Spoils of Victory (4 page)

M
ason, Abrams, and Densmore pulled into the parking lot of the newly renamed Sheridan barracks. Built on the north side of town for the Third Reich's elite mountain troops, it now housed POW officers of the defeated German army. The Garmisch detachment of the 508th Military Police Battalion had been slowly taking over the facility as the POWs were released or sent to other prisons. The CID offices would eventually be moved into these white, rectangular structures, and though the place was surrounded by incredible scenery, it still smacked of the same dreariness as any army base anywhere in the world. Mason preferred to avoid it altogether.

In one of the buildings the ground floor and basement were being transformed into the official 508th jail cells, but in the case of overflow—which seemed to be a permanent condition—makeshift holding cells had been constructed to accommodate the recent American and DP arrestees.

After showing their IDs and signing in, Densmore said, “While you go at the Italians, I'll start with the Americans. Abrams can take the Yid.”

“It's Jew, sir,” Abrams said.

“Whatever,” Densmore said. “We'll get together after that and go at the Russians and Poles.”

They split up, but Densmore called after Mason, “No roughing up the wop, even if he did stick a gun to your head.”

Mason ignored Densmore as he walked down the hall. MPs stood guard at the cells—really offices with reinforced doors. He entered a room with a narrow bed and a table with two chairs. A thick wire mesh covered the single window, which overlooked the snow-covered parade grounds. Mason's would-be assassin sat on the bed with his back against the concrete wall. He was maybe thirty, and he could have been a good-looking guy except for his prominent overbite and eyes that sat too close together. A sling cradled his broken arm. Mason expected to be greeted by the usual accusations of police brutality and protests of innocence. Instead, the man smiled and struggled to his feet. He tried to act cool and poised, as if he owned the room, but there was an edginess behind the movements, like he was wound way too tight.

“Would you like some coffee before we start?” the man asked; his Italian accent gone and replaced by one typical of the Bronx. He moved to a hot plate that held a pot of coffee. “It takes an Italian to know how to make good coffee.”

Mason shrugged an agreement, then said, “What happened to the Italian accent?” He sat at the table while the Italian poured two cups.

“When dealing with Germans, an Italian accent is better for business,” the man said and winced in pain as he sat.

“I see they fixed your arm,” Mason said.

“Nothing for the pain. That your idea?”

Mason ignored the question and referred to the one-page record and the man's identity papers. “Luigi Genovese. From Naples. Neither of those things is true, is it? You were born in Italy—probably Sicily—but grew up in the Bronx, and then sent to the Old World to drum up business for your bosses back home.”

Luigi's smile faded for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “No hard feelings about the gun to your head? There was nothing personal about it.”

“Strictly business,” Mason said.

“That's right.”

“Your broken arm? That was personal.”

Luigi simply shrugged.

“What are you doing in Garmisch?”

“I am on a tour of this lovely countryside.”

“Then why the visit with Herr Giessen?” Mason asked.

“He was the man I talked to about Garmisch's top attractions.”

“What about a Herr Volker? Did you get tourist tips from him, too?”

“I don't know anything about a Herr Volker.”

“He's the one who made me. He'd have been standing right next to you with one of his stinking cigarettes.”

“I don't recall a man like that. But somebody in Herr Giessen's gang would have had you dead to rights eventually. A brave but stupid thing for you to try, Investigator Collins.” He leaned forward, always with the smile. “You are one of those cops who likes to take risks. Be the hero. Those cops' names end up on memorial plaques on station house walls.”

Mason produced a big, theatrical yawn. “You'd be surprised how many times I've heard that same crap from scumbags like you. Then after they realize their bosses have forgotten them, and they're facing years in the joint, just how many of them squeal for clemency or turn state's witness.”

Luigi sipped at his coffee to mask whatever was going on in his mind.

Mason said, “I read that the U.S. deported Lucky Luciano and he landed in Naples a week ago. Does that have anything to do with you?”

“Trust me, you don't want a piece of that. On the other hand, we could use some men like yourself, helping grease the wheels.”

“For tourism.”

“That's right. I know what an American soldier earns. And if you leave the army and go back to the States, you'll be scrapping for a lousy job along with the millions of other former GIs. I could see that you're set, financially speaking. There's enough business to go around. A million bored GIs and sixty-million-plus desperate Germans? That's a market with opportunity. And now that Mussolini and his Fascists are out in Italy, the families are thriving again.”

“Does that sales pitch usually work when you turn cops?”

“They usually come to me. I use that pitch when a cop is stupid enough to think he is going to be the big hero and finds out that nobody gives a damn.”

Mason downed the rest of the coffee. “You're right. This is good coffee. Your thirty-year-old ass and your coffee ought to get you a fine husband in prison.”

Luigi looked like he wanted to kill him at that moment, and Mason hoped he'd try.

“Which brings me to me offering you a deal,” Mason said. “Information for a lighter sentence. And if the information's good, I may even drop the assault charges. All you'd have is a charge for illegal entry into the U.S. occupation zone.”

“That deal won't be necessary.”

“Murdering three Germans is a very serious offense.”

“What are you talking about, three murders?”

“Herr Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch. And that doesn't include the two bodyguards.”

“I am sorry for their deaths, but I had nothing to do with that.”

“You're one of my prime suspects. You'd have a lot to gain by their deaths. I think you were sent here to take over the territory.”

“You broke my arm, remember?” He lifted his slung arm to make a point, then winced with pain. “How could I have done it?”

“Conspiracy to commit murder gets you the same thing.”

A bead of sweat broke out on Luigi's face. “How about some painkillers?”

“No.”

“I didn't have them killed,” Luigi said in a raised voice, the pain in his arm trying his patience. “It's not good business to eliminate your customers. And I have better things to do than take over a middling territory like Garmisch.”

“Like you said: Germany's a big market. And Garmisch is the perfect entry point from Italy. You and your bosses would have a lot to gain by controlling Garmisch.”

“I am telling you, I had nothing to do with their murders.”

“Then who did?”

“I don't know! Why don't you look in your own backyard? You might find that you're all alone chasing down the crime rings in this town.”

“Thanks for the coffee,” Mason said and stood. “I'm going to let you stew awhile. Let you think about what life's going to be like in prison.”

“Am I going to get any painkillers anytime soon?”

“Maybe in a while. Enjoy the accommodations. You won't see better for a very long time.”

Mason left the room feeling unsettled. Luigi's suggestion that Mason look in his own backyard carried more than a hint of truth to it. Winstone's words, then Luigi's, mirrored something Mason had suspected. With millions to be made and the cavalier attitude toward the rampant crime, U.S. personnel could be—almost undoubtedly were—involved at higher levels. Considering his disastrous actions during his time in the Chicago Police Department and his desire to fly under the army's radar, this was turning out to be exactly the kind of powder keg he preferred to avoid.

Next Mason interviewed the two Italian bodyguards. He had ordered the same thing for them—no painkillers for their wounds.
It made no difference. They refused to talk, despite his threats and their obvious discomfort.

Mason met up with Densmore for the final interview of the five American GIs. More stonewalling and obfuscation, claims of innocence and ignorance. Two had been caught with small quantities of morphine, and the other three had charges of desertion, meaning all of them would be on their way to the stockade in Bad Tölz or Munich. Mason hoped that one of them might crack, but all of them seemed ready to opt for jail time rather than give up information or coconspirators.

When Mason and Densmore entered the Jewish man's cell, they found Abrams and the arrestee sitting at the table, with the prisoner talking rapidly and without pause as if they were long-lost friends.

Abrams rose from his chair. “Mr. Collins and Mr. Densmore, this is Yaakov Lubetkin.”

Yaakov jumped to his feet and rushed over to shake each man's hand as if jacking a handle on a well pump. “Pleased to meet you, sirs,” he said in heavily accented German.

“Do you speak any English?” Mason asked.

Yaakov shook his head and declared proudly, “I am Polish.” His broad smile displayed an equally broad set of teeth. He was in his late twenties and stood at the height of Mason's shoulders. He had a boyish face with dark brown eyes and seemed overjoyed just to be alive and in the company of Germany's conquerors.

“Have a seat, Herr Lubetkin,” Mason said in German, “while my colleagues and I confer.”

Anxious to comply, Yaakov raced over to the chair and sat. Mason, Abrams, and Densmore huddled near the door.

“You get anything out of him yet?” Mason asked Abrams.

“I could barely get a word in edgewise. I got his whole family history, and his experiences at the concentration camps.”

“What was he doing at the bar?” Densmore asked.

“He admitted to black marketeering. Mostly currency exchanges.
The Germans give him foreign money to exchange for Reichsmarks, and he gets a percentage. He says it's a sweet deal, because it's against the law for Germans to have foreign currency, but the Jews can.”

Mason walked over to Yaakov. Yaakov sat up straight as Mason approached, though his smile faded when he saw Mason's expression.

Mason asked in German, “Where do you get the foreign currency to exchange?”

“From many people. Mostly rich Germans. I get twenty percent, and they are happy for that. Both win.”

“You know it's illegal to exchange money for Germans.”

“Why? No one is hurt by this. I provide a service.”

Mason decided against arguing the finer points of the law, and though he would have done it anyway, U.S. policy called for cutting a great deal of slack with surviving Jews when it came to interpreting the law. “Who were you exchanging money for at the Steinadler?”

Yaakov hesitated.

Mason growled a warning, “Herr Lubetkin . . .”

“Yaakov, please. I was exchanging money for a Herr Giessen. He won't get into trouble because of me, will he?”

“Not likely. He was murdered during the raid.”

Yaakov's jaw dropped.

“Do you know where Herr Giessen got the foreign currency?” Mason asked.

Yaakov shook his head. “He was trying to exchange Swiss francs. I usually deal in U.S. dollars or British pounds.”

“Do you know a Herr Volker? He'd be about forty-five, tall, gray hair, smokes a particular brand of Turkish cigarette with a gold tip.”

Yaakov shook his head again.

“How often do you go to that bar?”

“Maybe once every two weeks.”

“And you've had no other black market dealings with Giessen's gang?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Do you know any of the gang members? Could you point any of them out?”

Suddenly, Yaakov looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in that room. He sank into his chair. “I don't think that would be such a good idea. My clients must remain anonymous or they lose trust in me. Not good for business. And I need the money.”

“Yeah, doesn't everybody?”

“I have a new wife. She is pregnant. There is my brother, his wife, and children. My brother works, but earns very little. I support them. They depend on me.”

“There's a Jewish DP camp not far from here. Feldafing. Why don't you and your group go there? They'll feed and protect you, give you shelter.”

“And why should I want to go to this camp? There is no money to be made there. We need the money to go to Palestine.” Yaakov leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Please, don't make me identify anyone. I have nothing else I can tell you.”

Yaakov obviously knew far more than he was saying, but Mason decided not to push him. And since there was the hands-off policy concerning Jewish concentration camp survivors, he wouldn't charge him or hold him any longer. He joined Abrams and Densmore by the door.

“You're not going to book him, are you?” Abrams said. “He survived two years at Birkenau and Sachsenhausen, then a year at Mauthausen. He told me horrible stories. He lost most of his family—”

“Calm down,” Mason said. “I'm not going to book him. But before he goes, give him a lecture about the perils of dealing on the black market.” He turned to Densmore. “Let's find out how much stonewalling we're going to get from the Russians and Poles.”

Someone knocked on the door. An MP poked his head in. “Mr. Collins, Colonel Udahl would like a word with you, sir. He's in the second-floor conference room.”

“Colonel Udahl is here? Not in his office?” Densmore asked.