Spoils of Victory

by John A. Connell

  “It doesn’t make sense you taking all the punishment, when the guys pulling your strings will go home with a pile of money and medals on their chests. They used you, abused you, and now they’re going to let you hang or rot in prison. No, sir, doesn’t make sense.”

  “They’ll get their just deserts. I’ll see to that.”

  “From the end of a rope? I don’t think so.” Mason paused to see if Schaeffer would continue, but Schaeffer said nothing. “See you ’round.”

  Mason turned away and took two steps before hearing Schaeffer’s voice echo off the cement walls, saying, “Mark my words, Collins: There’ll be no rest for the wicked.”

  Mason stopped. That phrase . . . He rushed up to the cell door and put his hands on the bars. “What did you say?”

  Silence.

  Mason thought a moment. He then launched himself off the door and marched down the hall with urgency and purpose.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mason exited his house—actually the army’s house, his billet—with his duffel bag loaded to almost bursting. He locked the door for the last time and climbed into the waiting jeep.

  “You know where they’re sending you?” the MP driver asked.

  “No, but I hope it doesn’t include deep snow and subzero temperatures.”

  “Or live grenades.”

  “Amen, brother.”

  It was seven A.M. and still dark, though the rising sun cast a golden halo around the mountain ridges. He had three hours before he needed to be on the train—still time to stir up trouble. After a quick breakfast and coffee, he had the driver deposit him at headquarters. His case files and photos had been turned over to Densmore, but his typewriter was still there, and the uncomfortable chair—some things never change. It took him an hour and a half to type up three reports. One he left on Densmore’s desk, along with Kessel’s original written testimony. He then went by Hollister’s office and left a report with Hollister’s secretary, detailing Kessel’s admission and involvement with Schaeffer’s murder spree. He left out where Kessel and Volker had been stashed, only saying that Chief Warrant Officer Densmore would take custody of Volker that afternoon. He also included his visit to Schaeffer and his offer to exchange naming any high-ranking officers for consideration of a lighter sentence.

  The last stop was Udahl’s office. The colonel’s secretary said he would be in in an hour, so Mason left his third and final report with the secretary. This version of the report repeated the same information as in Hollister’s, but with one added piece of fiction: that Schaeffer would certainly talk, that he’d said he wouldn’t go down alone.

  Mason then retrieved his duffel bag from his office and descended the stairs. On the last few steps to the ground floor, Mason’s attention was drawn to the two MPs standing at the front entrance. They were dressed in the new uniform for the fledgling U.S. Constabulary: the lightning bolt shoulder patch, yellow scarf, and yellow-and-blue-striped helmet. Though many months away from full force, these men, in their flashy uniforms, would take over much of the occupation zone’s policing. Mason thought that if the army had similar uniforms in mind for the CID, then it was better he was planning to leave.

  He saw Densmore near the watch commander’s desk bending a few MPs’ ears again with an exaggerated version of the train raid. How many times will the poor MPs have to hear that one? Mason wondered.

  As Mason approached, Densmore dismissed his relieved audience and nodded at Mason’s bag. “Did you put your bedroom furniture in there?”

  “Once I stole everything out of your quarters, I didn’t have room for anything else.” Mason looked around then signaled Densmore to follow him to a quiet corner. “I left a final report for you, Hollister, and Udahl.”

  “I don’t blame you for bypassing Gamin. Though I’m going to get an earful about that.”

  “You’re mentioned heavily in Hollister’s and Udahl’s reports.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “It’s not exactly what I meant.” Mason filled him in about where Volker was being held, and that he’d left Weissenegger guarding him. “I’m not sure what shape he’ll be in when you find him. Weissenegger’s an ex-boxer and was madly in love with Adelle.”

  Densmore laughed. “Just as long as he’s still breathing.”

  “This is what I need you to take care of first. I’ve got Kessel tucked away at Landsberg prison.”

  “You’re a wily son of a bitch.”

  “I need for you to ensure his safety. He’s admitted to being present at the killings of Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch. He also can testify to Schaeffer and Volker torturing and killing Winstone and Hilda.”

  “That’s great news.”

  Mason told him he went to Hollister in the night with the information and learned that Schaeffer was being transferred to Frankfurt that morning. “It could have already happened.”

  Densmore didn’t seem that surprised.

  “The thing is,” Mason said, “as long as Schaeffer is still breathing, Kessel is in danger. He’s been a stand-up guy, and I want to make sure he’s treated right.”

  “And you’re laying it at my doorstep?”

  Mason got in Densmore’s face. “If Abrams and I weren’t being transferred, I would have taken care of it myself. Now’s the time for you to step up to the plate and take a swing.”

  Densmore held up his hands. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  “There’s one other thing I need for you to do.”

  “Jesus, Mason. Do I look like an all-service police force?”

  “I’m trusting you. Do not screw me on this one, or I will pay you an unpleasant visit.”

  Mason waited, but Densmore said nothing. “Abrams and I took Yaakov’s family to a friend’s place in Breitenau the night Schaeffer’s men tried to kill them. I need for you to look in on them and help my friend get them to a safe place.”

  “Is that all? ’Cause I didn’t have anything else to do but babysit your arrestees and a DP family.”

  “Frankfurt is just a train ride away.”

  Densmore let out a tired sigh. “All right. I’ll do it.” He held up a hand. “Unless you’ve got more, seeing as how I don’t have much to do as the last real CID investigator in a gun-crazy town.”

  “That’s it,” Mason said and handed him a piece of paper with Laura’s address. “I’ll call her and tell her you’re coming.”

  Densmore put the piece of paper in his pocket, accompanied by his usual tired sigh. “I’ll drive you to the station,” he said.

  “I’d rather walk. It’s only ten minutes.”

  Densmore cleared his throat. “Well, the thing about that . . . Gamin ordered that you’re to be accompanied under guard.” He pointed to the constabulary MPs. “Those two MPs are to escort you to the station. I was going to go along so you don’t feel like you’re under arrest or something.”

  “That lunatic must be really desperate to get me out of here.”

  “Seems so,” Densmore said and gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

  * * *

  The train platform’s departing passengers consisted mostly of GIs who had come on leave to ski or frolic with sweethearts or the local girls. A smaller group of WACs and nurses were assembled together near a couple of MPs, seeking shelter from the GIs who apparently still had plenty of frolic left in them. Mixed with this army contingent were the civilians, Germans, of course, and Americans brought over to help run the military government: lawyers, teachers, and CEOs who had volunteered to contribute their expertise.

  Mason and Densmore found Abrams standing alone with his duffel bag and looking forlorn. He brightened when he saw Mason. He shook Mason’s hand, then furrowed his brow when he realized the two MPs flanking Mason were there as an armed escort.

  “Gamin isn’t taking any chances,” Mason explained.

  Almost
as an afterthought, Abrams shook Densmore’s hand. “Are you part of the escort?”

  “I’m here for moral support,” Densmore said.

  “Moral support? For us? Being shot at must have given you a whole new perspective on life.”

  “Be nice,” Mason said. “Densmore’s agreed to take care of Yaakov’s family.”

  “I said I’d look in on them,” Densmore countered.

  Abrams stuck his finger at Densmore. “Nothing better happen to them, or I’ll—”

  Mason held up his hand. “I’ve already explained to him that Frankfurt isn’t that far away.”

  The train pulled into the station. Since it originated from Mittenwald, only a few passengers exited. Then the crowd on the platform began to board. The two flashy MPs stepped in close to Mason and Abrams as a signal that it was their turn. The two investigators heaved their bags onto their shoulders.

  Mason turned to Densmore. “Remember everything I told you.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I’ll probably be first to hear the outcome of Schaeffer’s court-martial, since it’s taking place in Frankfurt. With luck Schaeffer will break when he realizes he’s looking at a possible hanging.”

  Densmore had a hard time looking at Mason. “About Schaeffer . . . I didn’t want to tell you until now, because I was afraid of what you might do.”

  Mason waited. He knew he was going to hate whatever Densmore had to say next.

  Densmore finally got up the courage to speak. “Schaeffer escaped this morning somewhere outside Garmisch. The sedan he was in had an accident with another car. In the confusion, Schaeffer got away.”

  “Son of a . . . I knew something like this would happen. It was fishy enough him being sent up to Frankfurt.”

  “Jesus, Mason, the MPs driving him had an accident.”

  “Bullshit!”

  One of the constabulary MPs said, “Sir, it’s time to go.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Mason said to the MP, then turned back to Densmore. “Where exactly did it happen?”

  “A couple of miles outside Garmisch, near Farchant.”

  “Who were the MPs doing the driving? Did anyone check to see if they were on Schaeffer’s payroll?”

  “Not everything’s a Schaeffer conspiracy. Two of them were hurt. One seriously.”

  “What about the people in the other car?”

  Densmore sighed before answering. “They left the scene.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  “Sir, you have to go now,” the MP insisted.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Our orders are to arrest you if you refuse. Major Gamin told me to tell you that he has a whole lineup of charges if we have to arrest you.”

  Mason changed to a conciliatory tone. “Okay, sure. I don’t want to be arrested.” He started for the train car’s steps, when Densmore stepped forward and took Mason’s arm.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Densmore said.

  “No. Of course not.”

  Densmore looked skeptical, but he released Mason’s arm.

  “See you around,” Mason said and climbed onto the train. He joined Abrams, and they found two empty seats, which Mason purposely selected to be away from Densmore’s and the MPs’ view. He reached into his bag and pulled out his .45 and a box of bullets, concealing both under his overcoat. He said to Abrams, “Look after my bag, will you?”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re not. I’ll beat you to a pulp if I catch you following me. Do you understand?”

  Abrams glowered but said nothing. He looked more hurt than angry.

  “I’ll see you in Frankfurt,” Mason said.

  “The next time I see you it will be in a casket.”

  “Then have a good life.”

  Mason checked the platform-side windows, then moved to the door at the front of the car. He slipped out and jumped onto the tracks. The train whistle blew and started to pull out of the station. He was sure the MPs and Densmore would stay on the platform to make sure Mason remained on the train, so he ran full out across several tracks and across an open field. By the time the last train car cleared the station, Mason had merged with the houses and disappeared.

  * * *

  It had taken Mason twenty minutes to find an unattended car in a quiet street. Another minute and a half to hot-wire the ignition, and another fifteen minutes to drive over to Winstone’s villa.

  Mason found Weissenegger in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating an early lunch. He noticed the bruises on Weissenegger’s knuckles.

  “Is Volker still alive?”

  “Can’t breathe through his nose so good, but, yeah, he’s alive.”

  “Once I’m finished with him, I want you to call the MP station and have them come and get him. Then lie low somewhere for a day or two.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere but back home.”

  “Did you let Margareta go?”

  “Last night at eight, like you told me.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  Weissenegger smiled. “As a matter of fact, she did. She’s at my place waiting for me.”

  “You big Romeo.”

  Weissenegger beamed with pride. “Thanks to you, I’ve had the time of my life. It don’t make up for Adelle’s death, but a little private time with Volker helped me get past my grief.”

  “Happy to be of service. Come on, let’s have a little more fun at Volker’s expense.”

  Mason and Weissenegger made their way down to the furnace room. Volker lay on a mattress on the floor. When he saw the two men enter the room, he crawled on his back toward a corner. Both his eyes were swollen. His nose sported a large bump in the middle and was still caked in blood. He curled up in a ball once he reached the wall.

  Mason signaled for Weissenegger to stay where he was, then he walked up to Volker and crouched down next to him. “Considering what you did to all those people, Hans has been lenient with you.”

  “When are you going to let me go?”

  “Let you go? Who said anything about that?”

  Volker stopped breathing and tried to look at Mason through his swollen eyelids. “You promised you’d let me go. I’ve told you everything.”

  “No, you didn’t. I know you’re the one who cut up Hilda’s face and jammed her body parts down Winstone’s throat.”

  “He did what?” Weissenegger yelled and started to charge.

  Volker covered his head with his arms. Mason held up his hand to stop Weissenegger, and, surprisingly, the man complied.

  Mason said to Volker, “Why should I let you live when you did such horrible things to that poor girl?”

  All Volker could summon was a pitiful moan. “Please . . .”

  “I might show clemency, but you need to give me something in return.”

  Volker nodded violently, and Mason said, “There was a house or cabin in the mountains where you and Schaeffer would make transactions and strike deals. I want to know where it is.”

  Volker’s face widened in surprise, at least as much as his swollen face would allow.

  “Yes,” Mason said, “I know about your little hideaway.”

  “I don’t know where it is. I was always taken there blindfolded.”

  “I wouldn’t advise lying again. Herr Weissenegger wants to tear you limb from limb for what you did to Adelle’s sister. The only way to keep him from doing that is a word from me. Hans and I are pals now. Give me the location, and no more beatings.”

  Volker, in near hysterics, yelled, “You made me a promise before that you didn’t keep. Why should I believe you now?”

  Mason grabbed Volker’s ankle and dragged him toward Weissenegger. Volker thrashed his legs and grabbed the mattress, only to drag it along as Mason pulled him across the floor.
“Wait! There’s a fire road!”

  Mason stopped but held on to his leg. “Go on.”

  “It’s also a maintenance road for the ski lift. The road splits at the lift’s second support tower. The left fork takes you to an old forester’s house.”

  “How far up that road?”

  “A kilometer.”

  “How will I recognize it?”

  “A stone house with two chimneys. There’s an iron horse’s head mounted above the door.”

  Mason dropped Volker’s foot. “You made a wise choice.” He walked up to Weissenegger. “Go ahead and call the MP station. And keep him in one piece.”

  Weissenegger looked disappointed, but he nodded. When Mason moved for the door, Weissenegger asked, “Is Schaeffer the other one who killed Hilda and ordered Adelle’s death?”

  Mason turned to him and nodded.

  “And that’s who you’re after next?” Weissenegger asked.

  Mason took a moment, as he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Yes . . .”

  Weissenegger smiled and hiked up his pants as if ready to go into action.

  THIRTY-NINE

  An old forester’s house” seemed a gross understatement for the elegant abode that stood before him. The sprawling two-story structure seemed more a manor than a functionary’s lodge, with large, hewn-stone walls and a long front porch of varnished wood. It stood in a shallow, bowl-shaped field surrounded by a pine forest, now laden with deep snow.

  Mason stood just inside the tree line on a shallow rise. Fifty yards of open ground lay between him and the house. Smoke rose from one of the chimneys, signaling that someone was inside. If Mason had guessed correctly, Schaeffer was its current occupant, but it seemed odd that Schaeffer would come back here and not continue to run. Perhaps this was a rendezvous point for colleagues to spirit him away, or he’d come for a cache of money to buy his way to somewhere far away. Whatever the reason, it had been a bad calculation. One that Mason had counted on.

  He heard the distinct click of a revolver’s hammer being pulled back, then the touch of the cold barrel on the back of his neck.