Spoils of Victory

by John A. Connell

  He put the paper in his breast pocket and replaced the money and repinned the lining. Abrams closed the armoire doors, prompting Mason to ask, “Anything?”

  “Not much. I guess she’d moved most of her stuff over to Winstone’s.”

  Mason asked the woman, “Did Fräulein Schmidt spend much time here?”

  “She always had some kind of man friend she stayed with. She rarely slept here, that I know of. Just come and go on occasion, bring something in and take something out again. Like she wanted people to think she lived here for propriety’s sake.”

  “Did she say anything about going away recently?”

  The woman’s eyes lit up as if Mason’s question reminded her of something. “She came in a little over a week ago, bragging she had a way to get out of Germany. She was so excited that she was bouncing around like a little girl. I told her it’s illegal for Germans to leave the country, and that whatever she had cooked up would get her into trouble. She wouldn’t listen. And now look what happened. She was a dreamer, that girl.”

  Abrams asked, “Did she say anything else about that?”

  The woman started to tear up again and shook her head.

  Mason thanked the woman, and they left. The only clue they walked away with was the piece of paper with the mysterious letter and numbers. Perhaps a code. Perhaps something as simple as a license plate number. Whatever it was, Mason had uncovered a little more about the life and death of Hilda Schmidt—more than he cared to know, because now he felt her death more deeply than before. She deserved justice, and Mason was determined to give it to her.

  * * *

  Densmore had still not come back to headquarters when Mason and Abrams returned. That was fine with Mason. And though he wondered where Densmore had gotten to all this time, he was in no mood to try to go through him to get to Major Gamin.

  Gamin had taken over the former deputy mayor’s office in the main Rathaus building. Mason knocked on his door and wondered if Gamin had regained his senses or was still orbiting Mars. The colonel responded with a “yeah,” which was more grunt than actual verbal utterance.

  Mason entered a large but modest office. Gamin was a stickler for neatness. Everything in its place, the desk clutter free. A few books lined one shelf, but there were no file cabinets or any other signs of a commander in charge of a detachment of MPs and CID investigators, especially for a crime-ridden town like Garmisch. The only defining feature in the room was the collection of paintings of horses: horses on the plains, horses in rodeos, horses supporting cowboys or Indians. Gamin obviously fancied himself as a rootin’ tootin’ cowboy—hence the nickname “Bronco Bob.”

  Gamin sat at his desk with his head buried in an open file. He didn’t bother to look up. He devoted his attention solely to turning over a page and placing it carefully facedown and making sure the edges lined up perfectly with the previously read pages.

  Mason waited at attention.

  Gamin glanced up at Mason then went back to his file. “Looks like you slept in your uniform. I’ll not have my men looking like bums just because the war’s over.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Come back when you’ve fixed the problem.”

  “I’m afraid I have a bigger issue that needs addressing at the moment, sir. I need a travel pass to go to Munich this afternoon and see General Pritchard in the matter of an investigation.”

  “What investigation is that?”

  “The possible murder of a CIC agent, John Winstone.”

  “I heard Winstone killed himself.”

  “That hasn’t been concluded, and I want to explore all possibilities. Agent Winstone and General Pritchard were working on an investigation, and I believe that investigation may have led to Agent Winstone’s death.”

  Gamin finally looked up from his desk. “You think General Pritchard has something to do with it?”

  “No, sir,” Mason said patiently. “Since he and Agent Winstone were the only two people privy to a certain set of files pertinent to their investigation, I’d like to see if the general can tell me what Agent Winstone discovered while down here.”

  “You want to see General Pritchard dressed like that? Permission denied.”

  Mason was about to press further, but stopped when he noticed Gamin seemed to be studying some area of space behind Mason as he rolled a pencil around in his fingers. “You play golf, son?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Golf. Do you play golf?”

  “I haven’t got the patience for it. I keep hitting the ball and running for first base.” Mason thought a little humor might lighten things up, but Gamin furrowed his brow.

  “Communists don’t like golf,” Gamin said.

  “They don’t like baseball, either, and that’s my sport.”

  Gamin nodded. “You’ve got a point there.”

  Mason hesitated. Time to risk another strategy.

  “Sir, it’s about the theft of the American flags. It could be a bigger Communist conspiracy than we thought. Agent Winstone was investigating a nest of Communist agitators, and he may have been murdered because of it.”

  “You think I’m a damned fool?”

  “No, sir. I thought you were concerned about the theft of American flags, as I am—”

  “The CIC doesn’t give a damn about American flags. They’ve got a bunch of krauts working as agents. What kind of half-cocked theory have you cooked up?”

  “I thought that, since General Pritchard is personally involved with Agent Winstone’s case, he would take the thefts very seriously.”

  “The flags are just the tip of the iceberg, Collins. Typewriters, chalk and erasers, cases of paper, two cases of army manuals—which I’ll attribute to the reason for your dereliction of duty in the proper comportment of a soldier in the U.S. Army.”

  “All the more reason to make sure General Pritchard is up-to-date and on board.”

  Gamin thought for a moment. “All right. Tell my assistant what you need, and I’ll sign it.” He stuck his index finger at Mason and furrowed one brow. “And don’t think I don’t know what goes on around here. I’ve got my eye on you.”

  Mason said, “Yes, sir,” and saluted.

  Gamin grunted and went back to reading his file. Mason told the assistant what he needed and, with some additional prodding and gentle reminding, persuaded Gamin to sign the travel orders.

  Before he caught the train to Munich, he checked out a jeep from the motor pool and drove over to Adelle’s apartment. On the drive over and while he knocked on Adelle’s door, he had the feeling he was being watched. And his disquiet only grew when Adelle failed to answer the door. In that moment a thought surfaced to the forefront of his mind. If he hadn’t heard Winstone and Hilda arguing and insisted on leaving last night, then there would have been two more bodies making a trip to the morgue today: his and Adelle’s. That eliminated Adelle as a suspect, but made her a potential victim. For all he knew, she lay dead just behind this door. For all he knew, he was next.

  TEN

  The journey from relatively pristine Garmisch to the blackened ruins of Munich was jarring for Mason. He found the main train station even more crowded with German refugees from the Sudetenland than when he had been stationed there. And the streets were filled with more misery; the long winter and the extreme shortages of food had taken their toll on the population. Though the rubble had been cleared from the streets, and construction was taking place on numerous corners, the city still faced a long road back from its shattered remains. The only bright note was that the trolley lines were running once again, though where they took people without jobs or money was a mystery to Mason.

  The taxi took him southeast of town to the sprawling complex now called the McGraw Kaserne. Built by the Nazis, it had been designed as a mixed-use facility, housing everything from vehicle mai
ntenance to patent offices and the offices regulating uniform patches for the armed forces and uniformed bureaucracy. Now, however, the immense main building housed the American military government of Bavaria.

  The taxi driver dropped Mason off on the tree-lined cobblestone street that passed along the front of the complex. The buildings’ swastikas had been blasted off, of course, but the place still epitomized the Nazi fondness for structures that intimidated through colossal monotony. Instead of black and brown Nazi uniforms, the place now buzzed with army green and suited civilians. While the American fighting forces were slowly shrinking, the bureaucracy required to govern the occupied country had mushroomed, easily filling the three hundred offices.

  Throughout the American zone of occupation there were more military governors than you could shake a stick at: governors of townships and districts, like Colonel Udahl in Garmisch; then higher in the pecking order the major cities, and the states—or Länder; and ultimately the highest of the high, Generals McNarney and Clay, governor and deputy governor, respectively, of the entire American zone. General Pritchard being the deputy military governor of Bavaria, the largest Land in Germany, meant his place on the food chain was quite high indeed. To have this man on his side was exactly the kind of support Mason needed.

  Pritchard’s office was on the fifth floor. Mason had to pass through several checkpoints and reception desks before reaching the general’s secretary. When he entered, the master sergeant requested neither his ID nor Gamin’s written orders and immediately ushered Mason into the general’s office like a visiting VIP.

  While General Pritchard talked on the phone, Mason took the moment to look around. Unlike Gamin’s sterile surroundings, Pritchard’s office had overstuffed file cabinets and a desk cluttered with papers. There were the ubiquitous framed portraits of President Truman and General Eisenhower, but, oddly, there were no pictures of family or friends or other reminders of home.

  Pritchard hung up the phone and rose from his chair. Mason saluted and they shook hands. The man was Mason’s height, six feet, with a full head of silver hair that broke in waves. His bushy, turbulent eyebrows arched and wagged above jovial eyes, and with his full cheekbones, rounded nose, and pointed chin, he reminded Mason more of a circus ringmaster than the typical dour army general. But despite his theatrical exterior, he exuded strength and trust, and he looked straight in Mason’s eyes as they exchanged salutes. Mason found he’d liked him right away.

  “I appreciate you coming all the way up here to talk to me about Agent Winstone,” Pritchard said as they shook hands.

  “I’m grateful for the opportunity, sir.”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Collins. No need for formality with me.”

  Before Mason could even settle in his chair, Pritchard said, “So, you don’t believe it was suicide.”

  “Contrary to available evidence, no, sir, I don’t.”

  “I’ve known John for some time now. I can’t, for the life of me, imagine any reason why he would do such a thing. And killing that girl before taking his own life? I don’t see it.”

  “That opinion makes you a member of a very small club, sir.”

  Pritchard smiled, his waggling eyebrows emphasizing the sentiment. “I’ve never been swayed by popular opinion. And I can see you feel the same way.” He turned serious on a dime. “But I didn’t say Winstone murdering his girlfriend then committing suicide was impossible. Just beyond my understanding. Some aspects of the incident have reached my desk, including Winstone leaving a suicide note.” He leaned on his elbows and locked on Mason’s eyes. “I want you to convince me that Agent Winstone didn’t dishonor his name and the army.”

  The gravity in the general’s tone reminded Mason not to let Pritchard’s kindly appearance lull him into thinking that the general was any less serious or formidable, and he took a second to regroup his thoughts. Obviously Densmore had already filed his version of the preliminary report and sent it to Munich.

  Mason said, “Sir, I believe Agent Winstone was murdered for something he had or knew or intended to do. Something related to his investigation, and, according to him, he shared the findings of that investigation with you. I—”

  “That’s all well and good, Mr. Collins, but what about concrete evidence?”

  “Sir, I’ve been a homicide detective for a while now, and I’ve learned to listen to my gut, even when there’s a lack of evidence. The odd angle of the bullet wound in his forehead. The fact that they were dressed in only their bathrobes and drinking champagne in front of the fire. We’re still comparing fingerprints lifted at the scene with anyone associated with Winstone’s villa. And we’re still waiting on the autopsy report. Also, Agent Winstone had hired a security team about a month ago for fear that his investigation might put him in danger.”

  “Yes, that was in one of his reports. But he let them go a week later. So far you haven’t presented anything that convinces me.”

  Mason took a deep breath and said, “Plus, I was with him the night of the murder.”

  “You?”

  Mason nodded. “And Agent Winstone showed no signs of a man about to murder the woman he loved and take his own life.”

  The general’s expression turned stony as he eyed Mason. A long moment passed in silence, then the general sighed and sat back in his chair. “Let’s say he was murdered. Why do you think that happened?”

  Mason said a silent thank-you for Pritchard being a “bottom-line” kind of man. “Agent Winstone spoke to me in confidence about his work—the day of the murder, in fact. And that evening he expressed some concern for his safety.” Mason went on to explain why he believed Winstone had been killed, that while investigating the ratline, he’d uncovered a possible conspiracy to take over all the criminal activity in Garmisch. He told Pritchard that Winstone had claimed he’d collected information in a set of secret files, information explosive enough to shake the U.S. military to its core. “He told me only he and you had copies of the files. The CIC detachment commander has refused to grant me access to Agent Winstone’s office and papers, so I was hoping you could help.”

  “By granting you that access?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pritchard pressed the intercom button. “Sergeant Whitcome, could you have all of Agent Winstone’s reports brought in to me?” After the sergeant acknowledged, he sat back in his chair and thought a moment. “Would it be possible for you to send me your report on the investigation once you have the autopsy results?”

  “Yes, sir . . . though I doubt it will tell you much more than what I’ve already laid out.”

  “Perhaps a second pair of eyes, by someone who shares your theory.”

  Mason nodded. “I’ll send it along.”

  “Any idea as to who would want him dead?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping his files will tell me. How long have you worked with Agent Winstone?”

  “Three months. He was sent to me by his CIC section chief with the proposal for the investigation in Garmisch.”

  “In that time, did you become aware of anyone Agent Winstone might have angered, or—”

  General Pritchard chuckled. “Angered? You realize he was investigating ratlines involving a very desperate group of individuals. High-ranking Nazis with very powerful friends? Then suspecting that those individuals were somehow connected to criminal elements? I’d say those two activities could produce some enemies. I don’t mean to make light of his death; it’s simply that that kind of investigative work carries a great deal of risk. Frankly, it comes down to finding the murderer or murderers in a whole crowd of people who wanted him dead.”

  “If there is a ratline organization Agent Winstone was onto, I doubt murdering him would serve their purpose. They’re a covert operation, reluctant to call attention to themselves, especially by killing American intelligence officers. And if Winstone had uncovered something thoroughly damning, they
would have made him simply disappear.”

  The master sergeant entered with a handful of file folders with FOR GENERAL PRITCHARD’S EYES ONLY stamped in red ink across each cover. The sergeant laid them on General Pritchard’s desk and left.

  While Pritchard looked through the folders, Mason asked, “Did Agent Winstone relay to you he was getting close to discovering the people involved in a powerful gang that is taking over the black market operations in Garmisch?”

  Without moving his head, Pritchard raised his thick eyebrows to peer at Mason. “He indicated that he was onto something of the sort, but was unable to produce anything concrete. His updates were usually a weekly affair, so who knows what he discovered after I’d received his latest report?”

  The general shuffled through the files, then opened one with a time stamp of February 23, 1946—almost two weeks back. Pritchard punched the intercom button. “Sergeant, are you sure you gave me everything from Agent Winstone?”

  “Yes, sir. From the file cabinets and the safe.”

  Pritchard shuffled again through the folders as if searching for something. “Seems I haven’t received anything later than the twenty-third of last month.”

  “Agent Winstone mentioned he had a few informants inside a couple of operations. Do you know who they were?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Pritchard said and held up a file folder for Mason to see. “He did have a short file on you, by the way.” He looked up from the file and studied Mason as if weighing Mason’s potential involvement in criminal conspiracy. Apparently satisfied, his eyes turned jovial again and he said, “Nothing damning. He kept tabs on most of the U.S. personnel of German heritage.”

  “His two assistants are more German than I am. I was born here, but my mother emigrated to the U.S. when I was four.”

  “Yes, that’s in there,” Pritchard said and leaned forward. “Is there anything I should know about between you and Winstone?”