“He will.”
They reached the third-floor landing, which serviced two hallways leading to a series of offices. They took the hallway to the right, and Densmore stopped them halfway down. Playing nice was over; his expression had turned grim. He turned to Abrams. “Why don’t you start writing up the report? Mr. Collins and I are going to have a few words.”
Abrams headed for his office, and Mason followed Densmore down the hall in silence. Densmore tried to emulate the tough-but-sage commander, but those qualities never seemed to gel for the man. This walk of silence was meant to instill a little humility and contrition, like a student being walked to the principal’s office, but humility and contrition were not among Mason’s strong suits.
They entered a large office with a window overlooking the north end of town and the mountains in the background. It contained a large oak desk, with file cabinets lining one wall. Oversized maps dominated another wall: one of postwar Germany divided into its four zones of occupation—American, British, French, and Russian; one of the American zone, which included Bavaria; and finally a city map of Garmisch-Partenkirchen.
Squeezed between picturesque mountains of the Bavarian Alps, Garmisch-Partenkirchen had been untouched by bombs and surrendered without firing a shot. Her streets were still graced by buildings painted with religious or pastoral scenes and trimmed in carved wood like icing on a wedding cake—neighborhoods of gingerbread houses on Hansel-and-Gretel lanes, as if the town had been lifted out of a fairy tale. But this wasn’t a fairy-tale town in some faraway land. It lay within the American occupation zone in defeated Nazi Germany. The vestiges of the 1936 Winter Olympics still stood as monuments to Hitler’s dream of a thousand-year empire, but gone were the sea of Nazi banners, the signs saying: “Jews Not Welcome,” the elite Gebirgsjäger soldiers, the shouts of “Heil Hitler,” and the swastika flag–waving fanatics. Göring had come there to be treated for a bullet wound after Hitler’s failed putsch and was given honorary citizen status by the city’s leaders. Hitler had wanted to buy farmland there for his mountain retreat, but the farmer wouldn’t sell, and Adolf ended up building his Eagle’s Nest in Berchtesgaden. A veritable who’s who of Nazis had called Garmisch their home away from home. Under the ice and snow, under the pale blue sky of a low winter sun, the town hid its Nazi past well.
The Garmisch-Partenkirchen assignment had been designed to be Mason’s punishment, a backwater post where he was to reflect on his reckless behavior and gross insubordination during a turbulent murder case in Munich. That had suited Mason just fine. He’d spent most of his postwar time in the blackened ruins of Frankfurt and Munich, so a posting at a renowned army playground seemed more like reward than punishment. Then he arrived . . .
Compared to the urban wasteland of those two cities, Garmisch was a clashing, jarring, incongruous place.
As the Third Reich collapsed, the city had become the stem of a funnel of fleeing wealthy Germans and Nazi government heavyweights, SS and Wehrmacht divisions, all bringing with them vast quantities of the Nazis’ stolen art masterpieces, the Reichsbank’s gold and currency reserves, diamonds, precious stones, and uranium from the failed atomic bomb experiments, all now hidden away or available for purchase on the black market. With millions of dollars to be made, murder, extortion, bribery, and corruption were the norm. Tens of thousands of displaced persons and concentration camp survivors, ex-POWs, arriving by circumstance or purpose, swelled the city to six times the wartime population Adding to this volatile brew, tens of thousands of bored U.S. Army soldiers ripe for corruption, tempted by wickedness and greed. Criminal gangs thrived, and everyone seemed to look the other way.
So much for a backwater posting. . . .
Densmore leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. Mason ignored Densmore’s attempt at cutting an authoritative figure and feigned interest in the wall maps.
“I ought to charge you with insubordination,” Densmore said.
“And that would prove what, exactly?”
“That you can’t ignore my authority and try this infiltration bullshit without clearing it with me. Why do I only hear the details of this scheme when the thing goes south? Plus, you put yourself and Abrams in danger. If I had known about this stunt of yours, I’d have made sure, first, that you wouldn’t have done it, and, second, that if I had approved it, you’d have proper backup.”
“I got the impression that you felt better off not knowing. No one seems to give a damn about the gangs operating openly in this town. Everywhere I turn, I see Polish DPs and German ex-soldiers who’ve just come out of prisoner-of-war camps driving around in sports cars and wearing gold watches. American GIs and military government employees living like royalty. No one gets busted and no one seems to give a damn.”
“So you’re the sheriff riding into Tombstone to clean up the town?”
“Maybe.”
“Good luck with that. I guess the Germans shooting at you in the war wasn’t enough.”
Mason said nothing.
“As long as I’m your supervising officer, you will limit yourself to the cases at hand. I heard from the CID boys in Munich about you disobeying numerous direct orders in pursuit of that killer. They also said that you thought of yourself as some kind of modern-day Lone Ranger and charged into dangerous situations that almost got several of your fellow investigators killed. You go off the reservation here and I’ll have your hide.”
Mason decided not to tell Densmore that he’d heard those kinds of threats before from another commanding officer, that he considered direct orders optional if the situation warranted it. He always intended to toe the line, and after the firestorm he’d created in Munich, he had made a promise to stay out of trouble, but sometimes he just couldn’t help it.
Densmore must have read his mind. “You told me when you first got here that you wanted to keep a low profile. Stay out of the spotlight after all the shit you got into in Munich. Just fly under the radar until your time is up with the army and you go back to the States.”
“That’s the thing about me: Just trying to put one foot in front of the other, I manage to step in the biggest pile of manure.”
Densmore seemed to be finished with his reprimand, as he let out a sigh and sat at his desk to rifle through a stack of papers.
Mason asked him, “You’ve been in Garmisch how long?”
“Seven months. Why?”
“It’s a small city. You’ve gotten to know how things work around here. How many MPs or MG officials are taking bribes or just looking the other way to make a few bucks?”
“MG” stood for “military government.”
“Hell, everyone in this town is trying to make a few extra bucks.”
“That include you?”
Densmore jerked his head up to glare at Mason. “Goddamn, buddy, who the hell do you think you are? I make a few bucks with the cigarettes, try to make life a little cushier. But I don’t do anything that would compromise me as a CID investigator.”
“I don’t care what you do with your cigarettes. I mainly asked to see how much you know about the crime networks around here.”
“If I knew something relevant, I’d tell you. So back off.”
They fell silent a moment, then Densmore asked, “What did you find in your search of the crime scene?”
“Not much in the bar. The Turk who runs the place knew how to keep it clean. We lifted fingerprints and shoe impressions from the mud in the alley, but I don’t expect much concrete evidence to come of it. The canvass turned up nothing. We did pick up the shell casings near the bodies. Looks like two nine-millimeters. I figure they had some kind of sound suppressors since no one heard gunshots. We’ll get the shell casings analyzed and see if we can get the type.”
“No line on where Olsen went?”
“None of the residents saw anything. Or at least they claimed not to. I’m betting his body wil
l turn up in the forest once the snow melts—whenever that is around here. I’ll have Abrams put out a missing-persons bulletin for all the MP patrols to be on the lookout for him.”
Densmore took a moment to light a cigarette, then pointed it at Mason. “Next time you walk into a lion’s den, you bring enough backup. Besides me, you’re the only other investigator with any real experience. Now, get out of those rags and shave, then we’ll go at your prisoners.”
FOUR
Mason, Abrams, and Densmore pulled into the parking lot of the newly renamed Sheridan barracks. Built on the north side of town for the Third Reich’s elite mountain troops, it now housed POW officers of the defeated German army. The Garmisch detachment of the 508th Military Police Battalion had been slowly taking over the facility as the POWs were released or sent to other prisons. The CID offices would eventually be moved into these white, rectangular structures, and though the place was surrounded by incredible scenery, it still smacked of the same dreariness as any army base anywhere in the world. Mason preferred to avoid it altogether.
In one of the buildings the ground floor and basement were being transformed into the official 508th jail cells, but in the case of overflow—which seemed to be a permanent condition—makeshift holding cells had been constructed to accommodate the recent American and DP arrestees.
After showing their IDs and signing in, Densmore said, “While you go at the Italians, I’ll start with the Americans. Abrams can take the Yid.”
“It’s Jew, sir,” Abrams said.
“Whatever,” Densmore said. “We’ll get together after that and go at the Russians and Poles.”
They split up, but Densmore called after Mason, “No roughing up the wop, even if he did stick a gun to your head.”
Mason ignored Densmore as he walked down the hall. MPs stood guard at the cells—really offices with reinforced doors. He entered a room with a narrow bed and a table with two chairs. A thick wire mesh covered the single window, which overlooked the snow-covered parade grounds. Mason’s would-be assassin sat on the bed with his back against the concrete wall. He was maybe thirty, and he could have been a good-looking guy except for his prominent overbite and eyes that sat too close together. A sling cradled his broken arm. Mason expected to be greeted by the usual accusations of police brutality and protests of innocence. Instead, the man smiled and struggled to his feet. He tried to act cool and poised, as if he owned the room, but there was an edginess behind the movements, like he was wound way too tight.
“Would you like some coffee before we start?” the man asked; his Italian accent gone and replaced by one typical of the Bronx. He moved to a hot plate that held a pot of coffee. “It takes an Italian to know how to make good coffee.”
Mason shrugged an agreement, then said, “What happened to the Italian accent?” He sat at the table while the Italian poured two cups.
“When dealing with Germans, an Italian accent is better for business,” the man said and winced in pain as he sat.
“I see they fixed your arm,” Mason said.
“Nothing for the pain. That your idea?”
Mason ignored the question and referred to the one-page record and the man’s identity papers. “Luigi Genovese. From Naples. Neither of those things is true, is it? You were born in Italy—probably Sicily—but grew up in the Bronx, and then sent to the Old World to drum up business for your bosses back home.”
Luigi’s smile faded for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. “No hard feelings about the gun to your head? There was nothing personal about it.”
“Strictly business,” Mason said.
“That’s right.”
“Your broken arm? That was personal.”
Luigi simply shrugged.
“What are you doing in Garmisch?”
“I am on a tour of this lovely countryside.”
“Then why the visit with Herr Giessen?” Mason asked.
“He was the man I talked to about Garmisch’s top attractions.”
“What about a Herr Volker? Did you get tourist tips from him, too?”
“I don’t know anything about a Herr Volker.”
“He’s the one who made me. He’d have been standing right next to you with one of his stinking cigarettes.”
“I don’t recall a man like that. But somebody in Herr Giessen’s gang would have had you dead to rights eventually. A brave but stupid thing for you to try, Investigator Collins.” He leaned forward, always with the smile. “You are one of those cops who likes to take risks. Be the hero. Those cops’ names end up on memorial plaques on station house walls.”
Mason produced a big, theatrical yawn. “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that same crap from scumbags like you. Then after they realize their bosses have forgotten them, and they’re facing years in the joint, just how many of them squeal for clemency or turn state’s witness.”
Luigi sipped at his coffee to mask whatever was going on in his mind.
Mason said, “I read that the U.S. deported Lucky Luciano and he landed in Naples a week ago. Does that have anything to do with you?”
“Trust me, you don’t want a piece of that. On the other hand, we could use some men like yourself, helping grease the wheels.”
“For tourism.”
“That’s right. I know what an American soldier earns. And if you leave the army and go back to the States, you’ll be scrapping for a lousy job along with the millions of other former GIs. I could see that you’re set, financially speaking. There’s enough business to go around. A million bored GIs and sixty-million-plus desperate Germans? That’s a market with opportunity. And now that Mussolini and his Fascists are out in Italy, the families are thriving again.”
“Does that sales pitch usually work when you turn cops?”
“They usually come to me. I use that pitch when a cop is stupid enough to think he is going to be the big hero and finds out that nobody gives a damn.”
Mason downed the rest of the coffee. “You’re right. This is good coffee. Your thirty-year-old ass and your coffee ought to get you a fine husband in prison.”
Luigi looked like he wanted to kill him at that moment, and Mason hoped he’d try.
“Which brings me to me offering you a deal,” Mason said. “Information for a lighter sentence. And if the information’s good, I may even drop the assault charges. All you’d have is a charge for illegal entry into the U.S. occupation zone.”
“That deal won’t be necessary.”
“Murdering three Germans is a very serious offense.”
“What are you talking about, three murders?”
“Herr Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch. And that doesn’t include the two bodyguards.”
“I am sorry for their deaths, but I had nothing to do with that.”
“You’re one of my prime suspects. You’d have a lot to gain by their deaths. I think you were sent here to take over the territory.”
“You broke my arm, remember?” He lifted his slung arm to make a point, then winced with pain. “How could I have done it?”
“Conspiracy to commit murder gets you the same thing.”
A bead of sweat broke out on Luigi’s face. “How about some painkillers?”
“No.”
“I didn’t have them killed,” Luigi said in a raised voice, the pain in his arm trying his patience. “It’s not good business to eliminate your customers. And I have better things to do than take over a middling territory like Garmisch.”
“Like you said: Germany’s a big market. And Garmisch is the perfect entry point from Italy. You and your bosses would have a lot to gain by controlling Garmisch.”
“I am telling you, I had nothing to do with their murders.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know! Why don’t you look in your own backyard? You might find th
at you’re all alone chasing down the crime rings in this town.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” Mason said and stood. “I’m going to let you stew awhile. Let you think about what life’s going to be like in prison.”
“Am I going to get any painkillers anytime soon?”
“Maybe in a while. Enjoy the accommodations. You won’t see better for a very long time.”
Mason left the room feeling unsettled. Luigi’s suggestion that Mason look in his own backyard carried more than a hint of truth to it. Winstone’s words, then Luigi’s, mirrored something Mason had suspected. With millions to be made and the cavalier attitude toward the rampant crime, U.S. personnel could be—almost undoubtedly were—involved at higher levels. Considering his disastrous actions during his time in the Chicago Police Department and his desire to fly under the army’s radar, this was turning out to be exactly the kind of powder keg he preferred to avoid.
Next Mason interviewed the two Italian bodyguards. He had ordered the same thing for them—no painkillers for their wounds. It made no difference. They refused to talk, despite his threats and their obvious discomfort.
Mason met up with Densmore for the final interview of the five American GIs. More stonewalling and obfuscation, claims of innocence and ignorance. Two had been caught with small quantities of morphine, and the other three had charges of desertion, meaning all of them would be on their way to the stockade in Bad Tölz or Munich. Mason hoped that one of them might crack, but all of them seemed ready to opt for jail time rather than give up information or coconspirators.
When Mason and Densmore entered the Jewish man’s cell, they found Abrams and the arrestee sitting at the table, with the prisoner talking rapidly and without pause as if they were long-lost friends.
Abrams rose from his chair. “Mr. Collins and Mr. Densmore, this is Yaakov Lubetkin.”
Yaakov jumped to his feet and rushed over to shake each man’s hand as if jacking a handle on a well pump. “Pleased to meet you, sirs,” he said in heavily accented German.
“Do you speak any English?” Mason asked.
Spoils of Victory Page 4
