“And what makes you say that?” Mason said, then looked at Winstone. Winstone held up his hands in denial.
“It’s written all over your face,” Adelle said.
“What you’re seeing is only the effects of too much champagne.”
“Oh, not nearly enough of that,” Winstone said and filled Mason’s glass. He said to Adelle, “Mason’s been living the life of a monk since he’s been here—relatively speaking, of course. And I think it’s high time we changed that, don’t you?”
“I hope he hasn’t adopted all the virtues of a monk,” Adelle said.
“I’m a detective. I think I’ve broken most of the commandments by now.”
“Oh, a policeman. Then I should be careful of what I say.”
“Say what you like. I’m off duty.”
“I thought policemen were never off duty.”
“We policemen do find time to relax,” Mason said. He raised his glass and clinked it with Adelle’s.
“Mason was the one who was responsible for busting up that bar, the Steinadler, this afternoon,” Winstone said.
Adelle put her hand to her mouth. “Where all those people were killed?”
“The very same,” Winstone said.
Mason shot Winstone a look of irritation.
“Sorry, old man,” Winstone said. “I didn’t mean to spill the beans.”
“You were injured,” Adelle asked Mason, looking at Mason’s bandaged temple.
“Mostly my pride.”
“Anything come of your interviews?” Winstone asked.
“They were all tight-lipped. But it all made me think about your theories.”
“You two aren’t going to talk about work, are you?” Hilda said. “With two young and charming ladies to entertain?”
Winstone flashed a serious look as if he wanted to tell Mason something, but the moment passed a heartbeat later, and he became Mr. Jovial once again. “Of course, darling.” He looked at his watch and said, “It’s almost eleven. Why don’t we move the festivities to my place?”
Hilda and Adelle agreed, but Mason hesitated. This meant Mason and Adelle would be forced together in an intimate setting. He liked to pick the time and place to be with a woman, not be coerced into it, no matter how seemingly innocent the gesture. Usually this was when he would bow out. But the last thing he wanted to do was go back to his place, where he’d think too much about Laura, and have another sleepless night. Right then he needed the touch of a woman.
Mason agreed, and they left the restaurant, Mason taking Adelle in his car and following Winstone’s Porsche. Adelle talked about skating at the Casa Carioca with Hilda. Mason listened as he wondered how a CIC agent could have acquired a Porsche sports car, even with the enormous buying power of the almighty American dollar on the black market. It would have still taken an awful lot of dollars or cigarettes or whatever he traded to wrench that beauty from the clutches of its hapless owner.
Winstone drove east, through town, and up a winding hill that rose above Garmisch. They entered an elegant neighborhood where mansions disguised as Alpine chalets lined both sides of the streets, each on a sprawling lot and surrounded by walls. On the final turn, they cleared the trees, which revealed the city below. Mason assumed Winstone used this street to get to whatever humble billet the CIC had found for him. Something certainly more humble than the neighborhood they were passing through. But Winstone pulled up to an iron gate in a six-foot wall that surrounded a palatial estate. He opened the gate, and they proceeded up a long driveway to a side portico.
When they all piled out, Mason said, “This is your place?”
“Courtesy of the CIC. I told them I needed something private to conduct my investigations, and they gave me this. The owners fled to Switzerland or some such place. Now, if you’d stayed in intelligence, you might have had one of these babies.”
A short, bald, barrel-chested man greeted them as they entered the side door. He wore a white suit and black bow tie. He bowed as they passed, and Mason noticed that he’d barely refrained from clicking his heels.
“Oh, come on, John,” Mason said. “You actually have a butler?”
“This is my chef and butler extraordinaire,” Winstone said, and while he introduced Otto Kremmel, Otto’s facial muscles never moved, but his eyes said plenty: He would bear the indignities of serving people far below the status of his former employers, and Americans to boot.
“I prepared an evening meal, sir,” Otto said. “Which I could reheat, if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Winstone said.
Otto’s eyes were quite adept at showing his displeasure. “Do you require anything else this evening before I retire?”
“No, thanks. In fact, why don’t you take the rest of the night off? Go home and see your wife.”
“It’s rather late, sir. I appreciate the offer, but—”
“Nonsense, Otto. I insist.”
Otto bowed mechanically and nearly clicked his heels again.
Mason hesitated, tempted to learn more about Otto and his background, but instead, he followed the group through a large foyer.
Winstone leaned in to them to avoid Otto overhearing. “I don’t want him lurking around while we have fun.”
Winstone took Adelle and Mason on a tour of the villa, as Winstone called it. Even through the haze of alcohol, and with the distraction of Adelle on his arm, Mason wondered if the CIC had really arranged this life of luxury for Winstone, and if not, what exactly Winstone was mixed up in to acquire all this: the Porsche, with a Mercedes touring car in the garage, Persian rugs, porcelain china, crystal, silver. Mason didn’t know a Titian from a Picasso, but the paintings on the walls looked expensive. If the previous owners had fled, surely they would have taken anything valuable they could carry.
Adelle squeezed his arm against her breast and said under her breath, “I can see you thinking like a cop. For a night, forget. For a night, be enchanted.” She gave him a peck on the cheek.
Mason smiled and resolved that he would try.
Winstone took them through ten rooms: a massive living room with a carved marble fireplace, a dining “hall,” a sunroom, a library, an expansive kitchen, then the five bedrooms and three bathrooms upstairs. All the rooms were king-sized, all with antique furniture, intricate architectural details, and wooden or marble floors.
They returned to the living room. Winstone retrieved four bottles of vintage French wine from the cellar. They spun 78s on the gramophone. They danced and flirted. They smoked cigars and ate caviar.
At least two bottles of wine later, Mason had sunk deep into the plush sofa cushions, his legs and arms splayed out, his body warmed from the fire that crackled in the enormous fireplace. His head lay back on the rear cushion, and he puffed on a cigar as he studied the intricately carved ceiling and listened to a bouncy French tune on the phonograph. Adelle and Hilda had just left to go upstairs to the bathroom, leaving the men in silent reverie.
“I could get used to this,” Mason said.
“You could stay, you know,” Winstone said.
Mason lifted his head. “What do you mean? Live here?”
“Why not? It’s a big house, and it’s just Hilda and me.”
Mason found the proposal extremely appealing, that little voice prodding him along, saying it was about time he indulged in luxury and pleasure. And it surprised him that the notion would actually cross his mind. It unsettled him how easy it would be for him to fall for the temptation and embrace this lifestyle. He shook his head. “Nah, I might get to like it too much.”
“You don’t think you deserve a little luxury?”
Mason sat up and leaned on his knees. He studied Winstone as the man blew smoke rings at the ceiling. He’d seen his friend revert back to the old Winstone over the course of the evening, the frank, amiable, and humble guy he
once was. But Mason was concerned that this kingly lifestyle had already seduced his old friend.
Mason said, “Look, I’m all for a man getting what he deserves—”
“But you keep thinking that all this isn’t courtesy of the CIC,” Winstone said. He sat up and flicked his cigar ashes in a crystal ashtray. “The owners left in a hurry and were forced to abandon a lot of what you see. Some of the art and the cars were confiscated from Nazis by the CIC and consigned to me. They’re all registered and destined to be sent to Frankfurt’s central repository when I’m done with my investigation.”
“The wads of cash, vintage wines, the caviar?” Mason asked. “What does that have to do with investigating ratlines?”
Winstone shrugged. “If they see you as corrupt, you’re less of a threat. Considered more predictable, weak and malleable. I even deal with some of them on a business level.”
“And how do I fit into your plans? I can’t help wondering, why the VIP treatment?”
Winstone looked like he’d been stung by the comment. “You’re an old friend. I haven’t seen you in a long time, and I wanted to show you a good time.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying myself, but I think it’s also because someone or something has got you spooked.”
Winstone looked away and puffed on his cigar as if using the pause to come up with a response. “What I’m starting to uncover would make anyone nervous. The idea of you staying here as a”—Winstone searched for the right word—“deterrent? That didn’t occur to me until just now. I saw you enjoying yourself and thought you could work your job, stay here, and give me a little piece of mind.”
“Deterrent against what?”
“About a month ago, I hired some security, but they were unreliable, and I had the sense they were working for someone else. I decided I need someone I can trust. It’s not a big deal. I’m not asking you to stand guard all night. And cops take side jobs, right? Think of it as that: make a little extra cash and enjoy the perks, while helping out an old friend.”
“Is Adelle part of the compensation package?”
“I’m offended you think so little of me. Or her. She’s a nice girl. I admit we wanted to fix you two up, and you did hit it off, just like Hilda thought you would. That’s it.”
They heard Hilda and Adelle coming down the stairs. Winstone leaned in and said, “Think it over. Stay the night. Otto comes in at seven every morning and cooks up a mean breakfast. I promise we’ll talk it all over in the morning. Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt you to live a little, would it?” Winstone whispered the last sentence before the women entered the room.
Adelle smiled warmly at Mason and returned to his side. Her touch, her smell, her warmth worked better than any of Winstone’s words. Maybe he would take Winstone’s advice. Just for the night.
They danced some more and drank more wine. Mason and Adelle’s flirtations turned to intimate caresses, and Mason became aware only of Adelle, her breasts against his chest, her hips pushing into his as they danced. At some point late in the evening, Winstone and Hilda slipped away. Mason and Adelle danced another three songs. Then, already half naked, they went upstairs and made love in one of the bedrooms on a thick mattress under a lace canopy.
Lost in the luxury of Adelle’s embrace, Mason allowed himself to forget Laura for an evening, to be enchanted. . . .
At around three A.M., Mason woke up with Adelle sleeping at his side. His prodigious consumption of alcohol was now compelling him to go to the bathroom. When he staggered out into the hallway, he heard Winstone and Hilda inside their bedroom speaking with raised voices. The thick door muffled most of what they were saying, but he detected either anger or fear in Hilda’s voice. She yelled, with Winstone trying to calm her with a more measured tone. He could make out Hilda shouting his and Adelle’s names. And that someone should go, and go now.
Mason continued quickly to the bathroom, relieved himself, then crept back to the bedroom and gently prodded Adelle awake.
“We should go,” Mason said.
Adelle yawned and stretched. “We can’t. Hilda will be upset if we leave before morning.”
“I’ve got to be at headquarters in about four hours.”
Adelle took his hand. “Please. Let’s stay.”
“Stay if you like, but I’ve got to go.”
Adelle held her breath when she heard Winstone and Hilda’s distant argument. She rose quickly. “Not if you’re leaving.”
Mason apologized, but Adelle seemed more hurried than upset. They dressed and left quietly. They barely spoke as Mason drove them back into town. She directed him to her apartment, and he promised to see her as soon as he had a chance. Then he managed to find his way to his billet, a place on Frühlingstrasse by the Loisach River, a cottage compared to Winstone’s villa.
The time for forgetting came to a close. Mason remembered as he slept. He remembered the torture, the misery at the prison camps, the death march, and a little girl, Hana, dead in a snowy field.
SEVEN
Mason entered police headquarters an hour late, and a little worse for wear. Two hours of sleep and a gallon of champagne. Not so long ago, he could have done that and been ready to tackle the day. Last night seemed like a dream now, Adelle a divine apparition sent to help him forget Laura for a brief time, and the darker things in his mind. He would definitely see Adelle again.
Copious amounts of water and coffee, that was what he needed at that particular moment. But when he saw an MP, Private Stratford, heading for him as if competing for the land speed record, he knew he should have stopped by the officers’ mess before showing his face at headquarters.
“What is it, Private?”
“Sir, there’s been a double homicide. I’m to take you there. Mr. Densmore will meet you.”
“Densmore?”
Mason found that odd, as Densmore was the supervising officer and usually coordinated investigations from headquarters.
“Yes, sir. He wanted to be in on this one, for some reason.”
What, at first, had simply been a bone-chilling trip in an open jeep across town turned to unease when Private Stratford took a now-familiar path. Unease turned to dread when the jeep rose above town on the same winding road.
“This can’t be,” Mason said.
“What’s that, sir?”
“Nothing,” Mason said as they passed the same row of mansions.
The private stopped at the gate to Winstone’s villa. Two other MP jeeps were parked at the curb, and an MP stood guard at the open gate.
“When you get back to headquarters, tell Mr. Abrams to get his ass up here.”
“He’s already inside.”
Mason nodded then got out of the jeep. The MP guard waved him through the iron gate. Mason stopped halfway up the front walkway and lit a cigarette. He needed time to steel his nerves. A double homicide. Winstone and Hilda.
He cursed at the tragedy of it and hurled the cigarette down onto the snowy walkway. Abrams intercepted him as he took quick strides toward the villa he’d left only a few hours ago.
Mason asked, “What have we got?”
“The victims are a man and woman. A CIC agent, John Winstone . . .”
Mason cursed again under his breath.
“What’s wrong?” Abrams asked.
“He’s a friend of mine. I’m guessing the other victim is Hilda Schmidt.”
“Damn. How do you . . . ? I’m not going to ask.”
“I was here last night.”
“Damn,” was all Abrams could get out.
They entered the front door of the villa and stepped into the vast foyer. Three MPs stood outside the living room door.
Abrams continued, “Winstone left a suicide note—”
“Suicide note?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself, sir, but it’s pretty simple:
‘I can’t come back from this dark place. I’ve committed too many sins to go on.’ Seems like a murder-suicide to me. No signs of a forced entry, no tracks leading up to the house, no sign of a struggle.”
They entered the villa’s living room. Densmore was already there, crouched near Winstone’s and Hilda’s bodies, with the tips of his shoes touching a pool of blood spread across a Persian rug.
As Mason took in the scene, he struggled to maintain his composure.
Winstone sat cross-legged, cradling Hilda’s head with a lifeless arm. He had a bullet hole just above his right eyebrow with a chunk the size of a baseball missing behind and below his left ear. Hilda had been tortured: cuts, burns, and bruises everywhere her shredded nightgown exposed skin. She had at least ten stab wounds to the chest and stomach that Mason could see. But worst of all, her nose, lips, and ears had been cut off, and her eyes gouged out, giving her the appearance of a grinning skull wearing a fleshy mask.
After four years as a homicide detective in Chicago, two years of war as a soldier, and time in several POW camps, Mason should have been used to seeing the barbarity of man, but that had never been the case. And now he looked upon the bodies of his friend and a woman he’d grown fond of over the course of a few hours.
Obviously Densmore didn’t feel the same way: “Ain’t this romantic?”
Mason ignored the morbid crack and moved to the left side of Hilda’s body. He crouched to get a better look at Winstone’s wound. Being so close made his body cold. He summoned all his experience as a detective and imagined he was examining any other corpse, and not that of a friend.
Winstone’s head hung forward with his chin buried in his plaid bathrobe. His right eye was half open and full of blood. His left eye and mouth were clenched tightly closed in a frozen last moment of waiting for the impact of the bullet.
“A murder-suicide if I ever saw one,” Densmore said.
Mason needed a smoke at that moment, but the pack stayed in his pocket. It seemed disrespectful to light up even if the two were long past caring. He sighed instead.
Densmore began to report impassively, “A CIC agent, John Winstone—”
Spoils of Victory Page 7
