The Charlemagne Murders

by Douglass, Carl;

  “We interviewed the only other person in the establishment—the majordomo—a man named Clifford Brewster. He informed us that he did not really know the general personally. However, in his capacity as a senior servant at the club for more than ten years, he did pick up a nugget or two from the other members, and the majordomo himself had a history of having suffered a serious setback to his career by the actions of the general. He clearly had reason to resent the man. Overall, Gen. Hill-Brownwell was not popular, not well thought of. Brewster learned that the general served on the western front in the first war, and one member confronted him in Brewster’s presence 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 the man. 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.

  “Our investigation turned up the name of the accuser—an elderly former colonel by the name of Matthew Templeton. Unfortunately, Templeton died nearly five years ago. Along that same line, the majordomo reported overhearing conversations among the enlisted men who frequented the same pubs as him. He gleaned enough to know that Sir Hill-Brownwell was a highly unpopular officer in both wars. The general gist was that the man 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 reckless with the lives of the men in the ranks. In addition, he was deemed to be an extremely harsh disciplinarian, even an unfair one by many officers and enlisted alike.

  “Our questioning of Major Donelly revealed an area of interest, one that we are actively pursuing at present. He and the general both served in the postwar occupation internment camps for German POWs. It was the major’s opinion that the general had little sympathy for the German prisoners. They had returned from Soviet prison camps, and the general was of the opinion that the ‘huns’—as he always insisted on calling them—deserved every ill treatment they received. On more than one occasion–according to the major–Gen. Hill-Brownwell’s stated purpose in dealing with the POWs was to ensure that they would never to be allowed to occupy significant positions in the new Germany being created by the Allies.”

  “I presume you have followed up on that lead,” Eugène commented.

  “Indeed. We learned—to our chagrin and shame as a matter-of-fact—that the British-run camps like those of the Americans and the French were no better than the Nazi camps or the Soviet gulags. We have delved into that sordid subject sufficiently to be convinced that any survivors would be prime persons of interest to our investigation. All of the camps kept good records, which is surprising given the nature of the conditions existing there. We are quite certain of the names of those men who entered the camps; but the death rate was high; and it is not quite so clear which of those men were alive when the camps were finally closed in the late fifties.

  “We do have a list, but it is undoubtedly incomplete. The most difficult part of the investigation is locating the whereabouts of the released men today. We have succeeded in locating approximately thirty-two hundred of them, and are going through the tedium of contacting every one of them. We are less than a quarter of the way through the task.”

  “Any names catch your attention?”

  “A few we have not been able to trace after the final release. It is as if they vanished into thin air. Our attention was drawn to several SS officers with French names, which seemed odd to us. They had all been interned in a couple of those especially wretched gulags in far north Siberia and were among the very few who survived what our Soviet ‘allies’ termed ‘special treatment.’ I have a list of those men whom we intend to track down if it is possible. It should be interesting to learn what they are about. I will telex the list as soon as I can find it in the pile of clutter on my desk. Neatness is DI Snowden’s forte, not mine. I will probably have to enlist her help as I usually do. She is indispensable.”

  Eugène laughed. “I know what you mean. I would be lost without my senior INTERPOL technician, Forensic Specialist Marianne de la Reynie. She maintains my sanity at the office the same way my wife keeps me from complete chaos at home. We are of the opinion from several of our investigators that you may well be on a productive track. Keep me posted through Marianne; she is the central data coordinator for now. At the rate information is coming in, we will have to hire a significantly larger staff pretty soon. Thank you for your cooperation, Linc. We will talk again soon.”

  After the conversation, Linc sat lost in thought and pondered the ramifications of his conversation with the INTERPOL superintendent. It was his way to think a problem through thoroughly, weighing and analyzing every scrap of information. His critics believed that he was prone to overthinking and were annoyed by his periodic lapses of attention to them and to their brilliant discoveries. Detective Chief Inspector Lincoln Crandall-White was professorial in appearance and in his thought processes. He was the quintessential Oxford tweedy, tieless, brown- or gray-shirted, wool pants, and brogans, thinker and lecturer. He seldom spoke unless he had something to say, and that something was usually directly on target to open an avenue of investigation in a fruitful direction. When asked for his opinion, he almost always came back with the nut of the issue and the investigation.

  He was forty-seven years old, had bushy gray-brown hair, eyebrows, mustache and sideburns, and intense riveting eyes partly because one of them was hazel and the other blue. He used his unusual eyes skillfully to keep his listener looking at his face and then hearing what he had to say. The first thing his thinking produced at this point in time was that this investigation could either be the making of his career or a colossal international failure which would force his retirement. Linc was not inclined overmuch towards caution, and he vowed to pursue his case and its relationship to the other murders until the truth—the whole truth—was known. For the moment, it was time for lunch.

  British Pub Recipes

  Welsh Rarebit

  Ingredients

  -2 tbsps unsalted butter, 2 tbsps all-purpose flour, 1 tsp Dijon mustard, 1 tsp Worcestershire sauce, ½ tsp kosher salt, ½ tsp freshly ground black pepper, ½ cp porter beer, ¾ cp heavy cream, 6 oz (~1½ cps) shredded Cheddar cheese, 2 drps hot sauce, 4 slices toasted rye bread.

  Preparation

  -In a medium saucepan over low heat, melt the butter and whisk in the flour. Cook, whisking constantly for 2–3 mins., being careful not to brown the flour.

  -Whisk in mustard, Worcestershire sauce, salt, and pepper until smooth. Add beer and whisk to combine. Pour in cream and whisk until well-combined and smooth.

  -Gradually add cheese, stirring constantly until cheese melts and sauce is smooth; this will take 4–5 mins. Add hot sauce. Pour over toast; garnish with bacon, diced tomatoes, and chives before serving.

  Ploughman’s Lunch

  Ingredients

  -1 tbsp kosher dill relish, assorted English cheeses: Cotswold, Huntsman, Stilton, Shropshire Blue, English Cheddar, substantial chunk of crusty bread, pickled onions, bull pickled onions, assorted cold cuts like Black Forest Ham and pâtés, a variety of sliced apples, several hard-boiled and pickled eggs, and a pint of good dark English ale.

  Preparation: Eat and drink.

  Shepherd’s Pie

  Ingredients

  3 lg peeled and quartered potatoes, 1 stick salted butter, 1½ cps onion, 1–2 cps diced carrots, corn, peas mixture, 1½ lbs lean ground sirloin, ½ cp beef broth, 1 tsp Worcestershire, salt, pepper, garlic, hot sauce to taste.

  Preparation

  -Place the peeled and quartered potatoes in medium-sized pot and cover with 1+ in. cold water. Add tsp salt and bring to a boil, redu
ce to a simmer, and cook until tender.

  -While the potatoes are cooking, melt 4 tbsps butter in a large sauté pan on med. heat. Add chopped onions and cook until tender. Add vegetables separately (best to cook them individually according to their cooking times to achieve al dente firmness).

  -Add ground beef to the pan with the onions and vegetables. Cook until no longer pink. Season with salt and pepper. Add the Worcestershire and beef broth. Bring the broth to a simmer and reduce heat to low. Cook uncovered for 10 mins. Add more beef broth at intervals to prevent meat from drying out.

  -When the potatoes are done cooking (soft), remove them from the pot and place them in a bowl with the remaining 4 tbsps butter. Mash and season with salt and pepper to taste.

  -Preheat oven to 400° F. Spread the beef, onions, and vegetables in an even layer in a large baking dish and spread mashed potatoes over the top of the ground beef. Rough up the surface of mashed potatoes with a fork so there are peaks that will get well-browned.

  -Sprinkle grated cheddar cheese over the top of the mashed potatoes before baking. Cook in oven at 400° F until potatoes are brown and bubbling~30 min. May have to broil for the last few mins. to help the surface of the mashed potatoes brown. Serve hot with stout British ale (wine is for sissies).

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Corporate Offices of European International Conglomerate, No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, August 22, 1962

  Antoine was growing increasingly concerned about the health of his friend, Michaele. Michaele walked about like an old man—older than he was chronologically. He seemed to have lost energy and drive, which was quite unlike him since they had finally gotten away from the gulag and the Allied POW camps. When they first came to London, Michaele was a dynamo who attacked their business with a dizzyingly frenetic enthusiasm, and they had prospered beyond their wildest expections as a result. As of the present date, their legitimate income was almost the equal to their income from their organized crime pursuits.

  Michaele was pale and had lost a significant amount of weight, and now coughed constantly. When they first left the gulag, Michaele had been extremely thin, but now he looked more like the keeper of the crypt. Antoine decided that today was the day to confront him and to find out what was the matter. He elected to have the talk with his old friend and Herr Caussidière—their Swiss partner—before their meeting with the architects and construction people from Argentina, where they were about to start three new building complexes. The two men had decided to relocate to the highly accommodating South American country sometime during the upcoming year as soon as the projects were completed.

  Michaele was sitting at the conference table coughing—having a particularly bad spell. Antoine saw that Michaele’s handkerchief was soaked with blood even though his old friend quickly put it into his pocket and gave Antoine a wan smile.

  “Good morning, Michaele. Sounds like your cough is getting worse.”

  “No, my friend—about the same. Probably a bronchitis. It’ll pass.”

  Antoine shook his head. “Don’t think so, Michaele. You still have some blood on your cheek.”

  Michaele did not want to bring out the blood-soaked handkerchief; so, he struggled to get up and find a box of tissues. Antoine produced a box of fancy French “Le Troubadour” tissues from a cabinet and handed it to Michaele. The effort to stand caused another spasm of coughing, and now he was embarrassed to be filling multiple tissues with thick blood.

  “I’d better get to the bathroom,” he said.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Michaele. It’s only you and me here. You can’t keep things from me—certainly not things like this. This is serious; it’s certainly more than just a little cold or bronchitis. You know that, my friend. You’ve been sick for a while, and we need to get you to a doctor today as soon as the meeting is over. For that matter, I can handle the Argentines myself. Why don’t you go have a lie down for a while? Leave business to me, all right?”

  To his considerable surprise, Michaele nodded his head. Another surprise came when he offered his arm to Antoine for help getting up.

  The meeting was efficient and productive. The Argentine businessmen and builders presented complete construction and business plans which met Antoine’s specifications in all aspects. There was no explicit statement about the obvious overages in the labor and materials estimates. Everyone in the room knew that this was the Argentine way. There were palms to be greased all along the way, not the least being the paranoid kleptocratic administration of José María Guido, who was serving as the interim president while the country’s two military factions created political chaos.

  The general upheaval was—remarkably enough—not particularly bad for business. The prospect of any foreign investment in the country was greeted favorably by all participants in the current Argentinian drama, and they all left the businessmen and builders to their own devices. In fact, there was a decidedly positive aspect to the conflict and the administration’s both-hands-in-the-public-trough approach. Regulations were ignored, and bribes were kept to a reasonable level to avoid discouraging investment. All in all, things were moving smoothly for the European International Conglomerate. Antoine signed for the president and CEO—as Laird Eagen and Randolph Bellwether, the respective pseudonyms for himself and Michaele. He and the Argentinians drank a champagne toast, and they wished Randolph a speedy recovery.

  Antoine called the consumption service at the Royal Brompton Hospital because he was more than just suspicious that Michaele had the disease. Since Michaele did not smoke, Antoine figured that it was not cancer. He decided that the Royal Brompton was as good a place to start as any.

  The physicians of the sanatorium were extremely busy, since the Royal Brompton was one of only a few hospitals equipped to treat consumption. Triple the usual fee for Doctor Evan Goodefellow’s surgery and a promise of a handsome grant to the hospital magically cleared the way for Michaele to be seen the following day.

  Michaele was too tired and sick to speak for himself; so, he readily agreed to let Antoine do the talking with the doctors. Antoine provided such history as he could, and the doctor examined Michaele.

  “We will need a chest x-ray,” the doctor said.

  “Let’s get it done as quickly as possible, if you please,” Antoine requested.

  The doctor brought the radiographic plates and showed the two men.

  “You can see here that almost the entire right lung is opaque—white—and has pushed the heart and left lung to the left. This is a big mass. While it could be cancer, my examination of the sputum revealed acid fast bacilli; so, consumption is the better diagnosis.”

  “Could you explain that in lay terms, Doctor?” Antoine asked.

  “Of course—pardon me for getting too technical. The dye or stain used to identify the tuberculosis germ is called acid fast and when it is positive, the patient—you, Mr. Bellwether, has active growing tuberculosis. Because the stain colors the bacteria red, we medical people irreverently refer to them as ‘red snappers.’ The old name for TB was ‘consumption.’”

  Michael spoke up; his voice soft and his speech punctuated with productive bloody cough, “I understand that TB is untreatable, is that right?”

  “Definitely not—not anymore. In fact, I want you to start on two medications this very day and to get plenty of rest. If you have the means, you might want to go to a sanatorium in the desert area of the United States. They are working wonders there. But this is getting ahead of the game. Take the medications for six months along with the rest, then we will see if you are a candidate for pneumonectomy.”

  Antoine raised his eyebrows.

  “Sorry again,” the physician said. “Surgery. The left lung will have to be removed in order to allow the healthy tissues to be successfully treated by the medications.”

  Michaele went pale, “Can a man survive with only one lung, Doctor Goodefellow?”

  “Indeed, he can. In fact, my prognosis is that you will live for many more ye
ars; but, of course, with a lessened ability to exercise due to reduced lung capacity. You should be able to get out and about on walks, play golf if you are so inclined, and swim. That is one of the recommended treatments in those desert sanatoria.”

  “We’ll do it all. We put ourselves into your hands, Doctor.”

  “That’s the spirit. I will write you a prescription for one year of isoniazid and p-aminosalicylic acid. That is now the standard of care. Let’s see you back in say a month to see how things are going.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Corporate Offices of European International Conglomerate, No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, August 22, 1962, later that day

  Michaele was too tired to argue with Antoine when they got back to the office. He agreed to take to his bed for the rest of the day, but he insisted on having a serious talk with his partner later that evening. Antoine agreed.

  While Michaele slept, Antoine and the office staff swung into motion. One of the conference rooms was rapidly converted into a hospital room with all of the modern comforts available to an English gentleman. The room was ready for its first occupant by the time Michaele awakened and downed a pot of good English chicken noodle soup and buttered toast. Tuberculosis was one of the major public health problems that doctors and nurses dealt with for fifty years prior to Michaele’s visit to the sanatorium. Early on, treatment consisted of the use of special diets, bed rest in sanatoria, and lung collapse therapy. The medical world was loath to change to different treatment, and in England and rural America it was not uncommon for people to have their lungs collapsed or removed. The case fatality rate five years after diagnosis was fifty percent and treatment in a sanatorium was expensive and available only to the privileged few like Michaele. Combination treatment introduced in the 1950s reduced the fatality rate to five percent for the lucky minority who were able to obtain the medications and the sanatoria treatment in time.