Michaele paused briefly, trying to remember. His brain was foggy, but he knew he needed to be careful.
“Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort,” he responded.
“Ya’ll ah an Englishman, Ah presume?”
“I am.”
“Please give me ya’ll’s address and telephone numbah; so, we can contact ya’ll’s relations ovah theah.”
Michaele had prepared for that question and replied with the street number of one of European International Conglomerate’s warehouses, certain that these Texas hicks would not have the resources to verify his statement. He was very careful not to slip and tell the hick cop about No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London—the address of the corporate offices.
Tom made a note then proceeded, “Whatta ya’ll doin’ heah in Texas, suh?”
“Business. However, my aggravating cough worsened; and I must have lapsed into unconsciousness because I woke up here in this hospital.”
“What kinda business, Lord Downfort?”
“Import-export.”
“Does yoah business require you to go into Mexico?”
Michaele’s antennae went up—way up.
“We have a worldwide type of business as you might imagine … respected officer.”
The stilted English came out with a decided Germanic accent, and it was basically the same words the suspect had used when he slipped momentarily into French. One thing Tom decided at that point was that the man was doing an acting job pretending to be an English lord and was not doing a very good job at it. What he could not decide was whether the man was a Jerry or a Frenchie. He would have some questions to ask INTERPOL as soon as he was done with the questions.
“Ah need a definite answah to mah next question, Yoah Lordship. Exactly what were ya’ll doin’ in Ojinaga, Chihuahua State, Mexico yesterday mornin’?”
Michaele paled visibly and closed his eyes.
“I’m afraid you will have to come back in an hour or two when I have had time to rest. I am rather ill–as you can see–and I am not up to any further questions.”
He began to cough vigorously, which seemed even more theatrical than his fake lordship accent to Tom; but he decided to let it go for the moment. “Lord Downfort” lapsed quickly—remarkably quickly—into a deep sleep.
Tom left the sick room with all of its bacteria floating around in the fetid air. He sought out INTERPOL agent Superintendent Axel Baird–—who had been smart and polite enough not to interfere up to this point.
“Axel,” Tom said, “okay if Ah call ya’ll bah ya’ll’s fust name?”
“Sure,” Axel replied, “that’s how we do business for the most part in INTERPOL. How can I be of help?”
“Ah need a coupla thengs, Axel. Ah got this heah address for ouah ‘Lord Downfort’ in theah. Can ya’ll check it out, raht quick like?”
“Sure.”
“And, while ya’ll ah at it, see if this heah name is legit. Ah thenk he’s as phony as a three dollah bill, but mebbe Ah’m just ona those untrustin’ old rinchers [Mexican slang for Texas cop].”
“I’ll get right on it.”
Axel called Eugène Léon Dentremont to expedite the gathering of that specific piece of information.
After Axel’s call, Eugène dialed the number for Detective Chief Inspector Lincoln Crandall-White at New Scotland Yard.
The secretary took a few minutes to locate the chief inspector.
“Hello, Eugène, how can I be of service?”
“We may have a small break in our case involving murders of important officials in several countries. You no doubt remember the assassination of Lieutenant-General Sir Cyril Goeffrey Robert Hill-Brownwell, RA, Retired?”
“Most certainly; and how could I forget, Eugène? Ten Downing pesters me daily about why we have not cracked the case. It will be refreshing to have something to report.”
Eugène gave him the pertinent information.
“I’ll get right on it. I’ll ring you up as soon as I have anything.”
Linc thumbed through his rolodex and located the name of the London detectives in charge of the investigation—DI [Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard] Angela Snowden and DI Anthony Bourden-Clift.
When he had them both on the line, he did not waste a syllable, “I telexed the information you need. Drop everything and get on this. Call me directly, and I will let INTERPOL and the Texas Rangers know. Be prepared to follow up on what ever comes of this.”
“Yes, sir,” both detective inspectors chimed at the same time.
The search was ridiculously easy: Anthony found a current copy of Burke’s Peerage, and Angela opened the British Phone Book. No such person as Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort was ever listed in the genealogies of English peerage, and the address—although a real one—was for a warehouse of a large company called the European International Conglomerate. Angela found the names of the two main executives—CEO Laird Eagen and President Randolph Bellwether—and a number for the headquarters office at No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London. The two detective inspectors presumed it was too easy, and that the names would either be phonies like the address, or the officers would be legitimate and would have nothing to do with the case. It seemed like picking their names out of a hat.
Anthony called DCI Crandall-White and gave him a status report. The time between their two calls that morning was less than ten minutes. Linc called INTERPOL headquarters in Lyon and informed the senior detective chief superintendent. Eugène called his New York City superintendent, Axel Baird. The call came to nurse Ruth Digby, who trotted promptly to the waiting room where all of the law enforcement agents were sitting in suspended animation.
“Superintendent Baird, Ah got a call from the head of INTERPOL. He says to tell y’all and everybody else that there’s no sucha person as Lord whatshisname. The address was a good one, but not for him. British murder detectives ah on theah way raht now to talk to the heads of the company. News at elem.”
She said all without taking a breath. Less than twenty minutes had elapsed since Axel Baird had made his call. Axel got it all except for “news at elem,” but he decided to forego asking in the interest of time.
Almost simultaneously three more things happened which were pertinent to the case: Lieutenant of militsiya Trushin Vasilyovich Stepanovich from the USSR called Eugène Dentremont in Lyon.
“Hello, Lieutenant Stepanovich … Trushin. Nice to hear from you,” answered Eugène. “Something new in the murder of Lieutenant General Lagounov, I hope?”
“Nothing new there, Eugène. Instead, I am calling to report a new murder that I am pretty sure relates to Gen. Lagounov’s killing.”
He told Eugène the pertinent details—in standard cop-talk—about the assassination of Lt. Gen. Dimitri Sobrieski by a professional sniper.
“I could go into great detail about this man—the victim—but for the time being I will telex the voluminous details of his life and career and the evidence from the crime scene. The link I see between Gen. Sobrieski and Gen. Lagounov is that both had serious roles in the Soviet gulag system. They were called the butchers of the Butugychag Tin Mine Soviet Gulag for ‘Special Treatment Prisoners.’”
“Who warranted ‘special treatment’?”
“Political prisoners, university professors who refused to follow the party line, and German SS officers. They got the worst of it.”
“I didn’t think those people survived.”
“Probably only a few, Chief Superintendent; but anyone who did and could still breathe and walk would be bearing a huge grudge even at this late date.”
“I’m sure your people can get something of a list of the prisoners who survived or of family members and friends of prisoners. Those people could be carrying around an equally bitter grudge. Let me know as soon as you can. Check your telex reports from this morning. Maybe the people we are looking for are part of this. We all need a break.”
“Yes, sir. We will put all of our resources into that search for now.”
The second piece of information to surface came from Friedrich Schneider Graf von der Lippe, the police chief of Wiesbaden regarding a call he received from Anton Friedrich Krupp von Bohlen und Halbach, the head of the ODESSA. He called INTERPOL.
“Greetings, Chief, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” Eugène Dentremont asked in response the German police chief’s “Guten morgen.”
“Apparently ODESSA has developed a concern which could make the organization’s activities more difficult.”
“Pardon me, Chief, but that can’t be all bad news.”
“Not for us in Germany either, Eugène. Von Bohlen und Halbach wanted to let me know that his organization had been contacted very recently by individuals who are seeking to move their fortunes from Europe to South America.”
“That can’t be all that unusual, mein freund.”
“Usually no; and usually, we would not hear about it from the head of ODESSA. The difference is that the individual seeking help provided information to further his bona fides to von Bohlen und Halbach, and it is that information that raised flags in the Nazi organization and probably should for us in our murder investigations.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Although he was sworn to secrecy, von Bohlen und Halbach is known to defend ODESSA above any other consideration. In this instance, he perceived a threat of sorts. It seems that the man called from Moscow—from a number our German police have traced to the home of Leonid Zaslavskevich Breslava, one of the chieftains of the Solntsevskaya Bratva which—in case you may not be aware—is the strongest group in the vory v zakone or, as we all know them, the “thieves-in-law”—in effect, the Russian mafiya. They emerged as leaders of prison groups in gulags and are now among the most dangerous and effective organized crime groups in the world.”
“Sorry, Friedrich, but I don’t quite see how this is germane to our murder cases.”
“Patience, Eugène. This is all necessary background. The call came in three hours after the assassination of a Russian general named Sobrieski. He was related to the Gen. Lagounov. I’m sure you are aware of that murder. There is a relationship between the two generals, and maybe to our recent caller. He would not give me his current—and presumably fake—name, but it is ODESSA’s policy to require a true SS officer name that can be verified. The name von Bohlen und Halbach got was Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS Antoine Duvalier. His unit was the 33rd Waffen-Grenadier Division of the SS, the so-called Charlemagne Division. I contacted a counterpart of mine in Moscow—Rudolph Vladimirovich Fedorchuck II, head of the KGB’s Fifth Directorate, responsible for ideology and countersubversion, and the Agitprop Department. He knows everyone and everything, including the classified KGB records. Duvalier was a prisoner in one of the worst POW gulags—one whose commandant was Gen. Lagounov. His deputy was Gen. Sobrieski. The last the KGB knows of Duvalier is that he was one of the few survivors and one of only a handful of such prisoners released around 1956 when the camp was closed down. My team thinks the evidence for motive is there, and this Duvalier likely has help from Nazi sympathizers. We are looking for anything more we can learn about him and suggest that you put him high on your list of suspects.”
“I very much appreciate this timely message, Friedrich. Maybe you could get your detectives Kriminalkommissar Horst Schäfer and Oberwachtmeister Eberhard Zimmermann to investigate the records on German POWs released back into Germany after the war. I have been in contact with them on the Gunther Emil Sondregger murder case. Sondregger’s real name was Heinrich Rudolf Gajewski, an SS officer who worked for IG Farben in chemical war crimes. I will get my people in INTERPOL to find anything about possible internment in Allied POW camps after release from Russia or if he might have been listed in the DP [Displaced Persons] records. Maybe together we can trace this man or people he knows and find out if he is involved. Great work and thanks, Friedrich. Keep in touch.”
The third piece of information on that busy day came from Nurse Digby.
“Listen up, y’all. I been tunin’ in to Little Lord Downfort’s nightmare talk. Funniest thing about that is that he speaks gibberish—maybe French, maybe German, or maybe just his fever talkin’; but Ah thenk y’all oughta take a listen. Might learn somethin’ while he’s not guardin’ himself.”
The two rangers pointed at Axel Baird, whose INTERPOL background required that he be conversant in French and German. He donned a face mask and took up a chair beside the elderly tuberculosis patient and began to take notes.
Michaele mumbled and groaned as he slept fitfully, obviously uncomfortable from his frequent coughing and nightmares. It was apparent that his nightmares reflected the life of a man with bad memories in four languages: French, German, English, and Russian.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Tarrant County Elmwood Sanatorium, outside Fort Worth, Texas, October 3, 1962, early morning
Abel sat patiently through the night listening to the rantings of the feverish old man as he thrashed about in his sickbed. He made notes of everything he could understand. The rest of the law enforcement team finally found places to sleep and agreed to wait until morning to find out what Abel would glean from his vigil.
Abel’s notes were as rambling and nonsensical as the speaker’s delirious mumblings: “Mon ami, de revenir ici…” [Fr. “My friend, get back here…”]; “Ya ne neudachnik…” [Rus. “I am not a loser…”]; “Je vais vivre ... Antoine, mon frère, un de mes oignons…” [Fr. “I’ll live … Antoine, my brother, have one of my onions…”]; “Ja, mein General, werde ich die Lösung der Untermenschen machen passieren heute…” [Ger. “Yes, my general, I will make the solution of the subhumans happen today…”]; “Don’t let them take us alive…”; “Rester éveillé, ne meurent pas die, Ne meurs pas…” [Fr. “Stay awake, don’t die…. Don’t die…”]; “My vernemsya k nim…” [Rus. “We’ll get to them…”]; “Accrochez-vous, mon frère…” [Fr. “Hang on, my brother…”].
The fake English lord began to awaken about seven-thirty. Abel felt like he was too fatigued to do the questioning; so, he prepared a report as best he could of what he had translated and delivered it to the rest of the law enforcement team to use in subsequent interrogations.
The general gist of Abel’s conclusions indicated that: “Our man did not give up his identity. He was apparently placed in what must have been a prison or POW camp and was badly maltreated. He spoke in French, German, English, and Russian. The French seemed to be directed mainly at a friend or his brother, called Antoine; and the German sounded like military orders, battle commands, references to murdering Jews, and expressed fears. The Russian was largely about his suffering and humiliation and about his determination to live on despite all of the odds against him. Look, I’m no doctor, but I would hazard the guess that this guy’s about to shuffle off his mortal coil—as Shakespeare put it—and we’d better get what we can out of him before he croaks.”
The other officers decided to have a tag-team approach to the questioning; so, they could remain mentally sharp while the mystery prisoner wore down. They drew straws to decide the order of the questioning. Major Darrin Higgins, Chief Officer MCU, Alaska State Police, and Tucker Nicholsen, SAC, 83rd MP Det CID, Fort Richardson, Alaska—new head of the investigation of Gen. Gabler’s murder—drew the short straws and became the team to do the first round of questioning.
Major Higgins’s first question was delivered with calculated abruptness, “Look, whateveryour name is, we know it isn’t any Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort. So cut the nonsense and tell us who you really are. It will shorten your ordeal … and ordeal it will be if we don’t start getting some truthful answers immediately. We have officers in London headed to the Corporate Offices of European International Conglomerate, No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, even as we speak. We know that’s where your office is; so, cooperate and save yourself grief.”
Michaele stared at Major Higgins with a disinterested expression and then at Tucker and was mute.
/> “You give us the names of your helpers in the murder of Major Rick Avery Saunders, a retired US Army major right now; and we’ll put in a good word to the judge. You could spend the rest of your days in a rest home rather than a prison. Most assuredly you won’t like our prisons. A bread and water diet gets real old real fast. You’ll get three hots and a cot in our prison hospital, maybe a TV, get to play a lot of dandy games with the other geezers in the place. Nurses’ll treat you real nice, unlike the American prisoners who don’t take to foreigners,” Tucker said.
Michaele bristled at the mention of a prison. He spoke for the first time, his tongue loosened by the sedatives he had been given and in response to the pent-up anger that had been simmering just below his dogged appearance.
“I’ve been in prisons—worse ones than you can imagine. You don’t scare me.”
“Maybe this will: you won’t get treatment for that bloody cough, and we’ll see you hang and be buried in an unmarked grave out here in some dusty hillside. Like that idea, my Lord?”
A crack appeared in Michaele’s armor.
“Will I get drugs for my TB? How about plenty of pain medications? How about a little nip of some something from your Jack Daniels Company and some of that Coors beer we read about in England if I cooperate?”
“Anything within reason. So what’ll you give us?”
“I have to think on it for a bit. I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”
The Alaska trooper and the ACIS special officer could not pry anything more out of their stubborn detainee; so, they left the room and met with their brother officers. Half an hour later, Tom Packer and Eldred Drake–the Texas rangers–went into Michaele’s room to take up the rapid-fire question format of the first two officers. They pushed the man hard about his known associates, his friends, his neighbors, and the helpers in the sniper death of Rick Saunders in Mexico.
The annoyed rangers gave it up temporarily but returned to go at him again after he had a short nap, hoping they could find his weak spot and capitalize on it. Michaele gave stubborn nonsense answers. Without even so much as a nod of one of their heads or any promise of food improvements, the two seasoned officers left the room and ignored his whining and pleas for relief of his cough, a change of venue, and a better diet.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 48