.-Martin-Strasse.”

  “How am I going to see the sign when I can’t even see the street?”

  “I had to walk in this kind of snow on that death march in the worst winter—”

  “Give me a break, would you?” Abrams finally found the street and turned. “Tell me this place is last on the list.”

  “It is. It’s also the farthest. South of town.”

  Abrams growled in frustration.

  They had already visited the two addresses listed as private residences. One turned out to be a phone booth not far from the Olympic stadium, and the other, the apartment of the Casa Carioca choreographer, Arnie Sobel. The Alpspitz Supply Company, the place they had just departed from, appeared to be doing legitimate business with the Casa Carioca, supplying everything from beverages to tableclothes and kitchen utensils. The supply company’s books and a search of the warehouse had turned up nothing suspicious.

  Ten minutes and another inch of snow later, Abrams drove through a wide metal gate serving as the entrance to the final place on their list: the construction company, a two-story building of concrete surrounded by a high wall. They parked in the lot and approached several men in overalls who were off-loading an olive-drab truck with signs plastered on the door panels declaring Bachofen Bauunternehmen.

  “Looks like a U.S. Army truck,” Abrams said.

  “Could be stolen. Though the army is already selling off some of its surplus.”

  The workers stopped what they were doing. Mason showed his CID badge to the one who looked like he was in charge, and said in German, “We’d like to speak to the owner or manager.”

  The man pointed to the building, then barked orders for the men to get back to work. The boxes were labeled in Italian, but Mason saw that several of the boxes had split open, exposing roofing tiles.

  As they walked toward the building, Mason scanned the rest of the building materials stacked in the yard: bricks, concrete blocks, steel pipe, and slabs of marble. A man stepped out of the front door. Disturbingly, the man reminded Mason of a squatter Stalin: shorter, heavier, in his late fifties, and sporting a bushy head of black hair and matching mustache. He beamed a salesman’s grin as if welcoming arriving customers. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  “Are you the owner?” Mason asked.

  “Yes . . .” the man said tentatively. “Alfred Bachofen,” he added and shook their hands.

  “We’re military police investigators, and we have a few questions.”

  “Please, come in out of the cold.”

  They entered a small lobby with a counter dividing the customer side from the office side, which held a couple of desks. A young woman sat at one desk, while a lean man with slicked-back hair stood over her. They fell into silence and stared at the two investigators. Bachofen introduced them as his secretary and assistant manager.

  “We’d like to interview your employees after speaking with you,” Abrams said.

  “Of course,” Bachofen said as he raised the counter’s divider. He led them past the desks and into a small, cluttered office. Bachofen retreated behind his desk, and they all sat. Mason studied him for signs of nervous tension, but he acted like he was ready to transact a sale with potential clients. Perhaps he had become accustomed to associating army types with big spenders. Even their serious faces and CID insignias hadn’t thrown him off his game.

  Mason said, “Your telephone number is 86271?”

  “That is correct. One of them, anyway. We have two.”

  “Which one is 86271?”

  “That would be mine. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you have many dealings with the management at the Casa Carioca?”

  Bachofen paused a beat. “Not so much in material anymore.”

  “Anymore?”

  “Yes, during construction of the club, I procured certain materials, and I coordinated some of the labor.”

  “Any reason to be in frequent contact with them now?”

  Bachofen’s salesman smile vanished. “I don’t understand.”

  “We’ve been monitoring calls coming in and out of the Casa Carioca, and we’ve noticed quite a few calls to your telephone number.”

  “Well, I can explain. I do, from time to time, provide labor crews when required. Plus, during the construction of the club, I became friends with a few of the Americans supervising the construction.”

  “And who would that be?” Abrams asked.

  “I don’t understand why all the—”

  “Just answer the question, please,” Mason said.

  “The original army engineer, Captain Brewster, for one. Then, subsequently, Major Schaeffer and his assistant, Herr Kessel.”

  “Major Schaeffer and Herr Kessel are under investigation for black marketeering and murder,” Abrams said.

  “Oh, my. I had no idea. . . .”

  “And all you talked to them about was the local elections, the weather, and the price of bread?”

  “I presume that if you were listening in, you know the subjects of our conversations.”

  Mason noticed one lonely bead of perspiration on Bachofen’s brow. “We would understand one or two calls in the course of a week, but three or four times in one day is rather odd, don’t you think?” He pulled the pages of transcripts from his pocket and referred to them. “Two loaves of bread are six marks today. The weather is turning warmer, up a couple of degrees. The elections should be held tomorrow, if you want my opinion.” He looked up from the pages.

  Bachofen was speechless; breathless, in fact.

  “Coded conversations, aren’t they? The question is, what are they for? Shipments and receiving of contraband?”

  Bachofen feigned shock and anger, opening his mouth several times, as if mute with outrage. “This is preposterous.”

  “Schaeffer recruited you and your business as a front for his black market trade.”

  Mason nodded to Abrams and they stood. “We’d like to take a look at your books and search the premises.”

  Bachofen balled his fists to hide his shaking hands. “You have no right . . . There has to be some regulation requiring you to produce a warrant to search my property.”

  “Come with us, please, Herr Bachofen,” Mason said. “We’ll start with what’s being unloaded from the truck.”

  Bachofen sputtered as he wiped the growing perspiration from his brow. Mason led the way, with Ba
chofen in the middle. Abrams took up the rear in case the man decided to make a run for it—which was just what Bachofen’s two-person staff had done. The outer office was empty. Mason quickened his pace. Abrams urged Bachofen to catch up, and they all rushed out of the building. The workmen had vanished as well.

  “They must have beat it when we went inside,” Abrams said.

  Bachofen muttered, “Oh, dear.”

  Mason ran to the street and looked both ways. Footprints in the snow headed in both directions, but the office staff and workmen had disappeared.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mason made Bachofen sit on a pile of boxes still inside the truck, while he and Abrams attacked the boxes unloaded onto the ground. Those boxes contained nothing but roofing tiles, as the labels had claimed, and he began to worry they’d jumped to conclusions. But ten minutes later, buried behind another two dozen boxes inside the truck, they hit pay dirt. Wedged between layers of tiles in one of the boxes, they uncovered a paper-covered bundle the shape and size of a brick.

  Mason used his switchblade knife to slice open the package, revealing a compressed white powder. He said to Abrams, “What do you think? Heroin?”

  “Can’t think of another reason to be hiding it in boxes of tiles,” Abrams said.

  “Oh, dear.” Bachofen nearly swooned and fell against the metal wall.

  Mason and Abrams left him to his misery as they tackled other boxes, and each yielded the same hidden surprise.

  Suddenly Bachofen leapt to his feet. “Please, I was only paid to look the other way. I have nothing to do with this. They call and tell me in code when a shipment will arrive and whether it will be put in one place or another. Never what’s in the shipments.”

  Mason and Abrams ignored him, and Bachofen collapsed onto his stack of tiles.

  “Go call this in,” Mason said to Abrams.

  Abrams jumped off the truck and disappeared. Mason turned to Bachofen. “Who else is receiving shipments?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Who calls you about the shipments?”

  Bachofen looked up at Mason as if weighing the consequences of his response. “Kessel,” he said weakly.

  “Not Major Schaeffer?”

  Bachofen shook his head with little conviction behind it.

  “Never? It will go a lot easier for you if you tell me the whole truth.”

  “I am doomed anyway. An expendable pawn, a fleck of dandruff on the shoulder of power.”

  “Have it your way,” Mason said and jumped off the back of the truck. “Don’t go anywhere.” After shutting the truck’s doors and throwing the latch, he walked up to the truck’s cab and climbed in. He checked the glove box, but found only some badly folded maps of Italy and Austria, a pack of cigarettes, and a half-full bottle of schnapps. A search of the floorboards and under the seats yielded nothing, but when he reached behind the seats he pulled out a stack of neatly folded U.S. Army uniforms and several sheets of typewritten paper.

  Abrams came up to the driver’s door. “The cavalry will be here in a minute. How much you want to bet Densmore will be leading the charge?”

  Mason showed him the stack of uniforms. “They had three sets of these stashed behind the seats.” He then held up a sheet of official-looking stationery. “Schaeffer should have hired smarter guys. These bozos left behind written orders that got them across borders. Looks like they had another stop to make.”

  Two MP jeeps raced into the yard as if assaulting an enemy encampment.

  “That was fast,” Abrams said. “Densmore must have put out an APB.”

  Mason slipped the truckers’ written orders into his breast pocket, and they met the MPs at their jeeps.

  Mason approached an MP sergeant. “The company’s owner is locked up inside the truck. Take him to his office and keep an eye on him. And rip out his phone before he has a chance to use it.” He instructed the other MPs to remove and log all the bags of suspected heroin.

  Ten minutes later, three more jeeps arrived on the scene, and, as Abrams had predicted, Densmore sat in the lead jeep.

  Abrams gave Mason a subtle nudge. “Patton breaking through to Bastogne.”

  Mason smiled, then greeted Densmore and ran through the events leading up to finding the suspected drugs. An impressive pile of white bricks had already been stacked on the lip of the truck bed.

  “Kessel and Schaeffer’s contraband,” Mason said.

  “Can you prove it?”

  “The company owner gets coded calls from the Casa Carioca about arrivals of shipments. He’s inside. He already named Kessel as his key contact, but given some time and persuasion, I’m sure he’ll give up Schaeffer.”

  A muffled pop came from the building. They all turned at the sound.

  “A gunshot,” Mason said.

  Mason, Abrams, and Densmore rushed into the building. Inside Bachofen’s office they found the MP assigned to guard Bachofen checking the man for a pulse—an unnecessary gesture, as Bachofen had a bullet hole in his temple and his eyes were frozen in death.

  The MP looked up with a guilty expression. “I just stepped out for a moment. He was bawling his head off, and, well . . .”

  Mason turned away before he said something he’d regret later.

  Densmore said, “So much for your witness testifying against Kessel or Schaeffer.”

  Mason thought for a moment. “We’ve got the bait. Let’s see what we can hook with it.”

  * * *

  Mason sat in the passenger’s seat of the truck. Abrams drove. They both wore the outer jackets and caps found behind the seats. In back were four MPs behind a stack of cargo, which, according to the orders Mason had found, consisted of half the “roof tiles.”

  “Do you think they split the load to limit their loss?” Abrams asked.

  “That, or the two halves go to different destinations. Sort of relay points for further distribution. No telling how many sites they have operating.”

  “This idea of yours may not work. What if one of Bachofen’s drivers alerted them?”

  “I’m betting they had no contact with the higher-ups in the operation. Bachofen was a pawn, but those guys were even lower than that. Of course, I could be wrong, and a bunch of trigger-happy yahoos with machine guns are waiting for us.”

  Abrams fell silent, but his knuckles had turned white.

  “Don’t pull off the steering wheel,” Mason said. “We might need it.”

  They reached their destination, a U.S. Army supply depot in a remote area north of Garmisch. The depot was little used since the U.S. 10th Armored Division had been shipped back to the States. Now it mostly housed mothballed tanks, heavy weapons, and armaments. MPs guarded the gates, but neither Mason nor Abrams recognized them.

  One of the MPs examined the orders, then passed them on through.

  “Didn’t even want to look in the back,” Abrams said.

  “Either they’re being paid to look the other way or they’re not real MPs.”

  They passed rows of tanks and howitzer cannons, all kept in top shape in case they had to be used again for a Russian invasion. At the far end of the sprawling depot stood several warehouses of corrugated tin. Most were shut and quiet, but the last in the row had a few men milling around.

  Mason knocked on the back wall of the cab. “Almost there. Get ready.”

  Abrams took it slow, his back stiff and his breathing shallow.

  “Take it easy,” Mason said. “They don’t look like they’re ready to open fire.”

  “They’re just waiting until we get in range.”

  After some additional encouragement from Mason, Abrams pulled up the truck in front of the warehouse. “What if they recognize us, or realize we’re not the guys we’re supposed to be?”

  “We’ll know soon enough. Remember, we’re Germans in disguise.”


  Three men met the truck. One beefy corporal stormed up to Abrams’s door. “Where the fuck have you guys been? You’re three hours late.”

  Abrams said in German, “Crappy weather. We can’t fly over the mountains. And the damned checkpoints—”

  “I don’t understand that kraut gibberish. Just get down and give us a hand.”

  Mason jumped down and moved quickly to the back. He threw the latch and opened the doors. He said in heavily accented English, “Where ist Herr Schaeffer. Herr Kessel?”

  “What the fuck do you care?” the corporal growled.

  Abrams met them at the back, and Mason asked the corporal, “You sure this cargo is for you?”

  “You think we stood out here in the freezing cold just to welcome you? Now shut up and start unloading.”

  Just then, to Mason’s surprise, Sergeant Olsen emerged from the warehouse. They both froze for a split second before Olsen broke into a run.

  Mason yelled to the MPs, “Now!”

  Mason took off after Olsen. He heard shouts and commands behind him, and hoped the MPs had surprised and overwhelmed the warehouse men, otherwise he just might get a bullet in his back. Olsen had long legs, but he was no sprinter. Mason got within twenty yards, pulled out his gun, and yelled, “Olsen, stop!”

  Olsen kept running. Mason pointed his gun in the air and fired once. “The next one’s for you.”

  Olsen stopped this time. He kept his back to Mason and raised his hands. Mason maintained his gun aimed at Olsen’s back as he walked up and patted the man down. Olsen had a nine-millimeter pistol in his belt and a Ka-Bar knife in his boot. “Nine-millimeter,” Mason said. “Not your usual army-issue weapon.” He patted Olsen down once more, just to be safe. “I expected to find your rotting corpse in the woods somewhere, Sergeant.”

  “If you don’t send me to a stockade far away from here, that still might happen.”

  “You could have gotten out of Garmisch scot-free, but you just had to stay and team up with these cutthroats.”

  “You go where the money is.”

 

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