Spoils of Victory (20 page)

Mason suspected the answer, but he asked it anyway: “That wasn't to make him appear as a black market kingpin for his cover?”

Adelle laughed. “He was covering his cover, then. With real gusto.
His cook, Otto? He was Winstone's go-between with certain German royalty and industrialists, who are rolling in money. For astronomical prices, Winstone would certify them as denazified, or he helped place some in the new German local governments. He then used that seed money to finance some of Herr Giessen and Bachmann's schemes. Winstone was swimming in it. He and Hilda were planning to go to Switzerland just as soon as he cleared up some loose ends.”

“What kind of loose ends?” Mason asked.

“I have no idea. I know that Giessen being murdered shook him. He seemed to know who was responsible, but he refused to tell Hilda. All he would say was that as soon as they were safe in Switzerland, he was going to release some documents as revenge on the killers.”

She stopped when she saw Mason's furrowed brow. “Look, I know he was a friend, and he
was
a good guy. I'm sure he was like all the rest; Garmisch has too many temptations for even a good man. I think releasing those documents was also his way of making amends. Even while he planned to sneak into Switzerland with a king's ransom. He was good for Hilda, though loving him and being involved with his schemes was her undoing.”

“What exactly was her involvement?”

Adelle shrugged as she puffed on her cigarette. “She was Winstone's original contact with Eddie Kantos and Herr Giessen.”

“Why are you telling me all this now?”

“Hilda made me swear to secrecy. She's dead now, isn't she?”

“Do you know where Winstone stashed all that money?”

Adelle smiled. “You want it for yourself, don't you?” She rolled toward him, pressing her bare breasts against his arm. “If you find it, then we can take it and go to Switzerland together.”

If the documents still existed, Mason hoped that Winstone had stashed the money in the same place. And he saw an opportunity to buy Adelle's questionable loyalty, and her secrets, with a promise of a pot of gold.

Mason said, “Let's just say that if I find it, I'm not about to throw it in the river. Or hand it over to the U.S. government.” And though this ploy was to persuade Adelle, he wasn't so sure what he would do with the money if he found it.

Mason got out of bed, fished through his pants pockets, and pulled out his CID badge. Inside the badge case, and tucked behind his photo ID, was the piece of paper he'd found in Hilda's suitcase. He brought it back to bed with him and showed it to Adelle. He knew he was taking a risk, but he didn't know anyone else who had been closer to Hilda. At least, the only one still alive.

“Does what's written on this paper mean anything to you?”

Adelle studied it for a moment. “No. Should it?”

“I found this concealed in Hilda's suitcase in her apartment. Very carefully concealed. Are you sure you don't know what this means?”

“I have no idea. Do you think it has to do with where the money is hidden?”

“Possibly. Or where Winstone hid his documents.”

“Then why would Hilda have it?”

“It might not have anything to do with Winstone at all.”

“I can tell you one thing about it: That's not her handwriting.”

Mason looked at the figures neatly written on the paper.

Adelle continued, “She never wrote in block letters like that. And she was left-handed, so everything sloped to the left.”

“Then someone gave it to her for safekeeping.”

“But if Winstone and she were going to Switzerland, then why would she have left this in her suitcase at her apartment?”

“Maybe he gave it to her in case he had to get out of town in a hurry or was arrested. Or she secretly kept a copy for the same reasons. Could be anything.” He put the paper back in his CID badge case, making a show of it, letting Hilda see. When he got up to put the case back in his pants pocket, he deftly lifted the paper out of
the case and palmed it. He went to the bathroom, ostensibly to pee, and rolled up the paper into a tight scroll and wedged it in a gap between a mounted shelf and the tiled wall.

Mason felt an attraction to Adelle, but he wasn't about to trust her. And sometimes he wondered if he felt a deeper bond with the murder victims than the living. So be it.

M
ason rose early. He woke Adelle and offered to take her someplace safe, though he was unsure where he'd take her if she accepted. Instead, she opted to stay, so he left her with the same instructions: Keep the Walther pistol close, don't answer the door, and stay away from the windows. His stomach still felt bruised, but that didn't stop him from downing a large breakfast at the officers' mess. He then used one of the mess hall phones to call Laura to arrange a meeting for later that afternoon.

From his billet to the officers' mess, then to headquarters, he had kept a constant lookout for gun barrels sticking out of car windows or figures lurking in shadows, but he made it to the Rathaus auxiliary building without ducking for cover. Not that he felt totally immune from an ambush even at the MP headquarters. . . . Finding Densmore waiting for him in his office, staring at the chalkboard and corkboard, made him all the more uneasy.

Without turning around, Densmore said, “Lots of names and lines on here, but are you any closer to figuring it all out?”

Densmore had every right to be in his office, but it still made Mason suspect he was there for more than a quick review of his progress.
Oddly, Densmore seemed unfazed by his name being listed among the suspects.

Mason put his satchel on the desk and saw that the papers laid out on the surface were still in the same order as when he'd left. “Suspicions. A few leads to follow.”

“I want you to gather what you have and write up a final report. I'm taking you off the Winstone case.”

“You're what? You can't do that.”

“As your supervising officer, I can.”

“You had no interest in it beyond proving Winstone committed suicide, and now you're taking away a case you considered unwarranted?”

“When were you going to tell me about the autopsy?”

“If you'd been around, I would have told you last night.”

“Well, now it's officially a double homicide, and since you're the only suspect, I can't very well let you conduct the investigation.”

“Oh, come on, Patrick, you know I didn't do it. Until this moment, I'm the only one who's pushed for murder.” Mason strode over to Densmore. “You wanted to file it as a suicide, despite my reservations. Tried to ship off Winstone's body without an autopsy. Release that Italian and anyone else that might have any connection to the killers. And now you're taking me off the case?”

“Those weren't my fingerprints in the victim's house. I wasn't there the evening of his death. I wasn't the last one to see him alive. And why are you so desperate to find his supposed missing documents? Is there something in there that might implicate you? You see? It goes both ways, buddy.”

“Then you're doing all this because you're afraid. Afraid for your career or your life, I don't know.”

Densmore said nothing, but the anger had dissipated from his face.

Mason saw an opportunity to persuade Densmore and brought his tone down a notch. “You saw the hits on the three German gang leaders. You saw the hits on Kantos and his family. His wife, his kid. I
got back the ballistics report on the two shootings, and the bullets match one of the guns used in both. The killers have been careful up to now, but they did make this slipup. And Winstone was connected to both parties. He was bankrolling Giessen, and he had dealings with Kantos.”

“How do you know this?”

“A couple of informants. The point is, I'm making real progress. I'm getting closer, and that's why someone tried to gun me down last night.” He told Densmore about his experience at the Casa Carioca the previous night, that Schaeffer refuted nothing. About Volker, and how he'd been there chumming it up with Schaeffer. The mysterious Abbott, and how all three were most likely the ones doing the executions.

Densmore said, “After the shit you stirred up last night, I'm surprised you're still walking around.”

“Is that why you're afraid to get involved?”

Densmore marched over and shut the door. “You're damn right, I'm afraid.”

“The one thing going for me is that General Pritchard and Colonel Udahl are behind me. Someone has been sending my reports to General Clay, and he's instructed them to back me up. There are too many eyes on me right now for them to make a stupid move like that.”

“I'm the one who sent Clay the reports.”

“
You
did?”

Densmore nodded.

“Why? Did you suddenly get a conscience?”

“Fuck you, Mason. It's because you and I were city cops. Both of us screwed up when we were on the force, and we deserve a second chance. I didn't want to see you go down in flames.”

“We both screwed up? What do you mean?”

“I know you ratted on fellow cops in Chicago.”

“Yeah, for running a dope ring and killing my partner. What about you?”

Densmore avoided Mason's eyes. “Doesn't matter what I did. Either way, we both got burned, and we both deserve a second chance. After what I saw in the Kantos house—the wife and little boy . . .” He balled his fists as if struggling with an internal conflict. “I have to take you off Winstone. There's no way to justify letting you stay on when you're too personally involved. It goes against every procedure in the book.”

“Then let me keep the German murders and the Kantos case. The crime rings. It's all the same case, really. I know if I can get to the bottom of those, it will lead me back to who killed Winstone.”

Densmore thought a moment, then nodded. “I'm going to make you a deal. I'll take the case, but in name only. That way it looks like we're following procedure, and it'll buy you a few days before the provost marshal in Munich figures out what we're doing.” He pointed his finger at Mason. “But as soon as any heat comes my way, you're out. You understand?”

Mason was surprised by Densmore's offer, but he maintained a neutral expression. Densmore never did anything for altruistic reasons. Either he was truly shaken by the brutal murders or this was a way for him to maintain control of the investigation. “Okay, we'll do it your way,” Mason finally said. “Then first thing we should do is get a team of MPs to pick up Winstone's chef, Otto Kremmel. He was helping Winstone shake down wealthy Germans for denazification papers.”

“That pompous kraut,” Densmore said. “I'll take care of it, and then I'm going to personally nail him to a wall.”

Mason took a pad of paper and a pencil from his desk and began writing. “Look, here's what I need, and I need it fast. Wiretaps on the Casa phones. A bulletin sent to all MPs to look out for Volker. MP surveillance on Frieder Kessel and Schaeffer around the clock. And if we can find him, the apprehension of one Lester Abbott.”

“We don't have the resources for all that without help from the Munich detachment. If you want to keep this case, we can't attract any undue attention.”

“Then make it our two junior investigators for surveillance: Wilson and Tandy.”

Densmore nodded.

“The bulletins?”

Densmore nodded again. “If he's really a war criminal, then I don't care who signed him off. And I'll write up the orders for the Casa wiretap.” Densmore started to leave as he said, “Remember, this only gives you a few days. You'd better get results soon.”

After receiving Densmore's written orders for the wiretap, bulletins, and surveillance, Mason had a sketch artist draw up a likeness of Volker, then had Wilson and Tandy get the sketch printed and distributed to the various MP stations and post commanders in the area. Once the bulletins had been distributed, Wilson and Tandy began their vigil outside the Casa Carioca. Meanwhile, Mason coordinated with the surveillance techs to patch into the Casa Carioca telephones through the main switchboard.

By midafternoon, Mason felt satisfied that things were finally falling into place. That is, until Densmore and the two MPs returned to headquarters empty-handed. Otto had disappeared. Either his wealthy friends were hiding him or he'd eventually end up on the growing list of corpses.

*   *   *

A
t four
P.M.
, Mason made the twenty-minute drive down to the Eibsee Hotel. The sprawling three-hundred-room hotel sat on the shore of the impossibly beautiful Eibsee Lake at the foot of Germany's highest mountain, the Zugspitze. The American army had taken over the hotel and designated it a recreation center, so the herds of guests were a mix of American soldiers, their guests, and military government administrators. Mason crossed through the lobby and exited onto the broad terrace. There were couples or groups standing at the railing, admiring the lake and the surrounding snow-laden
mountains, but only a few hardy souls braved the frigid temperatures to sit at the thirty-plus outside tables. Laura was among them.

A teapot, two cups, and a plate of bite-sized pastries sat in front of her. She had changed out of her reporter's outfit and now wore an ankle-length coat of navy blue velvet and matching hat. The blue ensemble, her red lipstick, black hair, and blue eyes—a kaleidoscope of sensuality that conspired to beguile Mason.

Mason came up to the table. “My butt's going to freeze to this chair.”

“The places I've been, this is downright balmy.”

Mason glanced around before he sat down.

“Relax,” Laura said. “I come here every afternoon for teatime. There's always some GI who sits down and tries to pick me up.”

“I was hoping we'd meet someplace more out of the way than this.”

“I can't stay cooped up in that house twenty-four hours a day. This is my one time to get some fresh air and take in the gorgeous view.” She crinkled her nose and sniffed the air in Mason's direction. “Nice perfume. Who's the girl?”

“What girl?” Mason asked and immediately felt foolish for the childish response.

“I hope she's good for you.”

A waiter came over, and Mason ordered a coffee.

When he left, Laura looked at the lake and said, “This is one of my favorite places in Germany.”

“Göring would agree with you; he took it over for the Luftwaffe during the war.”

Laura ignored the remark. “What do you want?”

“I have an informant who's helped me out big-time on this investigation. He and his family are Jewish camp survivors, and they want to emigrate to Palestine. I want you to help them get in contact with someone in the Jewish Brigade.”

She finally pulled her gaze from the scenery and looked at Mason. “You made a promise on the assumption that I could come through for you? Pretty brazen of you.”

“Laura, can you do it or not?”

The waiter came back with Mason's coffee. Laura used the pause to pull out a cigarette from a gold case. She lit it and looked back at the lake.

“Romantic, isn't it?” she said. “You could almost forget the rest of the world. Just put everything on hold. Forget the tragedies, and the mistakes you've made.” She turned back to him. “Did you know Richard Strauss came here to write some of his best music?”

“Feeling melancholy?” Mason asked. “Is domestic life with Ricky getting to you? Is he preventing you from putting your life in danger?”

“Meeting you here—anywhere—could put my life at risk. Like asking me to come out of hiding to track down some, let's say, disreputable people in order to contact someone I may or may not know in the Jewish Brigade. I can always count on you to put me in danger.” She gave him a sad smile and touched his hand. “But I wouldn't have it any other way.” She studied Mason for a moment. “What's this girl like?”

“You haven't answered my question.”

“Answer mine first. Is she pretty?”

“Yes.”

“What's her name?”

“Adelle, and she's—was—a skater at the Casa Carioca.”

“Ah, now I see the connection. The damsel in distress. Your chivalry knows no bounds, Sir Knight,” she said sarcastically. “Is she good for you?”

“Maybe. She can be intoxicating to be around, but she's likely to lead to one hell of a hangover. Does that satisfy you?”

“I should be jealous,” Laura said and looked away as if taking in the view, but she acted more pensive than entranced. “It will take me a couple of days.”

“You'll be saving a group of people who truly deserve it, and helping make their dream come true.”

After a long moment, Laura turned to Mason. “And when this is done, I think it's best we keep our distance.” She opened her purse. “I mean it, Mason.” She pulled out her billfold.

Mason held up his hand. “It's on me.” He pulled out his wallet. “After all, this might be the last time I get to do this. And for more reasons than one.”

As Mason counted out the correct change for the bill, he could feel Laura staring at him. She stood abruptly and came up to him. She kissed him on the lips and walked away.

*   *   *

M
ason arrived at the Sheridan barracks in the early evening and proceeded to the conference room used to question the German suspects the night before. Abrams was talking to an American suspect, a sergeant, in a corner of the room.

When Abrams saw Mason, he turned the suspect over to the waiting MP and met Mason by the door. “That's Sergeant Whitney of the transportation branch. He was caught running stolen antibiotics and narcotics up to Munich.”

“Did he give you anything?”

Abrams shook his head. “He never had contact with the distributor. He gets a note of where to go, which changes every time, and retrieves a key to a truck and its location. He then drives it up to Munich and leaves it at a designated spot that changes each time. He hops in an empty truck and drives it back to Garmisch. His pay is put in the glove box. There's always a different cargo as cover.”

“He had to be in contact with someone for the initial setup.”