Spoils of Victory (10 page)

Back out on the steps leading down to the villa's parking lot, Densmore stopped to light a cigarette. “I told you how this would go down.”

“What the hell were you doing in there? You torpedoed me with that line of questioning.”

“I'm trying to save your ass. If you push this into murder, you're going to be the first suspect. You were there last night, buddy. You've got your fingerprints all over the place. The only visible tracks, other than the two victims', are yours. It's beyond me why you want to put yourself in the hot seat, unless you're a goddamned fool.”

“Why would I bring up homicide if I was the one who did it?”

“I've known a lot of murderers who wanted to get caught. Is that the case? You try to shove this down my throat, and I'll turn this on you.”

“I knew those people. For all his faults, Winstone was a good guy, and not the suicidal type. And the girl had her whole life ahead of her. Someone carved up that lovely face of hers and snuffed the life out of both of them. They probably tortured her and made him watch. No one should get away with that. And sure as hell not because it might complicate the job. And this in less than twenty-four hours of those three gang bosses being killed, execution style—”

“Mason, come on. It's bad enough you want to throw murder at an obvious open-and-shut case, but then bring up a criminal conspiracy? I'm not going to be dragged into the quicksand with you.”

“Why are you so dead set on suicide? What's your angle? Are you afraid, or is it really that you're connected?”

“You can stop right there!” Densmore said. “I'm done saving your ass, and don't ever say I didn't warn you. You piss off the wrong people, and you'll have more than a ruined career to worry about.” He threw the cigarette down and stomped on it like he wished it were Mason's skull. “Let's go.”

“I have other places to check,” Mason said.

“Suit yourself. Keep Abrams, if you like. He'll be Robin to your Batman. It'll make a nice obituary.”

Densmore blew past a stunned Abrams, grabbing the keys out of his hand.

Abrams turned back to Mason after watching Densmore drive away. “Well, that's that,” he said. “What's next, Batman?”

M
ason and Abrams waited at the front door for someone to respond to their knocking. Abrams blew into his hands to warm them. Mason's feet stung from the old frostbite wounds he'd received on a death march from a POW camp near the Czech border. They stood on the front porch of a shoebox-sized, two-bedroom house that Hilda Schmidt had shared with two families, an elderly couple, and two other women skaters.

Finally a woman in her late seventies opened the door just enough to peek through the gap. Mason showed his badge and introduced them in German. She sucked in her breath, stumbled back two steps, then disappeared, leaving the front door open.

Mason and Abrams looked at each other and waited a few moments, but no one appeared at the door. Abrams said, “I guess that means it's okay to come in.”

They entered the small foyer and turned right into the living room. The old woman huddled behind one of two round coal-burning stoves sitting in the middle of the room. Several beds lined one wall and were separated by hanging sheets. Two dining tables and several chairs sat near the stoves, and laundry hung in crisscross patterns throughout the room. An old man sat hunched next to a
stove, while a woman and two young children sat by the other. The children had that listless look from constant hunger that Mason had seen many times.

Again, the two inspectors held up their badges and explained they weren't there to arrest anyone and only wanted to look in Hilda Schmidt's room.

For a long moment, no one moved. Everyone looked to the old woman, who finally mustered up the courage to step out from behind the stove. With brusque gestures, she urged them to follow her. She led them through the living room and down a short hallway to a bedroom shared by Hilda and the two other skaters.

Mason said to her in German, “Ma'am, if you wouldn't mind staying here to witness our search, so there are no accusations of theft by Hilda's roommates.”

“Why do you want to look through her things? Has she done something wrong?”

“We're not at liberty to say, ma'am.”

The woman studied Abrams's face, then said, “She's dead, isn't she? And an American soldier killed her.”

“We didn't say that,” Mason said.

“Why else would American inspectors be here, if it didn't involve an American soldier?” She covered her mouth and began to tear up.

She started to leave, but Mason stopped her. “We need you to stay, ma'am.”

The woman nodded, then looked away with tears in her eyes.

The search would be quick, as three twin beds took up most of the floor space. As in the living room, the beds were separated by hanging sheets, and laundry hung from lines strung across the room. Instead of a chest of drawers, open suitcases held the women's clothes, neatly folded. A few dresses and coats hung in the single armoire. The girls had done their best to decorate, with photos of movie stars and dancers cut from magazines, and portraits of family or publicity shots from the Casa Carioca.

Mason had the woman point out which were Hilda's things, and he and Abrams set about their task. They searched through Hilda's clothes and leafed through her novels, a German-English dictionary, and a Bible. Abrams looked behind all the photographs and posters pinned to the walls. Mason took the nightstand and noticed that Hilda had the same photo of the skaters as the one on Winstone's fireplace mantel.

Mason asked the woman, “Does she have any family?”

“The only one I know about is her father. And he died in a work camp. She never talked about anyone else.”

Mason held up the framed photograph on Hilda's nightstand. “Are the other two women who live here in this photograph?”

“No, that was taken before the other two girls arrived.”

She named the two girls, and Abrams wrote them down. Mason checked the interior of the picture frame, then turned his attention to Hilda's suitcase. He lifted out a small stack of mostly summer clothes and looked through them. The suitcase's side pockets were next, but they contained only a few items of makeup, creams, and toiletries. She obviously kept most of her things at Winstone's villa.

When Mason ran his fingers along the suitcase's inner lining, he pricked his finger on a straight pin. When he examined it further, he noticed that a small section in the corner of the case had been pinned in place, with the pin hidden under the fabric of a side pocket. He removed the pin and folded back the square of fabric. Between the shell and the lining lay $150 in folded bills and a small piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and saw Hilda had written a single letter then a series of numbers: A47235.

He put the paper in his breast pocket and replaced the money and repinned the lining. Abrams closed the armoire doors, prompting Mason to ask, “Anything?”

“Not much. I guess she'd moved most of her stuff over to Winstone's.”

Mason asked the woman, “Did Fräulein Schmidt spend much time here?”

“She always had some kind of man friend she stayed with. She rarely slept here, that I know of. Just come and go on occasion, bring something in and take something out again. Like she wanted people to think she lived here for propriety's sake.”

“Did she say anything about going away recently?”

The woman's eyes lit up as if Mason's question reminded her of something. “She came in a little over a week ago, bragging she had a way to get out of Germany. She was so excited that she was bouncing around like a little girl. I told her it's illegal for Germans to leave the country, and that whatever she had cooked up would get her into trouble. She wouldn't listen. And now look what happened. She was a dreamer, that girl.”

Abrams asked, “Did she say anything else about that?”

The woman started to tear up again and shook her head.

Mason thanked the woman, and they left. The only clue they walked away with was the piece of paper with the mysterious letter and numbers. Perhaps a code. Perhaps something as simple as a license plate number. Whatever it was, Mason had uncovered a little more about the life and death of Hilda Schmidt—more than he cared to know, because now he felt her death more deeply than before. She deserved justice, and Mason was determined to give it to her.

*   *   *

D
ensmore had still not come back to headquarters when Mason and Abrams returned. That was fine with Mason. And though he wondered where Densmore had gotten to all this time, he was in no mood to try to go through him to get to Major Gamin.

Gamin had taken over the former deputy mayor's office in the main Rathaus building. Mason knocked on his door and wondered if Gamin had regained his senses or was still orbiting Mars. The colonel responded with a “yeah,” which was more grunt than actual verbal utterance.

Mason entered a large but modest office. Gamin was a stickler for
neatness. Everything in its place, the desk clutter free. A few books lined one shelf, but there were no file cabinets or any other signs of a commander in charge of a detachment of MPs and CID investigators, especially for a crime-ridden town like Garmisch. The only defining feature in the room was the collection of paintings of horses: horses on the plains, horses in rodeos, horses supporting cowboys or Indians. Gamin obviously fancied himself as a rootin' tootin' cowboy—hence the nickname “Bronco Bob.”

Gamin sat at his desk with his head buried in an open file. He didn't bother to look up. He devoted his attention solely to turning over a page and placing it carefully facedown and making sure the edges lined up perfectly with the previously read pages.

Mason waited at attention.

Gamin glanced up at Mason then went back to his file. “Looks like you slept in your uniform. I'll not have my men looking like bums just because the war's over.”

“Yes, sir. I'll keep that in mind.”

“Come back when you've fixed the problem.”

“I'm afraid I have a bigger issue that needs addressing at the moment, sir. I need a travel pass to go to Munich this afternoon and see General Pritchard in the matter of an investigation.”

“What investigation is that?”

“The possible murder of a CIC agent, John Winstone.”

“I heard Winstone killed himself.”

“That hasn't been concluded, and I want to explore all possibilities. Agent Winstone and General Pritchard were working on an investigation, and I believe that investigation may have led to Agent Winstone's death.”

Gamin finally looked up from his desk. “You think General Pritchard has something to do with it?”

“No, sir,” Mason said patiently. “Since he and Agent Winstone were the only two people privy to a certain set of files pertinent to
their investigation, I'd like to see if the general can tell me what Agent Winstone discovered while down here.”

“You want to see General Pritchard dressed like that? Permission denied.”

Mason was about to press further, but stopped when he noticed Gamin seemed to be studying some area of space behind Mason as he rolled a pencil around in his fingers. “You play golf, son?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Golf. Do you play golf?”

“I haven't got the patience for it. I keep hitting the ball and running for first base.” Mason thought a little humor might lighten things up, but Gamin furrowed his brow.

“Communists don't like golf,” Gamin said.

“They don't like baseball, either, and that's my sport.”

Gamin nodded. “You've got a point there.”

Mason hesitated. Time to risk another strategy.

“Sir, it's about the theft of the American flags. It could be a bigger Communist conspiracy than we thought. Agent Winstone was investigating a nest of Communist agitators, and he may have been murdered because of it.”

“You think I'm a damned fool?”

“No, sir. I thought you were concerned about the theft of American flags, as I am—”

“The CIC doesn't give a damn about American flags. They've got a bunch of krauts working as agents. What kind of half-cocked theory have you cooked up?”

“I thought that, since General Pritchard is personally involved with Agent Winstone's case, he would take the thefts very seriously.”

“The flags are just the tip of the iceberg, Collins. Typewriters, chalk and erasers, cases of paper, two cases of army manuals—which I'll attribute to the reason for your dereliction of duty in the proper comportment of a soldier in the U.S. Army.”

“All the more reason to make sure General Pritchard is up-to-date and on board.”

Gamin thought for a moment. “All right. Tell my assistant what you need, and I'll sign it.” He stuck his index finger at Mason and furrowed one brow. “And don't think I don't know what goes on around here. I've got my eye on you.”

Mason said, “Yes, sir,” and saluted.

Gamin grunted and went back to reading his file. Mason told the assistant what he needed and, with some additional prodding and gentle reminding, persuaded Gamin to sign the travel orders.

Before he caught the train to Munich, he checked out a jeep from the motor pool and drove over to Adelle's apartment. On the drive over and while he knocked on Adelle's door, he had the feeling he was being watched. And his disquiet only grew when Adelle failed to answer the door. In that moment a thought surfaced to the forefront of his mind. If he hadn't heard Winstone and Hilda arguing and insisted on leaving last night, then there would have been two more bodies making a trip to the morgue today: his and Adelle's. That eliminated Adelle as a suspect, but made her a potential victim. For all he knew, she lay dead just behind this door. For all he knew, he was next.