The Devouring

by James R Benn

  “If everyone left, wouldn’t they lock it?” Kaz asked, sensibly.

  “Maybe. Or maybe they left all hell for leather and didn’t give it a thought,” I said.

  “Hell for what?” Lasho asked as he started the engine and drove right through the gate. He parked by the office door at the front of the warehouse. I saw a few guys in blue coveralls walking around the big trucks backed up to the loading docks. Workers. They ignored us, probably figuring us for more muscle.

  “Lasho, stay here and keep an eye peeled, okay?” I said.

  “Do what? Speak English, please.”

  “Keep watch,” Kaz said. “Honk the horn once if there’s trouble.”

  “I will. Thank you for translating,” Lasho said, adjusting the rearview mirror for a good view of the road.

  “I didn’t realize Lasho was such a funny guy,” I said, as we approached the door.

  “He is unique,” Kaz said. “We need to be sure Maureen gets identity papers for him. He’s in danger, especially traveling with us.”

  “We’re about to add breaking and entering to the list,” I said. “Unless—” I turned the door handle. It was unlocked. “We’re in luck.”

  We entered, shutting the door quietly behind us and stepping up to a counter strewn with newspapers and coffee cups. I glanced at the papers. Das Schwarzer Korps, the Volkischer Beobachter, and other Nazi rags. We walked around the counter into the main office. Four desks were pushed together, piles of paper stacked everywhere. From what I could tell, they looked like bills of lading. Shipping information. Purchase orders. I pushed the piles around. Everything was coated in grime, from carbon paper, oil, and years of cigarette smoke. Your typical warehouse shipping office. The place was silent. A wisp of steam rose from one of the coffee cups, abandoned scant minutes ago.

  There were two doors on the far wall. Kaz made for the one on the right and opened it, revealing a small office, cleaner and brighter than the main area. A bottle of schnapps sat on the desk, along with a stack of papers and an overflowing ashtray. Kaz sorted through the contents, and I headed to a second matching door next to the one Kaz had opened. I glanced out the window, catching sight of two workers loading a flatbed truck with sheets of rolled aluminum. Other than that, it was quiet.

  Then I heard the second door open.

  “Haben Sie nicht mit den anderen verlassen?”

  I spun around to see a stocky figure emerge. He was busy adjusting his tie and smoothing down his hair. Behind him, I saw a couch with a blanket bunched up on it. I guess this guy rated a nap while everyone else went on the wild-goose chase.

  I gave a little shrug, trying to cover my surprise and avoid a conversation. I picked up one of the newspapers and leaned against the counter, hoping to convey nonchalance, which was tough with my heart hammering inside my chest.

  “Komm, lass uns gehen,” Kaz said in a sharp tone as he exited the office. He snapped his fingers at me, sparing a nod for the Gestapo man, who yawned and returned to his couch. I tossed aside the paper and followed Kaz, who chattered at me in German until we were safely outside.

  “Let’s go,” I said as I climbed into the backseat. “We seemed to have awoken the dullest Gestapo man in Switzerland.” Lasho eased the automobile out of the parking lot, taking his time and not attracting any notice, the mark of a good getaway man.

  “Did you kill him?” Lasho asked as we drove back the way we’d come.

  “No,” Kaz said. “We let him go back to sleep. He wanted to know why we hadn’t gone with the others, and we left as if we were late to the party.”

  “Well, all right,” Lasho said, forgiving us for not leaving a corpse behind.

  “But it was not a wasted visit,” Kaz said, taking a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolding it. “This mentions Georg Hannes.” He held it up for me to see, but with all the German script and swastika stamps on it, I couldn’t figure out what it was all about. Hannes’s name was inscribed at the head of the document, along with his rank. Other than that, I had no clue.

  “What am I looking at?” I asked.

  “An arrest warrant,” Kaz said. “Ordering the apprehension and immediate arrest of Georg Hannes, for crimes against the state. Financial crimes, it says.”

  “Good. Now if we don’t kill him, the Gestapo will,” Lasho said.

  “Always look on the bright side, that’s the ticket,” I said.

  “Neither the Swiss nor the Germans seem to care he most likely murdered Lowenberg,” Kaz said. “But if he violated banking laws, then they come for him.”

  “Hey, they got Al Capone on income tax evasion, so don’t complain,” I said. “Anything else in the arrest warrant?”

  “Nothing specific,” Kaz said. “He is to be returned to the Gestapo headquarters in Munich for theft and misuse of funds belonging to the Reich while on duty in Switzerland.”

  “The bank accounts,” I said. “That’s why he killed Lowenberg. It probably wasn’t a sanctioned operation.”

  “It did seem hurried, compared to his usual routine,” Kaz said. “At least, as far as Victor described it.”

  “We’ve got to find him,” I said. “That’s good news about Hannes, but it doesn’t get us any closer to who killed Henri. We need that cigarette case.”

  “Let us hope Henri’s uncle can help,” Kaz said, unfolding a map from the glove box. “Oberburg. It looks to be an hour away, perhaps longer on the mountain roads.”

  “It will be dark soon,” Lasho said, glancing at his watch. Wehrmacht issue, of course. “Should we wait until the morning?”

  “No, let’s see him today. He might not know what’s happened. We owe it to Henri to tell him,” I said. Not to mention, any clue he might be able to provide would be useful. If Uncle Rudolf knew anything at all, it was worth the trip.

  I soon had second thoughts about that as the sun began to set beneath the mountains. The road to Oberburg was dark, narrow, and winding, following the course of a river through forests of towering pines. Finally, we drove into the small town, nestled beside a lake, a shimmering darkness in the fading light of day. We passed a railroad station and church, the largest buildings in sight. The houses all sported long sloping roofs, testament to the winter snowfall in the Swiss Alps. We found Doctor Moret’s place easily, just outside the town center. The second-floor balcony was hung with flower boxes heavy with geraniums, a wood-shingle roof jutting out over it. The ground floor looked to house his office, going by the shiny brass plaque at the door. A sliver of soft light shone between curtains in the office windows. As we got out of the car, one of them was pulled aside for a moment. Then the lights went out.

  “Not very welcoming,” I said as we approached the door. Kaz lifted the knocker and called out for Doctor Moret in German. No response except for the sound of a door slamming shut inside the office. Lasho darted around the back as Kaz kept up his yammering, as if we hadn’t noticed the doctor had decided to take a powder. I backed up, watching the windows above us. The nearest house was a good twenty yards away, and no one was taking much notice. Nice thing about a blackout: you have plenty of privacy.

  I walked around one side of the house. Firewood was stacked neatly against the wall beneath the overhanging roof. Lasho turned the corner, his hand firmly gripping the arm of an older gentleman.

  “Lass mich los,” the fellow snapped, trying to pull his arm away. He carried a small suitcase in his free hand and held a doctor’s bag in the other. His Vandyke beard was gray and his expression a good deal darker.

  “Kaz, please explain we do not mean him harm,” Lasho said.

  “Then let go of my arm, you verdammter Dummkopf!” He wrenched free of Lasho’s grip and turned his eyes on me. “I demand to know who you are and what you want.” His accent was more English than German, although his tone was definitely Teutonic.

  “Doctor Moret? We’re friends of Henri’s. I
am sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, I know. Henri is dead,” he said, straightening his shoulders as if trying to stand tall in the face of death and strangers at his door. “I still do not know who you are, and what you intend with me.”

  “A few minutes of your time, please,” I said. I introduced myself, Lasho, and Kaz, giving Kaz’s title, which usually mollified, or at least distracted, most people.

  “Come inside, if you must,” he said. “If you meant to do me harm, I expect you would have already.” Lasho took his suitcase, gently, so as not to startle him. Moret led us to the rear door, unlocked it, and we followed him upstairs. He turned on the lights and checked the shades, gesturing for us to sit.

  It was a pleasant room, with a tall, narrow, wood-burning cast iron stove in the corner. A low-timbered ceiling, a well-worn leather couch, and a couple of easy chairs completed the picture. A collection of pipes sat on the end table, next to a stack of medical journals. The room was comfortable, but none too tidy. Odds were Moret lived alone.

  He doffed his hat and opened the stove, tossing in a few chunks of wood. Kaz and Lasho took the couch, and I eased myself into a chair, leaving the one closest to the stove for Moret.

  “Now,” he said, turning and reaching into a coat pocket. “Tell me who you really are.”

  He had a revolver in his hand. It was pointed at my chest.

  “Captain Billy Boyle, US Army,” I said, adding my rank and branch of service to what little I’d told him before. Looking down the barrel of that gun, I had a sudden urge to be honest with this guy. He moved the pistol to Kaz.

  “Lieutenant Piotr Kazimierz, Polish Army in Exile,” Kaz said. “And baron of the Augustus clan.”

  “And you?” he said, moving the pistol Lasho’s way.

  “I am Anton Lasho. I am Sinti. I work for General Eisenhower. As do these men. I hate the Nazis. I do not like the Swiss very much, either.” Lasho was also being honest, a little too much so, I thought, given the situation.

  “That is the first intelligent thing I have heard from any of you. Not that I believe you are acquainted with General Eisenhower,” Moret said.

  “Doctor Moret, we worked with Henri,” I said. “On certain banking matters. Did he speak with you about such things?”

  “Never mind that,” he snapped. “Why are you here? Who sent you?”

  “Allen Dulles. Do you recognize the name?”

  “I may. What do you want?”

  “For you to put that pistol away, for one,” I said. “We met Henri only a few days ago, but he struck me as a decent and honorable man. I’d like to find out who killed him.”

  “Very well,” Moret said, stuffing the revolver back into his coat pocket. He sat down heavily, casting out a sigh and rubbing his eyes. “Tell me what you know.”

  I glanced at Kaz, uncertain how much of the story to give the doctor. He gave a slight nod in Moret’s direction, a signal to tell as much as necessary. So I did. If he and Henri had been close, he deserved to know the whole truth. I started with Henri’s first mysterious comments about an invoice, went on to the reception and his actions there, the Gestapo and SVV men on the streets, and how his body was found.

  “So you think he placed the document in his cigarette case and passed it on to someone?” Moret said, tapping his finger on his chin.

  “Yes. You know Victor Hyde, Henri’s friend?” Moret nodded and I continued. “He’s disappeared, and his apartment has been searched. We think the Gestapo is searching for him as well, along with the woman Henri spent the night with. I’m sorry to bring that up, sir.” I wasn’t sure if he was the type to disapprove of even the mention of an evening’s dalliance.

  “What young men in the city do with their nights is of no concern to me,” Moret said. “You work with Victor also?”

  “Yes, we do. He’s part of Dulles’s team. Had Henri ever mentioned Safehaven?”

  “He had. He was quite impassioned on the subject of Swiss banks and their collusion with the Nazis. I think some of that came naturally to Henri, but certainly some of his strong convictions came from the way I was treated. Over the medical mission to the Russian Front, which I’m sure you heard about.”

  “You were not silent about what you saw,” Lasho said.

  “No, and it cost me dearly. My commission, my reputation, most of my business,” Doctor Moret said.

  “But you have your honor,” Lasho said. “Riches enough for any man.”

  “Perhaps,” Moret said. “Although at times I do wish honor and ruin were of a less intimate acquaintance. What I saw in Russia was a disgrace. For all of humanity, not to mention Switzerland’s role.”

  “Surely medical assistance, even for the Germans, was humanitarian,” Kaz said.

  “My own government forbade us from helping the Russian wounded,” Moret said. “Not that many survived to be brought in to the aid station. But when they did, we were forced to watch them suffer and die. Swiss neutrality apparently does not extend to Russians. As for the Jews we saw massacred, most in our medical mission were content with silence. I was not.”

  “Silence is for the weak,” Lasho said, his voice tinged with bitterness.

  “Tell me, my Sinti friend, how did you come to Switzerland? I understand the borders are closed to Jews and Romani,” Moret said.

  “I tried to bring my family in. They were sent back and taken to a camp, which means death. Then I started killing every German I could find. That went on for a very long time. Too long. Now, I help these men.”

  “We actually do work for General Eisenhower,” I said. “Lasho helped us get out of France and across the border.”

  “I am sorry for what happened to your family, Mr. Lasho,” Moret said. “My nation has not been as welcoming, or as brave, as I wish it to be. And as for your mission, gentlemen, I do know of it. Victor told me earlier today.”

  “Where is he?” I asked, surprised to hear we’d been that close to finding Victor.

  “One question first,” Moret said, holding up a finger. “When you dined with Henri and Victor on the Bundesplatz, what did you order?”

  “Sausage and potatoes,” I said, smiling in approval of Victor’s prudence. “All of us.”

  “Good. I doubt even the Gestapo or the SVV would have taken note of that detail,” Moret said. “Forgive my caution, gentlemen, but it is necessary given the times we live in. Henri was engaged in a project that threatened powerful people, and now he is dead. Victor is in fear for his life as well. It would be wise of you also to take care.”

  “Do you know what Henri was after?” I asked.

  “No, he only said it would show how corrupt and hypocritical Swiss society was. At the highest levels, he claimed. Henri told me it was too dangerous to say any more until he acquired the document he was after,” Moret said.

  “Does Victor have it?” I asked.

  “I did not ask him,” Moret said, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. “He came to tell me of Henri’s death, which was the greatest concern for both of us. Henri and I were very close, more so in the years since his father grew more distant from him.”

  “Henri told us. He was very proud of what you did,” I said. “He showed me the cigarette case. It meant a lot to him, and I’m not surprised he used it to hide the document.”

  “Yes, that fits Henri perfectly. He would enjoy the irony,” Moret said, a weary smile on his face. “His father would not. A stern man, he would be aghast at the notion of theft, however noble the cause. But still, he must be shattered at the news. I was about to leave for the train station when you arrived. However different we are, we are still brothers.”

  “Will you be safe?” Kaz asked.

  “I should hope so. My brother is a police sergeant in his village. He has never been political, and I trust him.”

  “We need to find Victor,
” I said, leaning forward and locking onto Moret’s eyes. “To protect him, and to find out what he knows. Are you sure he didn’t tell you anything about the document?”

  “Very sure. He left quickly, spending only a few minutes here. He was afraid he might have been followed. He said a Gestapo agent named Hannes was after him,” Moret said.

  “Hannes in particular?” Kaz asked.

  “Yes. A disreputable character apparently, even for the Gestapo, according to Victor,” Moret said.

  “Where was Victor going?” I asked. “If he spent only a few minutes here, he must have been headed somewhere in this direction.”

  “He was,” Moret said, rising from his chair with a sigh. He took a map from a side table and unfolded it. “I have a mountain chalet in Alpthal, a small village east of here. Victor and Henri skied and hiked there often. He thought it would be a safe place to hide.” He tapped on the map, east of Lake Lucerne.

  “Would you write out the address?” I asked.

  “No. Nothing in writing. Take the map if you wish. South of Alpthal is a road, Haupweg, leading off into the mountains. At the very end you will find the chalet, built of pine timbers with bright red shutters. It sits high in a field overlooking the valley. I would advise you not to approach at night. I gave Victor my rifle,” Moret said, with a rueful smile. “Now I must go if I am to catch the next train. My brother expects me.”

  “We’ll drive you to the station,” I said, glancing at my watch. “It’s the least we can do. Is there a hotel or inn in town? It’s too late to keep driving at this point.”

  “I’ve already trusted you with Victor’s life, I may as well trust you with my home. Please, spend the night here. That way, no one in the village can speak of strangers in case the SVV comes searching for you,” Moret said. “It is a short walk to the station. I can manage on my own.”

  “I will drive you,” Lasho said. “To be sure you do not shoot anyone. Come.”