Spoils of Victory (23 page)

An hour later Mason and Abrams checked into a German-run bed-and-breakfast. Doing so violated army regulations for both parties, but with some extra money, the proprietor happily looked the other way. With only a few hours left before sunrise, Mason doubted he would get much sleep. Schaeffer and his cronies were determined to tie up all their loose ends, including Abrams and him. As he lay on the bed in the darkness, images of Yaakov's torn body kept rolling around in his mind, the image of his tattoo so clear, as if projected in the dark room. That was when it hit him: Yaakov's Birkenau tattoo on his forearm. The numbers.

Mason jumped out of bed and searched through his pockets. He pulled out the piece of paper from Hilda's suitcase. The numbers on the paper and Yaakov's tattoo were the same.

What possible connection could there be between Hilda's note and a concentration camp number? There was no way it was just a coincidence. Then why would Winstone use Yaakov's number? What did Yaakov have to do with any of it? If Yaakov knew where the documents were hidden, why hadn't he told Mason or Abrams? The more likely scenario was that Winstone had simply used the tattoo without Yaakov knowing anything about it, as part of some code to finding their location. And since Laufs had said that a bounty was out for the location of the documents, it was remotely possible that Winstone had not divulged their location under torture. Perhaps he'd pointed to Yaakov instead, leading the killers to seek the information from Yaakov, and Yaakov had revealed their location under torture. “Perhaps” and “maybe”: still more questions than answers.

One thing seemed obvious: Anyone connected with the location of the documents had been tortured and killed. The documents were in all likelihood in the killers' hands, or lost for good. Now all Schaeffer had left to do was to clean up the loose ends. Present company included.

Dark thoughts on a very dark night . . .

M
ason knew entering detachment headquarters came with a false sense of security. For all he knew, a good handful of the MPs and officers were on the Schaeffer gravy train. He and Abrams had eaten breakfast at the officers' mess, then Abrams had gone to check that Wilson and Tandy were on the job watching the Casa, not sleeping.

He entered an auxiliary building in the complex and descended to the basement. The two technicians monitoring the phone taps of the Casa Carioca were in a room not much bigger than a broom closet. One technician, Archer, sat at the console, half-awake with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He sat up straight when Mason entered.

“Where's Lefebvre?” Mason asked.

“He's tracking down the addresses on some of the phone numbers like you ordered. There are about five that aren't officially listed. Could be numbers just lost in the system, but Lefebvre should be able to track them down.”

“Anything come in?”

Archer gathered a handful of papers and handed them to Mason.
“Pretty much mundane stuff. Those are the transcripts in English and what we've been able to translate from German so far. Some of the phone calls were in Polish, so we should have those a little later now that we tracked down a translator.”

“Why aren't you listening right now?”

“A light will blink if there's an incoming or outgoing call. But the circuits went dead around ten last night.”

“What do you mean dead?”

“We started around noon yesterday, and the calls were sparse but regular. Then, boom, nothing. I thought something went wrong on our end, or with the Casa phones. But the main switchboard could no longer get a signal through. I had Lefebvre call the Casa reservations line on an office phone, and he got through. Somehow they've rerouted the phone lines through another relay center.”

“I thought all local calls were routed through the main switchboard.”

“No, sir. Most of them, but the outlying areas and the towns just north of here run through a series of others. The Casa used the main switchboard, but not anymore.”

“Would there be a technical reason for them to change to another relay center?”

“Not one I can think of.”

“Unless they found out their phones were being tapped.” Mason thought a moment. “What about tapping directly into their phone lines at the club?”

“Well, sure, that's possible, but the club's got guys there around the clock, so we'd have to dig up the line somewhere in the network and tap in that way. We can do it, but it'll take some time . . . and probably another set of approval orders to give us permission to start digging around.”

“I'll get you those.”

Mason leafed through the pages. Archer was right. So far, the
calls all seemed pretty mundane: supply orders for food, drinks, and linen; costumes for a new show; a maintenance problem with the retracting floor; a call for a piano tuner.

“Any one of these could be code for what they are really saying. Did you make up that list as I asked?”

Archer handed him a piece of paper. “Phone numbers in and out, especially the numbers that come up most often. They start with the most frequent calls at the top.”

Lefebvre came in with a full pot of coffee in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Mason and saluted.

Mason pointed to the piece of paper. “Is that the list of unregistered numbers?”

“Yes, sir,” Lefebvre said and handed Mason the paper. “Traced down four of the five. Two are private residences. One is to a supply company, and the other a construction company. Both companies are in the German registry office, so they look legit. These numbers could have just gotten lost in the system.”

Mason looked over the list. “Good work. Get those other calls translated and transcribed as soon as you can. I'll see about getting you orders to dig up the Casa lines.”

Mason left the room and ran into Abrams coming from the other direction.

“I was just coming to see you,” Abrams said.

“Come on,” Mason said without stopping.

Abrams did a U-turn. “Where are we going?”

“Check out a few addresses the techs got from the phone taps.”

They emerged from the basement and made a beeline for their car.

“I found Wilson and Tandy at the Casa,” Abrams said.

“They have anything new?”

“Either they were spotted on one of their tails or someone tipped them off. Last night the driver took them on a joy ride all over the
place, like he knew they were following him. Finally they ended up back at the Casa. Just to rub their faces in it, one of the Polish waiters came out with hot cocoa.”

“Densmore's got to give us more manpower.”

“Uh-huh.”

Snow fell in big, wet flakes and had already covered the parked cars.

“A couple weeks 'til spring,” Abrams said. “You wouldn't know it around here.”

They got in their assigned sedan. Mason stomped his feet in a fruitless attempt to get warm blood to his frostbite scars. “It's going to get colder and snowier the way my dogs are barking.”

Abrams started the engine and turned on the heat full blast. While they waited for the windshield to clear away the snow, Mason fished out his badge case and showed Abrams the piece of paper stashed behind his ID card.

“I found this hidden in Hilda's suitcase the day we searched her room.”

“You're just showing this to me now? You sure have some trust problems.”

Mason shrugged by way of apology. “It may not have anything to do with this case.”

“Then again, it might.”

“I know that now.” Mason pointed to the figures on the paper. “That letter and numbers are the same as Yaakov's concentration camp tattoo.”

Abrams furrowed his brow. “Why . . . ?”

“I wasn't sure why Hilda had hidden it so carefully, but it was something obviously important to her. But it's not her handwriting, according to Adelle.”

“Winstone's?”

Mason nodded.

“But why Yaakov's tattoo?” Abrams asked.

“I don't know. That's why I'm showing it to you. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure it out.”

“I'll summon all my analytical power and get on that.”

“Just drive, Sherlock.”

*   *   *

A
brams exited the parking lot of the Alpspitz Supply Company and turned onto Alpspitzstrasse. Abrams struggled to see past the snow smeared across the windshield while Mason checked an unfolded city map.

“We're going to have to put chains on the tires if this keeps up,” Abrams said.

Mason turned the map around several times to get their orientation. “Okay, turn left on St.-Martin-Strasse.”

“How am I going to see the sign when I can't even see the street?”

“I had to walk in this kind of snow on that death march in the worst winter—”

“Give me a break, would you?” Abrams finally found the street and turned. “Tell me this place is last on the list.”

“It is. It's also the farthest. South of town.”

Abrams growled in frustration.

They had already visited the two addresses listed as private residences. One turned out to be a phone booth not far from the Olympic stadium, and the other, the apartment of the Casa Carioca choreographer, Arnie Sobel. The Alpspitz Supply Company, the place they had just departed from, appeared to be doing legitimate business with the Casa Carioca, supplying everything from beverages to tableclothes and kitchen utensils. The supply company's books and a search of the warehouse had turned up nothing suspicious.

Ten minutes and another inch of snow later, Abrams drove through a wide metal gate serving as the entrance to the final place on their list: the construction company, a two-story building of concrete surrounded by a high wall. They parked in the lot and approached several
men in overalls who were off-loading an olive-drab truck with signs plastered on the door panels declaring Bachofen Bauunternehmen.

“Looks like a U.S. Army truck,” Abrams said.

“Could be stolen. Though the army is already selling off some of its surplus.”

The workers stopped what they were doing. Mason showed his CID badge to the one who looked like he was in charge, and said in German, “We'd like to speak to the owner or manager.”

The man pointed to the building, then barked orders for the men to get back to work. The boxes were labeled in Italian, but Mason saw that several of the boxes had split open, exposing roofing tiles.

As they walked toward the building, Mason scanned the rest of the building materials stacked in the yard: bricks, concrete blocks, steel pipe, and slabs of marble. A man stepped out of the front door. Disturbingly, the man reminded Mason of a squatter Stalin: shorter, heavier, in his late fifties, and sporting a bushy head of black hair and matching mustache. He beamed a salesman's grin as if welcoming arriving customers. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Are you the owner?” Mason asked.

“Yes . . .” the man said tentatively. “Alfred Bachofen,” he added and shook their hands.

“We're military police investigators, and we have a few questions.”

“Please, come in out of the cold.”

They entered a small lobby with a counter dividing the customer side from the office side, which held a couple of desks. A young woman sat at one desk, while a lean man with slicked-back hair stood over her. They fell into silence and stared at the two investigators. Bachofen introduced them as his secretary and assistant manager.

“We'd like to interview your employees after speaking with you,” Abrams said.

“Of course,” Bachofen said as he raised the counter's divider. He led them past the desks and into a small, cluttered office. Bachofen retreated behind his desk, and they all sat. Mason studied him for
signs of nervous tension, but he acted like he was ready to transact a sale with potential clients. Perhaps he had become accustomed to associating army types with big spenders. Even their serious faces and CID insignias hadn't thrown him off his game.

Mason said, “Your telephone number is 86271?”

“That is correct. One of them, anyway. We have two.”

“Which one is 86271?”

“That would be mine. Why do you ask?”

“Do you have many dealings with the management at the Casa Carioca?”

Bachofen paused a beat. “Not so much in material anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“Yes, during construction of the club, I procured certain materials, and I coordinated some of the labor.”

“Any reason to be in frequent contact with them now?”

Bachofen's salesman smile vanished. “I don't understand.”

“We've been monitoring calls coming in and out of the Casa Carioca, and we've noticed quite a few calls to your telephone number.”

“Well, I can explain. I do, from time to time, provide labor crews when required. Plus, during the construction of the club, I became friends with a few of the Americans supervising the construction.”

“And who would that be?” Abrams asked.

“I don't understand why all the—”

“Just answer the question, please,” Mason said.

“The original army engineer, Captain Brewster, for one. Then, subsequently, Major Schaeffer and his assistant, Herr Kessel.”

“Major Schaeffer and Herr Kessel are under investigation for black marketeering and murder,” Abrams said.

“Oh, my. I had no idea. . . .”

“And all you talked to them about was the local elections, the weather, and the price of bread?”

“I presume that if you were listening in, you know the subjects of our conversations.”

Mason noticed one lonely bead of perspiration on Bachofen's brow. “We would understand one or two calls in the course of a week, but three or four times in one day is rather odd, don't you think?” He pulled the pages of transcripts from his pocket and referred to them. “Two loaves of bread are six marks today. The weather is turning warmer, up a couple of degrees. The elections should be held tomorrow, if you want my opinion.” He looked up from the pages.

Bachofen was speechless; breathless, in fact.

“Coded conversations, aren't they? The question is, what are they for? Shipments and receiving of contraband?”

Bachofen feigned shock and anger, opening his mouth several times, as if mute with outrage. “This is preposterous.”

“Schaeffer recruited you and your business as a front for his black market trade.”

Mason nodded to Abrams and they stood. “We'd like to take a look at your books and search the premises.”

Bachofen balled his fists to hide his shaking hands. “You have no right . . . There has to be some regulation requiring you to produce a warrant to search my property.”

“Come with us, please, Herr Bachofen,” Mason said. “We'll start with what's being unloaded from the truck.”

Bachofen sputtered as he wiped the growing perspiration from his brow. Mason led the way, with Bachofen in the middle. Abrams took up the rear in case the man decided to make a run for it—which was just what Bachofen's two-person staff had done. The outer office was empty. Mason quickened his pace. Abrams urged Bachofen to catch up, and they all rushed out of the building. The workmen had vanished as well.

“They must have beat it when we went inside,” Abrams said.

Bachofen muttered, “Oh, dear.”

Mason ran to the street and looked both ways. Footprints in the snow headed in both directions, but the office staff and workmen had disappeared.