“Yes, we were in the war together; then we were POWs. We had to get revenge for what was done to his and to our division.”
“What division?”
“The 33rd Waffen-Grenadier Division of the SS.”
“Your name is French, not German. How did that come about?”
“It was an all-French division. We were called ‘Hitler’s Gauls.’ We were the last division defending the Führer’s bunker until the very last.”
“You and Antoine.”
“I am proud to say that we were loyal to the end.”
Xavier shook his head. It was the first time he had ever heard of an all-French Nazi division. He would have to check this part of Michaele’s story out very thoroughly before giving it credence.
“I’m guessing that you have a long story about how the men you murdered figured into your story. For now, let’s just get some information on this Antoine and any other people who aided and abetted the murders we are investigating.”
“As you wish.”
“Tell me about Antoine. Full name, address, where he is at the present, and how we can find him.”
He was taking notes as fast as he could write along with the court reporter. The detainee did not even seem to notice either of them.
“He is Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS Antoine Duvalier. He is now living under the name of Laird Eagen, a citizen of Great Britain. We share the same business address: No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London. We share the penthouse nearby in the Halkin Hotel, in Belgravia—5 and 6 Halkin Street, London. It is less than five minutes from Hyde Park Corner and about ten minutes or so walk from the Buckingham Palace.”
“Do you think he is in London now?”
“Probably. He is either at the corporate offices or at home. He and I tend to keep to ourselves.”
That was his first lie, and Michaele uttered it out without any change in his facial expression, not even so much as a blink.
“Write down the name of everyone who had to do with the murders you described. I have to get my people going on the information you have given me. I don’t know if you are a praying man, Michaele; but if you are lying to me, you should start getting in touch with the man upstairs because it will go very badly for you. Understand?”
“I understand perfectly. As you Americans like to say, ‘I am being straight with you.’ I think you are an honest man and are straight with me. I will have a good kind of immunity.”
“Anything else I need to know? I am not a believer in second chances.”
“Nothing, other than the things I will write down.”
Xavier and the court reporter left the room and quickly brought all of the other law enforcement officers up to date. A flurry of activity directed at No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, commenced immediately.
§§§§§§
Abasto Transient Hotel, Ex Abasto District, Córdoba, Argentina, the same afternoon
Antoine called four times over a five-hour period before he was able to connect with Erich Boehme, the ODESSA officer he had been told would help him get started in Argentina.
“Guten tag,” Erich answered with his usual Prussian brusqueness.
“I am the man from Russia you were told to expect.”
“Name?”
“Not over the telephone. I need to have transport to Bariloche where we can meet in private and talk. Can you arrange that?”
“Have you money?”
“Only a little with me, but I am sure that you have been informed of my holdings and ability to pay any necessary expenses. Exchange of funds will have to wait until I can communicate with Europe over a secure telephone system.”
Erich pondered that for a quiet moment.
“All right. But, my friend, you need to know that we do not tolerate Jewish tricks to get us to expose ourselves.”
“Of course I do, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I am a Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS. That is all you need to know to understand that my word is my sacred bond. We can work together for our mutual profit; but I, like you, have no tolerance for those who would betray those of us who are the architects of the Fourth Reich. You will meet me by the Rio Suquia in the Ex Abasto area of Córdoba. Are you familiar with that part of the city?”
“Not intimately. I know it as the red light district. But I have contacts who will know the area like the back of their hands. Be more specific, General.”
“There is a small gelato kiosk under a stand of three tall trees about midway between the trolleybus station and the main metro station. I will be wearing a red cap. If I see police, you can consider yourself to be a dead man.”
“And I say the same thing to you. We are both careful man, General.”
“As all of us must be in these troubled times. I expect to see you tomorrow evening at dusk.”
“That will be a good time. Welcome to Argentina.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Corporate Offices of European International Conglomerate, No. 13 Upper Belgrave Street, London, October 3, 1962, late morning
“Nice digs,” commented Angela Snowden to her partner Anthony Bourden-Clift—both DIs [Detective Inspectors] of the New Scotland Yard homicide bureau, as they exited the elevator and faced the impressive glass doors of the European International Conglomerate.
“Maybe too nice,” Anthony responded. “Wonder what they actually do.”
“Let’s go in and shake them up a bit.”
“Shouldn’t get too high up on our moral horse, partner. After all, this may be nothing but a red herring.”
“Never discount a woman’s intuition, Anthony. I have a hunch.”
“Uh-oh,” Anthony said half under his breath as they marched into the posh surroundings of the company’s corporate headquarters.
Angela announced herself and her partner to the receptionist, and they showed their badges and credentials.
The receptionist looked to be the counterpart of the gunhildas who staffed every German office the two detectives had ever been in—formidable, uncommunicative, precise, and proper to a fault. She looked to be in her mid-fifties and Aryan to the core. She had gray hair with an attractive interlacing of golden strands which indicated that she once was probably quite a striking blond. She was tall, willowy, and severe—in her person, her hair, and her hauteur. Her hair was held back in a tight small bun held in place with six bobby pins located precisely equidistant from each other. Her starched white blouse closed with three buttons mid-neck and was held firmly in place with a broach designed with an eagle on a pale pink background. She wore a gray business suit, light-gray nylons, and sturdy gray office shoes ornamented with a gold buckle. She wore an amythest signet ring on her right fifth finger. Her fingers were long and graceful, and her hands were strong. Her face was authoritative and unsmiling—evidently an expression that graced her face most of the time because she had no smile wrinkles around her mouth or eyes. She wore no makeup.
“We have been expecting you, detectives. I have a message for you to call Detective Chief Inspector Lincoln Crandall-White at New Scotland Yard as soon as you arrive. You may use the telephone in Mr. Harringer’s office. He is out for the day on company business. You will have complete privacy there.”
“Thank you,” Angela said, and the two DIs walked into a glass bubble of a room.
Angela made the call.
“DCI Crandall-White, here.”
“What’s up, Chief?”
“News and a heads up. The suspect in Texas appears to be spilling his guts. He gave us his name … names actually: Oberführer der Waffen-SS Michaele Dupont, aka Randolph Bellwether, aka Dennis Cunningham Lord Downfort, which was the name he used when he was checked in to the TB sanatorium there in Texas. His partner, and the man you are after, is Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS Antoine Duvalier, aka Laird Eagen. You should use the Bellwether and Eagen names to start with. You should also know that the Bellwether individual has given a full confession to all of the mu
rders after he got a writ of immunity from every country where the murders were committed. It is quite a story. A write-up will be on your desks when you get back to the Yard.”
“We’ll ring you up when we get out of here. Judging by the battleax receptionist, it is likely to be a trying day for us.”
“You two are up to it. Stiff upper lip and all that,” Crandall-White said with a brief chuckle.
The two detectives returned to the receptionist and asked to see Mssrs. Bellwether and Eagen.
“I’m afraid they are not here. They are out of the country on foreign business at the time being,” the receptionist said, her expressionless face betraying nothing.
“We are here on official police business under direction of the Crown Prosecution Service [CPS)] with direct orders from the DPP [Director of Public Prosecutions] through our New Scotland Yard senior homicide detective. We are not here to be trifled with. Obstruction of a police investigation is a crime. Consider that as you hear our orders.”
“Do you have a warrant, Detective Inspectors?”
“Do we need one, Madam?” asked DI Bourden-Clift. “Because if we do, this will be a formal affair all the way—everyone in this office or who works for this company will spend whatever time is necessary at the Yard waiting his or her turn to be questioned. We will bring in crime scene investigators, dogs, forensic accountants, and a great deal of hostility. Now what is it going to be?”
“What do you need, Detective Inspector?” the receptionist directed her question to Anthony with a completely emotion-free expression, not bored nor insolent, just stonily proper.
“For starters,” Angela said, “we need the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of every employee of the office. Right this minute we need useful information on how to get in contact with the president and CEO of the company.”
“I’m not at liberty to supply you with that information. It is private.”
As Angela was about to offer her angry rejoinder, the reception desk telephone rang.
“Yes, sir, they are still here,” the receptionist answered.
“DI Snowden—Detective Chief Inspector Crandall-White is asking for you.”
“Just a moment, Chief, I’ll have to get a pen and paper.”
The receptionist handed Angela the necessary items so quickly it was as if she could hear Chief Crandall-White on the other end of the line or was clairvoyant.
“Go ahead, Chief.”
Angela wrote, “Penthouse, Halkin Hotel, in Belgravia; 5 and 6 Halkin Street. Telephone number 020 7730 6942.” As an aside, she wrote, “WRWMIN.”
She said, “Thank you, Chief. And Chief, would you be so kind as to put a rush on a warrant for the Corporate Offices of European International Conglomerate?”
She listened for a moment then responded, “Yes, Chief, I’m afraid we are definitely meeting with that kind of obstruction… Yes, sir, we will also need the warrant to cover all employees, their homes, vehicles, bank records, and everything else you can think of. I agree that this seems to be the focal point and that we are getting closer. Thank you for your help.”
“Surely all of that or even none of that is necessary, Detective Inspector,” said a now subdued receptionist.
“You are quite wrong there. In the first place, we do in fact have need of all of that information because we have information indicating that this is an ongoing criminal enterprise. In the second place, you chose the wrong pair of detectives to antagonize while in the course of their lawful investigation. Now, Madam, let us start with your name.”
The receptionist responded with her name, her address, her telephone number, her husband’s name, and that of her solicitor. She was now pale and much chastened. It was unfair; she was only doing what her two employers required of her. However, she was not about to be caught up in a dragnet for “an ongoing criminal enterprise.”
“Addresses and telephone numbers for the president and CEO.”
Quinella Montgomery quickly supplied the information from the black address book in her desk. Angela checked the information against that given to her by the chief inspector and was happy to note that it was a perfect match.
“DI Bourden-Clift will use the telephone. We will wait for the bobbies to arrive, and then we will be leaving. No one in this office is to leave until the uniform officers give permission, no matter how long this takes. You requested a warrant—you have one. It will arrive in about twenty minutes. You might wish to call your solicitor now and get him or her over here, because the warrant is going to be lengthy, complicated, and not to your liking. That is the only telephone call that can be made from here for the rest of the day.”
“My goodness,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “oh, my goodness!”
“Goodness has nothing to do with it, Mrs. Montgomery. This is the law and your government in action, and your cooperation is now required; whereas when we were being nice; and you were being nasty, it was a polite request. We can get it here or at the Yard. Which will it be?”
“I will render every assistance at my disposal. Here will be fine.”
“Good. We have an understanding. We know where Mr. Bellwether is. You will supply me with any information you possibly can about the whereabouts of Mr. Eagan.”
“I was accurate about him being out of the country. The last place I have him listed is in the Metropol Hotel in Moscow. However, he has not contacted the office in the past four days; and when I tried to contact him at the hotel, I was informed that he was traveling and would not return to Moscow for two weeks.”
“Now, that wasn’t so hard was it, Mrs. Montgomery? Let’s push this a little harder. Does Eagan have a wife, children, a mistress, friends, or business associates we can contact?”
“Neither the president nor the CEO have any family. I am not aware of any … special friends. Neither of them seemed to be the social type. They dealt with hundreds of business acquaintances; but if they had any kind of personal relationship with any of them, it is not known to me.”
“Please be diligent in gathering all information available on anyone those two men know or knew. I will ring you up later today to check on your progress and will send by a uniform to collect what you have prepared at the close of the business day. Right now, DI Bourden-Clift and I will be heading to the Halkin to have a look-see at your superiors’ residence. You may call us there if something comes to mind.”
Mrs. Montgomery nodded her assent and held her angry grimace until the detectives entered the elevator. She was good at angry grimaces, which usually intimidated even the most persistent inquirers. She was sixty-two years old and underneath the harsh and tentlike cover of her exterior, Mrs. Montgomery had an excellent female form. It was apparent that she—or her employers—decided against allowing such attributes to be exhibited. She was once beautiful—-statuesque and willowy—with a Danish youthful face. Now she was still attractive if she relaxed her severe features, which was a rarity. Her long service in the SS had lined her face with worry and cruelty.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Abasto Transient Hotel, Ex Abasto District, Córdoba, Argentina, October 4, 1962, late morning
Erich Boehme was not in a good mood. He disliked flying, and he had just gotten off a bumpy ride which the stewardesses had euphemistically called “turbulence.” He did not like to hurry; he much preferred a careful Prussian plan; but he had rushed out of Bariloche so quickly that he had forgotten his toothbrush and camel hairbrush. Even after seventeen years, he remained very leery about leaving his very protective little Germanic enclave in Bariloche. He had vivid memories of the manhunts for his fellow SS officers during the past few years—especially Adolf Eichmann who was kidnapped in front of his house on Garibaldi Street in Buenos Aires in May 1960, and his personal friends, Ustasha Dinko Šakić, the former commandant of the Jasenovac concentration camp—Auschwitz of the Balkans—and Richard Walther Darré, who served as part of the Führer’s cabinet. Erich had nightmares of being arrested even after all of these years. And
here he was in Córdoba among strangers, most of whom seemed to be in queues outside whorehouses. Who knew how many Mossad spies, Jewish Avengers, or other Nazi hunters might be all around him?
He muttered to himself that this French Nazi SS Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant der Waffen-SS Antoine Duvalier was nothing to him, certainly not important enough to put himself at risk. But the ODESSA had its stern code. He had benefitted and accepted a significant position in the organization—a lucrative one, he had to admit—so he was obligated. He had set the operation in motion to get this Duvalier person to Bariloche and to let him go on about his business. He sighed quietly as he knocked on the flimsy door to the horrible little hotel room.
He was unpleasantly surprised to find not one, but nine, men standing in the room. He frowned his Prussian officer frown and tried to determine which of the men was the general. It was easy, as it turned out, because all of rest of the men deferred to the tall patrician gray-haired man with the Frankish nose and hard hazel eyes.
Antoine said, “Hauptsturmführer Boehme, I presume?”
Erich stood more erect when he heard his rank given correctly, “Jawohl, mein Gruppenführer und Generalleutnant!”
He reflexively clicked his heels.
“May I present my comrades-in-arms: Waffen SS-Obersturmbannführer [Lieutenant Colonel] Serge Alain Rounsavall, Waffen SS-Hauptsturmführer [Head Company Unit Storm Leader] Jérôme Christophe Mailhot, Waffen SS-Sturmbannführer [Senior Battalion Leader], Hugues Beauchamp, Berthold Küppers, Rolf Kohns, Clause Fischer, Willibald Movius, und Gerhard Jungermann. These fine Third Reich soldiers are all that is left of what we like to call ourselves—the Gebirsjägers.”
That broke the ice. Even stolid and wary Erich managed a semblance of a laugh at the almost forgotten reference to the light infantry mountain troops formed in Norway and especially pertinent to the present group of Frenchmen for the unit’s heroics in the battles in the Vosges region of France. All of the men gave each other a well-executed Hitlergrüss.
The Charlemagne Murders Page 50