The Devouring

by James R Benn

  Moret gave in without a fuss; Lasho was not an easy man to say no to. He told us to help ourselves to food and drink, and to get the man who’d murdered his nephew. Both were high on my list.

  Kaz and I studied the map as we waited for Lasho to return. We’d be driving within a few miles of Wauwilermoos on our way to Alpthal. We decided to make a stop there in the morning. I wanted to check on Bowman and bring him the food. I still felt guilty about getting him involved, and from what everyone said, that prison camp was no picnic.

  Then we raided the kitchen. Cold ham, pickles, cheeses, and a fresh loaf from the breadbox made for a fine spread. When Lasho returned, we opened bottles of Eichhof beer and dug in. We went over the map and told him our plan for the morning.

  “You can go,” he said. “I will wait outside the gate.”

  “Why?” Kaz asked as he cut slices off the ham.

  “The best way for a Sinti to stay out of prison,” he answered, “is to stay out of prison.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Lasho’s words of wisdom stayed with me as I tried to fall asleep on Moret’s couch. The Germans and the SVV were on our heels, and we were about to voluntarily enter a prison camp run by a pro-Nazi commandant, who was probably on the SVV membership rolls. The good news was that they’d never guess we’d do something that dumb, so the chances of their being alerted to detain us was low.

  But not nonexistent.

  Then if we made it out, we’d head to Victor’s hideout, hopefully arriving before nightfall, where Victor might shoot first and eliminate the need to ask questions. Simple. All we had to do was avoid imprisonment and long-range rifle fire. All in a day’s work.

  The fire in the wood stove was beginning to die out. Moret liked his place toasty, but the evening was mild and the quilt I’d grabbed from the bedroom was thick and warm. Kaz was in a guest room and Lasho was stretched out on the doctor’s own bed, his snores already rattling the rafters.

  The stove began to send out tick, tick, pings as the metal cooled and settled down. As I was about to fall asleep, Lasho’s snoring died down, which only made the metallic noise seem louder.

  Tick, tick. Ping. Click.

  Click?

  I threw off the quilt, my stocking feet hitting the floor. I listened, reaching for my pistol in the shoulder holster on the floor by my side. I eased off the couch, back to the wall, searching for the sound, hoping it was the house settling or any of a hundred random nighttime noises.

  A door opened, the creak of hinges as unmistakable as it was subtle. I felt a breath of cold air waft through the room. A wide hallway led up a flight of stairs from the rear door. Maybe Kaz had gone out to the car, parked behind the house, out of sight? I waited, hoping to get a clear glimpse of who it was, not wanting to move closer in case someone else tried the front door.

  I calmed my breathing so the pounding in my chest wouldn’t drown out sounds from the intruder. Nothing. Soft-soled shoes probably, creeping up the stairs, slowly, trying to avoid the creak of a warped floorboard. Headed for the bedroom. Odds were, they’d come for Moret, either knowing or hoping that Victor had been here and left the cigarette case.

  I decided not to worry about the front entrance. Chances were, he—or they—wouldn’t risk being seen, even late at night. No reason to. And that their first priority would be the bedroom, to silence Moret so they could interrogate him and search the house.

  Which was good, since that meant they wouldn’t kill him right off.

  Which was bad, since finding Lasho would startle them, and who knew what they’d do?

  I went low and made it to the wall near the entrance to the hallway. I flattened myself, ready to swing into the opening with my revolver aimed at the first guy I saw. Which was a problem, since if there were two, the guy behind him would have cover. If the guy in front of him was a pal, it might stop him from shooting. If it was some nameless SVV yokel driving an experienced Gestapo man around, then I’d plug the yokel and buy some lead from the Kraut.

  Not a good situation.

  I decided on a defensive move. After all, maybe it was a neighbor with a key checking up on Moret’s place after he left. Doubtful, but the last thing I needed was a dead civilian at the bottom of the stairs. Moret’s standing in town was low enough already.

  I walked into the hallway, not looking down, and headed to Moret’s bedroom. I counted on the element of surprise, since they wouldn’t expect anyone from that direction. I hoped.

  I made it into the bedroom and turned, pistol at the ready, counting on Lasho to wake up quickly and take in what was happening. I chanced a glance at the bed.

  It was empty.

  The window was open.

  I was tempted to jump out.

  Now I had Kaz to worry about, asleep in the room down the hall. I gambled that the intruders—if there were more than one—were nearing the top of the stairs. And gamble was the operative word, since my next move was straight out of a neighborhood pickup football game. Chin tucked in, shoulder down, ramming speed out the door.

  I connected with a body in the darkened hallway. He was two steps from the top. I knocked him down and kept on going, my forearm catching another guy behind him square in the neck and sending him reeling backward. He went down hard, with me on top of him, his head thumping against the wooden steps as I rode his body down the steep stairs like a toboggan.

  We came to rest at the foot of the stairs and I rolled off, aiming my pistol up the stairs. A body was sprawled midway, with Kaz—dressed in not much more than his Webley revolver—standing over it. Lasho appeared from outside, outfitted in long johns and grasping a knife. I checked the guy beneath me. His head lolled at a strange angle. He’d taken a hard hit to the throat and a lot of punishment going down. Dead.

  “Check his pockets,” I said to Lasho, who got to work.

  “No one else outside,” he said, grabbing the dead man’s Luger pistol. “No vehicle in sight.”

  I followed Lasho upstairs, where Kaz had divested the other guy of his weapon, a more modern Walther P38. My money was on him being Gestapo. He moaned and moved stiffly, trying to get up. His eyes opened, and then closed again, as if he hoped the scene might play out differently next time.

  “Come on, Fritz,” I said, pinning an arm behind his back and dragging him into the sitting room. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” He shook his head, either saying no or loosening the cobwebs in his addled brain. I held my pistol under his chin as I patted him down and took his wallet.

  “Ihr Freund is tot,” Kaz said a minute later, having taken the time to don a robe. I knew tot meant dead, and I watched for a reaction as I shoved the guy into the chair by the stove. The other fellow apparently wasn’t a pal, since he gave a slight shrug, the corners of his mouth turned down. No big deal. Definitely Gestapo. Square-jawed, gray-flecked black hair cut short, and in need of a shave. Dark bags under his eyes and little red broken blood vessels on his nose and cheeks. A tired-out heavy drinker.

  Lasho stood in the doorway, the Luger aimed at our guest. Kaz rummaged around in a closet and came up with a length of rope, which he used to tie his hands and feet.

  “Kaz, throw some more wood on the fire, will you? We may need it before we’re done.” He opened the stove and threw on some small pieces as I watched for another reaction. Maybe he really didn’t speak English. I flipped through his wallet, coming up with his identity card.

  “Kriminalkommissar Ernst Wielen, Gestapo,” I read. “From Dijon. They’re certainly pulling them in from everywhere.”

  “Bruno Blocher,” Lasho said, checking the other wallet. “From Lucerne. Swiss, probably his local SVV partner.”

  “Ask him why he’s here,” I said, eyeing Wielen. Kaz spat German out at him, but Wielen remained impassive.

  “Kriminalkommissar isn’t a high rank, is it? Pretty low for an older guy,” I said. He took notice at the ment
ion of his rank.

  “Correct,” Kaz said, throwing another log onto the now blazing fire. “Equivalent to a lieutenant. There are a number of Gestapo ranks above his, and not many below.”

  “Ask him if he wants a drink,” I said. I had a feeling Ernst liked his booze. Probably needed it to sleep at night after a busy day torturing French kids.

  He did want a drink, no surprise. Lasho found cognac and tipped a glass down Ernst’s hatch. Then another. He didn’t object. Not to a third, either. I signaled for Lasho to stop, and our graying Kriminalkommissar looked downright disappointed.

  I took a poker from beside the wood stove and opened the door, adding another log and stirring the embers. I left the door open and stuck the poker into the glowing coals.

  Lasho smiled.

  “Ask him if he knows who the Gypsy is,” I said.

  “Wissen Sie, wer der Zigeuner ist?” Kaz said.

  “Ja,” Ernst croaked, his gaze focused on Lasho, who jammed the poker farther into the flames.

  “Tell him he can have the bottle, and that der Zigeuner will not harm him,” I said. “But he has to tell us everything. No one will ever know.”

  Kaz spoke to him soothingly, like a mother to a frightened child, telling her kid everything will be all right as long as he tells the truth. I’d never believed that line as a kid myself, but all I cared about was Ernst believing it. They talked for a while, Kaz stopping to give him a drink when his gaze strayed to the bottle of cognac.

  “They came to search for a document,” Kaz said. “They were told Victor Hyde had been here and might have hidden it. I asked him how they would recognize it. All he knows, apparently, is that it will refer in some way to Alusuisse Industries. They were to secure any paperwork mentioning that name and return to Bern. Failing that, they were to learn from Doctor Moret where Victor had gone. By any means, they were told, but he was not happy about killing a Swiss doctor in his own home.”

  “What does he know about Georg Hannes?” At the mention of that name, Ernst looked eager to talk. And thirsty. I poured him another drink, but held it back while he and Kaz spoke. I wondered what Alusuisse had to do with this, but I was more interested at the moment to keep tabs on Hannes.

  “Hannes is a traitor,” Kaz reported. “There is a lot of ill will against Hannes within the Gestapo for profiting from his post here in Switzerland. This is a plum assignment, obviously, and Hannes took full advantage to deal in illegal financial transactions and blackmail. ”

  “Who is he blackmailing?” I said.

  “I asked, but Ernst says he does not know. I believe him,” Kaz said. “He asked if you were going to kill him.”

  “No,” I said. “We may want to let our new friend go. Tell him we are after the same thing he is. We questioned Doctor Moret and found out nothing. Say Victor had been here but left before we arrived, and Moret has gone to Bern to claim his nephew’s body. Tell him Dulles is after Victor, same as Krauch. Describe Victor as a renegade, threatening to sell the documents back to Alusuisse. Or whoever is the highest bidder.” I had no idea if the aluminum firm cared one way or the other, but I was pretty sure this thug didn’t either.

  “I told him we have a common purpose,” Kaz said after he finished. “As distasteful as that was. What else?”

  “Tell him Moret told us where Victor is hiding. In Lugano, and we are heading there in the morning to take Victor back to Dulles in two days. We will spare his life if he doesn’t mention any of this to his boss.” Kaz gave Ernst the lowdown.

  “He wants to know when you will let him go, and what he should say about the dead SVV chap,” Kaz said. “And he thanks you for sparing his life. He says he was a regular policeman before the SS took over, and he is not a Nazi.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Tell him we’ll release him in the morning,” I said. “As for his Swiss partner, he tripped and fell down the stairs. Not so far from the truth.”

  “Why?” Lasho said, as Kaz pulled up a chair and chatted amiably with Ernst, the Webley an afterthought. “Why let him live?”

  “Because we need to find someone who knows what this is all about. I’m tired of these low-level goons,” I said. “I’m hoping this will draw out Krauch. He’s the one who must know what this is all about.”

  “Then have him tell you about Krauch,” Lasho said. “There may be something useful, yes?”

  “Yeah,” I said, giving Kaz a go-ahead nod. “Good idea.” I took the poker out of the fireplace, raising it up and blowing ash from the red-hot tip. Ernst sort of lost his train of thought, then regained it as I set the poker back in its rack. Nothing like a little reminder of what might be in store for an uncooperative guest.

  That was the stick. Now it was time for the carrot.

  I untied his hands from behind the chair, then tied one down tight to the armrest. I poured cognac for all of us, and I gave Ernst his. He gulped it and smiled, nodding his head and saying danke, danke. I poured him another.

  “Polizei,” I said, tapping my chest, going for the common bond between cops of all nations.

  “Polizei, ja,” Ernst said, his words beginning to slur. “Kriminalpolizei. Kripo, nicht Gestapo.”

  “He was originally a homicide detective,” Kaz said, after listening to a rambling story. I knew Kripo was slang for the criminal police in Germany, all of which had been brought under the command of the SS. “In Freiburg, near the French border. He speaks some French, which was why he was sent to Dijon. He claims he never joined the Nazi Party.”

  “Ask him if Siefried Krauch is Kripo,” I said. If Ernst really was a washed-up, alcoholic police detective, then maybe he’d spill the beans on Krauch, especially if he was a no-nonsense Nazi.

  “He says Krauch kisses Nazi ass,” Kaz reported, a sharp laugh escaping his lips. “He married a party official’s daughter and used that connection to get into the Gestapo. Krauch couldn’t solve a real murder case on his own, which is not really a problem because these days it’s the Gestapo doing the killing, not everyday criminals and drunks like in the old days, and why are you being so stingy with the bottle?”

  “Christ, he is a cop,” I said. “One more question. Where does Krauch do his drinking?”

  “Krauch brought the new men to a place on the Postgasse, in the old quarter, when they first arrived. The Altes Keller, it was called. The staff knew Krauch, and he believes it is owned by a member of SVV,” Kaz added. Then Ernst spoke to Kaz, but with his eyes fixed on mine. “He says he doesn’t mind helping a fellow policeman, especially one with a gun and a bottle. But please do not mention to anyone that he talked with us. He has a wife and a daughter in Freiburg, and it would not go well for them. He also has a son, missing somewhere in Russia.”

  “You believe him?” I asked Kaz.

  “I think so,” he answered, pouring us all another round of drinks.

  “Billy Boyle,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Ernst Wielen,” he said, taking my hand and meeting my eyes. We were both working on trusting each other, and if he was telling the truth about his family, then his was the greater risk.

  “It is never a good thing to get to know your enemy,” Lasho said. “Now I would have a hard time killing him.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s doing that all by himself, the slow, hard way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next morning, I’d expected Ernst to have a hangover and a case of the regrets. Instead, he was almost chipper, asking for a glass of water and if there was any coffee in the kitchen. I didn’t entirely trust him, but brewing up a pot of joe for an enemy prisoner and fellow policeman didn’t seem out of line. We got the coffee going, polished off the bread and cheese, and made a departure plan. Ernst sat at the table with us, his legs tied to the chair, cutlery safely out of reach. Just in case.

  Kaz and I quizzed him some more, asking if he’d been told our names. The ans
wer was yes, we’d been tagged as working for Dulles, OSS men. But no, there was not an order to shoot us on sight. Nice to know, but perplexing. He knew about how Hannes worked, identifying folks who had opened Swiss accounts and shaking them down, all for the good of the German Reich, at least until lately. He’d heard rumors about Hannes killing Lowenberg, but obviously that wasn’t what angered the Gestapo bigwigs. It was his theft of bank accounts that the Nazis thought belonged to them.

  What it really came down to was that Krauch and his bosses desperately wanted the document Henri had swiped. He hadn’t heard that it was an invoice, and had no idea what it might be. Which was fine by Ernst, since the less they told him, the less he had to drink to forget what they’d told him.

  It made sense to me, sad to say.

  We’d laid out the body of the SVV guy last night, so he’d be easier to handle when rigor mortis set in. Ernst explained to Kaz that he’d been paired with him since he knew the local SVV contact in town: the owner of the inn where they’d stayed, and the guy who’d spotted Victor. Which meant that they’d put out an all-points bulletin on Victor. If the SVV’s reach made it to this little burg, Victor might not even be safe in the remote mountain village of Alpthal.

  We dressed and washed up. I let Ernst borrow Moret’s straight razor for a shave. He laughed when I stood in the bathroom door with my Police Special aimed at his back. An approving laugh, delivered with a wink and a nod.

  “Sehr gut, Billy,” he said. “Es ist klug, vorsichtig zu sein.”

  “It is clever of you to be careful,” Kaz said, passing by with his gear packed up. Lasho had already left to pick up the Renault Ernst had left at the inn, and we were ready to pack in the SVV corpse. Then we’d drive Ernst a few miles out of town and let him out to hike back. It’s clever to be careful.

  “Yes, Ernst,” I said, thinking how clever this man must be, and if it was enough to get him through the war with his family intact, not to mention his dignity. The burst blood vessels decorating his cheeks might have been a map of the deceit, appeasement, and self-loathing it took to be a halfway decent cop in the Third Reich.