Yaakov shook his head and declared proudly, “I am Polish.” His broad smile displayed an equally broad set of teeth. He was in his late twenties and stood at the height of Mason’s shoulders. He had a boyish face with dark brown eyes and seemed overjoyed just to be alive and in the company of Germany’s conquerors.
“Have a seat, Herr Lubetkin,” Mason said in German, “while my colleagues and I confer.”
Anxious to comply, Yaakov raced over to the chair and sat. Mason, Abrams, and Densmore huddled near the door.
“You get anything out of him yet?” Mason asked Abrams.
“I could barely get a word in edgewise. I got his whole family history, and his experiences at the concentration camps.”
“What was he doing at the bar?” Densmore asked.
“He admitted to black marketeering. Mostly currency exchanges. The Germans give him foreign money to exchange for Reichsmarks, and he gets a percentage. He says it’s a sweet deal, because it’s against the law for Germans to have foreign currency, but the Jews can.”
Mason walked over to Yaakov. Yaakov sat up straight as Mason approached, though his smile faded when he saw Mason’s expression.
Mason asked in German, “Where do you get the foreign currency to exchange?”
“From many people. Mostly rich Germans. I get twenty percent, and they are happy for that. Both win.”
“You know it’s illegal to exchange money for Germans.”
“Why? No one is hurt by this. I provide a service.”
Mason decided against arguing the finer points of the law, and though he would have done it anyway, U.S. policy called for cutting a great deal of slack with surviving Jews when it came to interpreting the law. “Who were you exchanging money for at the Steinadler?”
Yaakov hesitated.
Mason growled a warning, “Herr Lubetkin . . .”
“Yaakov, please. I was exchanging money for a Herr Giessen. He won’t get into trouble because of me, will he?”
“Not likely. He was murdered during the raid.”
Yaakov’s jaw dropped.
“Do you know where Herr Giessen got the foreign currency?” Mason asked.
Yaakov shook his head. “He was trying to exchange Swiss francs. I usually deal in U.S. dollars or British pounds.”
“Do you know a Herr Volker? He’d be about forty-five, tall, gray hair, smokes a particular brand of Turkish cigarette with a gold tip.”
Yaakov shook his head again.
“How often do you go to that bar?”
“Maybe once every two weeks.”
“And you’ve had no other black market dealings with Giessen’s gang?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Do you know any of the gang members? Could you point any of them out?”
Suddenly, Yaakov looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in that room. He sank into his chair. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea. My clients must remain anonymous or they lose trust in me. Not good for business. And I need the money.”
“Yeah, doesn’t everybody?”
“I have a new wife. She is pregnant. There is my brother, his wife, and children. My brother works, but earns very little. I support them. They depend on me.”
“There’s a Jewish DP camp not far from here. Feldafing. Why don’t you and your group go there? They’ll feed and protect you, give you shelter.”
“And why should I want to go to this camp? There is no money to be made there. We need the money to go to Palestine.” Yaakov leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Please, don’t make me identify anyone. I have nothing else I can tell you.”
Yaakov obviously knew far more than he was saying, but Mason decided not to push him. And since there was the hands-off policy concerning Jewish concentration camp survivors, he wouldn’t charge him or hold him any longer. He joined Abrams and Densmore by the door.
“You’re not going to book him, are you?” Abrams said. “He survived two years at Birkenau and Sachsenhausen, then a year at Mauthausen. He told me horrible stories. He lost most of his family—”
“Calm down,” Mason said. “I’m not going to book him. But before he goes, give him a lecture about the perils of dealing on the black market.” He turned to Densmore. “Let’s find out how much stonewalling we’re going to get from the Russians and Poles.”
Someone knocked on the door. An MP poked his head in. “Mr. Collins, Colonel Udahl would like a word with you, sir. He’s in the second-floor conference room.”
“Colonel Udahl is here? Not in his office?” Densmore asked.
“Yes, sir,” the MP said. “His driver told me that the colonel was in Munich for a meeting when he heard about the incident at the Steinadler. He got hopping mad and insisted on coming back down here.”
When the MP left, Densmore said, “Garmisch’s very own military governor wants to see you personally. You have stirred up a shit storm with that stunt you pulled.”
FIVE
Mason knocked on the conference room door and entered. The room contained a simple long table, folding chairs, and a chalkboard where someone had written out MP manpower allotments and daily patrol assignments. Colonel Franklin Udahl stood staring out the window. Outside, black clouds had blown in, dropping freezing rain and sleet that clacked against the window and made the room lighting brighter than outdoors.
As the U.S. Army had overrun and occupied German territory, it had assigned military governors to administer each region, district, and city in the occupation zone. As representatives of the conquering army, they lorded over the vanquished population with absolute authority. Colonel Udahl was the district governor of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and his realm measured four hundred square miles, encompassing twenty municipalities, farmland, and the highest mountains in Germany, making him one of the most powerful lords in the Garmisch fiefdom.
With him was Captain Miller, a bald man with a pinched cranium and round jowls. He was the head of the military government’s public safety office, which oversaw the local German police and fire departments. A lawyer and politician by trade, Miller tried to make up for lack of law enforcement experience with bluster and aggression. Before Mason could say anything, Captain Miller came at him, waving his arms like a priest performing an exorcism.
“We’re all wondering, Mr. Collins: Where did you learn police work?” Miller said. “Because we’re in awe of how well you pulled off that infiltration gambit. Going in there without any backup, no consultation with the other investigative branches—”
“Every time I’ve consulted you guys, I’ve been bound up in red tape or something has leaked. I learned that to get anything done around here, I keep it to myself.”
“The stink of your reputation wafted down here long before you arrived. We don’t need a hotheaded investigator bulling his way into town. We know about your conduct in Munich. Blind ambition put you and your fellow investigators at risk. You disobeyed orders and went rogue.”
“With respect, sir, this isn’t about what I did in Munich, or not consulting the other branches. You’re embarrassed because I was close to busting up a criminal gang that your department can’t, or won’t, bust up yourselves. The rampant local crime goes on without fear of punishment. Only the petty criminals have their charges stick, while the big boys are set free. What’s going on in your department, Captain?”
“You are way out of line, mister, and I’m going to do everything in my power—”
“Captain Miller, that’s enough,” Colonel Udahl said without turning around.
“But, sir, this man shows no regard for army regulations or protocol. And his willful disdain for military authority is destructive. He’s been blackballed from every stateside police department for past actions, and now he wants a free ride on the army’s backside.”
“Thank you, Marty. I will take care of it. Leave us
for a minute, will you?”
Captain Miller stepped out and closed the door. Colonel Udahl finally turned to face the room. He was of medium height and muscular, with gray hair and mustache, and had what some would call a battle-tested face, with creases and crags, a crooked nose where it had been severely broken, and a deep scar that ran across the base of his throat. But it was his eyes that told you he’d seen hard fighting: They had a sharp gloss like alabaster and could pierce and probe, making some men shy away from his gaze.
And the colonel’s icy gaze was directed at Mason. After a long moment, he said, “I appreciate you taking the heat for all this. I heard about everything that happened at the Steinadler. I’m sorry it went south, but that was still some fine police work, considering the restraints I put on you.”
“Thank you, sir. I might have been able to pull it off if given more time for surveillance, phone taps, and a couple of experienced investigators to assist me.”
“I wish I could have given them to you, but we had to move on them quickly. At least we put a dent in their operations. But I want you to continue your investigation into these gangs. We encountered a hitch, but I’m confident that even if we can’t shut down their activities completely, we’ll make it very difficult to operate in this town. What’s your next step?”
“The Italian-American prisoner knows more than he’s saying. I plan to go at him again. We still have the Russians and Poles. Then there are the Germans whom their police rounded up in the raid. If we can learn who was behind the killings, we’ll learn who’s trying to take over the territory.”
“All right. I won’t be able to offer much in the way of resources. I’m not even supposed to be involved in CID matters, but Major Gamin is not himself these days. I can’t rely on him, and you’re our best investigator. The crime gangs are getting away with murder out there. It’s like Chicago in the ’30s, for chrissake.”
“Unfortunately, sir, the only reason the gangs are getting away with murder is because there are American servicemen helping them out.”
“No doubt about it. And that’s where you come in.”
“What I mean to say is, the Americans helping are not just low-ranking GIs. To cover this kind of thing up means officers of rank, even command level.”
Udahl nodded and took thoughtful steps in Mason’s direction. “That’s why I want you to keep this between you and me for the moment. We want to nip this problem in the bud before the stories get the general staff riled up and the press and Washington start hurling accusations of corruption and incompetence. Of course, General Pritchard is following this with a sharp eye.”
If Udahl had the equivalent power of a big-city mayor, Lieutenant-General Pritchard, being the deputy military governor of Bavaria, was the governor of Texas.
“He’s been impressed with your police work here and in Munich,” Udahl said. “You proved yourself capable, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. His offer still holds. You get results for us here, and he’ll see that you get that position as a sergeant detective in the Boston PD. That’s not a load of bull. He intends to follow through on his promise.”
Mason couldn’t help smiling. It was what he had been praying for since the end of the war. As Captain Miller had said, after breaking the blue code of silence in the Chicago PD and being drummed out due to false charges, Mason had been blackballed from every big-city police force. Now he was offered a chance to become a stateside detective once again.
“There is one point I need to make clear,” Udahl said. “If it looks like you’re pushing against the army hierarchy, I want to be able to show them irrefutable evidence as to why. You know the army—command is one hundred percent behind the CID until they’re the ones being investigated. Tread carefully, or you’ll be the one tromped on. You run everything by me. Everything. I want careful police work. I’m on your side, Mr. Collins, and I want to give you every opportunity. We have to stamp out this crime wave no matter who it hurts.” He patted Mason’s shoulder. “No rest for the wicked, huh?”
“No, sir. And I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now get it done.”
* * *
Mason threw the dart at the cork target. It struck the bull’s-eye, which happened to be Hitler’s nose and mustache. He’d asked the police sketch artist to draw up a likeness of Hitler, then Mason had fashioned a dartboard to accommodate copies of the drawing. He’d gone through quite a few sketches in recent days. He retrieved the dart, stepped back to the opposite wall, and threw it again. The dart landed just shy of the previous mark. He retrieved the dart again, but this time he played with it in his fingers while he thought.
Mason’s office had a simple desk, one file cabinet, and two folding chairs. He’d put in a request for a better chair, as the one he had aggravated an old wound in his butt. A large corkboard dominated one wall, and besides furnishing a space for his Hitler target, it held photos and sheets Mason had pinned up with names and question marks delineating the known or suspected gang leaders of six criminal organizations that operated in the area. A separate section held photos of the three now-dead leaders, Giessen, Bachmann, and Plöbsch. Beside those were mugshots of most of the arrestees from the Steinadler.
After his meeting with Udahl, Mason had gathered Densmore and Abrams and interviewed the Russian and Polish arrestees. They were as tight-lipped as the Americans, except when it came to sharing their sad life stories. Most of the Russian and Polish arrestees had been POWs under the Nazis at a notorious prison camp in Ludwigsburg. Starved and beaten for years, many of these men had survived the appalling conditions by forming gangs that exploited others. Mason had heard of this kind of thing at Mauthausen, where the imprisoned crooks ran the barracks. The immoral had managed to survive. Mason came away from the interviews with the impression that any one of them would cut a person’s throat without raising his own heartbeat; these were men who had stayed on after liberation to take advantage of the chaos and plunder the countryside.
He and Abrams had also been present during the German police interviews of the German arrestees, but none of them revealed any new information, and no one had admitted to seeing the ex-Gestapo major, Volker, or knowing if Sergeant Olsen had been murdered or escaped. Since they couldn’t be charged with anything linked to the raid, Mason had reluctantly agreed to their release.
They had also conducted a search of Giessen’s posh mansion, which neighbored that of the famous composer Richard Strauss. The mansion’s notorious residents had been common knowledge and searched several times over the last nine months, first in the summer by the CIC to search for Nazis, then the past December by the CID in connection with stolen army property, but nothing had ever turned up. As a matter of course, Mason and Abrams searched it again, with the same results, save for the discovery of one ironic tidbit: Despite Giessen being a devout Catholic with five kids, he had still allowed Bachmann and Plöbsch to live together in one wing of the house like spinster aunts.
Giessen’s gang had been suspected of shakedowns, bribery, extortion, and murder for hire, but their main endeavor was trading in stolen petrol, coal, narcotics, food, and medicines in big quantities. Moving such large shipments of illicit goods across borders took travel permits, papers to cross borders controlled by the British and French, and more than a few cooperative MPs and other officials. Mason had inherited the case from a CID investigator who’d been transferred back to the States, leaving Mason with a slim file on the gang. What had caught Mason’s eye was the involvement of lower-ranked U.S. soldiers and lower-echelon military government officials, and that the army and military government law enforcement agencies, while expressing concern, seemed uninterested or unwilling to do anything about it. With millions to be made, many who came to Garmisch with high ideals succumbed to its temptations. Rumors even circulated that his predecessor had been transferred for the same reason.
Mason launched the dart again, but this time it stuck in
Giessen’s forehead. He retrieved the dart and shook his head as he studied Giessen’s photograph.
Who had killed Giessen and the rest? Did the killers know of the bust ahead of time, and then lie in wait for their victims? But how could that be if Mason’s identity was only blown just before the German police raided the bar? The three German gang leaders seemed surprised at Mason’s true identity, so how was it that the very person who could ID him happened to be at the bar at just the right time? It stank of a setup.
Mason threw the dart so hard that it penetrated the board and sank deep into the plaster wall behind it. He walked up to the board and had to yank on the barrel. Plaster dust and bits of the paper target followed the point.
“How many targets you go through in a week?” Abrams asked as he entered the room.
“Depends on how much thinking I have to do.”
Abrams stepped around the desk to keep his distance from the target. “It’s almost seven. I’m going to get something to eat and drink a gallon of beer. That is, unless there’s something you need for me to do.”
“No. Enjoy some downtime.”
“How about joining me? You look like you could use a drink or four.”
“I’m meeting someone at the train station in a half hour.”
“That’s right. Your girl’s coming into town. So that’s why you’re so tense.”
Mason said nothing as he threw the dart, striking a photograph of Plöbsch in his broad forehead. The point sank deep and snapped off where it connected to the barrel.
Abrams shook his head and started to leave.
“Listen,” Mason said, “you did all right today.”
Abrams nodded as he put on his hat. “Thanks. And good luck with your girl. Or maybe I should wish her luck.”
When Abrams left, Mason sat at his desk. He rubbed the weariness from his face, lit a cigarette, and then fished a letter out of his top drawer. He looked at it a moment before unfolding it. The sheet of stationery had deep wrinkles where Mason had crumpled it up and thrown it in the trash, only to retrieve it later and flatten it out again as best he could.
Spoils of Victory Page 5
