Spoils of Victory (9 page)

“What's a Nazi chef doing cooking for an American army captain?” Densmore said.

“I am not a Nazi!”

Mason and Densmore both tensed when Otto went for something in his suit coat breast pocket. Otto opened his wallet and pulled out a fistful of papers. “My denazification certificate and identity papers.”

“Put those away, Herr Kremmel,” Mason said. “We don't need to see them. We understand you let yourself into the house around seven this morning?”

“Seven-oh-two precisely. I always knock twice, at one-minute intervals. If there is no response, I am authorized to enter and begin my day.”

“And last night, you left at what time?”

“You saw me leave, sir. At eleven
P.M.
”

“Did Agent Winstone seem agitated, nervous, or angry in any way?” Densmore asked.

Otto looked at Mason with a puzzled look then back to Densmore. “He seemed quite cheerful.” He looked at Mason again. “Sir, you can vouch for what I am saying.”

“I'm asking the questions,” Densmore said. “Did Agent Winstone speak of anyone who may have wanted to harm him or Miss Schmidt? Any heated arguments with other visitors or over the telephone?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

Mason said, “But Agent Winstone did hire a security team about a month ago, didn't he?”

“Yes, but that lasted only a week. He decided that was a waste of money and had them leave.”

“Would you say Miss Schmidt and Winstone got along okay?”

Otto looked carefully at both Mason and Densmore as if calculating his answer. “If you mean, did they quarrel or have violent disagreements, none that I witnessed.”

“You also work as a butler here, don't you?” Mason said. “Hours beyond what's required to prepare the meals?”

“Yes. On Saturday evenings I am allowed to go home to spend Sunday with my wife.”

“Winstone dismissed you, and gave the servants the day off. Is it unusual to let the whole staff off on the same evening?”

“Perhaps, but I am not in the habit of questioning my employer's wishes.”

A bead of perspiration broke out on Otto's forehead. His eyes lost focus as he thought. Mason watched him closely. There was something Otto was hiding, but before he could press Otto about it, Densmore blurted out, “Otto, you know any reason why Agent Winstone would kill Fräulein Schmidt, then himself?”

Otto's eyes widened. “No. Certainly not.”

Densmore looked around the room, taking in the expensive furniture and what appeared to be rare and valuable books. “Do you know if all this fancy stuff was left by the previous owners? Or did Agent Winstone acquire them?”

“Agent Winstone brought me into his employ a month after taking up residence here.”

“Does that mean you don't know?”

“That is precisely what I mean. I do know that the previous German owners were an elderly couple and had let the house fall into disrepair. I know nothing about the furnishings, but I was present when Agent Winstone made extensive renovations. He was very fond of this house and put a great deal of money into repairing the many holes and cracks. This room, for instance, one was of his favorites. It was in terrible shape. The floor, French doors, and sections of the exterior have been completely repaired or replaced.”

Densmore blew into his hands. “You'd think he would have put fixing the furnace at the top of his list.”

“Agent Winstone had the coal furnace refurbished, but he didn't like using it,” Otto said. “He preferred to use the fireplaces for heat.”

Densmore's expression turned sly. “It must have been tough for you; after being a cook for the wealthiest families in Germany, you come to work for an American soldier.”

Otto dabbed his lips with his handkerchief. “Please, gentlemen, may I go now? This . . . incident has left me distraught.”

Mason pulled out a pencil and his notepad and handed them to Otto. “Write down your address in case we have any more questions.”

Otto wrote down his address with a slight shake to his hand. When he finished, he bowed his head and moved for the door.

“Oh, one more thing, Herr Kremmel,” Mason said. “It's just for the files. My boss wants details, you understand. . . . Where was your last position as chef of a household?”

Otto hesitated.

“We could look it up, but it would save us some time.”

Otto almost came to attention again, but his mouth went crooked. “My last employer was the Krupp family.”

Densmore's jaw dropped. “The Nazi industrialist Krupp? And you got yourself denazified?”

“Preparing a family's meals does not require sharing their political beliefs.”

Mason stepped forward, his eyes bearing in on Otto. “Who certified your denazification card?”

Otto's eyes flitted nervously between the two investigators. “Why, Mr. Winstone.”

“Why would he have personally done that? Was it because he wanted a good chef, or was there some other reason?”

“I have done nothing wrong. And now I am being persecuted simply because I performed my civic duty and reported Mr. Winstone's death.”

“We can call for a review of your certification, Herr Kremmel.”

“Please, sir. Why would you want to do such a thing? I swear to you that I know nothing else.”

The man was close to tears, and Mason knew he would get nothing else out of him without pressing him hard—if there were anything left to get. Despite suspecting the man knew more than he was saying, Mason dismissed him. And as he did so, he had the distinct feeling that everyone—from Otto to Densmore to Mason's higher-ups—would have a vested interest in making this case go away.

W
hen Mason and Densmore returned to the living room, they found that the crime scene techs had arrived—in reality, one tech, a photographer, and two MPs who'd received cursory training in dusting for fingerprints and crime scene procedures. One took measurements then added them to his sketch of the corpses and the room. The other two were dusting for fingerprints. Flashes from the camera illuminated the corpses in a ghostly light.

Abrams led a bony, gray-haired man up to Mason and Densmore. “This is Dr. Saltzman.”

The doctor tipped his hat. “How do you do? I was reluctant to examine the victims until I was sure you were finished with them.”

“Sure, yeah, thanks for that,” Mason said. “Go ahead, doc.”

When the doctor walked away, Abrams said, “Looks more like an undertaker than a doctor.”

“In this case,” Mason said, “it's about the same thing.”

Mason watched the doctor examine Hilda's corpse for a moment, then told Abrams to take two MPs and canvass the neighborhood while he and Densmore searched the villa.

The rooms on the ground floor yielded little. The basement consisted of numerous rooms, but the wine cellar appeared to be the only
one frequented in the last few years. They finally made their way up to the second floor and the five bedrooms. The bed where Mason and Adelle had made love was still rumpled, and Mason felt obliged to tell Densmore that they'd spent two hours in there. They ended their search in Winstone's bedroom. The room was furnished in elegant Biedermeier furniture, including the four-poster bed, with Persian rugs on the floor.

“All this for one guy,” Densmore said. “Maybe I should get a job in the CIC.”

Densmore had a point: A five-bedroom mansion seemed a lot for one intelligence officer, though the finest villas and châteaus had been confiscated for army brass and higher-ranking military government officials, many of whom lived like kings.

Mason scanned the surface of a triple dresser. Winstone's gold pocket watch and his wallet containing five hundred dollars were there, just as Abrams had said. Hilda had placed a number of her personal things on top as well. He looked through the drawers—Winstone's affairs on one side and Hilda's on the other—but found nothing significant. Winstone did have a collection of photos of his wife and two daughters hidden under his socks—a testament of his recent feelings toward his stateside family. Notifying Winstone's family of his death would normally fall to his immediate CIC superiors, but since Mason knew Winstone's wife personally, he resolved to call her with the bad news.

Densmore banged around in the armoire, and Mason moved on to an ornate eighteenth-century desk, which sat under a broad window looking down onto Garmisch. All the desk drawers had been pulled out at odd angles. Papers were strewn on the desk's surface and on the floor.

“Someone went through Winstone's desk,” Mason said. “Everything else we've searched has been all neat and tidy. He even trifolded his underwear.”

“Maybe he had sloppy work habits. And look at this.”

Densmore pulled two suitcases out from behind the clothes in the armoire. He threw them on the bed and opened them. “A his and hers. All you'd need for a romantic weekend somewhere.”

“Or to hightail it out of town. He sends the butler home and gives his servants a holiday. His money is ready to go—”

Densmore cut him off. “He invites you and a girl back for fun and frolicking. They're still in their jammies and drinking champagne. How does that fit into skipping town?”

“I don't know what to make of any of this. But I still have a hard time seeing murder-suicide.”

“Look, I had a homicide case once where the guy prepared a full-blown candlelit dinner for his wife, then halfway through, he strangled her. There ain't no rhyme or reason to people.”

Mason let Densmore go on about his cases as a St. Louis detective, while he used a handkerchief to go through the contents of the desk drawers: letters from Winstone's wife, a few memorandums from the CIC office in Frankfurt, a few local newspapers from Schenectady, New York, Winstone's hometown, but nothing he could use. Among the papers in the top drawer, he did find a smaller version of the photograph of Hilda and her fellow skaters at the Casa Carioca. He put the photo in his pocket and closed the drawer.

Two hours later, Mason walked out onto the front porch of Winstone's villa. He lit a cigarette, cupping the match with his hand to guard against the biting wind.

Densmore joined him and lit his own cigarette. “A suicide note, no sign of a forced entry. We still have to get fingerprints from the servants and the girl you were with, but I doubt we'll get any matches other than the victims', the help's, and you and your girl. The techs confirmed Winstone's fingerprints on the knife and gun. You say they were having an argument when you left. And we didn't find anything suspicious in the search.”

“We still have the autopsy. And I want to check Winstone's office at
the CIC and see what he was up to down here.” Mason told Densmore about his conversation in Winstone's car the day before, near the Steinadler bar. “After he chewed me out for blowing his investigation, he told me that he suspected a new leadership was in town and taking over all the crime rings. That the other crime bosses were running scared.”

“Did he say who?”

“He wouldn't say until he was sure and had enough evidence to prove it.”

“That's why you were so interested in his desk?”

“His desk was the only spot in the house that showed signs of being disturbed. Find out why someone was rifling through his desk, and you might find out why he was murdered. Maybe they tortured Hilda in front of him to make him talk.”

“All this from a messy desk and a vague statement from Winstone?”

Mason shrugged. “My grandma always said that I have an overactive imagination.”

“And now you want to go through his office at CIC.”

“I know what you're going to say: The CIC isn't about to let us rifle through one of its agents' desks.”

“That's right. Even with an order from Gamin, I doubt you'll get anywhere.”

“Then I'll take it to General Pritchard.”

“Good luck with that.”

Technically, CID agents could question the highest-ranking officers in a criminal investigation, but it rarely worked out that way. “I still want to go over there and try. At least talk to some people.”

“Then I'm going along to make sure you don't step on your own two feet. You're like the guy who tries to run into a burning house to save his cat while everyone else scrambles to save his ass from his own stupidity.”

*   *   *

G
armisch's Counter Intelligence Corps detachment headquarters occupied a large villa south of town, with the ubiquitous white stucco walls painted with floral patterns, a high-pitched roof of red tile, and an arched doorway, all fit for a fairy tale. At the end of the war it had served as a safe haven for several top Vichy and Mussolini government officials in exile. That was until the CIC decided that this lovely villa would better suit an army intelligence detachment headquarters.

Abrams pulled the olive-drab sedan into the villa's parking lot and whistled. “Why can't we get a villa like this one to work out of? You think they'd have an opening for an ambitious young man such as myself?”

“They have the word ‘intelligence' in their title,” Mason said. “That's what's going to trip you up.”

“A pity you didn't go into vaudeville.”

Mason, Abrams, and Densmore got out of the car and crossed the small parking lot. A few army vehicles dotted the lot, but Mercedes, Porsches, and even a rare Horch 855 dominated the spaces.

“First Winstone's mansion, then this villa and the cars out here,” Abrams said. “These guys are living the good life.”

Densmore said to Mason, “Think about it: You and I make about two hundred twenty bucks a month. About the same, maybe a little more, back in the States. I don't blame anyone for trying to make some dough on the side. If we were smart, we'd be doing the same.”

Mason said nothing. He'd gotten a taste of the good life the previous night, and he'd liked it. A lot. That was what scared him. He'd seen too many cops fall in that black hole and never crawl out again.

They entered the cavernous ground floor, which felt more like the lobby of a luxury hotel. They showed their badges to the uniformed clerk at the front desk and explained what they wanted. The clerk went down the hall to an office door, knocked, entered, and returned a few moments later.

“Major Tavers has agreed to see you. Second door on the left.”

The three investigators did as instructed and entered a small but elegant office cluttered with papers, maps, and overflowing file cabinets. Major Tavers looked to be no more than forty, but gravity was already dragging his face earthward, giving him the look of an emaciated bloodhound. His full lips, the only facial feature to have resisted collapse, seemed to be formed in a permanent grimace.

“What's this all about?” Major Tavers said lethargically, as if already bored with the conversation. “One of my agents step on your toes?”

Densmore signaled Mason to take the lead, so Mason said, “Sir, Agent Winstone was found dead this morning in his villa.”

“And? Did he die in his sleep?”

Mason wanted to ask him what part of “intelligence” brought him to that conclusion with three CID investigators standing in his office, but instead he said, “No, sir, he has a bullet wound in his skull—”

“No signs of a struggle,” Densmore said. “No forced entry, and there was a suicide note.”

Mason glared at Densmore for a moment before turning back to the major.

“The man committed suicide?” Tavers asked.

“We're not certain of that,” Mason said. “His girlfriend, Hilda Schmidt, was with him. She was mutilated and stabbed multiple times. We're looking into every possibility.”

“Well, which is it, gentlemen? Murder or suicide?”

Densmore spoke up. “My colleague suspects foul play, but the evidence thus far indicates that Agent Winstone murdered his mistress and then killed himself.”

“Jesus,” Tavers said.

“Sir,” Mason said, “I knew Agent Winstone, and spent time with him and Hilda Schmidt last night. I saw nothing to indicate that hours after I left he intended to murder his girlfriend or shoot himself.”

“You two coming to different conclusions doesn't give me much confidence.”

“We're here to see if you, or any of your agents, might have any information that could shed light on the situation. I think we owe that to his widow.”

“What damn difference does it make?” Tavers said. “He's dead. You're talking about two different cans of worms. Either way it stinks.” He sat back with a sigh. “At least this isn't my headache. But you guys better decide quick if there's a chance that a murderer took out one of our own.”

“That's why we're here,” Mason said. He waited, but the major said nothing. “Did you know Agent Winstone well?”

“He wasn't under my command. He came here on a special assignment and coordinated his efforts with General Pritchard.”

“Did he share any aspects of his investigation? Perhaps something that might point to a reason why someone or some group would want him dead?”

“Just the overall parameters. Nothing specific . . .” He stopped and looked at Mason. “Now I remember. You were the one that barged in on his investigation.”

“Same people. Different reasons.”

Tavers grunted.

“Sir,” Densmore began, “did Agent Winstone say or do anything that would make you consider that he had contemplated taking his own life?”

Tavers thought a moment. Mason thought he took a little too much time glancing over the things on his desk, like he was trying to weigh the headaches involved with murder as opposed to suicide. Finally he said, “He did seem sullen at times. Frustrated with the lack of progress with his case.”

Mason found that interesting, since Winstone had expressed the opposite to him.

“Any signs of anxiety?” Densmore asked. “Mood swings? Depression?”

“I don't like to talk about a man's personal life. And I'm no expert in psychology.”

“We understand that, sir, but any observations could help us determine the cause of death.”

“He did have tremendous mood swings. Most of the other agents avoided him. He only had the two Germans with him most of the time, like two guard dogs. I have no idea why his behavior was so inconsistent. I understand the trauma of war can lead men to take their own lives. If that's the case here, then my deepest sympathies to his widow.”

A somber silence passed between Tavers and Densmore, as if in a silent prayer for the poor troubled veteran who had committed suicide. Mason wasn't buying any of it. And Densmore was doing his best to lead Tavers through a minefield of lies.

Mason broke the silence. “Agent Winstone mentioned having informants on the inside of several of the smaller gangs. I'd like to talk to them.”

“Even if I knew who they were, that's out of the question. You should know that better than anyone.”

“We'd also like permission to search his office,” Mason said.

“Also out of the question.”

“If this is homicide, then there's a high probability that it has something to do with his investigation into Nazi ratlines. He even mentioned to me that he had information that might blow the lid off the criminal gang activity. Too sensational for him to reveal to me. Now, if we could access his files—”

“Access to intelligence files?” Tavers asked. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Sir, his files could lead to the murderers. We have the authority—”

“Show me. Show me specific orders that would grant that permission from someone higher up the chain of command than Bronco Bob Gamin. Someone who has enough authority to make me give a
damn. In the meantime, stop wasting my time. Now get out of here. The three of you.”