Spoils of Victory (13 page)

A
delle occupied the basement apartment of a three-story pink stucco building just off Ludwigstrasse. Abrams pulled up the sedan and parked it on the opposite side of the street. Since it was after midnight, the street was quiet.

“You said you've been here twice already,” Abrams said. “Maybe she's skipped town.” He started to get out of the car, but Mason grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Wait a minute.”

With a puzzled look, Abrams obeyed. Mason scanned the street.

“What are you looking for?” Abrams asked.

“I'll know it when I see it. From now on, you and me, we're going to watch our backs. Check the corners and the shadows before you move.”

“Now you're just trying to scare me. If you want me to stop being your partner, just say so.”

Down the street a block and facing them, a car engine started. The headlights came on and the tires squealed. Temporarily blinded by the bright lights, Mason could only make out two silhouettes of men wearing fedoras as the car sped past. Mason jumped out. The car had no license plate, but Mason identified the make, a German-made 1938
Horch, unfortunately a fairly common vehicle. He then rushed across the street with Abrams in tow. He bounded down the six steps and pounded on Adelle's door. A dog barked, setting off a chain reaction of other dogs. A few lights came on in other houses.

Mason pounded again. “Adelle, it's me, Mason. Open up.” He felt the door. “It's pretty solid. Help me kick it in. You hit under the latch, and I'll hit high.”

After two hard kicks, the wood around the latch gave way, and the door flew open. Inside, the apartment was pitch-black.

“I told you she wasn't home,” Abrams said.

Mason put his finger to his mouth and flicked on his flashlight. He then pulled out his Colt .45 and clicked off the safety. Abrams did the same. They moved slowly down the corridor that led to doorways on both sides. The living room came first. Mason signaled for Abrams to move forward and check the bathroom. He scanned the living room with his flashlight and his gun. He swept the beam across the entire floor, while hoping he didn't discover Adelle butchered the same way as Hilda.

Mason rolled out of the living room and met Abrams just as he exited the bathroom. Abrams shook his head. They moved down the final ten feet of corridor, side by side, flashlights and guns up. Abrams split off to the left to check the kitchen, and Mason stopped at the bedroom's open door. As before, Mason scanned the left side of the bedroom with his flashlight and gun. The bedcovers had been pulled down; coffee cups and a tray with scraps of food lay on the bed stand. The odor of cigarettes lay thick in the still air. He rolled around to view the opposite side, and just as he began his sweep, he heard the click of a gun's hammer being pulled back.

Mason ducked low and swung the flashlight around to the sound. He braced himself for the explosion of gunfire. His finger squeezed lightly on the trigger, but the flashlight found her first. Adelle stood trembling in a corner. She held the gun out straight, but aimed at nothing. Her eyes were wide and tears slid down her cheeks.

Mason illuminated his own face with the flashlight and spoke in a soft voice. “Adelle, it's Mason. We're here to help you.”

Adelle let out a soft sigh, but continued to point the Walther P38 with the hammer locked back and ready to fire. Mason slowly straightened and stretched out his arms so both the flashlight and gun were aimed to the side. He took a step forward.

“Put the gun down, Adelle.”

Abrams popped in the room behind Mason, and Adelle took aim at him.

“This is my partner. Another policeman.” He turned slightly to Abrams. “Put your gun away.” He took another step forward.

“How do I know you're not here to kill me?” Adelle asked in a haunting voice.

“Well, for one thing, I wouldn't have pounded on the door and announced who I was to the neighborhood.” He smiled. “I hope you give me more credit than that.” He laid his gun and flashlight on a high-backed chair.

Adelle's whole body shuddered, then her arms dropped. Mason stepped over and gently removed the Walther from her hand. He returned the hammer to its resting place. Adelle collapsed into his arms and took deep gulps of air.

Behind Mason, Abrams let go of the breath he'd been holding and said, “Jesus Christ.”

“I'm sorry,” Adelle said. “I thought you were . . . were . . . Oh, God, poor Hilda.”

Abrams turned on a floor lamp, while Mason led her to the foot of the bed and helped her sit. “Why do you think men were coming to kill you?”

She looked at him as if confused by the question. “Because of what happened to Mr. Winstone and Hilda.”

“Adelle, we're still not sure it was anything more than Agent Winstone murdering Hilda and committing suicide.”

“You don't . . . You can't believe that.”

“I don't, but there's no evidence to say otherwise.”

“It's because of what Winstone and Hilda found out.”

“What did they find out?” Mason asked.

“I don't know. They wouldn't tell me. But whatever it was, Hilda was frightened. Agent Winstone thought she was overreacting, but Hilda claimed they were being followed by some Americans. She told me that's why they wanted you to come home with them. If the men saw a policeman was with them, it would discourage them from doing anything.”

“And that's why they asked you to come along? To persuade me to stay the night?”

Adelle nodded and lowered her eyes. “That was Hilda's idea. She called me from the restaurant and asked me to come. I told her no, but Hilda sounded so frightened and desperate. I did it for her. I would have done anything to keep her safe. Hilda was my sister.”

“Your sister?”

Adelle nodded. “I'm sorry I deceived you. That was another one of Hilda's ideas, not to tell you we were sisters, because you would have figured out the deception right away. I was going to just keep dancing and talking with you until morning, but I guess I got too drunk, and I liked you.”

Mason laid his anger and embarrassment aside until later. He looked at Abrams, who still stood near the door. “You don't have to hear any of this. The more you know, the more it could get you in a jam.”

“I'm staying, if that's all right with you.”

Mason turned back to Adelle. “Did Hilda tell you who the men were, or what they looked like?”

Adelle shook her head.

“You still haven't told me why men would want to kill you.”

“They might know what Hilda told me.”

Mason knew that, more than likely, Hilda had told them everything under their knives.

“And what did Hilda tell you?”

“Before they fell in love, Hilda was an informant for Agent Winstone. . . .” She paused to fight back tears. Mason remained quiet to let her gather her thoughts. “She was supposed to report on the activities and movements of Herr Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch. What they said, everything. Later, maybe two weeks ago, Agent Winstone had her trying to get information on a man named Lester Abbott.”

“Abbott? That doesn't sound German.”

Adelle shook her head. “I only overheard her mention his name once or twice. Agent Winstone believed that Abbott had some kind of business relationship with Herr Giessen and was somehow associated with your American intelligence corps.”

A gang-related agent in the CIC?
Mason looked at Abrams, then turned back to Adelle. “She said nothing else about this man Abbott?”

“No. Then Giessen and Bachmann were killed, and Hilda murdered. I'm sure the murders are connected somehow.”

“And she said nothing about what Agent Winstone had discovered?”

“Only that some very scary people are trying to take over all the black market operations.”

“Who? Germans? Americans?”

“I think both,” Adelle said. She suddenly turned pale and held on to Mason for support. “Please. That is all I know. I'm so afraid they'll come for me now.”

“You can stay with me tonight. But it's probably best if you make some arrangements to leave town.”

“And go where? I have no family left, and I barely have any money.”

“We'll figure it out.” He turned to Abrams. “Bring the car around close to the door. Someone could still be watching this place.”

*   *   *

A
brams pulled the sedan onto Frühlingstrasse, a ridiculously picturesque street running alongside the near-frozen Loisach River. It had much smaller houses than in Winstone's neighborhood, but they were nevertheless lovely, and, of course, gingerbread.

Abrams slowed the car to a stop a block and a half from Mason's house.

“Why are you stopping?” Mason asked.

“You said to be careful from now on.”

Mason nodded. “All right. I'd rather you be overly cautious.”

“Do you really expect trouble?”

“Whenever there's a lot to gain or lose, there's always trouble.”

“Maybe we should get some help.”

“Do you know who to go to? Seems like everyone in this town has something to gain or something to lose.”

“Including you.”

Mason nodded. “Including me.” He looked back at Adelle, who lay splayed across the backseat, sleeping. He pointed toward his house. “Go ahead. I don't see anything suspicious.”

Abrams parked the car, and Adelle woke up with a start when the car doors opened. Abrams waited until Mason had escorted Adelle safely onto the porch before driving off.

The house had once belonged to a German major in the Gebirgsjäger, the elite mountain troops, stationed in Garmisch. It was a half-timbered two-bedroom home of white stucco, with a pitched roof, arched windows, and a wide front porch. Spindly weeds had taken over the window flower boxes. The house had been abandoned after the major's death and showed signs of neglect, but it still felt palatial compared to the places Mason had hung his hat in the last number of years.

Mason unlocked the door after one last visual sweep of the neighborhood. Inside, Mason helped Adelle remove her overcoat as she looked around the living room. “Everything in its place. I bet you don't even let the dust settle.”

“I'm only here to sleep.”

Mason had left the furnishings as he found them. The major had been a widower in his final years, and the furniture and decorations
exuded a man with conventional tastes: If it had no function, it had no place. The exception was the man's extensive and eclectic collection of 78 records, from French ballads to Croatian folk music. The only things Mason had removed were the once-ubiquitous portrait of Hitler and family photos. Though Mason had not bothered to replace them with any of his own.

“The dedicated officer,” Adelle said as she sauntered around the furniture. Her vulnerability had vanished. The lithe, sensual movements had returned. She walked up to Mason and stopped, her face inches from his. He could smell her lipstick and old tears and, below that, a wisp of body odor, which, on her at least, he found erotic.

“You like collecting little birds with broken wings,” Adelle said.

“You don't look so broken to me.”

“Yes, I am. And your partner: another one you've taken under your wing.”

“He can take care of himself.”

“Just don't let him fall out of the nest too soon,” she said and leaned in to kiss him.

Mason pulled his head back and locked his eyes on her. “Is this another calculated maneuver of yours?”

“What would I gain? You're not the type to keep me around as your house pet to feed scraps of food and throw coins at for tricks. You rescued me and brought me to your home, my knight in shining armor. I haven't met a man who's done that for me in years. I want to kiss you. You can enjoy it . . . or not.”

Mason did kiss her. Deeply. There was little emotion behind it. It was all pure passion, and she knew where to push, where to touch, where to kiss. Their connection lay in knowing just what each of them needed and desired, what intensified each sensation in turn. Normally Mason preferred at least a shared affection behind the lust, but Adelle had a bewitching ability to enflame his desires, and for a second time he gave in to it with utter abandon.

*   *   *

T
hey made love again in the morning, though it failed to reach the same heights of abandonment as the night before. They spoke little over coffee, which Mason appreciated, since his brain was the last organ to wake up in the morning. Adelle ate ravenously, so talking took a backseat to the toast and jam, the cereal, several pieces of fruit, and a quart of milk.

She noticed him watching her eat. “Don't worry. I'm not going to eat you out of house and home. I've hardly had anything for the last day and a half.”

“I'll bring more food home tonight. I want you to stay out of sight, at least for a few days.”

“You don't have to ask me twice.” She took a break from gorging to look at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“You don't think you deserve saving?”

She shrugged, then dug into her cereal again.

“What did you do during the war?” Mason asked.

“Like everybody else: tried to survive.”

“Did you skate? Dance? Rob banks?”

Adelle stopped chewing a mouthful of food and looked at him as if she were going to spit in his direction. “You screw me, then you want to make sure I wasn't a Nazi? Is that it? Do you want to see my denazification papers?”

“A sensitive subject, I see.”

“I'm sick of every American asking me the same questions with that smug look of superiority.”

“Then skip it. I don't want to know.”

“Because you're sure I was a sieg-heiling Nazi fanatic.”

Mason found himself on the defensive, which made his temper flare. “Hilda told me your mom was part Jewish, and your family was persecuted because of it. I found Hilda's story compelling, and I simply wondered if you had a similar experience. You don't want to
talk about it, that's fine. We'll keep it strictly business: food and shelter for information.”