Spoils of Victory (11 page)

T
he journey from relatively pristine Garmisch to the blackened ruins of Munich was jarring for Mason. He found the main train station even more crowded with German refugees from the Sudetenland than when he had been stationed there. And the streets were filled with more misery; the long winter and the extreme shortages of food had taken their toll on the population. Though the rubble had been cleared from the streets, and construction was taking place on numerous corners, the city still faced a long road back from its shattered remains. The only bright note was that the trolley lines were running once again, though where they took people without jobs or money was a mystery to Mason.

The taxi took him southeast of town to the sprawling complex now called the McGraw Kaserne. Built by the Nazis, it had been designed as a mixed-use facility, housing everything from vehicle maintenance to patent offices and the offices regulating uniform patches for the armed forces and uniformed bureaucracy. Now, however, the immense main building housed the American military government of Bavaria.

The taxi driver dropped Mason off on the tree-lined cobblestone street that passed along the front of the complex. The buildings'
swastikas had been blasted off, of course, but the place still epitomized the Nazi fondness for structures that intimidated through colossal monotony. Instead of black and brown Nazi uniforms, the place now buzzed with army green and suited civilians. While the American fighting forces were slowly shrinking, the bureaucracy required to govern the occupied country had mushroomed, easily filling the three hundred offices.

Throughout the American zone of occupation there were more military governors than you could shake a stick at: governors of townships and districts, like Colonel Udahl in Garmisch; then higher in the pecking order the major cities, and the states—or
Länder
; and ultimately the highest of the high, Generals McNarney and Clay, governor and deputy governor, respectively, of the entire American zone. General Pritchard being the deputy military governor of Bavaria, the largest
Land
in Germany, meant his place on the food chain was quite high indeed. To have this man on his side was exactly the kind of support Mason needed.

Pritchard's office was on the fifth floor. Mason had to pass through several checkpoints and reception desks before reaching the general's secretary. When he entered, the master sergeant requested neither his ID nor Gamin's written orders and immediately ushered Mason into the general's office like a visiting VIP.

While General Pritchard talked on the phone, Mason took the moment to look around. Unlike Gamin's sterile surroundings, Pritchard's office had overstuffed file cabinets and a desk cluttered with papers. There were the ubiquitous framed portraits of President Truman and General Eisenhower, but, oddly, there were no pictures of family or friends or other reminders of home.

Pritchard hung up the phone and rose from his chair. Mason saluted and they shook hands. The man was Mason's height, six feet, with a full head of silver hair that broke in waves. His bushy, turbulent eyebrows arched and wagged above jovial eyes, and with his full cheekbones, rounded nose, and pointed chin, he reminded Mason
more of a circus ringmaster than the typical dour army general. But despite his theatrical exterior, he exuded strength and trust, and he looked straight in Mason's eyes as they exchanged salutes. Mason found he'd liked him right away.

“I appreciate you coming all the way up here to talk to me about Agent Winstone,” Pritchard said as they shook hands.

“I'm grateful for the opportunity, sir.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Collins. No need for formality with me.”

Before Mason could even settle in his chair, Pritchard said, “So, you don't believe it was suicide.”

“Contrary to available evidence, no, sir, I don't.”

“I've known John for some time now. I can't, for the life of me, imagine any reason why he would do such a thing. And killing that girl before taking his own life? I don't see it.”

“That opinion makes you a member of a very small club, sir.”

Pritchard smiled, his waggling eyebrows emphasizing the sentiment. “I've never been swayed by popular opinion. And I can see you feel the same way.” He turned serious on a dime. “But I didn't say Winstone murdering his girlfriend then committing suicide was impossible. Just beyond my understanding. Some aspects of the incident have reached my desk, including Winstone leaving a suicide note.” He leaned on his elbows and locked on Mason's eyes. “I want you to convince me that Agent Winstone didn't dishonor his name and the army.”

The gravity in the general's tone reminded Mason not to let Pritchard's kindly appearance lull him into thinking that the general was any less serious or formidable, and he took a second to regroup his thoughts. Obviously Densmore had already filed his version of the preliminary report and sent it to Munich.

Mason said, “Sir, I believe Agent Winstone was murdered for something he had or knew or intended to do. Something related to his investigation, and, according to him, he shared the findings of that investigation with you. I—”

“That's all well and good, Mr. Collins, but what about concrete evidence?”

“Sir, I've been a homicide detective for a while now, and I've learned to listen to my gut, even when there's a lack of evidence. The odd angle of the bullet wound in his forehead. The fact that they were dressed in only their bathrobes and drinking champagne in front of the fire. We're still comparing fingerprints lifted at the scene with anyone associated with Winstone's villa. And we're still waiting on the autopsy report. Also, Agent Winstone had hired a security team about a month ago for fear that his investigation might put him in danger.”

“Yes, that was in one of his reports. But he let them go a week later. So far you haven't presented anything that convinces me.”

Mason took a deep breath and said, “Plus, I was with him the night of the murder.”

“You?”

Mason nodded. “And Agent Winstone showed no signs of a man about to murder the woman he loved and take his own life.”

The general's expression turned stony as he eyed Mason. A long moment passed in silence, then the general sighed and sat back in his chair. “Let's say he was murdered. Why do you think that happened?”

Mason said a silent thank-you for Pritchard being a “bottom-line” kind of man. “Agent Winstone spoke to me in confidence about his work—the day of the murder, in fact. And that evening he expressed some concern for his safety.” Mason went on to explain why he believed Winstone had been killed, that while investigating the ratline, he'd uncovered a possible conspiracy to take over all the criminal activity in Garmisch. He told Pritchard that Winstone had claimed he'd collected information in a set of secret files, information explosive enough to shake the U.S. military to its core. “He told me only he and you had copies of the files. The CIC detachment commander has refused to grant me access to Agent Winstone's office and papers, so I was hoping you could help.”

“By granting you that access?”

“Yes, sir.”

Pritchard pressed the intercom button. “Sergeant Whitcome, could you have all of Agent Winstone's reports brought in to me?” After the sergeant acknowledged, he sat back in his chair and thought a moment. “Would it be possible for you to send me your report on the investigation once you have the autopsy results?”

“Yes, sir . . . though I doubt it will tell you much more than what I've already laid out.”

“Perhaps a second pair of eyes, by someone who shares your theory.”

Mason nodded. “I'll send it along.”

“Any idea as to who would want him dead?”

“That's what I'm hoping his files will tell me. How long have you worked with Agent Winstone?”

“Three months. He was sent to me by his CIC section chief with the proposal for the investigation in Garmisch.”

“In that time, did you become aware of anyone Agent Winstone might have angered, or—”

General Pritchard chuckled. “Angered? You realize he was investigating ratlines involving a very desperate group of individuals. High-ranking Nazis with very powerful friends? Then suspecting that those individuals were somehow connected to criminal elements? I'd say those two activities could produce some enemies. I don't mean to make light of his death; it's simply that that kind of investigative work carries a great deal of risk. Frankly, it comes down to finding the murderer or murderers in a whole crowd of people who wanted him dead.”

“If there is a ratline organization Agent Winstone was onto, I doubt murdering him would serve their purpose. They're a covert operation, reluctant to call attention to themselves, especially by killing American intelligence officers. And if Winstone had uncovered something thoroughly damning, they would have made him simply disappear.”

The master sergeant entered with a handful of file folders with
FOR GENERAL PRITCHARD'S EYES ONLY
stamped in red ink across each cover. The sergeant laid them on General Pritchard's desk and left.

While Pritchard looked through the folders, Mason asked, “Did Agent Winstone relay to you he was getting close to discovering the people involved in a powerful gang that is taking over the black market operations in Garmisch?”

Without moving his head, Pritchard raised his thick eyebrows to peer at Mason. “He indicated that he was onto something of the sort, but was unable to produce anything concrete. His updates were usually a weekly affair, so who knows what he discovered after I'd received his latest report?”

The general shuffled through the files, then opened one with a time stamp of February 23, 1946—almost two weeks back. Pritchard punched the intercom button. “Sergeant, are you sure you gave me everything from Agent Winstone?”

“Yes, sir. From the file cabinets and the safe.”

Pritchard shuffled again through the folders as if searching for something. “Seems I haven't received anything later than the twenty-third of last month.”

“Agent Winstone mentioned he had a few informants inside a couple of operations. Do you know who they were?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Pritchard said and held up a file folder for Mason to see. “He did have a short file on you, by the way.” He looked up from the file and studied Mason as if weighing Mason's potential involvement in criminal conspiracy. Apparently satisfied, his eyes turned jovial again and he said, “Nothing damning. He kept tabs on most of the U.S. personnel of German heritage.”

“His two assistants are more German than I am. I was born here, but my mother emigrated to the U.S. when I was four.”

“Yes, that's in there,” Pritchard said and leaned forward. “Is there anything I should know about between you and Winstone?”

“Sir, I was probably the last person to see him alive besides his
murderer, and my fingerprints are likely all over the house. I know this makes me suspect, but John and I were friends, and if there were something damning enough to make me want to kill him, it would probably be in that file.” It was a long shot, but Mason asked anyway. “Is it possible for me to glance through those files, or even take them with me?”

“I'm afraid not.” General Pritchard restacked the file folders—a signal they were done.

“General, I need to know which individuals and groups Agent Winstone was investigating. I'm certain that whoever he was close to exposing are the ones responsible for his death.”

“This was a CIC investigation. They have ultimate say-so when divulging aspects of their cases.”

“But, sir, you must be aware of the rivalries between the CIC and CID.”

“And you have to realize that until you can supply concrete evidence of murder, the CIC is not going to hand over Winstone's files. If you can convince me—and, more important, the CIC—that Agent Winstone was murdered, then I'm sure we can open these files to you. However, I will talk to Major Tavers at the CIC detachment down there and request that you be allowed access to Winstone's office.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

Pritchard stood, prompting Mason to do the same. “I'm afraid that's all the time I can spare,” Pritchard said. “But please keep me informed of your progress. If you need anything, let me know, and I'll see what I can do.” He became the concerned father counseling his son. “And be careful down there. If you start turning over the same rocks as Winstone, you may end up disturbing the same nest of snakes.”

M
ason exited the train at the Garmisch station after nine
P.M.
He walked over to Adelle's apartment again and looked around the neighboring houses, the street, the shadows before knocking on her door. Still no answer. She and Mason were the only two direct connections to Winstone. If they had gotten to her, it was now his turn. After several minutes, he returned to headquarters, and there he found Abrams in a second-floor office that he shared with two other junior investigators, Specialists Wilson and Tandy. The cramped quarters barely accommodated the three small desks. Abrams was sitting at the one jammed against the wall, banging away at the sole typewriter.

“Cozy,” Mason said.

“You'd think with all the army's resources, they could come up with a second typewriter for the three of us. I had to come in late just to type up the report.”

“It's due to a Communist conspiracy, according to Gamin.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Have you eaten yet?”

“I'm about to take a bite out of this desk.”

“Come with me, then. We'll have a working dinner and do a little digging around at the same time.”

*   *   *

I
n yet another sign that madness had descended upon Garmisch, the Casa Carioca, a nightclub and entertainment venue for American service members, lay just south of the train station. U.S. Army engineers had built the club in the months following the war. It boasted a retracting roof that transformed the club into an open-air, under-the-stars extravaganza, plus the large dance floor retracted to reveal a skating rink where top skaters performed big choreographed shows. An engineering wonder that seemed conceivable only in a Busby Berkeley Hollywood movie, it had been cobbled together from materials found, pilfered, and confiscated from all over Germany. When the engineers ran out of one type of material, they simply altered the design to accommodate whatever material was available. But no one could answer the question of how this lavish nightclub had been paid for. The amount of money the army had committed to its construction would have been barely enough to build one of the bathrooms. The story was that almost all the money had been acquired under the table, and no one cared to investigate.

“You ever been here before?” Abrams asked Mason as they headed for the entrance.

“First time,” Mason said and shook his head as he took in the bizarre design of the building. “Looks like they cut out a Manhattan storefront and plastered it onto a part barn, part roadside motel.”

“Just wait until you see the interior.”

Indeed, the building's facade offered only a taste of what awaited inside. At first glance, it appeared to be like any big-city nightclub—tables on several tiers formed a horseshoe around the dance floor/skating rink—but then Mason saw the two-story-high back wall. “Okay, now we've got half Spanish hacienda, half medieval castle.”

Throngs of patrons swayed on the dance floor to the sounds of the twenty-piece orchestra perched on a balcony in the center of the rear wall. A duet sang a rendition of “Petootie Pie,” a song Mason and Laura
had enjoyed together despite the ridiculous title. The memory gave him a pang of nostalgia as they joined the queue of arriving patrons.

Though the place had been conceived as a club serving U.S. military and government personnel, it was said that for the “right price” anyone could get in. The maitre d' smiled from his podium, then looked beyond Mason and Abrams as if expecting to see two young fräuleins as their dates or—as happened on a rare occasion—wives or American sweethearts.

“Do you have a reservation, sir?” the maitre d' asked in English with a Polish accent. “We can arrange something if you don't.” He finished with an it-will-cost-you grin.

“No, we'll grab something at the bar.”

“I'm afraid that is reserved for guests awaiting tables.” Again the grin and the not-so-subtle arch of his eyebrows.

Mason showed the maitre d' his CID badge. “This is a U.S. military club, isn't it?”

The maitre d's smile faded. “Yes, sir.”

“And I see quite a few nonmilitary customers who are not seated with U.S. personnel. Friends of yours, or did they give you bribes?”

The maitre d' motioned for one of the hosts. “Please seat these gentlemen at the bar, and tell the bartender they can order anything they please.” His smile returned as he looked to the next couple in anticipation of financial opportunity.

Mason and Abrams wedged their way to the bar and found two available stools. Suddenly they were VIPs, as the bartender dropped what he was doing and asked for their orders. The bartender had greased-back black hair and was short but muscular with a boxer's nose. Another Polish ex-POW employed by whoever ran the joint.

Mason ordered two beers and two plates of bratwurst and sauerkraut.

“I'll take a cheeseburger instead,” Abrams said.

“You got something against bratwurst?” Mason asked.

“Jews don't eat pork.”

“All right, make it two cheeseburgers,” Mason said to the bartender. “Sauerkraut and bratwurst keep me up at night, anyway.”

The bartender shot Abrams a wary look before writing the order down and giving it to a waiter. He introduced himself as Bolus and poured them each a glass of cognac.

“On the house, sir,” Bolus said.

Free drinks and already on a first-name basis with the bartender. Mason was beginning to see why no one asked questions.

“You haven't been around too many Jews, have you?” Abrams asked Mason.

Mason knew that Abrams had been born to Lithuanian Jews who had emigrated to Ireland. At the age of twelve, the family had moved on to Queens, so Abrams had a curious accent, half Irish brogue and half working-class New Yorker.

“I've met some in the military,” Mason said, “but I never checked out what they were eating.”

“You have a problem with me being Jewish?”

“Do you have a problem me being German American?”

“No.”

“There you are. I don't care one way or the other. You do a good job and we'll get along fine.”

They clinked glasses and drank. Mason turned in his stool and surveyed the crowd. Abrams did the same.

“Seems like most of the army brass from the rank of major on up are here,” Abrams said.

Mason nodded. “I recognize some from Munich and Third Army headquarters. There are a few out there fox-trotting that I know from supreme headquarters in Frankfurt.”

The amount of money that changes hands in this place,
Mason thought.
Who's profiting from all this excess?

Mason wondered if Hilda's murder had anything to do with her associations, direct or indirect, with the club. Could the murderer or murderers be here, running around in black suits and waiting on tables?

The band finished another song, and the audience clapped. The bandleader took the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please take your seats. The show ‘Around the World on Skates' is about to begin.”

While the couples on the dance floor returned to their seats, a waiter brought Mason's and Abrams's food. The man captured Mason's momentary attention as, unlike most of the waitstaff, who resembled guys in the Wanted posters pinned up on post office walls, this man had the comportment of a fencing champion, as if he approached posture and ambulation with precision and poise. He exuded authority and status, which made Mason think he was no ordinary waiter.

“Compliments of the house, sir,” the waiter said in precise and crisp German-accented English.

Abrams simply dug into the hamburger and said thanks around a mouthful of meat. But the curious diction made Mason turn to look at the waiter, noticing his board-straight stance. He figured ex-military, but weren't most age-eligible German males ex-military?

“This, too?” Mason asked the waiter with mock surprise. “I have
got
to meet the manager and thank him personally.”

“The manager is not present this evening,” the waiter said.

“Well, then, the assistant manager.”

“Perhaps after the show. He will be quite busy until then. You gentlemen enjoy your food. And the show is excellent.”

The lights dimmed as if on cue. Spotlights threw beams on the now-empty dance floor and swept across it while the drummer beat out a fast roll on the snare drum. Suddenly the dance floor split down the middle and the halves retracted, revealing the skating rink beneath. The drumroll ended with a final pop and cymbal crash when the process was complete. Spotlights swung to the broad arched opening beneath the orchestra's balcony. Male skaters in gold lamé outfits pushed out cartoonish representations of the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, an Indian teepee, and an Egyptian pyramid. When the skaters disappeared back into the arch, the band started up a rendition
of Offenbach's “Infernal Galop.” Then female skaters came out in typical French cancan outfits of long skirts, petticoats, and stockings.

Mason watched the girls defy the laws of physics by skating in circles while kicking up their petticoats like they were performing at the Moulin Rouge. He scanned their faces to see if Adelle was among them, but he didn't see her.

“They are very lovely ladies, don't you agree?” someone said off to Mason's right.

Mason was suddenly aware that the “waiter” who'd brought their food still stood next to them. The man didn't need to say it; Mason knew: He was the assistant manager. “Haven't you got other things to do?”

“They will be fine without me for a few minutes,” the man said.

“I thought you were going to be too busy until after the show,” Mason said, then turned on his stool and took a bite of his hamburger.

“I wanted to personally make sure that you and your colleague have everything you need.”

“And maybe you wanted to check out the two CID investigators who threatened to spoil the party.”

The assistant manager smiled confidently. “I assumed that if there were concerns about how this club is managed I would have heard them from one of the many high-ranking officers or military government officials who often frequent this establishment. We do try to comply with Third Army wishes.”

“I haven't got a problem with it. I just don't like the maitre d' giving us the shakedown.”

“We'll see that doesn't happen again.”

The band finished the cancan number and the audience applauded. The girls skated backstage, then the band broke out in a westernized version of Middle Eastern music. Male and female skaters came out in Ancient Egyptian costumes. Mason looked for Adelle or any of the other skaters in Hilda's photograph, but all the female skaters wore veils.

Mason assumed the lull in conversation meant the assistant manager would move along and attend to other duties, but the man remained. His decision to do so piqued Mason's curiosity. He leaned back and studied the assistant manager while the man watched the show. Whether the man was born of royalty or not, Mason didn't know, but with his drawn cheeks, protruding chin, long, delicate nose, and soft eyes, he exuded highborn status. His default expression consisted of a slight frown, which seemed to stem not from disdain, but rather from disappointment in his fellow man.

While continuing to watch the performance, the assistant manager said, “You've been in Garmisch two months, haven't you, Mr. Collins?”

“That's right. And since you know my name, how about giving me yours?”

“Frieder Kessel.” He held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Mason looked at Kessel's hand. It was a long hand with a round scar dead center in the palm.

“A scar from a bullet wound,” Kessel said. “The hand works, but I have little feeling in it. It won't hurt if you shake it.”

Mason shook his hand. “I could point out my bullet scar but then I'd have to show you my ass.”

“Another time perhaps,” Kessel said. “If there is nothing else you need, I will return to my duties.” He turned to go.

“Actually,” Mason said, stopping Kessel, “we do have a few questions. It's in connection with one of the girls who works here,” Mason said. “A Hilda Schmidt.”

“Oh? Has something happened to her? She failed to come in this evening.”

A foursome crowded around Mason's and Abrams's bar stools and proceeded to shout at each other over the loud music.

“Maybe there's somewhere quieter we can talk,” Mason said.

“I'm afraid I'm awfully busy.”

“I'm afraid I must insist. It will only take a few minutes.”

Kessel stared at Mason for a moment. “If you will follow me to my office.”

Mason took a last bite of his cheeseburger, then signaled for Abrams to come along. They followed Kessel around the horseshoe of tables to a back corner stairway on the “medieval castle” side of the back wall.

“He's probably got a torture chamber up there,” Abrams said as they climbed the stairs.

They came to a landing, which fed into a short hallway serving several offices. The biggest German man Mason had ever seen sat on a stool at the top of the stairs. Mason stopped and turned to him. He pointed to the man's nose, which had as many curves as an alpine switchback. “I recognize you.”

The man returned a blank expression, punctuating his indifference by crossing his massive arms. “No, you don't.”

“Hans Weissenegger. Heavyweight boxer.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I saw you fight in an exhibition match in '35, in Chicago. You gave what's-his-name . . . Sal . . .” Mason snapped his fingers as if trying to remember. “Sal . . .”

“Torrino.”

“That's it. Torrino. You gave him a real pounding.”

Hans gritted his teeth and puffed out his already expansive chest.

“Did Uncle Adolf make you wear a uniform, or did you get to box during the war?”