The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “Drenching me with the stuff,” Kaz said. “Then we all gather downstairs, and Henri strolls in, looking smug, I’d say.”

  “And then he decides to leave early,” I said. “Maureen takes off with Bowman in tow, after Henri and Bowman talk about going skiing somewhere.”

  “Zermatt,” Kaz said. “A beautiful spot. Then what?”

  “Wait a minute!” I snapped my fingers, remembering a detail of what happened next. “Earlier in the evening, Victor had asked Henri for a smoke. He gave him one from a silver case full of Parisienne cigarettes. But then after Maureen and Bowman left, Victor asked again, and Henri said he was all out.”

  “You’re right. He wouldn’t have had time to smoke all of them.”

  “And the only thing that’s missing here is that silver cigarette case,” I said. “It’s not with his lighter and his other valuables.”

  “Why would his killer take it?” Kaz said.

  “I don’t think he did. Otherwise the place wouldn’t be torn apart. The whole apartment was thoroughly ransacked for a reason. The killer was looking for something he didn’t find.”

  “Why the cigarette case?”

  “Because it contained something valuable. The invoices Henri was talking about, maybe. He brought those papers for Huber, and we saw them head to Huber’s office. Then later, Henri had me create a distraction. I’ll bet he snuck back there, stole the paperwork, and hid it in his cigarette case.”

  “Billy, what would the Red Cross acquire that would be so controversial? What secret purchase would be worth a life?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, moving the curtains and looking out to the street below. The crowd had dispersed. Move on, folks, nothing to see here. “But it’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s why Henri didn’t give Victor a smoke. It’s why the place was tossed. It’s why someone roughed Henri up and smashed his skull against the marble floor. Perhaps it was intentional, or perhaps the assailant simply went too far. The question is, where is the case now?”

  “Perhaps Henri gave it to his companion for the evening,” Kaz said. “She leaves at some point, and the killer arrives later, thinking he can simply take what he wants.”

  “With a little rough stuff, yeah. After all, it’s stolen goods. Henri couldn’t exactly call the police and report a theft,” I said. It looked like Henri’s plan had backfired. He’d hidden the cigarette case, and paid with his life. “It’s likely he didn’t give up the dame’s name. Otherwise he’d probably still be alive.”

  “Are you finished in here?” Escher asked, standing in the doorway. He was writing in his notebook, barely sparing a glance in our direction. I was sure he hadn’t overheard anything.

  “Yes, Inspector. Thank you for the courtesy, but I don’t see anything here except a well-searched room,” I said. “Do you have any ideas?”

  “If the victim were a woman, I’d consider a lover’s quarrel that got out of hand,” Escher said. “I doubt a woman could have grabbed Moret by the throat and pushed him down on the floor. But it does fit with the search. Looking for love letters or some such thing.”

  “Can’t say I haven’t seen it before,” I said. “Good luck.”

  “Stay in touch and out of my way,” Escher said. “Or else after the war I will come to Boston and bother you while you conduct a murder investigation.” He said it with a smile, but it was a friendly warning. No cop wants somebody else muddying the waters while they’re doing their job.

  I understood. But as we passed Henri’s body, I knew what we had to do.

  Find his killer.

  Stop him before he killed again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Shall we go to Alpenstrasse and speak with the concierge?” Kaz asked as we stepped outside. “It is not far.”

  “Let’s work this through first,” I said. Across the street was a park that ran the entire length of the road. We decided it was in the right direction for Alpenstrasse and that it would be a good place to talk without being overheard.

  And if we had to shoot, there were fewer bystanders to worry about.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t tell Escher about the cigarette case?” Kaz said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Whoever has it is in danger. Even people who don’t have it are in danger. No matter how trustworthy he is, word could leak out. It’s better for us if the opposition thinks we haven’t figured out what Henri was up to.”

  “The opposition must include the SVV,” Kaz said as we entered the park, taking a wide gravel path that ran through well-tended gardens, full of spring flowers. “Undoubtedly they wanted to search us for the case last night.”

  “And Hannes was probably waiting for another candidate at Alpenstrasse,” I said. “So who else is in their crosshairs?”

  “When Henri returned, there was Dulles, Maureen, you and I, Captain Bowman, and Victor. In our immediate circle, at least. I can’t think of anyone else,” Kaz said.

  “On his way to us, I saw him talking with McKittrick, the guy from the BIS bank, and Schmitz, from IG Farben. Then he spoke with Gisevius for a few seconds.”

  “For all we know, he could have handed it off to Dulles,” Kaz said. A pair of bicyclists passed us on the left. We both scooted to the right to make room for another pair coming up behind us. “He is a man of secrets. He may not have seen any reason to tell us.”

  “It could have been Gisevius, for that matter,” I said. “Henri seemed like a decent guy, but we have to consider he might have been working both sides of the fence.”

  “In theory, yes,” Kaz said. “Although I think we can discount Schmitz and McKittrick, unless we become desperate for clues. They are too grotesque to consider Henri being in league with them. He seemed a cultured man, after all.”

  “Gisevius also seems cultured, for a Nazi diplomat,” I said. Kaz stopped, his brow furrowed. “What?”

  “Henri spoke with Dulles and Gisevius before joining us,” Kaz said, resuming our stroll. “He said Dulles told him we’d been ordered to follow Krauch, correct?”

  “Right. Which was an odd slip to make in front of Gisevius. And Dulles doesn’t seem like a man who makes mistakes like that,” I said.

  “Which means that he trusts Gisevius,” Kaz said. “Is Gisevius working for Dulles? And if so, does it have anything to do with Henri’s murder?”

  “Okay, first we have to ask Dulles if he has the invoices and see where that leads,” I said, looking back as the sound of gravel under cyclists’ wheels drew closer. Two men were bent over their handlebars, making the best time they could.

  One of them, the guy closest to us, reached into his jacket pocket.

  I did the same, gripping my revolver. I tapped Kaz’s arm with my other hand, and he followed my gaze, digging into his pocket a second later.

  There were people on the trail, but no one close. Kids kicked a football around in a field to our left, where the cyclist would be in a second. I withdrew my pistol, ready to fire, turning to get an angle away from the kids.

  The cyclist’s hand came out of his pocket.

  It held a handkerchief. He shook it out and blew his nose.

  I jammed the weapon back into my coat pocket.

  “Seeing the corpse of a friend who suffered a violent death makes one wary,” Kaz said. “With good reason.”

  “We’ve got a lot of bases to cover,” I said. “Maureen and Victor after Dulles. Then Bowman, although I don’t think Henri would have entrusted the invoices to a man he’d just met.”

  “Perhaps, but an American fighter pilot in uniform would seem to be a safe bet if Henri felt he was in danger of discovery. We can also ask Victor if he knows any of Henri’s lady friends,” Kaz said. “Maureen may have an idea as well. She seems to have her fair share of relationships, so she may be more aware of those others have.”

  “Yeah, women are often more observant abo
ut that sort of thing,” I said, thinking of Diana and wishing she were here. She’d probably pick up on any number of things I was missing. “All right, let’s put Alpenstrasse on the list, but after Dulles. He may be able to clear things up.”

  The path split up ahead, one lane going deeper into the park, and the other in the direction of the main road, where we planned to grab a taxi. A few more cyclists came down the path in the opposite direction, and I had to laugh at myself, nearly plugging a guy for blowing his schnoz.

  “What’s funny?” Kaz asked. I told him, and he chuckled, turning to glance at another gaggle of bicyclists behind us in the left lane.

  Kaz stopped in his tracks, drawing his revolver without hesitation, aiming it at the lead cyclist, a guy in a cloth cap and baggy jacket. He looked familiar, but the suddenness of Kaz’s move caught me off guard. He took a step closer to the oncoming group, standing in their path with his arm outstretched and his Webley tracking the progress of the cloth cap.

  The rest of the cyclists panicked, for damn good reason, and went off the path in every direction, some of them crashing into each other while others managed to turn and flee the scene. Which is exactly what the guy in the cloth cap did, glancing over his shoulder as he put distance between the Webley and himself.

  “I hope our taxicab driver is not merely a cycling enthusiast,” Kaz said as he pocketed the revolver. “If so, I owe him an apology. But I doubt it, don’t you?”

  “I thought he looked familiar,” I said. “I think you just saved our lives.”

  “And his, too,” Kaz said. “I decided we didn’t need another shooting to complicate our day. It is enough to know we are on the right track.”

  “That we are. But I’d like to know where the track leads,” I said.

  We hotfooted it out of there, shouts in German and French echoing through the park, along with cries for the polizei.

  We took a streetcar back across the river, deciding we’d had enough of taxi cabs for a while. I should have been suspicious of any taxi passing by Dulles’s office. All sorts of reprehensible types might be interested in information they could glean from people who had met with America’s top spy in Switzerland. Whether our driver was SVV, Gestapo, or freelance didn’t matter. What mattered was that we were marked men, even though it didn’t seem like we knew enough right now to be that much of a danger to anyone.

  But we were a danger to anyone else we’d mentioned during the cab ride.

  “Kaz,” I whispered, leaning in close among the passengers on the crowded streetcar. “Didn’t we talk about Bowman and Maureen in the taxi?”

  “Yes. And the name of the hotel,” he said, shaking his head. “We were idiots!”

  The streetcar rattled across the bridge spanning the River Aare, where Lowenberg had drowned a few days ago. Georg Hannes was a ruthless man, a murderer, but this seemed bigger than one Gestapo agent. Resources were being pulled in from the local talent, and there had to be someone high up on the food chain coordinating it all. Krauch, maybe. Or von Schroder, if you wanted to think big. But why was Himmler’s banker involved?

  We got off the streetcar and hoofed it to the Hotel Schweizerhof after Kaz asked for directions. He was careful to ask a nice old lady, who didn’t look like a Nazi in disguise, but you never know. The hotel was a fancy joint, taking up a good portion of the block, its ornate cornices and baroque design lending a sedate elegance to the street.

  Which was somewhat marred by the police cars and a group of cops and soldiers standing out front. We edged closer, staying behind a gathering crowd of pedestrians, curious to see what the ruckus was about. I thought it might be us.

  I was wrong. The hotel doors swung open and two Swiss soldiers dragged Bowman out, followed by more cops.

  “Hey!” I shouted, pushing my way through the onlookers. “Where are you taking him?”

  The only answer I got was three burly polizei stepping forward, the stern looks on their faces telling me they were ready to use their truncheons first and ask questions later. Or never.

  “Billy!” Bowman yelled as they stuffed him into the backseat of one of the automobiles, slamming the door.

  Kaz held out his hands in a placating manner, speaking first in German, and then French. The soldiers ignored him, getting into the car that held Bowman and speeding off, leaving the polizei to deal with us. Finally one of the cops spoke to Kaz, and they went back and forth in French for a while.

  “He says Captain Bowman was arrested for assault,” Kaz said. “The army took over since he violated the terms of his furlough, and they have jurisdiction over evadees.”

  “Who did he supposedly assault?” I asked. “We saw him go off with Maureen, on their way here.”

  “This officer told me their names, which meant nothing. But he did describe the injuries Bowman is charged with inflicting on them. A broken kneecap among them.”

  “Hansel and Gretel,” I said.

  “Yes. The SVV and the Gestapo used their injuries to frame Bowman.”

  “Then someone searched the room,” I said. “Or they’re at it right now. Ask him if there was anyone unusual involved.”

  “He said the army officer did a thorough search of Bowman and went through the contents of the room. He wondered what they were looking for, and asked, but was told it was an army matter,” Kaz translated. “They seemed angry that they found nothing.”

  “Does he know where they’re taking him?”

  “Yes. He says to a punishment camp in Wauwilermoos, outside Lucerne. A bad place, he claims, and says he is sorry; he only did what the law required. He says if Captain Bowman is a friend of ours, we should send him a food parcel.”

  I studied the cop. He had the look of a guy who wasn’t happy doing the army’s dirty work but who knew his duty. A sadness around the eyes, a mouth set in grim determination, the shoulders a little slumped. I wanted to buy him a drink, but we had business elsewhere.

  “Merci,” I said, and we left before his thoughts of duty outweighed his sympathy and he asked to see some identification.

  We walked two blocks and hailed a taxi, keeping our lips zipped and getting out a block from our destination. We went in through the vineyard and found Maureen with Dulles. Both of them looked worried.

  “They’ve taken Bowman,” I said.

  “And Victor is missing,” Dulles said. This wasn’t a good start.

  “Who took Captain Bowman?” Maureen asked. “The police?”

  “On a trumped-up charge of assault,” I said. I was too much of a gentleman to ask when she’d left him, at least not in front of Dulles. “The two goons who jumped Kaz last night swore out a complaint saying Bowman attacked them. The police grabbed him at the Schweizerhof, but it was the Swiss army that took him away. To what they call a punishment camp, at Wauwilermoos.”

  “That’s not good,” Dulles said. “It’s where they house men who try to escape from internment camps, or evadees like Bowman who try to get across the border. Some have made it through Italy to our lines. The Swiss don’t like it much. They put a pro-German commandant in charge and it’s a hellhole.”

  “What did you find out at Henri’s?” Maureen asked.

  “The place was thoroughly searched,” I said, hanging up my coat and flopping down on the couch. “Someone roughed Henri up, but his death may have been unintended. His head hit the floor with some force.”

  “Horrible,” Maureen said, her hand going to her mouth.

  “Quite,” Kaz said, sitting across from Dulles, who puffed on his pipe. “We need to ask, Mr. Dulles, did Henri give you anything at the reception?”

  “What? No, he didn’t,” Dulles said, with what looked like real surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have any idea what Henri was up to?” I asked. “Outside of his usual work with Safehaven.”

  “This may sound cold, gentlemen, but H
enri Moret was an asset. A valuable asset. He provided inside information on who was doing business with the Germans within the banking community. But his primary usefulness would have come once we begin negotiations with the Swiss government. We have not gotten to that point. Moret did nothing more for us than provide data. Victor Hyde may be able to say more, but he’s nowhere to be found.” Dulles sucked on his pipe, but it had gone out. He looked disappointed it had stopped working, sort of like his attitude toward Henri’s death. An irritant.

  “Henri mentioned something about invoices,” I said. “He said it was important. A damning piece of evidence, he called it.”

  “Regarding Safehaven?” Maureen asked.

  “That was the impression,” Kaz said. “But I think he said invoice, the singular. And it came up in connection with his uncle. A doctor who went on one of the medical missions to the Russian Front. Evidently he spoke out about what he saw.”

  “Yes. Rudolf Moret,” Dulles said, leaning back in his chair. “The Swiss government did not like him revealing the mass executions he saw. Jews and Russian POWs alike. It put the Swiss in a bad light, assisting the Nazis.”

  “One invoice,” Maureen said. “You think Henri passed it to someone at the reception?”

  “That’s the theory,” I said. “Which is why we were followed, why Bowman was arrested after they searched his room, and why Henri was killed.”

  “Wait a minute,” Dulles said. “Where did he get this invoice?”

  “Henri came to the reception with papers from his bank for Max Huber. He could have lifted it at the bank, but I bet he lifted it from Huber’s office. Otherwise he wouldn’t have needed the distraction.”

  “You mean that clumsy move with the champagne bottle?” Dulles said.

  “Not so clumsy,” Maureen said. “Everyone looked to see what it was all about. If Henri wanted to slip away, that was the perfect time. And as Billy says, he and Huber had bank business to conduct, probably in Huber’s office.”