“Yeah, I know this guy. A friend of mine.”
“Pretty fancy digs for a CIC agent. What do you know about him?”
“He was investigating some ex-Nazis who he suspected were running a ratline.”
“What do you know about the dame?”
“Hilda Schmidt. Winstone’s girlfriend. They seemed really tight. She worked at the Casa Carioca as a skater.”
“A real looker. Or she was.”
Mason closed the woman’s open robe to cover her nakedness. Densmore’s childish humor was getting on Mason’s nerves. He clamped his jaw to suppress it. He bent low to examine a carving knife that lay on the floor a few feet from Hilda’s hand. The blade and handle were caked in dried blood.
“Pretty clear fingerprints on the handle,” Densmore said. “I’m gonna bet that they’re Winstone’s.”
On the surface, it appeared Densmore was right. Mason pointed out the lack of blood in Winstone’s lap. “Looks like she was dead by the time he sat down and propped up her head. Why would he go through the effort to cut her up then cradle her in his arms and shoot himself? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Now, don’t go complicating things.”
Mason indicated the champagne bottle lying on its side by the fireplace and the two broken champagne glasses. “They decide to celebrate her butchering?”
“Look, it’s simple enough for me. He finds out she’s fucking some other guy, loses his head, and cuts her up. As soon as his head clears, he starts bawling: ‘What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done?’”
Mason looked up to Abrams, who had turned pale while staring at the two corpses. “Were you the first to arrive on the scene?”
“Yes, sir,” Abrams said, then pointed toward the living room door. “Me and Specialist Tandy.”
“Did either of you find the woman’s body parts?”
Abrams shook his head. “Everything was as you see it. And it looks like nothing was taken. His wallet with a wad of cash and his gold engraved pocket watch are still on the bedroom dresser.”
“And you’ve searched the grounds?”
Abrams nodded. “Wilson and Tandy are still out there.”
Mason looked closer at Winstone’s head wound. “Odd way to shoot himself. Above the right eyebrow.”
“He could’ve been nervous and slipped. Or bawling so hard his aim was bad. Could be any number of reasons why he shot himself there.”
“So, you’re certain this is a suicide?”
“There’s nothing to indicate it was anything else. Nothing. And if we throw around the speculation that a CIC agent was murdered, it’s going to create a real shit storm.”
Mason looked up at Densmore, surprised by his remark. “I don’t like tossing out other possibilities because it might complicate the job.”
“You’re the one who said you wanted to keep a low profile.”
“This one’s different. I was here last night, and neither of them showed—”
“Wait, wait, wait . . .” Densmore said, holding up his hands. “You were here last night?”
“I met Winstone and Hilda for dinner, and he invited me back here.” Mason decided to leave Adelle out of it for the moment. “We drank and talked. They seemed happy together. They were having a lovers’ quarrel when I left, but most of the time it was nothing but smiles and kisses.”
“What time did you leave?”
“About three in the morning.”
“By the looks of it, I’d say they died very early this morning. Maybe even as early as three.”
“Oh, come on, Pat. You should know better than that.”
“No, I shouldn’t. Can anyone corroborate you leaving before they died?”
Mason hesitated. “I was with a girl. We left together, and there was no one in the living room. Like I said, Winstone and Hilda were having a little argument, but I think it was about me and the girl still being here. Look, don’t start in with the questions if you really think this is a murder-suicide.”
“Is that what you think?”
Mason thought a moment. “He did hire a security team about a month ago because he was spooked about investigating a ratline. He asked me to stay with him for the same reason.”
“Was the team here last night?”
“He didn’t trust them, and let them go over a month ago.”
“He was so spooked he fired them and asked you to do a sleepover.”
Mason had to admit, Densmore had a point.
Densmore said, “I’ll ask you again. Based on what we have, what do you think?”
Mason had his suspicions, but he sighed and said, “Everything seems to point in that direction.” He felt ashamed for saying it, but Winstone and Hilda were having a heated argument. Still, that didn’t explain such a brutal slaying.
Densmore stared at him for a moment. Mason dodged the look by going back to considering the scene. A framed eight-by-ten photograph sitting on the mantel caught his eye. He strode over and plucked it off to have a closer look. It was a publicity photo from the Casa Carioca, of seven dancing girls in sparkling outfits in front of a twenty-piece orchestra. A circle was drawn around Hilda’s face with the word mich!—me!—then an autograph at the bottom where Mason made out Hilda.
Looking upon the smiling young woman with eyes full of hope and youthful energy made her disfigurement more tragic, and he started to feel that familiar slow burn of rage. He put the photograph back in its place. “If Winstone cut her up, what did he do with the body parts? Why get rid of those and leave the body where it was?”
“There you go again.”
“And why the nose, lips, ears, and eyes? If he wanted to deface her out of jealousy, the usual thing is to slash up the face, not this.”
“I don’t know what went on in his head, and neither do you.”
Mason decided not to push his suspicions too far. “I know he has a chef who also serves as the butler for the place. A villa like this, he must have had other servants.”
“Besides the cook, two servants,” Densmore said.
“Anyone talk to them yet?”
“I got here five minutes before you did.”
“The chef’s the one who found them,” Abrams said. “Says he came in this morning around seven and found them like that. Apparently the two servants, an elderly husband and wife, have been out of town since yesterday morning. They’re expected to come back by train tomorrow.”
“Where’s the cook?” Densmore said.
“We’ve got him in the library.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when I first got here?” Densmore asked.
“You didn’t ask.”
Mason suppressed a smile. Most of the other investigators and MPs didn’t care for Densmore. He acted imperious to the lower ranks and spoke ad nauseam about his experiences as a cop in St. Louis.
Densmore fixed his glare on Abrams. “Anything else you decided not to tell me because I didn’t ask?”
Abrams looked to Mason for help.
“Anyone call the crime scene techs and ME?” Mason asked Abrams.
“The techs were busy at another scene, but they should be here anytime now. The ME is up in Frankfurt for a medical summit, so the hospital is sending a doc over, but that could take hours.”
“Then get the German ME over here,” Mason said.
With a “yes, sir,” Abrams moved out, looking relieved at being rescued from Densmore’s wrathful glare.
“Damned rookies,” Densmore said. “We’ve got major crimes going on in this city, and the detachment’s run like a small-town sheriff’s office. Back when I was in St. Louis, we’d’ve had a whole team swarming over this place—”
“Let’s go talk to the chef,” Mason said.
Densmore looked annoyed at the interruption, but he got the message. “By all means. Let�
�s go talk to the kraut.”
They crossed the broad dining room with its mahogany-paneled walls and ceiling adorned with intricate molding. At the far end, they came to a door guarded by an MP. The MP stood aside to let them enter.
“The guy’s fit to be tied, sir,” the MP said. “A real Nazi asshole.”
“Thanks for the professional assessment, Private,” Mason said.
The two investigators entered a room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Along the back wall stood tall windows overlooking spacious gardens buried in snow. From a seat in one corner, Winstone’s butler and chef, Otto Kremmel, eyed Mason with a look of recognition. He shot up from the plush leather chair. “Why am I being kept prisoner?” he barked in German.
Mason introduced Densmore.
“I simply reported this incident to the authorities,” Otto went on, “and now I am confined as if guilty.”
“Do you speak English?” Densmore asked.
Otto shot a disdainful glance at Densmore. “I speak English, Italian, Polish, and Russian.”
“English will do, Herr Kremmel,” Mason said.
“You’re pretty well educated for a cook, Herr Kremmel,” Densmore said.
“I am not a cook. I am a chef and have headed kitchens for some of the finest families in Germany.”
“What’s a Nazi chef doing cooking for an American army captain?” Densmore said.
“I am not a Nazi!”
Mason and Densmore both tensed when Otto went for something in his suit coat breast pocket. Otto opened his wallet and pulled out a fistful of papers. “My denazification certificate and identity papers.”
“Put those away, Herr Kremmel,” Mason said. “We don’t need to see them. We understand you let yourself into the house around seven this morning?”
“Seven-oh-two precisely. I always knock twice, at one-minute intervals. If there is no response, I am authorized to enter and begin my day.”
“And last night, you left at what time?”
“You saw me leave, sir. At eleven P.M.”
“Did Agent Winstone seem agitated, nervous, or angry in any way?” Densmore asked.
Otto looked at Mason with a puzzled look then back to Densmore. “He seemed quite cheerful.” He looked at Mason again. “Sir, you can vouch for what I am saying.”
“I’m asking the questions,” Densmore said. “Did Agent Winstone speak of anyone who may have wanted to harm him or Miss Schmidt? Any heated arguments with other visitors or over the telephone?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
Mason said, “But Agent Winstone did hire a security team about a month ago, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but that lasted only a week. He decided that was a waste of money and had them leave.”
“Would you say Miss Schmidt and Winstone got along okay?”
Otto looked carefully at both Mason and Densmore as if calculating his answer. “If you mean, did they quarrel or have violent disagreements, none that I witnessed.”
“You also work as a butler here, don’t you?” Mason said. “Hours beyond what’s required to prepare the meals?”
“Yes. On Saturday evenings I am allowed to go home to spend Sunday with my wife.”
“Winstone dismissed you, and gave the servants the day off. Is it unusual to let the whole staff off on the same evening?”
“Perhaps, but I am not in the habit of questioning my employer’s wishes.”
A bead of perspiration broke out on Otto’s forehead. His eyes lost focus as he thought. Mason watched him closely. There was something Otto was hiding, but before he could press Otto about it, Densmore blurted out, “Otto, you know any reason why Agent Winstone would kill Fräulein Schmidt, then himself?”
Otto’s eyes widened. “No. Certainly not.”
Densmore looked around the room, taking in the expensive furniture and what appeared to be rare and valuable books. “Do you know if all this fancy stuff was left by the previous owners? Or did Agent Winstone acquire them?”
“Agent Winstone brought me into his employ a month after taking up residence here.”
“Does that mean you don’t know?”
“That is precisely what I mean. I do know that the previous German owners were an elderly couple and had let the house fall into disrepair. I know nothing about the furnishings, but I was present when Agent Winstone made extensive renovations. He was very fond of this house and put a great deal of money into repairing the many holes and cracks. This room, for instance, one was of his favorites. It was in terrible shape. The floor, French doors, and sections of the exterior have been completely repaired or replaced.”
Densmore blew into his hands. “You’d think he would have put fixing the furnace at the top of his list.”
“Agent Winstone had the coal furnace refurbished, but he didn’t like using it,” Otto said. “He preferred to use the fireplaces for heat.”
Densmore’s expression turned sly. “It must have been tough for you; after being a cook for the wealthiest families in Germany, you come to work for an American soldier.”
Otto dabbed his lips with his handkerchief. “Please, gentlemen, may I go now? This . . . incident has left me distraught.”
Mason pulled out a pencil and his notepad and handed them to Otto. “Write down your address in case we have any more questions.”
Otto wrote down his address with a slight shake to his hand. When he finished, he bowed his head and moved for the door.
“Oh, one more thing, Herr Kremmel,” Mason said. “It’s just for the files. My boss wants details, you understand. . . . Where was your last position as chef of a household?”
Otto hesitated.
“We could look it up, but it would save us some time.”
Otto almost came to attention again, but his mouth went crooked. “My last employer was the Krupp family.”
Densmore’s jaw dropped. “The Nazi industrialist Krupp? And you got yourself denazified?”
“Preparing a family’s meals does not require sharing their political beliefs.”
Mason stepped forward, his eyes bearing in on Otto. “Who certified your denazification card?”
Otto’s eyes flitted nervously between the two investigators. “Why, Mr. Winstone.”
“Why would he have personally done that? Was it because he wanted a good chef, or was there some other reason?”
“I have done nothing wrong. And now I am being persecuted simply because I performed my civic duty and reported Mr. Winstone’s death.”
“We can call for a review of your certification, Herr Kremmel.”
“Please, sir. Why would you want to do such a thing? I swear to you that I know nothing else.”
The man was close to tears, and Mason knew he would get nothing else out of him without pressing him hard—if there were anything left to get. Despite suspecting the man knew more than he was saying, Mason dismissed him. And as he did so, he had the distinct feeling that everyone—from Otto to Densmore to Mason’s higher-ups—would have a vested interest in making this case go away.
EIGHT
When Mason and Densmore returned to the living room, they found that the crime scene techs had arrived—in reality, one tech, a photographer, and two MPs who’d received cursory training in dusting for fingerprints and crime scene procedures. One took measurements then added them to his sketch of the corpses and the room. The other two were dusting for fingerprints. Flashes from the camera illuminated the corpses in a ghostly light.
Abrams led a bony, gray-haired man up to Mason and Densmore. “This is Dr. Saltzman.”
The doctor tipped his hat. “How do you do? I was reluctant to examine the victims until I was sure you were finished with them.”
“Sure, yeah, thanks for that,” Mason said. “Go ahead, doc.”
When the doctor walked away, Abrams s
aid, “Looks more like an undertaker than a doctor.”
“In this case,” Mason said, “it’s about the same thing.”
Mason watched the doctor examine Hilda’s corpse for a moment, then told Abrams to take two MPs and canvass the neighborhood while he and Densmore searched the villa.
The rooms on the ground floor yielded little. The basement consisted of numerous rooms, but the wine cellar appeared to be the only one frequented in the last few years. They finally made their way up to the second floor and the five bedrooms. The bed where Mason and Adelle had made love was still rumpled, and Mason felt obliged to tell Densmore that they’d spent two hours in there. They ended their search in Winstone’s bedroom. The room was furnished in elegant Biedermeier furniture, including the four-poster bed, with Persian rugs on the floor.
“All this for one guy,” Densmore said. “Maybe I should get a job in the CIC.”
Densmore had a point: A five-bedroom mansion seemed a lot for one intelligence officer, though the finest villas and châteaus had been confiscated for army brass and higher-ranking military government officials, many of whom lived like kings.
Mason scanned the surface of a triple dresser. Winstone’s gold pocket watch and his wallet containing five hundred dollars were there, just as Abrams had said. Hilda had placed a number of her personal things on top as well. He looked through the drawers—Winstone’s affairs on one side and Hilda’s on the other—but found nothing significant. Winstone did have a collection of photos of his wife and two daughters hidden under his socks—a testament of his recent feelings toward his stateside family. Notifying Winstone’s family of his death would normally fall to his immediate CIC superiors, but since Mason knew Winstone’s wife personally, he resolved to call her with the bad news.
Densmore banged around in the armoire, and Mason moved on to an ornate eighteenth-century desk, which sat under a broad window looking down onto Garmisch. All the desk drawers had been pulled out at odd angles. Papers were strewn on the desk’s surface and on the floor.
“Someone went through Winstone’s desk,” Mason said. “Everything else we’ve searched has been all neat and tidy. He even trifolded his underwear.”
Spoils of Victory Page 8
