“Any questions?”
“No. Thank you, Herr Deputy Director. What can you tell us about Herr Gajewski?”
“The man was an employee of IG Farben/BASF since 1934. His education was in chemical engineering with a specialization in production of industrial gasses. He became involved in the top-secret manufacture of sarin and tabun gasses which—as you may know—was used in the execution of undesirables. Gajewski was found to have an important skill in personnel management. His principal occupation during the recent war was the procurement of slave labor which proved to be a full-time effort so that his other work in the actual production of industrial gasses became only tangential. Few of the workers who possibly knew him or of him remain available in Germany, as you might imagine. I have here a list of fourteen. The names and addresses are accurate and current.
“His talents were also utilized in the postwar triage of returning German POWs, and it is said that he gained considerable power of life and death over the returnees. In that position, he was susceptible to bribery. If the Germans returned from POW camps in America, France, England, and Russia could not pay the bribes, they were ignored and languished in the camps and succumbed to various causes before final repatriation. Some of those POWs were SS members who were captured by the Russians and had harsh treatment. We have a list of 142 such Germans possibly living in West Germany and another 255 who may be living in the East at present.
There are—as near as we can determine—fourteen men now living in France. They were an interesting subset of SS officers. They were all from the 33rd Waffen-Grenadier Division of the SS. The remarkable thing about that particular group is that they were all originally French citizens. Even more remarkable is that they were among the few SS troops who fought to the bitter end during the Battle of Berlin against the Red Army. Our listing of those men is only patchy and not nearly as reliable as our listing for German citizens. Every one of them fell into the category of those triaged to remain in the postwar German internment camps. It is to be presumed that they knew of Gajewski and did not regard him with any favor.
“Finally, there were several Russian POWS who encountered this Gajewski as the triage officer. He was especially harsh in his treatment of them. Although he personally murdered or ordered others to murder many of those Russians, most of them are not of interest to your investigation. However, three of the murdered men had strong connections with elements of the Russian mafia—which, in turn, had then and has now a connection with the Soviet government. There are several men who still remember Gajewski with a venomous hatred and might well have wished him great harm. We have a list of those people’s names; but, unfortunately, we do not have addresses or any access to them. You are on your own if you decide to investigate Soviets.
“A remote possibility is that he had to have come into contact and shared secrets with American, British, French, and Russian military officials who no doubt caused unfair and real suffering on the part of some of the German POWs. We have included a complete list of all of the Allied officers and enlisted men who were involved—it numbers well over a thousand names. We have no direct knowledge of connections with Gajewski or who shared diabolical secrets with him and might fear that he could implicate them. However—for what it is worth—you have their names and their whereabouts. Good luck sifting through that large list.
“He returned to Ludwigshafen with the help of ODESSA. In order to obtain his place with the ODESSA operatives, Gajewski murdered two POWS and was able to expropriate their family holdings, a not inconsiderable sum of money. We have spoken with the two families—the Beckenbauers and the Fenstermachers—both from Hamburg. That bit of self-preservation cost both families their fortunes and reduced them to a life as minor tradesmen just able to eke out a humble living. They hate Gajewski with a passion but are of the opinion that he finally died during the chaos of that period.
“Gajewski received the necessary documentation to assume a new life under the innocuous name of Gunther Emil Sondregger. There were two other candidates among the ex-SS officers who were murdered by Gajewski to remove them from competition for the few places the ODESSA could provide in Ludwigshafen. They have a total of six friends from their days of service during the war, and they have not forgotten what Gajewski did to those two men. Although we do not have evidence that they know his new identity, it is not outside the realm of possibility. We include in our list the names and current addresses of those men. As you would no doubt assume, their identities have been radically altered; and they are most secretive. We have quietly contacted them, and they are willing to help in any way they can with the obvious condition that their identities remain secret. Two of them expressed real distress upon learning that Gajewski had been murdered—not because of any sorrow for the man, but because they had wanted to be the agents of a long and painful death for the man. The six names and addresses are available to you; it is unlikely that they have enough information to be useful or to have been the murderers; but you never know.
“Because of his expertise and his ruthlessness, he was assigned to the human resources division of the BASF system. Because of his being included on the Allies’ most wanted war criminal list, he elected to be given a position in the company that was a relatively minor one and one unlikely to attract attention to himself or to the company for harboring him. We have no information on any possible enemies the man may have collected since moving to Ludwigshafen. Have you any further questions?”
The three Kripo officers glanced at each other and shook their heads in the negative.
“None. Thank you, Herr Kohler. You have been very helpful. The lists will give us considerable work, and we would like to get started as soon as possible. Would it be all right if we contact you by telephone from time to time for clarification of details that might come up?”
“It would be my pleasure. I have taken the liberty of writing down my private number. Please be discreet.”
The Kripos nodded their agreement.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Headquarters, Metropolitan Police Service/New Scotland Yard, Criminal Investigation Department [CID], Victoria Embankment, August 21, 1962
The day was hot and soporific. The large ceiling fans in the London Army and Navy Club were inadequate to the task. The City of London had largely been evacuated, with everyone who could get away heading to the countryside. There were only two members in the exclusive club’s bar that morning, and they were preparing to leave to escape the oppressive mugginess. Major Algernon Donelly nodded briefly at the oldest member of the club—Lieutenant-General Sir Cyril Goeffrey Robert Hill-Brownwell, RA, Ret.—who came to the club every day in his declining years. The major considered the general to be a hero and exemplar, and was, therefore, always carefully respectful whenever he encountered the old gentleman.
The general was slow in getting to his feet and had rather poor equilibrium, but Major Donelly knew better than to embarrass the fine old man by offering to help. He strode to the front door deliberately; so, he could watch the general and see if he might need help. He was about to open the door when an unthinkable event occurred. A man—quite evidently one of the help and dressed in the gray tunic and trousers of the club staff—darted out from behind the bar where he had been polishing ale glasses and rushed towards the general. Almost more quickly than Major Donelly could see—let alone act—the kitchen worker flashed a length of shining metal and pushed his hand against the posterior neck of the general, waited a moment, then allowed him to slump forward as if he had fallen asleep reading the Times.
Major Donelly hurled himself at the attacker and succeeded in enveloping his abdomen with a rear bear hug. The man in gray twisted violently and jabbed the major in his temple with the hard sharp bone of his right elbow. The movement and blow caught the major unawares and rendered him unconscious. When Major Donelly awakened—groggy and disoriented—he found himself alone on the floor beside the stuffed armchair in which Gen. Hill-Brownwell was sitting in unmoving rep
ose. He was alone with the famous general and mildly frightened. At first—as his mind only slowly tried to develop a clear focus on the real world—he felt he had fallen asleep and had had a disturbing violent dream.
His mind cleared, and he worked his way to a standing position—made sure of his equilibrium—then assayed his surroundings. The most striking thing in the room was the handle of a monogramed club ice pick sticking directly in the middle of the back of Lt. Gen. Hill-Brownwell’s neck. Less than half an inch of the bright steel of the pick was visible. The major avoided any disturbance of the room or the general, knowing that the old gentleman was dead. He did not require a doctor’s opinion. His years of combat had offered him sufficient examples of death to allow him a comfortable level of expertise on the subject.
Major Donelly recovered his senses quickly, another benefit of having engaged more than once in hand-to-hand combat. He was short, powerfully built, and agile. He had a considerable amount of male pattern baldness which he partially disguised by keeping his hair clipped to less than an eighth of an inch long. His face was flat, a characteristic accentuated by his having suffered several nasal fractures which led to him having effectively lost the bridge of his nose. That defect was made up by his very prominent Adam’s apple. His teeth were crooked and he was missing several; so, he kept his lips closed by entrenched habit. That made him appear to be perpetually somewhat angry or grumpy. His facial skin was clear of any blemishes, deeply tanned, and—by dint of scrupulous grooming—free of any facial hair, even sideburns. He was dressed in a casual afternoon olive-drab corduroy sports jacket, light tan military shirt, and heavy tweed trousers despite the oppressive heat. He wore riding boots, an affectation borne of his long suppressed desire to have been in the cavalry. He was sweating.
Evidently, no one else had witnessed the heinous act; so, it was up to the major to act and to act appropriately. He strode purposefully to the cord hanging from the ceiling near the doorway which connected the kitchen and the waiters’ lounge to the gentlemen members’ area. He gave two sharp pulls; and, in less than two minutes, a sleepy waiter in his starched club livery moved into the room.
“Brewster, there has been a crime here, my man,” Major Donelly stated authoritatively. “Summon the Old Bills [slang for policemen] immediately.”
He pointed at the obvious murder weapon sticking obscenely out of the back of the fine old veteran’s neck.
Brewster had never seen a civilian murder victim before, and he required a gulp before he could react. He paused long enough for the major to move to get his attention.
“Get yourself together and ring up Whitehall 1212. I will mind the crime scene until the Bills get here.”
Brewster was connected immediately to the dispatch operator at the CID.
“What is the nature of your problem, sir, and how may I direct your call?”
“This is Brewster, the majordomo at the Army and Navy Club. Put me through to the homicide division. We have had a murder here—a murder most foul!”
“Oh, dear, my good fellow, I will get the Special Branch right away! Please hold on the line.”
She reached the office of Detective Chief Inspector Lincoln Crandall-White.
“DCI White here.”
“Chief Inspector, do you have the duty this afternoon?”
“I do. Can I presume that you are about to disturb my plans for a comforting and restorative nap?”
“I’m afraid so, sir. I’m sorry to have to report that there has been a murder at the Army and Navy Club. The majordomo is on the line at this moment.”
“This smells like a case that will interest the grand level of the MET divisional superintendent at the least. Lucky me.”
“As they say in the States, ‘Have a nice day, CID Crandall-White.’ Now, I will turn the majordomo over to you.”
“Majordomo Brewster is it?” Crandall-White asked. “May I ask your first name?”
“Clifford, sir.”
“This is CID Crandall-White at this end. Are you in the club?”
“I am. I can see directly into the gentlemen’s bar—the scene of the crime as it were.”
“Is anyone else there, Brewster?”
“Only the major who found the body.”
“Major…?”
“Oh, yes, Major Algernon Donelly, active duty RA.”
“Has anyone disturbed the remains or anything in the room since the deceased was found?”
“No, sir. The major witnessed the murder itself not more than three or four minutes ago. He is minding the room. Nothing has been disturbed, let me assure you.”
“We’ll be there in two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail. Keep up the good work.”
The three CID coppers—DCI Crandall-White, DI Angela Snowden, and DI Anthony Bourden-Clift, arrived fifteen minutes later at 36-39 Pall Mall in St. James Square and parked their vehicle in front of the square box-shaped metal and glass seven-story building, not bothering to use the secure underground car park on the site. The two younger officers were mildly awed by the features of the West End—Mayfair and Covent Gardens, and the many attractions that neither of them could afford. Originally the building was built on number 18 St James’s Square, at the north corner with King Street, with its exterior inspired by the Palazzo Corner in Venice. The latest iteration of the venerable old club was the more prosaic and modern building reconstructed in the 1950s after the war.
The three detectives moved quickly through the front entrance on the west side of St. James’s Square and into the wood-paneled and heavily carpeted bar area. Major Donelly and Brewster stood stiffly to the side of the doorway into the bar to allow the police detectives to pass.
“Majordomo Brewster and Major Donelly, I presume,” DCI Crandall-White said as he shook both men’s hands warmly.
Each of them enjoyed the recognition, which set a friendly tone for the beginning of the interviews.
“No one else here this afternoon, I take it?”
“No, sir, just the two of us.”
“Well, then. We’ll get started. I would like Mr. Brewster to step into the office with me. DI Snowden and DI Bourden-Clift, please take Major Donelly to another room for interviews.”
The office was set off from the members’ area. It had the feel of a man’s office—wood, leather, cigar smoke smell, and clutter. Brewster sat at his desk, and DCI Crandall-White took a seat in a comfortable old leather overstuffed armchair facing the majordomo. The DCI took a moment to observe the man he was about to interrogate—tall, lean, military bearing, and short-cropped haircut. He had an impressively well-sculpted curly dark brown mustache and beard cut in a neat combination of sideburns, muttonchop mustache, and Van-Dyke style beard which left his neck clean shaven. Scalp and facial hair were the same length. Brewster had a lean, lined, and tanned face bespeaking years outside. That and the well-tailored olive-drab, gold button, epaulets at the shoulders, and spit-polished black boots of his uniform spoke loudly of a military background—probably some long ago cavalry experience.
His military experience and the necessities of his duties as the majordomo of a very exclusive and expensive men’s club had developed in Brewster a similar penchant for sizing up a man whom he faced. The DCI was a large, powerful man whose inexpensive civilian suit did not quite disguise the muscularity of his frame or his military bearing. The DCI had a simple mustache, more in the current British style than Brewster’s own. Crandall-White had a full strong face—not handsome, but one that commanded attention. His eyes were keen–nearly cobalt blue–and steady. He was early middle-aged, but his lean athletic figure belied that. He was dressed in a blue serge suit, one of several he owned. His tie matched his suit. His shoes needed a polishing; and his white shirt and his suit needed pressing; but Brewster was quite sure that Crandall-White did not care a whit for such vain interests. He was all business.
DCI Crandall-White waited a full minute before speaking, then he went directly to the heart of the matter as Brewster expected that he w
ould, “Who were Gen. Sir Hill-Brownwell’s enemies, Brewster?”
“I have been waiting for that question, Chief Inspector. I did not know the man personally to any degree, but I have had the opportunity to observe him and his interactions with the other members for more than a decade. He was a regular here. He served on the western front in the first war, and I recall one member who confronted him some years back for his behind-the-lines service. The gist of the heated conversation was that the lieutenant general was quick to order men to charge out of their trenches to what he must have known were near-suicidal and futile attacks, and the men serving under him despised him. Sir Hill-Brownwell’s response was a counter accusation—essentially that the man confronting him might well be one of the cowards who had conspired to assassinate him as the commander. The staff had to come between the two. Sir Hill-Brownwell’s position in the club was of such an elevated nature that his accuser was forced to resign.”
“Name?”
“I can’t bring it to mind at the moment, but I will do some research and get back to you on that, if that would be acceptable, sir.”
“I would appreciate it. Any other confrontations or enemies?”
“Not directly. However–like any senior officer–there were petty jealousies and perceived slights by his junior officers. I have sat in pubs and listened to bits and pieces of conversations among the enlisted who served under him—enough to know that he was a highly unpopular officer in both wars. Again, the gist was that he enjoyed his comforts in the safety of his command post while keeping well out of harm’s way, if you get my drift.
“He was deemed to be an extremely harsh disciplinarian, even an unfair one by many officers and enlisted alike.
“His areas of service might well have generated enemies as well. I don’t know if you are aware, but Sir Hill-Brownwell served as head of the military police department in the British sector of Berlin at the close of the last war. Many officers—I understand—bore him ill-will for the ruination of their reputations and careers owing to his penchant for rushing to judgment and for his dictatorial style which did not allow for what the men considered an adequate defense which might take in extenuating circumstances or even opposing testimony. Several complaints were filed against him during that period.”
The Charlemagne Murders Page 15