by James R Benn
“When Henri returned, no one the wiser, apparently,” Kaz said. “But not for long. The document was found to be missing, and the Gestapo came up with a plan on the spot. They dragooned the SVV men into following us and went after the rest of the group that had gathered around Henri.”
“They haven’t come after me,” Dulles said. I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or peeved at being left out.
“Not yet. But watch yourself,” I said. “Kaz stopped one of them from pulling a gun on us today. It was the taxi cab driver who picked us up here this morning. He dropped us off at Henri’s place and then tried to waylay us in the park.”
“Don’t tell me you shot another man?” Dulles said, as if defending yourself in public was in poor taste.
“I convinced him to leave us alone without pulling the trigger. Unfortunately, Billy and I discussed Major Bowman during the cab ride. That is how they got to him at the hotel,” Kaz said.
“We don’t know exactly who we’re up against,” I said. “Swiss fascists and the Gestapo are enough to worry about. I hope whoever is behind Henri’s murder, as well as Lowenberg’s, doesn’t have the entire Swiss government working for them.”
“I doubt that very much, but as you’ve learned, there are factions at work. Unfortunately, the pro-German groups are very strong,” Dulles said.
“But surely that will change as the war goes against the Germans?” Kaz said.
“Don’t count on it,” Maureen said. “Some of the SVV types are true believers. Others are simply making a mint off the war, whether through banking or arms manufacturing. Those people will be sad to see the war end, but only because it means an end to their profits. They are not at all worried about being held accountable. That’s the beauty of Swiss neutrality.”
“I wonder if what Henri took threatened all that,” I said, remembering something he’d told me when we’d first met. “The cigarette case was a gift from his Uncle Rudolf.”
“So?” Dulles said.
“He didn’t have to use that case. He could have put the papers in his pocket, or stuffed in an envelope. Maybe he did it deliberately, as a symbol of the revenge,” I said. The case was handy, to be sure, but I couldn’t see Henri handing it off unless it was important to the whole scheme, if only in his mind.
“It may be worth a talk with Herr Doktor Moret,” Kaz said. “Henri may have confided in him.”
“They were very close,” Maureen said. “Someone needs to tell him, and it would be better than a telephone call from the police.”
“But what about Victor? For all we know the Gestapo has him, along with the document,” I said.
“Victor doesn’t have it,” Maureen said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I was with him last night,” she said, looking away from Dulles. It was the first time I’d seen her so shy and demure, almost embarrassed. “He dropped by the hotel while Bowman and I were having drinks. We left and went to his place. He never mentioned a thing.”
“You’re sure he didn’t have the cigarette case?” I asked.
“As sure as I can be. I hung up his tuxedo for him, and I would have noticed it. There wasn’t any place else he could’ve hidden it,” she said, delivering that line with a smile that was more in character.
“You and Victor?” Dulles said. “I never would have guessed.” He sounded more surprised than jealous. I guess their flirting and whatever followed wasn’t an exclusive arrangement.
“It’s nothing serious, darling,” Maureen said, digging around in her purse for a cigarette. I could see she still had her little automatic pistol.
“No one’s approached you either?” I asked Maureen.
“Not a soul,” she said. “But poor Lasho took a few lumps last night. It seems Krauch turned the tables on him and led him into a trap. He and another man dragged him out of the car and searched him. Went through the car as well.”
“Is he okay?” I asked.
“Yes, he’s resting upstairs. A few bruises, that’s all. I’d say Krauch had no idea he had his hands on der Zigeuner himself. He probably lost all interest after discovering Lasho didn’t have the papers.”
“That’s right. You brought him inside to lay eyes on Krauch, right?” I said.
“Yes. Krauch must have spotted him with me. These damn Germans are thorough, I’ll give them that,” Maureen said.
“You two need to watch your back,” I said. “Do you have any security? Bodyguards?”
“I’ll call the embassy,” Dulles said. “They’ll send some people. They’re already out looking for Victor.”
“When was the last time you saw him, Maureen?” I asked.
“Oh, late. Or early this morning, if you prefer,” she said. “He called a taxi for me. I’m not one for lingering over breakfast. The morning light is far too revealing.”
“He mentioned nothing about Henri and the reception?” Kaz asked.
“Only to comment on how oddly he’d behaved, but that was Henri. Always secretive and distracting you with a joke,” she said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
“They must have grabbed him on his way out this morning,” Dulles said.
“Or he found out about Henri and went into hiding,” I said. “He has good relations with the police, or at least with Escher. Maybe someone tipped him off.”
“Then he is a smarter man than all of us,” Lasho said from the doorway. He sported a shiner and sat on the couch with a grimace.
“You’re looking better, Anton,” Maureen said, flashing her most dazzling smile. If this was better, then he must have been a mess last night.
“I do not like giving in to the Germans,” he said, his voice a snarling growl. “There were too many to fight, so I let them hit me. Some days you get the bear, somedays the bear gets you.”
“Quite intelligent, Lasho,” Kaz said.
“I can be so intelligent only once. Next time, I will kill the man who struck me. Krauch. He will not like how I do it.”
“Can you drive, Lasho?” Dulles asked. It seemed as if the man saw little except for how useful people could be. He was a smart guy, and obviously well-connected. He probably served his country well, but there was something about him that made me feel like a replaceable cog in his spy machine.
“Yes. Where do you want to go?”
“Not me. Take these two to this address. Moret’s uncle. He lives in a small town about an hour away,” Dulles said, consulting a thick address book and scribbling the directions. “Then tomorrow, I want you three to go to Wauwilermoos. It’s on the outskirts of Lucerne.”
“That’s where they have Bowman,” I said.
“Right. Conditions at that camp are intolerable. We recently received an order from SHAEF to assess the potential for organizing a mass breakout once the Allied lines in Italy get closer,” Dulles said. “They have about one hundred of our men there, mixed in with common criminals.”
“It’s an unpleasant place,” Maureen said. “We haven’t had time to get anyone up there yet, but this is good timing. We’ll put together a demand for Bowman’s release. I doubt it will do any good, but it should get you inside the camp.”
“The policeman who arrested Bowman said we should bring him food,” Kaz said. “He seemed genuinely concerned.”
“He should be, if he’s a decent sort,” Dulles said. “We’ll pack up some food, but it will probably go into the commandant’s larder. It’s that kind of camp.”
“Shouldn’t we help search for Victor?” I asked.
“The embassy has people doing that,” Dulles said. “They know his usual haunts. They’re even driving out to see his parents, up in the mountains. If you’re right about a connection with Moret’s uncle, that’s a good place to start.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll grab our stuff at the hotel before we go. We might be on the road a fe
w days.”
“Call in with any news,” Maureen said. “You fellows need anything? You’re all packing, I assume?”
Lasho looked at her, his brow furrowed as he tried to understand what she meant. I slapped my jacket pocket, and he smiled, nodding his head.
“Can you get us shoulder holsters?” I asked. “It’s clumsy carrying these six-shooters around in a coat pocket.”
“Already done,” Maureen said, pointing to a box on the table by the door. Lasho opened his black leather jacket to show off his own.
“Watch yourselves out there,” Dulles said. “If you’re on the trail of this document, the opposition will follow you to see what you know. Maybe you can get the drop on them. I wouldn’t mind a few persuasive words with one of these Nazis. Right, Lasho?”
“I will do the persuading, and you do the talking, Mr. Dulles,” Lasho said. “It is what we both do best.”
Chapter Twenty
I could still hear Maureen’s stifled laugh as we adjusted the shoulder holsters and put on our jackets. It felt better not having the revolver bulging out of my pocket, and safer not getting the hammer snagged on fabric. We exited the office and made for the automobile, a Citroen Rosalie, parked in an alley off Herrengasse. Lasho was right: he had a lot of experience persuading Germans, mainly to die, while Dulles spoke with the assured authority that comes from generations of government service and family privilege. I’d heard his granddaddy had been secretary of state under Benjamin Harrison, and that’s going back a ways.
But Dulles was also canny. The trip to see Henri’s uncle made sense. He might actually have something useful to tell us; I could see Henri telling him of his plans to strike back at the Swiss government for all that was done to disgrace Doctor Moret for simply speaking the truth.
But to drive all the way to Wauwilermoos was different. It sounded like a hellhole, and I’d be glad to help out Bowman and our other guys imprisoned there, but I didn’t buy the story Dulles had spun. Maybe SHAEF did want to organize an escape, but there were plenty of legitimate embassy personnel who could conduct that reconnaissance.
At least he’d given us a warning. We were bait, and he was hoping we’d get the best of whoever came after us. But if not, it would be easy to write off a Sinti and two outsiders to a traffic accident or some other concocted story. I carried a carton of canned goods and other foodstuffs out to the car, the letter to the camp commandant safely secured in my pocket. Most important, Kaz still had a good supply of Swiss francs. I figured a decent bribe would be far more effective than a piece of paper, even one signed by Allen Foster Dulles.
“We should stop at Alpenstrasse first,” Kaz said as Lasho started the engine. “With everything that went on this morning, we forgot to mention Hannes watching it last night.”
“Right, we’ll check in with the concierge. He might need some persuading.” In the rearview mirror, I could see Lasho crack a grin. First, we drove to the hotel and grabbed our meager belongings. Everything except the tuxedos.
We headed back across the bridge, watching the traffic behind us. Lasho made a few quick turns down narrow residential streets, and I couldn’t spot another vehicle on our tail. Then we circled the block around Alpenstrasse, watching for the watchers, and coming up empty. Of course, if they really wanted to keep an eye on the place, another apartment across the street would be ideal. The fact that Hannes had been sent over to stand outside meant that it hadn’t been an organized surveillance—at least not as of last night.
Lasho parked a few doors down from number twenty. He and Kaz went in. We’d decided that Kaz’s knowledge of French and German, along with Lasho’s menacing presence, was all that was needed. We all do what we’re best at, as Lasho had observed.
Which meant I stayed outside, wandering up and down the street, watching for trouble. I kept my eye on windows, watching for curtains drawn back, and was rewarded with a glimpse of a gray-haired lady eyeballing me. Every neighborhood has one. I walked to the corner, out of her line of sight, and leaned against the wall, with the entrance to number twenty in view. No suspicious types lurking in the shadows. I walked back to the car, figuring it wouldn’t be long before Kaz and Lasho finished with their questions.
I saw Kaz standing in the doorway. He motioned me inside.
“Victor Hyde lives here,” Kaz said. “His apartment has been searched.”
“So that’s why Hannes was watching the place. Any sign of violence?” I asked, following Kaz up the steep steps. Lasho kept a lookout at the door.
“No, other than the disarray,” he said. “The concierge was quite obliging, once I gave him sufficient cash. He said men from the American embassy came looking for Victor this morning, and when they showed identification, he let them in. He claims the apartment had not been searched, and that he locked up after they left.”
“Great, so they were followed,” I said. “The obliging doorman probably let them in too.”
“Doubtless,” Kaz said, opening the door to Victor’s place. It had small rooms and high ceilings, the building probably having been subdivided into apartments after its grander days had passed. We walked through the sitting room, where comfortable furniture was clustered around a radio and phonograph player. Books had been thrown from shelves and lay scattered across the room. Drawers had been emptied, even in the kitchen. It was the same in every room. The concierge had to have heard something.
“There is nothing to learn here,” Kaz said. “As with Henri’s apartment, they searched thoroughly.”
“Which probably means they didn’t find what they were after,” I said, giving the place a final walk-through. I’ve tossed plenty of joints myself, and I can’t remember ever finding what I was looking for at the tail end of a search. When every square inch of a place has been gone through, it’s a sure sign of failure.
We stopped downstairs at the concierge’s basement apartment. Kaz rapped on the door and spoke roughly to the guy, then slipped him a few more Swiss francs, pointing to where Lasho stood. I couldn’t pick up on the French, but I got the message. Lasho would be back if he didn’t do what Kaz told him.
“We were never here, right?” I said.
“Yes. I told him to stop helping the Nazis, and he swore up and down he would never do such a thing. He admitted to giving information to Hannes, who asked about Victor and his routine, although he claims he had no idea he was Gestapo.”
“I do not think he cares who pays him,” Lasho said as he held open the door.
“What did he tell Hannes about Victor?” I asked as we took the steps down to the sidewalk. Clouds parted and the sun shone through, the warmth welcome on my face.
“That he works long hours and is often out late, or all night,” Kaz said. “Nothing unusual for a young man in a large city.”
“You saw no one following us?” Lasho asked, casting his gaze up and down the street.
“No. Nothing but an old lady across the street, peeking through her curtains.”
Of course. I’d been stupid, and now here we were, three sitting ducks. Kaz and Lasho both caught the look of dawning knowledge on my face.
“The best surveillance,” Kaz said. “A lonely woman with time on her hands, and a telephone.”
“Okay, I have an idea,” I said, telling them my plan.
Lasho drove past her apartment as slowly as possible, giving her plenty of time to see our black-and-white Citroen Rosalie, and even take down the license plate number. With its snazzy two-tone paint job, it didn’t exactly blend into the flow of traffic, but the Rosalie was originally built as a race car, which might come in handy on the open road.
We went around the block again, stopping a few buildings back from Victor’s place, where a narrow alley provided just enough room for Lasho to back the Rosalie in. We split up, Lasho staying with the car. Kaz and I each took one side of the street, me on the same side as the snoopy old lady, to
stay out of her line of vision.
Collars up, hat brims down, we sauntered down the sidewalk. About one building away from Victor’s place, we eased into doorways to wait. I hoped I hadn’t been wrong.
I wasn’t. A black Peugeot took the corner too fast and almost fishtailed into a parked car. The driver slammed on the brakes in front of number twenty and two men raced out from the backseat, eager to question the concierge. The Peugeot was double-parked, so they left the driver. Not that they would have needed three guys to get anything out of their informant. A thin roll of worn Swiss francs would take care of that, and have him promising that, of course, he would never help the Americans.
Kaz walked back toward the car, tipping his hat to Lasho, the signal to get ready. Then he moved toward the Peugeot, its engine idling roughly. Cigarette smoke wafted up from the driver’s side. He had the window open and his arm draped on the frame. Oblivious to the oncoming threat.
Until Kaz darted to the Peugeot, squeezing between the cars, and stuck his Webley into the driver’s face. I ran to the passenger’s door and yanked it open as Lasho braked right behind me. I reached in, grabbing the driver by the collar and dragging him out into the street, jamming the revolver into the back of his neck. Kaz opened the rear door of our Citroen and I shoved our captive in. By the time Kaz jumped into the front seat, I’d frisked our captive and tossed his wallet to Kaz. He wasn’t armed.
The cigarette was still between his fingers. I threw it out the window.
His mouth was wide open, a gaping oval of shock and fear. He was in his early twenties, sandy brown hair, small eyes, and grease under the fingernails. He wore a corduroy jacket, well-worn, over a shirt frayed at the collar. A mechanic, maybe, pressed into service as a driver.
“Are they following us?” I asked Lasho, not wanting to take my eyes off our reluctant passenger, who’d managed to close his mouth and sit up straight.
“I think not,” Kaz said, holding up a set of keys. He rolled down the window and drew his hand back to toss them out.
“Nein, bitte!” The guy looked more worried about losing the keys than the revolver I had jammed into his gut.