The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “Testing how?” I asked.

  “He’d been making the rounds at several banks, trying to deposit ten thousand Swiss francs in an account belonging to Werner Lowenberg.”

  “Deposit, you said?” Kaz asked.

  “Yes. He’s done this before,” Victor said, pointing the way up another stone stairway. “His story is that he’s making a deposit for a friend who cannot leave the country. A reasonable story these days. If a teller accommodates his request, then he has confirmed the presence of an account outside Germany, which is illegal, and in exactly which bank the account was created. That is enough to convince anyone to cooperate, if they have had any reservations.”

  “Hannes confirmed the account at Credit Suisse?” Kaz asked.

  “He did, yesterday. Usually, Hannes goes back to Germany and escorts the account holder here, where he has him withdraw all his funds in exchange for his freedom. He releases him dead broke to an internment camp. A marked improvement from what he could expect in Germany.”

  “Why does he bother to keep his word?” I asked, huffing a bit as we climbed the steep stairs. “The Gestapo isn’t known for such niceties.”

  “He takes a picture of the fellow in Swiss custody and has him write letters confirming he’s been freed. It helps convince others to give up their wealth. We’ve learned this from talking to those who have been let loose here. Not all of them are Jews or other enemies of the state, so he likes to have a reputation for keeping his word. It’s good for business.”

  “But Werner Lowenberg is dead?” Kaz said as we reached the top and headed down a quaint street with steep medieval roofs overlooking the river.

  “Yes. And two million Swiss francs withdrawn from his account,” Victor said. “Unusual that it happened so quickly. Hannes must have had him close by.”

  “And unusual that Lowenberg was killed?” Kaz said.

  “Yes. It’s messy, and Hannes is anything but messy.”

  “Maybe there’s no one left to extort,” I said.

  “I talked with a German Jew last week,” Victor said. “He’d been hiding for years in Munich, but the Nazis found him and matched his name to a list Hannes had put together. Good news for him, since he’s alive, but it cost him over a million dollars—all the gold and currencies he had stashed with the Swiss National Bank. There’s still money to be made for the Third Reich, and they need it, believe me.”

  “Money doesn’t mean much if you’re dead,” I said, as we walked into a large, open square, dominated by a massive white granite building overlooking the river, its copper roof towering above the skyline.

  “Some of these poor souls were hoping their children would survive and make their way here after the war,” Victor said. “But Hannes broke them down. Fear, intimidation, and the sudden hope of life, these are his tools.”

  “What is this place?” Kaz asked Victor as we walked across the plaza. The story he was telling was too close to home for Kaz, and I knew he was changing the subject. “So we can get our bearings.”

  “It’s the Bundesplatz, the government plaza. That’s the parliament building,” Victor said, indicating the large granite showpiece that overlooked the river. “And see the smaller building tucked up on its left, with the brown roof? That’s the Swiss National Bank. Money and power are never far apart in Switzerland. Unlike justice. That’s police headquarters, at the end of the Waisenhausplatz.” He pointed to the far end of the wide thoroughfare, where a squat building sat alone behind a wrought-iron fence.

  Inside police headquarters, Victor asked the desk sergeant for Inspektor Emil Escher. At least I figured he was a sergeant, since every stationhouse I’ve ever been in put a sergeant out front. His uniform was gray, and it fit his attitude. He lifted a receiver and spoke into the telephone as if he were doing us a big favor. I wondered if he didn’t much like Victor Hyde, or Americans in general. Or maybe the inspector.

  After we spent a few minutes staring at wanted posters in German, French, and Italian, the door behind the surly sergeant opened and another cop escorted us downstairs to the basement. Sparkling clean tile floors, painted brickwork, and large glass windows marked this as the morgue, hidden away at the rear of the building. A man in plain clothes waited in the hallway. Behind him, two uniformed policemen leaned against the wall, puffing away, a lungful of cigarette smoke always welcome after viewing an autopsy. The plainclothes guy was about thirty, with dirty blond hair brushed back and receding on either side of his wide forehead. He had striking blue eyes and rounded, high cheekbones, all sitting above a narrow chin and a mouth turned down in displeasure.

  “I do not work for Herr Dulles, Victor. And officially, neither do you, since you are part of Ambassador Harrison’s staff.” I knew Leland Harrison was the American ambassador, and of course we were supposed to be on the legation staff. I hoped Inspector Escher wasn’t about to look into our credentials.

  “Certainly not, Emil,” Victor said. “I simply asked Allen to make a call so we could arrive as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to waste your valuable time.”

  “If you have any information about this case, it will be worth my time. If not, you’ve used your last favor. Who are these gentlemen?”

  “Mr. Boyle and Mr. Kazimierz, also from the legation. This is Inspector Escher, of the Kantonspolizei Bern. Boyle was a police detective before the war and offered his assistance.”

  “Inspector, I never liked telephone calls from politicians either,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “Oh, is that what Herr Dulles is today?” Escher said, giving me half a smile. “Come. Our good doctor is almost done.” He opened the door to the autopsy room. The usual scents assailed me. The intense chemical smell of formaldehyde, the sour, acidic stench of bile, the muddy earthen aromas arising from viscera. I was glad we hadn’t eaten in a while.

  Four stainless-steel tables were arrayed in the center of the room, with sinks and counters behind them. One of the tables held the stitched-up body we’d come to see. Enamel bowls on the counter held organs, the brain easily recognizable. The rest looked like mush, not that I lingered over the display. A tall, thin man with graying hair and stooped shoulders was washing his hands at one of the sinks. His rubber apron was splattered with gore.

  “Inspektor, wer sind diese Leute?” he asked as he dried his hands. He looked us over, a bit irritated, a bit more curious.

  “Herr Doktor Frenkel,” Escher said. “These men are from the American legation. They are interested in what you’ve found out about the victim.”

  “Do not rush to judgment, young man,” Doctor Frenkel said in excellent English. “Victim implies a perpetrator. This Jew drowned, likely a suicide.”

  “How do you know his religion, doctor?” Kaz asked, his brow furrowed as he studied the body.

  “One can tell. But in this case, he had a passport in his jacket pocket.” Doctor Frenkel pointed to a pile of sodden clothing laid out on the counter. A German passport lay open, a large red J marking the holder as Jewish. The pages were soaked and stuck together, but the passport picture matched the man on the table. Werner Lowenberg. Or as the passport said, Werner Israel Lowenberg.

  “The middle names are always Israel, for a man, or Sara for a woman,” Escher said, studying the picture. “As required by the German racial laws.”

  “An intelligent approach. It is good to know the kind of people you must associate with,” Doctor Frenkel said.

  “I would have thought the big J would be a clue,” I said, studying the body. Lowenberg wasn’t in the best shape before he went into the water. Thin and gaunt, but not starvation thin. Maybe he’d been ill, or perhaps he’d always been a skinny guy.

  “No, I mean for my own country,” Doctor Frenkel said. “We are overrun with Jews, and what are we to do with them? They are nothing like us. Completely alien to schweizerisch culture.” He waved his hand over the corpse as if swatting a f
ly. Victor stood silently, his hands held behind his back, looking like he was trying to avoid an international incident.

  “Here,” Kaz said, turning the left forearm, laid close to the torso. It was a tattoo. A170603.

  “What is that?” Escher asked.

  “It means this man came from a place in Poland. Auschwitz,” Kaz said, laying the arm back down gently. We both knew what that meant. It was an extermination camp. For Jews, Gypsies, political opponents, all the groups that didn’t fit into the glorious future the Third Reich had in mind for Europe.

  “He is not Polish,” Escher said, checking the passport. “This was issued in Berlin, less than two weeks ago.”

  “No, he’s not Polish,” Kaz said. We exchanged glances, both of us holding back what we knew. This wasn’t the time or place, and it would serve no purpose. We’d read the report from a Polish soldier who’d escaped the death camp. We understood what went on there. It wasn’t a slave labor or a punishment facility. It existed purely to massacre people on an industrial scale. It was too horrific to imagine, and most people couldn’t manage it. There was no reason to draw attention to ourselves by trying to convince these two guys, especially Frenkel, given his attitude.

  “I wonder what the tattoo means,” Escher said. It made sense that he wouldn’t have seen one. Some of Hannes’s victims may have had the tattoo, but it wasn’t the kind of thing they would have rolled up their sleeves to show off.

  “It is a numbering system to keep track of Jews,” Doctor Frenkel said. “I heard about it in Russia.”

  “What?” I think all three of us said it at the same time.

  “I was part of a Swiss medical mission on the Eastern Front in 1942. A ghastly winter,” he said, standing over Lowenberg’s body and giving a slight shiver at the memory. “We saw the Germans relocating whole villages of Jews. An officer I treated told me they’d all be tattooed. It was simpler than paperwork, you know. It’s a huge job to move them to safe areas and put them to proper work. All for their own good, of course.”

  “Of course,” Kaz said. He remained calm in the face of this drivel, the only clue to the rage I knew was beneath the surface was a small tic at the corner of his eye. “I wasn’t aware the Swiss sent medical units to combat areas.”

  “I have a reserve commission in the army. It was an excellent opportunity to observe the fight against Bolshevism. And, of course, there is nothing like warfare to spur advances in medicine. Some of our junior doctors gained valuable experience.”

  “Has Switzerland sent medical missions to other nations?” I asked.

  “Other nations? No, of course not,” Frenkel said, spitting a short, sharp laugh. “Now, what else can I do for you?”

  “This is interesting,” Escher said, wisely ignoring the conversation. He was holding up the tie Lowenberg had been wearing. In the other hand, he held the passport. The tie in the photo was the same. It was harder to tell with the jacket, but the material looked the same as well.

  “He evidently liked the tie,” Frenkel said, with a sigh of boredom.

  “You said he died from drowning,” I said. “Water in the lungs?”

  “Yes. He was found tangled in a tree branch downstream from the Dalmazibrücke, a pedestrian bridge over the Aare,” Frenkel said. “There is an iron railing he easily could have gone over.”

  “Or been pushed,” Inspector Escher said. “Why do you say it was suicide?”

  “No wallet, no watch or other personal effects, except for that passport. He may have found the promised land not to his liking.” Frenkel grinned at his pathetic joke. I looked more closely at the body. Lowenberg’s hands were small, almost delicate. Except for traces of dirt still caked under his fingernails, they belonged to a man who worked indoors. Which made sense, if he’d accumulated enough money to open a Swiss bank account.

  “Would you say he suffered from starvation or any abuse?” I asked.

  “Not starvation, based on the condition of his organs,” the doctor said. “There is no evidence of liver damage or muscle wasting, which would be evident after even a few days without adequate food. His musculature indicates a sedentary life, which would account for his thinness. He’d eaten a meal of sausage and potatoes recently.”

  “Any wounds or marks?” Escher asked.

  “On his back, a cut likely made by the branch his coat caught on. Nothing that would have caused any permanent damage. Here, on the back of the skull, there is a contusion.” He lifted the head and turned it. The torn skin was surrounded by a red lump.

  “He could have been struck from behind and dumped over the railing,” Kaz said.

  “Or hit his head against the rocks along the riverbank,” Frenkel said. “Perhaps, Inspector Escher, you should look for reports of an altercation on or near the bridge. Failing any evidence to the contrary, I see no reason to consider this other than a suicide. A poor wretch, alone in a strange country, penniless and despondent, takes his own life. Sad. But really, where could he go? When the war is won, Germany will not take them back. We Swiss cannot continue to feed thousands in the internment camps. The future must have seemed bleak to him.”

  “Won?” Kaz asked. “By Germany?”

  “Of course. Look at all the National Socialists have accomplished. They certainly cannot allow the Communists to win. Once they defeat your forces in France, they will turn their attention back to Russia. So you see, Switzerland cannot be a land of refuge for Jews forever. Now excuse me, it has been a long day. An attendant will see to the body.”

  “Thank you for your valuable time, doctor,” Victor said, holding the door open for him. Frenkel grunted, discarded his gloves and apron, and left us alone with the corpse.

  “Hardly a neutral attitude,” Kaz said as soon as the door slammed shut.

  “You cannot complain about Doctor Frenkel and in the same breath ask for my help,” Escher said. “If I practiced neutrality, you would not be here now.”

  “No offense meant, Inspector,” I said. “The doctor has a right to his opinions.” I shot Kaz a look, trying to smooth things over. A friendly cop was an asset to be cultivated. Kaz nodded and kept quiet.

  “He is an ass,” Escher said, the epithet hissing between his teeth. “He’s active in the SVV, the Schweizerischer Vaterländischer Verband. They’re Nazi sympathizers with a good number of senior army officers among their membership, including General Henri Guisan.”

  “Guisan?” Kaz said, wrinkling his brow in disbelief. “Isn’t he the armed forces commander?”

  “Yes,” Escher said with a smile. “Welcome to neutral Switzerland. I am sorry for my display of petulance in the hallway. With others watching, I did not wish to be seen as overly sympathetic. You know, Victor, I will do whatever I can to help.”

  “I understand,” Victor said, clapping Escher on the arm. “Are we done here, gentlemen?”

  “I have one question,” I said, gazing down at the mortal remains of Werner Lowenberg. “If he was alone and penniless, who fed him sausages and potatoes?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Hurry,” Victor said as we left the police station. “We’ve got five minutes to get to the Café Fédéral, in the Bundesplatz.”

  “Do we have a reservation?” Kaz asked, quickening his step to keep up with Victor’s strides.

  “No, but we need to get there before they close off the streets. Otherwise you’ll miss the show.”

  “What show?” I asked, curious, but mostly hungry. Autopsies had that effect on me. They were nauseating to watch, but once I got back into the fresh air, I always felt an overwhelming joy at being alive, along with a desire for food and drink, as if I’d escaped the coroner’s slab myself.

  “The Reichsbank convoy is due any moment,” Victor said. “It’s quite a sight.”

  We made it with time to spare. The Café Fédéral sat at one corner of the plaza, facing the parliament bu
ilding with the Swiss National Bank to the left. Victor made his way to an outside table with a perfect view of the Bundesplatz, occupied by a dapper gent in a pin-striped suit who raised his glass in greeting.

  “Henri, these are the men I told you about,” Victor said. “Baron Kazimierz and Billy Boyle, this is Henri Moret. A good friend.”

  “Victor is always kind when I pay for drinks,” Moret said. “Allow me.” He filled our glasses with a red wine, and I caught Kaz checking the label. He arched one eyebrow, which meant he was quite impressed.

  “To what lies beneath,” Victor said as we clinked glasses. I asked what he meant, but Henri spoke before he could answer.

  “There and there,” he said, pointing to two side streets that led off of the plaza. Police cars had pulled across the lanes, blocking access. Uniformed cops began to filter in, standing at street corners, watching as the last vehicles left by the one remaining route. It was after five o’clock, and like most government towns, the place emptied pretty quickly. “Soon, they will arrive.”

  Henri Moret was a good-looking guy, a hair south of forty. He had dark hair that was beginning to expose his widow’s peak, and a strong, dimpled chin that gave his face character without spoiling it. His eyes were lively and his suit well-tailored. As a matter of fact, Switzerland was full of well-tailored suits, unlike England or France.

  “They?” Kaz asked.

  “The gold convoy from Germany,” Victor said. “A delivery direct from the Reichsbank in Berlin.”

  “How do you know all this?” I asked, tasting the wine. I didn’t know a lot about wine, but I knew this was the good stuff.

  “Because I work there,” Henri said, nodding in the direction of the Swiss National Bank. “I handled the paperwork myself. Of course, the more senior bank officers will greet the Reichsbank officials, and the more junior staff will do the actual unloading and accounting. I am middle-level management, so I may leave work on time to sit and drink wine with you gentlemen. Much preferable, don’t you think?”