The Fallen Eagles

by Geoffrey Davison

  There was no mistaking what she was after.

  ‘If Karl knew we were alone,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t like it.’ Immediately he had said it, he wished he hadn’t. She took him the wrong way.

  ‘He need never know,’ she smiled.

  Leeburg felt himself getting cornered. He ran his hand over his face. ‘I need a shave,’ he said with forced lightness, ‘and you have a bath waiting for you.’

  She slipped off the table and came up to him. He could feel the closeness of her body tempting him to take hold of her. She put her arms around his neck. ‘I won’t be long,’ she whispered and kissed him on the mouth with parted lips.

  Leeburg felt his pulse quicken.

  ‘It must have been very lonely for you in that camp in the desert, for all that time,’ she said softly. ‘You poor boy.’

  Leeburg swallowed hard. She was making it very difficult for him. There was a stage when a man’s ardour overcomes his reasoning. She was working him close to that stage. He disengaged himself. ‘Your bath,’ he said hoarsely. ‘And my shave.’

  She smiled at him. She had laid the bait. She was confident he couldn’t resist it. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said.

  He watched her leave the kitchen and felt mentally exhausted. She was an oversexed bitch. She didn’t deserve handling with care. She had to know once and for all that he wasn’t interested in her, and she would get the message if he wasn’t there when she got out of the bath!

  He dispensed with his shave and hurried to put on his skiing clothes. As Frieda lay soaking herself in the bath, Leeburg left the Gasthof and went in search of Heckmeir. In the town he saw a square nosed army truck parked outside the Military Post. He didn’t give it a second look. If he had, he would have been more thankful than ever that he had left the Gasthof at that moment. For sitting inside, sullen faced and deeply preoccupied, was his brother, Karl!

  At the Gasthof, Freida lingered over her bath longer than necessary. She enjoyed the excitement of the anticipation almost as much as the act itself, and she knew she was going to enjoy herself with Paul. She had caught glimpses of his sturdy limbs, bronzed by the North African sun, and she had been impressed. And she half expected to find that he was inexperienced which would add to her delight. It never entered her head that he might not be waiting for her. She had never been refused before, and she had grown up in a society where promiscuity seemed an accepted way of life. Living in the mountains there were few other diversions. And Leeburg had been without a woman’s company for a long time now.

  After her bath, Frieda, powdered and scented herself. There weren’t many women who could boast such toilet requisites — or an admiring French sergeant. One day she would repay the Frenchman for his presents, she thought, but not today. Today was Paul’s turn.

  She put on her robe again, and left the bathroom. She could hear Paul in the kitchen and she gave a satisfied smile. Slowly she descended the staircase, mentally deciding into which room she should take him. She opened the kitchen door and stood in the entrance. But the room was empty! Her heart missed a beat and then she saw the door to the store room was ajar. She relaxed again.

  ‘Paul!’ she called out.

  There was the sound of shuffling feet in the store room and an ice cold chill ran down Frieda’s spine. In a flash she realized her mistake. Even before he appeared at the doorway she knew it was Karl and not Paul who was in the storeroom.

  When Karl appeared, he had a wild look on his face. A look which Frieda had never seen before. It frightened her.

  ‘Paul is out,’ he sneered.

  Out! An immediate feeling of hatred for her brother-in-law entered her head. She wanted to cry with frustration and disappointment. It was even greater than the fear she had felt at the sight of her husband’s face. Paul had not waited for her, he had turned her down.

  Karl shuffled across the room towards her and again she saw the look on his face. She knew he was going to hit her. Panic gripped her. She had to do something quick. Her brain gave her a way out.

  ‘Karl!’ she cried. ‘Oh! Karl, I am so glad you are back.’ She rushed to meet him and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh! Karl, it was terrible.’

  She clung to him, and started to cry. Karl stood quite rigid, but the closeness of her body penetrated his armour. His arms came up and his hand felt her firm shoulders under her robe. Frieda smiled to herself.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Karl hissed. ‘Tell me!’

  When Leeburg arrived at the practice slopes, he saw Heckmeir at work with a party of French soldiers. For a while Leeburg watched them and then went on a short run. When he returned, he found Heckmeir in his hut, repairing a pair of skis. The two men greeted each other warmly. Leeburg had a lot of respect for Heckmeir. He was a small, well-built man, with a face as rugged as the mountains. A simple, honest man, dedicated to his role of a ski instructor during the winter months and to being a mountain guide in the summer.

  ‘It is good to see you again, Paul,’ Heckmeir said. ‘Come and sit down.’

  Leeburg sat on a stool and looked at the row of skis stacked against the wall.

  ‘You have a good collection,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Heckmeir agreed. ‘Got most of them from the French. Going to need them one day.’

  ‘When the tourists come back?’ Leeburg asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Heckmeir agreed seriously. ‘A lot of people are pessimistic, but I’m not. The best investment we have are the Allied soldiers who come skiing. They’ll all come back again later. Teach them to ski and you have a market!’

  ‘You’ll need a new ski lift,’ Leeburg pointed out.

  ‘It’s already in hand,’ Heckmeir smiled. ‘We have agreed plans with the French to extend the present one.’

  They talked about the lift and various other problems facing the development of the town as a ski centre for tourists. Heckmeir had his ideas and ambitions and Leeburg warmed to his enthusiasm. Heckmeir wasn’t a man who grumbled about what it could have been like if there had been no war, or blamed their present position on anyone. He simply set about putting his own house in order.

  ‘And what about you, Paul?’ Heckmeir asked. ‘I remember you had two ambitions before the war. To represent your country in an international skiing competition, and to go to university.’

  Leeburg gave a wistful smile. Eight years ago one of his burning ambitions had been to gain further honours in skiing. Now it didn’t seem to matter, and he knew he hadn’t the dedication that it needed. He had too many other problems.

  ‘Not any longer,’ he said. ‘It’s a young man’s occupation.’

  ‘And the university?’ Heckmeir asked.

  Leeburg shrugged. ‘I’m not certain about anything yet,’ he said honestly.

  Heckmeir turned his attention to another pair of skis. ‘I gather from Karl that you could do with a job,’ he said.

  So Karl was at the back of it, Leeburg thought and felt annoyed. He had barely been home a few days. Couldn’t Karl have waited a little longer? He didn’t reply to Heckmeir’s question. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to help him, although he knew he was going to have do something.

  ‘I could certainly do with your help, Paul,’ Heckmeir said. ‘Even if it is just until you get yourself sorted out.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Leeburg said. ‘To be honest with you, I’m still in a bit of a muddle, but Karl is wanting me off his back. It would help me to help you.’

  ‘Good, then it’s agreed,’ Heckmeir said. They shook hands on the deal and discussed the details. The pay wasn’t very good, but the hours were convenient. Skiing lessons were only given in the mornings, the afternoons being left for practice. They went on to discuss other matters and one piece of general advice from Heckmeir took Leeburg by surprise and made him think of Kurtz.

  ‘You might get a few tempting offers, Paul,’ he said, ‘but take my advice and keep yourself straight.’

  Leeburg was taken aback by the remark. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked earnestly.<
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  Heckmeir looked pointedly out of the window. ‘What do you see out there?’ he asked.

  ‘Mountains and snow,’ Leeburg replied.

  ‘And beyond?’

  ‘Switzerland.’

  ‘So,’ Heckmeir smiled. ‘Switzerland. Country of plenty and the gateway to anywhere.’

  ‘Black-market?’ Leeburg asked. ‘Smuggling?’

  ‘Both,’ Heckmeir said, ‘and more.’ He turned to face him. ‘You’ve been home less than a week, Paul. Correct?’

  Leeburg nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘Have you not noticed the military everywhere? In the town, on the mountains? On the surface everything is peaceful, but the French are keeping a very tight control. Why? Because right here we are on a possible escape route into Switzerland, and a line of supplies for the black-marketeers. Every week there is someone caught either going or coming, and anyone like you who knows the mountains and the routes is at a premium.’

  So that’s what Kurtz had been meaning when he had referred to his talents, Leeburg thought.

  ‘The French are quick to shoot,’ Heckmeir warned, ‘and if you are caught the sentences are very stiff.’

  ‘You been approached?’ Leeburg asked.

  ‘As soon as I got back,’ Heckmeir smiled, ‘and regularly once a week since then.’

  Leeburg looked pensively out of the window. He had never really thought much about Switzerland being on the other side of the mountains like a kind of Shangri-La. It had always been there, and the mountains had always kept them apart. But it was a place of plenty and to the black-marketeers it would be a tempting proposition. To men like Kurtz, he thought. He knew now why Kurtz visited Kaufman, and travelled about so much. He was recruiting people like Leeburg who had lived in the mountains and knew then intimately. Leeburg could get into Switzerland, French troops or no French troops, but he had no intention of going.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough of prisons to last me a lifetime.’

  But Heckmeir’s words were not forgotten, and neither were Kurtz’s. Leeburg had cause to remember them sooner than he had anticipated during his conversation with Heckmeir.

  When he left Heckmeir’s shop he returned to the Gasthof. He had forgotten about Frieda and was feeling enthusiastic about working with Heckmeir.

  Standing outside the Gasthof was a pre-war, black Mercedes. It was the type and colour of car which had always been associated with the police and its presence gave Leeburg an immediate feeling of concern. Even without its association, a civilian car was an unusual sight. In the kitchen, a worried look on his mother’s face confirmed his fears even before she spoke.

  ‘There are two men waiting to see you, Paul,’ she said. ‘They are in the office.’

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ his mother replied, ‘but they look like policemen.’

  Police! Leeburg felt the blood drain out of him. It was something he had feared ever since the interview with the American officers in the prisoner of war camp. He had hoped it would never happen.

  ‘Go and see them, Paul.’

  Leeburg left the kitchen and slowly climbed the staircase to the entrance hall. For a while he stood looking at the office door, steadying himself.

  The two men inside the office had police written all over them. They wore long, leather coats, belted at the waist, and held their trilby hats in their hands. They were tall, heavily built men, with square, unimaginative faces. Leeburg looked at them and they returned his inspection without any relaxation of the cold look on their faces.

  ‘Paul Leeburg?’ one asked. ‘Formerly Sergeant Paul Leeburg of the 134th Infantry Regiment?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Leeburg mumbled.

  The man who had asked the question produced an identification card which showed him to be Inspector Shafer of the Military Government Police. He didn’t introduce his companion and Leeburg didn’t enquire.

  ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ the Inspector asked.

  Leeburg pulled out another chair for himself and joined the two policemen. It was a small room and the three men were almost on top of each other. Leeburg waited with a heavy heart.

  ‘Herr Leeburg,’ the Inspector said. ‘I am making enquiries on behalf of an American organization concerned with the investigation into war crimes.’

  Leeburg’s heart missed a beat. He felt weak. It was as he had feared.

  ‘I would like you to tell me the circumstances in which you were taken a prisoner of war by the Americans.’

  Leeburg’s mouth felt parched. He braced himself. ‘We were retreating into a rear defensive position,’ he said. ‘My platoon was acting as a rearguard to some sappers who were destroying a bridge. When we left the bridge we were attacked by a band of partisans. Our trucks were blown up. I was wounded in the head and leg.’ Automatically his hand touched the scar on his brow. ‘The following day I was picked up by an American patrol. That is all I remember. I was taken to a field hospital and operated on.’

  The Inspector nodded his head. ‘Do you remember anything between the attack and being picked up by the Americans?’

  ‘No,’ Leeburg lied. He knew what they were after. ‘I suppose I lay around for a while and then started to walk into the valley. I was only half conscious.’

  ‘I see,’ the Inspector said flatly. ‘Do you recall the partisan attack? For instance, how many of your men escaped?’

  ‘I can only recall being in the vehicle one minute and the next I was surrounded by Americans,’ Leeburg said with more feeling. He had to stick to the story, he thought. He had to.

  ‘You do not know who got away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’

  There was a pregnant silence. The two policemen sat stiffly looking at him.

  ‘Where were you making for? Where were your defensive positions?’

  ‘It was on a high piece of ground close to a large villa.’

  ‘And the name of the villa?’

  Leeburg tried to remember. ‘Callila or Cacilla. Something like that.’

  ‘Cacilla,’ the Inspector said and stood up. ‘Thank you for giving us your time, Herr Leeburg.’

  ‘Am I entitled to know what it is all about?’ Leeburg asked, his pulse quickening.

  The Inspector raised an eyebrow. ‘A kilometre south of the villa there was another villa, Villa Lucciano. It was part of the same estate. Inside this villa was party of civilians, estate workers. They were all shot, dead!’

  Leeburg felt his stomach turn. He didn’t need the Inspector to tell him more.

  ‘Whoever got away from your partisan attack would have passed very close to the place of the murder. Very close.’ The Inspector hesitated. ‘By the way was Major Reitzer with you?’

  The question took Leeburg by surprise. He felt himself flushing up. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was.’

  ‘Any other officer?’

  Leeburg shook his head.

  ‘So there was only Reitzer,’ the Inspector said thoughtfully.

  ‘Why should he interest you?’ Leeburg asked hesitantly.

  ‘He survived the attack,’ the Inspector said pointedly.

  Leeburg said nothing.

  ‘There were some valuable pictures hidden in this villa,’ the Inspector continued. ‘Part of a collection from the gallery in Pistoia. They were hidden in the Villa Lucciano for safe keeping. Whoever carried out the murders helped themselves.’

  This was news to Leeburg. Something he had never known about. ‘I’m sure it wouldn’t be Major Reitzer,’ he said quietly. Reitzer was no thief, he thought, whatever else he may have been.

  ‘Sure?’ the Inspector asked.

  Leeburg flushed up again. ‘He was a friend. His home is close by.’

  ‘So I believe. Do you know what eventually happened to him?’

  ‘No,’ Leeburg said.

  ‘Hm,’ the Inspector grunted. ‘Strange. Nobody does.’ He moved towards the door followed by his assi
stant. ‘Two of the stolen pictures turned up quite recently,’ he said casually. ‘They were traced back to Switzerland. If you hear of anything you will contact me.’

  After they had gone, Leeburg sat silently in the office staring at the wall. There was to be no escape. They would be back. And Reitzer must be alive. He must have come across the pictures after Leeburg had left and taken them with him to Switzerland. A feeling of utter helplessness descended upon him. If only he could remember. He clenched his fists and dug his fingers into the palm of his hands. God! What had happened? What had happened?

  For a long time he just sat. Even when the room turned dark he still sat staring sullenly in front of him. He heard the hotel guests moving about, but still he sat. His mother came to him and told him that supper was ready, but food was not what he wanted. He wanted to know what he had to do to get peace of mind.

  He collected his jacket and went for a walk in the cold, moonlit night, and tried to find the answer, but when he returned he was still confused. And he was too engrossed with his own thoughts to give much attention to other domestic matters. He sensed an anxiety in his mother’s manner and put it down to the visit of the police officers. He also noticed that Frieda was not in the Gasthof and that Karl was unusually quiet, but he didn’t pass comment.

  Eventually the general air of depression crowded in on him. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said quietly.

  His mother looked at him appealingly. ‘Paul. Is there anything you wish to talk about?’

  Leeburg shook his head. ‘No, Mother,’ he said sadly. ‘And there is nothing for you to worry about. By the way,’ he added changing the subject. ‘Where are Annalisa and Frieda?’

  ‘Annalisa is staying with Frau Piesch,’ his mother said.

  ‘And Frieda?’ Leeburg asked.

  His mother looked at him, a worried look on her face.

  ‘Karl has taken her to stay with an aunt in Bregenz for a while,’ she said flatly.

  Why should he do that? Leeburg wondered, but he was glad she was out of the way. He turned to leave the room.

  ‘Paul!’ his mother called to him.