The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “They said they were going to search me and teach me a lesson. They accomplished neither of their objectives. Shall we ask them what they were after?”

  “Make it snappy. We still might be able to find Hannes,” I said. Kaz tamped the sidewalk with the iron bar and spoke to the two blondies in rapid-fire German. Between groans, they shook their heads. Kaz swung the bar in a high arc and brought it down next to the remaining good knee of the goon who could still breathe. It clanged and bounced off the pavement, recoiling into the perfect position for Kaz to take another, more precise swing.

  Gretel decided to tell Kaz everything. As a matter of fact, we couldn’t get him to shut up.

  There had been a big hubbub at the party after the champagne bottle distraction. Frenkel huddled with von Schroder and Huber, then told them to assist the Gestapo in whatever they wanted. Krauch ordered them to follow Kaz and me, and search us for papers. That’s all he knew; any paperwork they found on us was to be delivered to Krauch. There was a lot of bitte, bitte, after that, and we left the two hardcases to find a hospital on their own.

  “Papers?” I said, checking the street where Hannes had been lying in wait. Alpenstrasse. He was gone.

  “Nothing more specific,” Kaz said. “You haven’t had a chance to tell me, what was that stunt with the champagne all about?”

  “Henri wanted a distraction,” I said. “He wouldn’t let on a thing afterward.”

  “He did tell us he was on the trail of—what did he call it?—a damning piece of evidence.”

  “That’s right,” I said, remembering the details of what he’d said at the restaurant yesterday. “He mentioned an invoice. A piece of paper.”

  “What invoice would be so important as to have the SVV and the Gestapo following us?” Kaz said.

  “Well, Hannes wasn’t following us; we were trailing him,” I said as we carefully worked our way down the street. It grew darker as we walked under leafy branches swaying in the breeze. I was glad Kaz still had his trusty club.

  “Perhaps his role was to lead us astray,” Kaz said. “If so, he may have decided to retreat, or he might try and ambush us.”

  “If he saw how those two fared against one of us, he might have second thoughts,” I said. We walked slowly, watching alleyways and alcoves for any sign of Hannes.

  Kaz swung the iron bar casually, and I marveled at the change I’d seen in him since we first met back in ’42. He’d been thin as a rail and suffering from a heart defect that should have kept him out of uniform. Along the way he decided to toughen himself up and see the war through, whatever his heart decided to do. He wrangled his way out of a safe office job and began to exercise, lift weights, and go for quick-paced long walks in Hyde Park when we were lucky enough to be in London. He was still an egghead with steel-rimmed spectacles, and certainly the smartest guy I ever knew, but now he had stamina and muscle too. I hoped his heart could keep up with the rest of him.

  His was a heart that had been broken, and it had almost killed him. When I first arrived in London back in ’42, my first friends were Kaz and Daphne Seaton. Two lovers made for each other. They were happy. Then Daphne was murdered, and Kaz fell into darkness. He became careless with his own life, toying with death again and again. Then, somewhere along the line, he decided to live. Perhaps it was because it’s what Daphne would have wanted.

  Perhaps it was because so many Nazis needed killing.

  “Do we have any hope of finding him?” Kaz asked, stopping to survey the street ahead. Tall four-story structures lined both sides of the street, apartment houses with large windows and small balconies, all with shutters closed against the blackout.

  A muffled conversation floated out into the street from one of the buildings, one of the voices holding a hint of menace. Wide steps led to the main door, with access beneath them to the basement area, probably where the concierge holed up. Lots of places to hide. We stood still, watching for any sign of who was gabbing. Is this where Hannes was headed, or was it simply an argument between neighbors?

  A door opened and shut, the noise sudden and jarring in the quiet night. Kaz nudged me and I saw him. A figure rose from beneath the steps across the street, the familiar form of Hannes in his raincoat. We slowly knelt behind the fender of a car, watching as he looked up and down the empty roadway. He buttoned his coat and walked to the apartment house across the street. He took a few steps down the basement stairs, and leaned against the wall. Waiting.

  For what? For who?

  I tapped Kaz on the arm and we eased back a few paces, taking up a post at the rear fender of a Citroen Avant.

  “He’s got that placed staked out,” I said.

  “Yes, I would guess he talked with the concierge,” Kaz said, keeping his voice low. “Perhaps he bribed him. Or tried to gain entry to an apartment.”

  “I don’t see what good we can do here,” I said. “Hannes hasn’t led us to his place, and he might wait for hours. If he’s got surveillance duty, it could be all night.”

  “We could come back in the morning and speak with the concierge,” Kaz suggested. “Or we could wait in the gutter until dawn.”

  We decided to wait an hour. The hardest part was inhaling the odor of stale champagne from Kaz’s tuxedo, still damp from my clever diversion. Hannes didn’t move. No one came or went in the apartment building. A long hour passed, and we decided to give it ten minutes more. That’s when Hannes moved out from his hiding place. He stretched, his hands going to his back, like any guy who’d been standing on pavement too long. He walked away from us, to the corner. Seconds later, an automobile pulled to the curb on the next street. Hannes trotted over and got in, and it sped off, our quarry gone. Apparently he’d come up as empty-handed as us.

  We stretched ourselves and left, figuring we’d come back to question the concierge at 20 Alpenstrasse in the morning. Then we’d see Henri and find out what he’d been up to at the reception and if that was what the SVV and Gestapo boys were buzzing about. It was enough for one night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning Kaz and I were drinking coffee in Dulles’s office, reporting on our late-night stroll. No one else had showed up yet, and I was wishing we’d slept in a bit longer ourselves. The telephone rang and Dulles took the call, speaking in French. I watched as his eyes widened and he worked to recover from whatever surprise had been sprung on him.

  “Henri Moret is dead,” Dulles said, replacing the receiver. “Murdered.”

  “Henri?” I said. Even though I was a detective, I wasn’t immune to asking the same inane questions everyone asked when stunned at the news of murder. “Where?”

  “He was found in his apartment early this morning,” Dulles said. “That was Inspector Escher. He’s on the scene and will let you look around. Be discreet and see if this looks like it’s connected to Safehaven in any way.” He scribbled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

  “Elfenstrasse, in Kirchenfeld, where we were last night,” I said. “At least it’s not where Hannes was standing watch.”

  “Not that it did Moret any good,” Dulles said. “Find out what you can and report back. I’ll get Maureen and Victor in here. God knows when Lasho will decide to turn up. Go!” He was on the telephone before we were halfway out the door.

  “I wish we knew what Henri was up to at the reception,” Kaz said as we got into a taxicab. “Or if it got him killed.” Kaz gave our driver the address, and he nodded in the rearview mirror, tipping his cloth cap in what seemed like an old-fashioned gesture.

  “I wonder if some other SVV thugs followed him home,” I said.

  “Or the Gestapo,” Kaz said.

  “They don’t mind murder,” I said as our driver crossed the river. “But there’d have to be a damn good reason in a neutral capital. Otherwise it would just bring down the heat.”

  “But the SVV might see it as more of a loca
l matter,” Kaz said, gazing out the window. “Henri was certainly outspoken. It may have earned him enemies.”

  “Or maybe it was a burglary gone bad,” I said, not believing it for one second.

  “I am even more interested in the occupant of the building at 20 Alpenstrasse now,” Kaz said, as the taxi slowed and turned onto our street.

  “And I’ll be relieved once we know Victor and Maureen are safe. There’s no telling who else was followed last night, and for what reason.”

  “If we want to find Maureen, we may need to stop at the Hotel Schweizerhof, where Captain Bowman is staying. I have a feeling the interrogation may have continued into the night,” Kaz said.

  He paid the driver and we got out, stepping into a familiar scene. Police cars, a hearse, uniformed cops, and a crowd of onlookers. Everything was different: the uniforms, how police was spelled, and the language spoken by the gawkers. But it was also the same, the sad, standard routine of a crime scene, from the bored faces of the cops standing at the door to the gasps and whispers of the neighbors.

  Kaz gave our name to one of the gray uniforms and he opened the door, pointing upstairs. We went up to the landing, where Inspector Escher met us. He looked tired, the kind of tired that comes from working a corpse in the early dawn hours.

  “Henri Moret was a good man, which is why I took the step of informing Herr Dulles,” he said. “If his death had anything to do with his consultations with your people, I want to know about it.”

  “Of course,” I said, wondering who else Escher might be reporting to. Besides his regular boss, that is. Or who his boss might get on the telephone. This was kid-glove territory. “What happened?”

  “A struggle,” Escher said, leading us into the apartment. “Do not touch anything.”

  The door and lock were intact. It wasn’t a forced entry. First was a foyer, with a hat rack and a closet. A marble floor in a black-and-white pattern led into a large sitting room, the tall windows looking out over trees planted along the sidewalk. A pleasant view, the greenery blocking out the sidewalk and much of the street.

  Henri was on the floor. He wore a robe, more of a dressing gown, in a rich burgundy color, with a silk lining. Nothing underneath. A thick carpet covered much of the marble floor, but Henri lay at the edge, his head on the bare marble. His eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling. Or, more accurately, at where the person choking him had been.

  “You see the marks?” Escher said. I did. Bruises around his throat showed where his assailant had throttled him. It looked like it had been a one-handed attack. Right handed, judging by the largest discoloration, where a thumb would have dug into the flesh.

  “Is that what killed him?” Kaz asked, on his knees and studying Henri’s neck.

  “Perhaps not,” Escher said. “He struck his head on the floor. It could have happened when his assailant grabbed him by the throat. They struggled, and Moret fell, striking his head. It may not have been an intentional killing.”

  “Or he was pushed to the floor, and the other guy grabbed him by the neck and pounded his skull against the marble. Intentionally,” I said. A few feet away, a chair was knocked over and a side table had been upended. A glass and some magazines were strewn across the plush carpet. It wouldn’t have made a lot of noise. “I don’t suppose anyone heard anything?”

  “No,” Escher said. “A neighbor coming downstairs found the door open and looked inside. They called the police a little after six o’clock.”

  “Whoever did this was in a hurry to get out,” Kaz said. “Or didn’t want to risk the sound of a door closing.”

  “Or wanted the body found,” Escher said. “We can’t find anything that was stolen. His wallet, watch, and other valuables are all here. Do you have any information that could help us?”

  “We were at a reception with Henri last night,” I said, avoiding a direct lie. “We left about the same time. All I noticed was that a couple of Gestapo types were up in arms about something. On our way home, we were waylaid by two SVV boys who’d been at the reception with your friend Dr. Frenkel.”

  “Colleague, please,” Escher said. “I choose my friends with care. Do you know why they came after you?”

  “No idea,” I said, leaving out the part about us tailing Hannes, which may or may not have been connected. “But ask them. Two big blond fellows. One of them is probably in traction and the other has a broken nose.”

  “And ribs,” Kaz said. “Not that we admit to causing any bodily injuries. But they should not be hard to find in any hospital in the Kirchenfeld neighborhood.”

  “We are in Kirchenfeld,” Escher said, shifting his gaze between Kaz and me. “Are you sure there is nothing else you wish to tell me?”

  “If you find out what Frenkel’s stooges were after, you’ll have more information than we do,” I said.

  “Stooges?” Escher asked, his brow crinkling as he tried out the new word.

  “Goons. Thugs. Gunsels,” Kaz said, showing off his American gangster slang.

  “Ah, yes,” Escher said. “Yes, many of the SVV are stooges, as you say. But you must not withhold any information from me. I am polizei, not SVV.”

  “I know, Inspector Escher. I swear, nothing we did had any bearing on this, as far as I know. If we find anything out, we will inform you,” I said, gazing at the inert form of Henri Moret. “For his sake, if no other.”

  “Forgive me for asking, Inspector,” Kaz said, “but are your superiors as clear as you are about the distinction between the police and the SVV?”

  “My immediate superior, yes,” Escher said, lowering his voice, which told me he wasn’t as sure about the uniformed polizei stomping through the apartment. “If there is information of a delicate nature, I will do my best to keep it out of any written report. But I cannot promise.”

  “Okay,” I said, stepping away from Henri’s body and moving away from the other investigators. “We were following Georg Hannes. He showed up outside the reception, and we tailed him. The two SVV men followed us and jumped Kaz. Their mistake.”

  “First, be careful. Failure does not sit well with those people. Second, did this have anything to do with the reception?” Escher asked.

  “No way to tell,” I said, leaving Henri’s brief absence out of it. I trusted Escher, but we needed to control who knew what until we’d figured this thing out. “Can we look around the apartment?”

  “Yes, but do not touch or remove anything. We will check for fingerprints, but neighbors have told us a cleaning lady was in yesterday. She does two other apartments as well.”

  “A lazy cleaning lady is the detective’s friend,” I said.

  “Billy, this is Switzerland. Everything will be spotless,” Escher said with a grin.

  We started in the kitchen. Scrubbed and sparkling. A corkscrew and a cork sat on the counter next to the sink. Several of the drawers were open and showed signs of being searched. We checked the dining room, which held a waxed table and hutch with glassware. Not a speck of dust, but the glass doors were open, as if someone had quickly checked the contents. The bedroom was different. Henri’s tuxedo was tossed on an armchair, the pockets turned inside out. A circular table by the window held a silver plate, with his watch, cuff links, cigarette lighter, and wallet, along with small change. Dresser drawers were pulled open, clothes dumped out, evidence of a thorough search.

  Bedsheets were strewn over the mattress. Matching pillows held the impression of the last heads to rest against them. A half-empty bottle of wine was on the dresser, and wine glasses had fallen on the floor near each nightstand, their contents spilled on the rug.

  “Henri wasn’t alone last night,” I said.

  “No, and this is an excellent vintage,” Kaz said, taking in the label. “He may have been celebrating. Or he kept nothing but the best.”

  “He looked pretty pleased with himself last night, but he d
idn’t spill the beans to anyone. If he told his guest in a moment of weakness, she might be in danger herself. Maybe she saw the whole thing.”

  “And ran out after the assailant left, leaving the door open in her panic,” Kaz said. “It could have happened that way, if she had somewhere to hide. We should ask Victor who the likely candidates are.”

  “Ask Escher to see the wine,” I said. “You’ll be a better judge of that. It feels like it might be important.”

  Kaz went to find the inspector, and I stood still, studying the room, trying to get a read on what had happened here. Henri was the one who wanted to leave the reception first. Now it was evident why. Maybe his date was already here, waiting. They drink some wine, do some cavorting, and then what? Sleep? Or does she go home? I couldn’t really find a decent hiding place, not one that would have stood up to the concerted search that had gone on here.

  Or maybe the dame was part of the setup. She gets Henri sloshed, then lets in the intruder. He comes out in his robe, and things go south.

  But no. This wasn’t a robbery. Henri’s wallet, watch, and gold cigarette lighter were left in plain sight. What was wrong with this picture?

  “Henri was well stocked with wines,” Kaz said, entering the room. “But this open bottle was one of his best.”

  “Something you’d have for a special celebration?”

  “Yes, it was definitely not an everyday wine, even for a man of Henri’s refined palate,” Kaz said.

  “So Henri leaves the reception,” I said, pacing back and forth in the bedroom, stepping around clothes scattered on the floor.

  “No, start with his request for a diversion,” Kaz said. “He must have had a reason for that.”

  “Right. He gave me ten minutes to get into place. You moved in to make sure nobody got hit in the head. I went upstairs and bumped into Bowman, who wanted to chat with another Yank.”

  “Did you see where Henri went off to?” Kaz asked.

  “No, he melted into the crowd. So I enlist Bowman, who’s up for a prank, and we send the champagne flying,” I said, tapping my finger against my mouth.